Rhonda Woodward (3 page)

“And he has certainly had the last laugh,” Henry added as Marina watched the Marquis’s back exit the ballroom through a set of double doors. “He invested some of his ill-gotten gains in a high risk venture with the East India Company. Now, he is nearly as rich as his very rich grandpapa, but without the respectability.”

“He sounds a disreputable character, yet I detect that you seem to admire him . . . ” Marina’s observation held a question.

“I cannot deny that I do, although I only observed his lofty circle from a distance,” Henry stated. “He’s up to every rig, a proclaimed wit, and a bruising horseman. All the young bloods are trying to duplicate how he ties his neckcloth—which he, with deliberate irony, named the ‘Cupid’s Bow.’”

Marina looked up at Henry Willingham, a dark brow raised quizzically. “I understand that fashionable gentlemen often come up with fanciful names for their sartorial inventions, but why would naming it the Cupid’s Bow be ironic?”

“The name Cupid’s Bow is ironic because Cortland has publicly stated that love is a silly invention of addle-pates and old maids.”

Marina smiled although she was a little startled by such cynicism.

“Tell her about his family motto, Henry,” Charlotte directed.

He smiled and obliged his sister. “I don’t remember my Latin very well, but the Hawksmoor motto means “Duty and Honor to the End.” When it became known that the Duke had cut off his grandson, Cortland gave a party for his intimates and unveiled what he called his new motto. It was beautifully rendered in oil paints on a replica of the family crest. It said Duty, Honor, and Have a Jolly Good Time. But Not Necessarily in That Order.

Marina could not help but laugh at such outrageousness, despite finding such disrespectful behavior shocking.

The room continued to fill, and with a growing sense of anticipation, the four of them chatted until the prelude music faded, indicating that the last guest had arrived.

Then, the orchestra struck up the opening strains of a familiar country dance. Mr. Penhurst led his sister to the middle of the floor to open the ball.

Henry smiled at Marina and said, “I have Lord Buckleigh’s permission to ask you to dance with me. Will you do me the honor?”

Marina sent a swift glance to his sister, not wishing to abandon her just yet, knowing her sister’s dread of being a wallflower.

But Deirdre waved her off merrily. “I shall stay here with Jane. Do not let this music go to waste.”

Marina smiled, noting Phoebe Tundale and Lydia Hollings coming to join Deirdre and Jane. Marina took Henry’s arm, knowing that Deirdre would be happy to gossip with her friends even if she had not been asked for the first dance.

Marina looked over and smiled at her parents, thinking they were the handsomest couple in the room.

With that, Henry led Marina to the floor and they took their places along with the other dancers. After the first few measures, Henry began to carry the conversation, which suited her perfectly.

He talked of the new people recently arrived in the village and the upcoming hunting season. After they performed a very elegant chassé, Marina took a moment to admire the other dancers, impressed by the skill and grace with which they performed the steps.

Suddenly, beyond the line of dancers, a gentleman caught her attention.

He stood at the edge of the dance floor, in the midst of a large group as if holding court. His black evening clothes showed to advantage his thick mane of golden hair. His features were as classically symmetrical as those of a Greek statue.

Her heart gave a very odd leap as Henry led her around another dancer. When she located the golden-haired gentleman again, he wore a slight smile as he watched the dancers make their figures. Marina’s heart leapt again and began to flutter.

He was just as breathtakingly beautiful as she had thought when she saw him on High Street the other day.

With her attention still caught by the gentleman, she was a beat too slow on the next step. She caught herself, and sent a quick apology to Mr. Willingham.

“Not at all, Miss Buckleigh. You dance most gracefully. But I see you have taken note of Mr. Nigel Sefton.”

Mortification swept through Marina and she almost missed another step. What was she thinking! Henry must think her worse than rude for staring at another man while she danced with him. She was attempting a spluttering apology when she caught the twinkle in his eyes.

“Do not distress yourself, Miss Buckleigh,” Henry said on a laugh. “The rest of us mere male mortals are quite used to the reaction Adonis engenders in the fairer sex.”

Marina laughed with relief at his generous attitude and was thankful for their long years of friendship.

“Is that what he is called? I really was not intending to be rude; it’s just seeing him is rather like seeing a peacock, or some such exotic creature for the first time.”

