Royal Regard (10 page)

She slipped her hand into her husband’s. “Of
course not, darling, but I do so want to dance.”

Huntleigh looked like she’d suggested he take
his shoes off to be filleted for his supper. “Did you not already—?
I mean, people are dancing. Is there no one—? Er—?” He looked
hopefully back at the card room. “Surely we agreed on—”

Her head dropped, “You did ask I only speak
with Lord Anson, nothing more, but the Pinnesters are now in
attendance so perhaps Lord Enstrom might—Just one set?”

She stopped before the gossip ran
pêle-mêle
across the room. “No one knows me anymore. I
suppose I should be grateful.” All three of them knew the problem
was too many people knew her. “Charlotte cannot be expected to
entertain me all evening and Alexander—” She looked over at Nick.
“I mean, Lord Firthley—”

“—is in the card room,” Nick finished. He
looked over at her husband, pointedly taking in the cane and
Huntleigh’s bad leg. “By the Knight’s Creed, man, I swear I have no
sinful designs on your wife, but she has been waiting like a saint
to dance, and her suffering is all down to me. I think it only
right I partner her for the next figure, since I am a very good
dancer, and she is tapping her toe. The music is winding down; a
new set will start in just a few minutes. What say you,
Huntleigh?”

Huntleigh’s delight at avoiding even the
question of dancing warred with concern about Nick’s prurient
interests. In the end, he waved away any worry with a misplaced
sense of confidence.

“Dearest, if you would like to indulge
Wellbridge in a dance, you may, but you needn’t entertain his
addresses if you prefer not. He is entirely too brazen, but you
have always proven quite capable of keeping a nobleman in his
place.”

Lady Huntleigh’s fear of anyone observing her
notice of the Duke of Wellbridge, especially the duke himself,
crossed her face faster than gossip through the ladies of the
ton
. She couldn’t hide a bit of what she was thinking. Nick
was charmed again, though he felt a twinge of guilt finding himself
pleased by the pained expression. And he was well aware her husband
had seen her flashes of interest and was now rethinking his
permission.

Before he had the chance, Lady Huntleigh
said, “You must not be so familiar with the duke, husband,” looking
back and forth between them, “but if you would like me to dance
with your
business associate
, of course, I will make no
objection.”

As the orchestra took up the next selection,
Nick held his hand out for her. “What luck for me. A waltz.” She
placed her gloved hand in his, and he felt a trembling she couldn’t
control.

“Behave yourself, Wellbridge,” Huntleigh
admonished as Nick settled his hand at Lady Huntleigh’s waist, and
they swept into the current of the ballroom.

Of the many activities he shared with women,
dancing was high on the list, though his reputation said otherwise.
Because he avoided debutantes, and they often surrounded him to the
exclusion of all others, it was thought he disliked the pastime,
but in truth, the music always teased his senses, particularly when
it was slow and intimate, as this set would be, allowing him and
his partner to also tease each other. If only Lady Huntleigh
would.

“I think you are making a mockery of me, Sir.
You are flirting shamelessly at every party, and now right in front
of my husband. You must desist.”

“Nick, please—Wellbridge, if you prefer—and
you are entirely correct. I would much rather flirt with you behind
his back.” He leaned in closer to her ear, “When we are in front of
him, I am afraid your sweet blushes will give us away.” The scent
of flowers rose from her hair. Lavender. Maybe lilacs. Maybe both.
He breathed deeply. Definitely both. “I cannot allow you to expose
our secret, Lady Huntleigh, for I have sinful designs on you.”

Bella’s slipper caught on the waxed floor.
Taking advantage of her instability, he held her waist more firmly,
drawing her close to encourage her shivers and gooseflesh.

“You said you had no designs on me! You swore
by the Knight’s Creed!”

He leaned in to murmur, “I am not a knight,
my sweet.”

With less wallflower and more worldly woman,
she laughed, “Sir Satyr, I’m sure, charter member of the Order of
Rakehells, pledged to lead me down the path to depravity.”

“You’ve caught me.” He stared down at her
ripe mouth. “Would that we were not in a crowded ballroom.”

She bit her lip as they danced right past her
husband, but by the time the music worked its way through a
crescendo, she seemed to regain herself.

“I am not the type of woman one takes as a
mistress.”

Her frown meant to put paid to his indecorous
intentions, but he had seen such glowering before, always from
women he eventually took as mistresses.

“What type of woman is that, my lady?”