Henry laughed as they made another pass. “Quite so. As if Sefton did not already have an embarrassment of riches, he is the son—albeit the third son—of the Earl of Avesbury.”

“Indeed, an embarrassment of riches.”

They waited for the next pass and Marina could not resist another quick glance in Mr. Sefton’s direction. When she did, her gaze slammed into a pair of eyes as vivid as aquamarines and her heart went galloping anew. Adonis was indeed a fitting moniker for such a man, came the hazy thought as her gaze stayed locked with his an instant longer.

With a keen effort, she pulled her attention back to Henry Willingham and it took every ounce of the will she was so proud of not to steal another glance at the stunning man.

Smiling as brightly as she could, she asked, “So, what are your plans for the rest of the winter?”

Chapter Three

The ormolu clock on the mantel showed past eleven o’clock when Marina crossed the antechamber. On the other side of the room was the only door she had seen all evening that did not have a footman stationed in front of it.

It was not as if she wasn’t enjoying herself—indeed, the night was everything a ball should be.

She had danced every set, including one with their host, Mr. Penhurst. And despite his inclination to speak only of horses, hunting and hounds, it was clear he wanted nothing more than for his guests to enjoy themselves.

She had even danced with a gentleman she had never met before—a rarity in Parsley Hay—a handsome young man named Mr. Fairdale, one of Mr. Penhurst’s cousins on his mother’s side.

However, because of the excellent orchestra playing lively country dances, and the even more excellent punch being circulated by obliging footmen, the atmosphere had shifted from excited anticipation to a revelry that bordered on rowdiness.

Some minutes ago, a headache began to tease behind her eyes and she now sought a few moments of inconspicuous solitude to regain her serenity.

Grasping the brass door handle, she paused a moment, having no idea what awaited her on the other side. Yet she craved a moment of peace away from the increasingly riotous ball, less the beginnings of the headache would no doubt turn into a severe pounding.

Quickly, she slipped out, finding herself outside in the cold air on a wide stone balcony. Pulling the door shut behind her, she leaned against it for a moment or two, letting her eyes adjust to the near darkness.

Before her, the balcony ended in wide steps that led to a lower, less formally designed flagstone terrace. The area, artfully lit by an abundance of fairy lights, held a fountain, stone benches, and a huge array of glazed pots overflowing with trailing ivy and white roses.

She smiled at the beautiful scene. White roses were her favorite and she wondered where so many had been found this time of year. Mr. Penhurst must have had his servants scouring every hothouse and conservatory for miles to find so many perfect blooms.

Crossing the balcony, she skipped down the last steps to the terrace. Circling the fountain, she breathed deeply of the chilly air and touched a delicate pale bloom. The song of a lone night bird mixing with the slightly muffled music of Mr. Penhurst’s most excellent orchestra added to the near perfection of the moment.

Swaying a little in time to the music, she felt the faint headache fade away. She really was having a lovely time and was even more pleased that Deirdre had been asked for all but the first set.

And miracles of miracles, Papa had danced with Mama for the second set before heading off to the billiard room.

Mr. Penhurst was proving a most excellent host. He had already danced with all three Buckleigh ladies and so forgot his love of sports; he good-naturedly threatened to ask Mama to dance again and cause a scandal.

It was all so amusing and more sophisticated than anything anyone in little Parsley Hay could remember.

The only quibble Marina had was that she was no closer to Mr. Sefton than she had been when she first saw him on High Street last week.

She sighed as a vision of golden hair and aquamarine eyes filled her senses. Truly, Mr. Sefton was the most handsome man she had seen in the whole of her nineteen years.

Her cheeks grew hot when she recalled how he had caught her staring at him during the first set.

It was most curious, she mused, for she was rarely anything less than composed. Oh, she was sometimes accused of being too ready to speak her mind, or chided for what Mama called her “unseemly forthrightness,” but Papa had always admired her unflappable self-possession and encouraged her to speak her mind.

Unlike her younger sister who often caused her parents to shake their heads over her silly behavior, Marina had always believed that as the eldest, she should comport herself with self-possession.

However, she could not deny that one look at the startling beauty of Mr. Sefton had her on the verge of behaving like a giggling miss.

Just then, there was a pause in the distant music. A moment later the unmistakable strains of a waltz began. A waltz! Oh, how she loved to waltz, even if she had only waltzed with Mama and Deirdre.

Mama had expressly forbade her to accept an invitation to waltz until she had gained her vouchers to Almacks,
this coming spring
, and received approval from the patronesses. Even here in Parsley Hay, Marina knew she could not defy convention, for Mama was exceedingly attentive to all the rules and strictures, spoken and unspoken, regarding the proper behavior of a young lady.

It really was too bad, for Marina adored the romantic dance.

But at this moment there was no one to see whether she was behaving properly or not.

After making a sweeping curtsy to the bronze mermaid spitting water into the fountain, she began waltzing around the terrace with an imaginary partner—who had golden hair and aquamarine eyes. Feeling a carefree delight, she swayed and twirled to the verge of dizziness.

“I believe I would be deemed a fool if I ignored this heaven-sent opportunity to dance with such a lovely vision.”

At the sound of the low-timbred comment, Marina swirled to a stop.

The blond man! Mr. Sefton—Henry had said that was his name—looking resplendent in his black evening clothes and dazzlingly white neckcloth, stood on the flagstone steps gazing down at her with a slight smile curving his perfectly formed lips.

If she had been able to breathe, she surely would have gasped.

He was here! Hardly comprehending that he was not a concoction of her own imagination, she opened her mouth to speak, only to discover that she had no voice. Distractedly, she noticed how the fairy lights glinted off his golden hair like a halo.

He laughed and descended the last steps. “Are you truly a vision? Is that why you don’t speak to me?”

He was the vision,
Marina thought, still unable to find her voice.

Suddenly, Mama’s words from the previous week came back to her;
Marina, you must develop the art of witty conversation. You must learn to banter and to artfully tease. This skill alone will ensure your success in Society.

Grateful that the light was not strong enough to reveal the disturbing color of his eyes, Marina took courage and gathered her wits.

“You have caught me, sir. But can you blame me for desiring to dance with the perfect partner?” She supposed it was not too gauche for her first attempt at banter.

A flash of surprise crossed his features before he laughed and joined her by the fountain. “And you cannot blame me if I refuse to ignore that delightful challenge, Miss Marina Buckleigh.”

Marina’s eyes widened in surprise—not only because he had taken her words as a challenge, but also because he knew her name.

“You should not be surprised that I know who you are. Everyone has been commenting on the lovely Miss Buckleigh with the very fine gray eyes.”

Before she could think of how to respond, he stepped forward, swept her into his arms and into the swirling steps of the waltz.

“Now let us see if I dance as well as your perfect partner.”

So shocked were her senses, Marina could not even breathe for a few moments. The feel of his hand on her waist and his other holding her hand created such a chaotic, fluttery feeling she could scarce put her thoughts in order.

He gazed down, smiling deeply into her eyes and somewhere in the recesses of her bemused mind, she marveled that they had not missed a step.

A delicious feeling of heady excitement and triumph began to replace her shock and confusion. This man, as beautiful as an angel, had sought her out to waltz amongst the fairy lights! Things like this never happened in Parsley Hay, she thought hazily, delighting in the feel of his hard shoulder beneath her hand. Nothing so magically wonderful had ever happened to her before.

He continued to lead her around the fountain, until her senses were swirling. She never wanted the music to end, and never wanted the feeling of his warm hand in the cool air to leave her waist. His eyes never left hers and her heart sped faster than they twirled.

But in the midst of this dizzyingly romantic moment, an unformed feeling of alarm began to surface through the tangle of her overwhelmed senses.

Things like this never happened in Parsley Hay,
came the distant yet logical thought,
because they were highly improper.

Despite the pure magic of this moment, and with their gazes still locked, her deeply ingrained sense of propriety began to whisper, then shout a warning.

The confusion, the unfamiliar feelings roiling through her body, and even his very good looks added to this sudden feeling of panic.

She pushed at his shoulder. He resisted for a moment before halting. He took a half step back, but did not release her. A slight frown marred his perfect brow as he gazed at her.

“Is this not what you wanted, Miss Buckleigh?”

Marina struggled to sort out her feelings. “Sir, I—”

“I daresay you will forgive me for interrupting this charming scene,” a deep, drawling voice cut into her words.

Marina yanked her hand from Mr. Sefton’s and whipped around to see who had spoken.

A dark figure loomed on the balcony, his face hidden in shadow. Imposingly tall and broad-shouldered, the man moved down the steps with easy grace, until the fairy lights illuminated the rugged hollows of his features. She instantly recognized his square jaw and straight, grandly aristocratic nose. He was the notorious Marquis of Cortland whom Henry had pointed out to her earlier.

Despite his casually negligent stance, there was something menacing in the way he looked at Mr. Sefton.

“Cortland! What brings you here?” Mr. Sefton asked in a tone unlike any Marina had heard from him thus far.

An alarming wave of realization washed over her entire body as the magic of only a moment ago vanished as if it had never existed.

“The fresh air brought me out.” Lord Cortland answered, keeping his hard gaze on Mr. Sefton.

There was an edge to his voice that sent a shiver down her spine. Her panicked gaze swept his imposing, powerful frame and the thought came that if Mr. Sefton was an angel, this man most certainly was the devil.

Good lord, she was alone in the dark with two gentlemen she did not even know! She was ruined! Utterly ruined! Mama and Papa will be devastated. She clenched her trembling fingers together. How could she have been so foolish? Frantically, she cast about for some way to extricate herself from this horrible situation.

***

The Marquis of Cortland found the young lady’s expression all too easy to read.

Her eyes, flinty colored in the fairy lights, were full of panic—and to his mild surprise, banked defiance.

A grudging admiration for her pierced his anger at Sefton. Despite being caught in such a compromising position, the young lady did not hang her head in shame as others in her predicament undoubtedly would.

In truth, the girl had done nothing wrong—only behaved a little foolishly, perhaps. But it did not matter for no one would believe her. He spared a contemptuous thought for Society in general and Sefton in particular, for her reputation would surely be in ruins after this night’s work.

Alas, he thought with a mental shrug, the consequences to her good name were not his concern. He shifted his gaze to a wary-looking Sefton. His only purpose in coming to this damned ball in the first place—to this damned provincial village, for that matter—was to confront Sefton. Now, his prey could avoid him no longer.

“I’d like a word with you and I believe you know why.”

Sefton hesitated and by the look on his face, Cortland wondered if he might actually try to bolt.

“I say, Cortland, this is neither the time nor the place for a discussion.” His tone attempted brusqueness.

“Dutch courage, Sefton? This young lady seems to have inspired at least some sham bravery into your character.” Cortland crossed his arms over his chest and held Sefton’s gaze, until the younger man looked away.

Pressing his lips together, Sefton shot a nervous glance to the young woman at his side, who still stood frozen as a statue.

Cortland waited, his disgust with the fair-haired man growing with each passing breath. Any other man worth his salt would accept his insult for what it was—a challenge.

“Sir, I find your manners quite lacking. We have not been introduced.”

At this outrageous bit of nonsense, Cortland shifted his attention back to the young lady, who had spoken with barely a tremble in her voice. Defiance was beginning to outshine the distress in her very fine eyes.

He found himself laughing for the first time in days, and swept her his most courtly bow.

“Forgive me. I am Cortland. And if you are not awake to the fact that your name is on the verge of becoming a byword for scandal, then you are sillier than I thought.”

He watched the fear completely vanish as she raised her chin a fraction, unwittingly showing the elegant length of her neck to better advantage.

“I have never been silly in my life, you ill-mannered lout. And I am most certainly aware of the danger my good name is in, I just don’t know what to do about it at the moment.”

Cortland blinked. Her succinct and direct comment was most unexpected. And his success with the fairer sex had left him ill prepared to deal with being called names. For the first time since reaching his majority, he did not quite know how to respond to a woman.

Apparently, this dull hamlet—
Parsley Hay
, for God’s sake—was perhaps not as dull as he had thought upon arriving this afternoon.

Sefton finally found his tongue, and stepping forward, he proffered her his arm. “Miss Buckleigh, you have my most sincere apologies for this untenable situation. Please allow me to escort you back to the ball.”

At least Miss Buckleigh, as Sefton called her, had the good sense to look appalled at this offer. Cortland gave a derisive laugh.

Ignoring the extended arm, she said, “I rather think that would make things worse.”