She stumbled again, muttering a reply; if he
wasn’t mistaken, “Deuced gentlemen and their accursed flirting.” He
asked her to repeat herself, just to see if the forbidding look
would appear genuine. Oh, yes, it was certainly authentic.

“Would you rather,” he asked quietly, a
whisper across her earlobe, “a lifetime of only Humdrum
Huntleigh?”

Her face momentarily softened, with the same
brief look of longing he had seen as she watched the dancing, but
just as he almost missed it, her expression grew as stony as gravel
shore.

“
Lord
Huntleigh is a wonderful man who
has just made me a countess… And I know perfectly well no man like
you could possibly be interested in me.”

How delightful she has considered it, he
silently preened.

“On the contrary, a woman who
doesn’t give
a tuppenny damn
about Almack’s is of enormous interest. And
what do you mean by ‘a man like me’?” He winked at her. “An
incorrigible rogue?”

Bella blushed and turned her head away. She
stuttered, “I just meant… a man of your… stature…” She gulped,
“Your rank, I mean.”

“Is that what you meant? I am quite
devastated you weren’t referring to my manly physique.” Nick
grinned at her, and she dropped her eyes so he wouldn’t see her
taking in his handsome face, instead resting her gaze on the
stature in question. He involuntarily puffed out his chest to prove
himself decidedly manly, no trace of youthful lankiness, but
neither fleshy like Firthley, nor frail like her aged husband.

She let out the tiniest of instinctive
whimpers and, satisfied he had made his point, he turned the
conversation. “What has Huntleigh done to upset you? A
disagreement?”

She spoke without thinking: “In the carriage.
He said—” She stopped short. “No, it is disloyal to speak of my
marital concerns with anyone but my husband.”

“Come now, you have been dying to have it out
all night. What did he say?”

She huffed, “How do you know we had
words?”

“The argument is all over your face, darling.
And anyone with eyes can see he neglects you.”

“He is not neglectful, just not roman—” Her
eyes dropped, but then her chin raised and she set her jaw. “Lord
Huntleigh is a good husband and the very kindest of men. I will not
have you disparage him.”

“I would never think of it. I just wonder how
a man who is ‘not romantic’ manages to keep the interest of such a
vivacious young lady. I mean, at home he can’t just fob you off on
the nearest man in dancing pumps. As you are so quick to defend, he
must have hidden charms only on view in your sitting room.”

Her giggle went past the point of politesse,
bordering on an outright snort. However, she followed the minor
calumny with, “Myron—Lord Huntleigh—and I spend more time in
intellectual conversation than any two people I’ve ever known. We
play backgammon and discuss politics and business, and he
appreciates my intellect.”

“As I say, you are being neglected.” He ran
his thumb across her wrist, and she almost choked. “You beautiful
girl, poorly romanced by Humdrum Huntleigh in your very own drawing
room.” His voice lost volume and an octave. “Bedroom, too, I wager.
The worst sort of crime.”

She tried for dispassion, but her voice
cracked. “I suppose being romanced by you in a ballroom is
better?”

His smile was predatory. “How lovely of you
to say.”

“I made no such—” She harrumphed, “You will
turn around every word, I assume?”

“In recompense, if one appreciates a turn of
phrase, I do write truly passionate love poetry.” She shook her
head, loosening, but not losing, the unfocused gleam in her eye. He
hoped quite sincerely she was envisioning him in a state of
passion. Better yet, herself. In seconds, her jaw clenched and
brows turned down.

“That is almost a good-quality judgmental
look,” he teased. “It will convince at least a few people you spurn
my advances, although not quite as forceful as it might be if you
were not so curious. Perhaps if you turn your brows down just a bit
more… there! That’s it.” He leaned over and said, almost silently,
“Although, if you purse your pretty lips like that much longer, I
shall be forced to kiss you, and all of our subterfuge will be for
naught.”

Her mouth dropped open, astonished at the
unabashed advance. “Your audacity knows no bounds!”

“No, none. Any man with a wife will tell you
so.”

She couldn’t help laughing, but looked around
to make certain no one was listening, and he could see her
concerted effort to blank her expression.

“You have a very bad face for cards, my
darling. Clearly, we must speak of nothing but the weather until
the dance is over, or you will give away our lascivious intentions
with your charming giggles. Your husband must believe you find me
the most tedious man imaginable.”

She tossed her head and lied, “That will
present no difficulty at all.” A few more strands of hair fell to
her shoulders, drawing his attention. How he wished he could pull
out the pins and run his hands through it.

“No?” he asked, one corner of his lips turned
up.

“I find you deadly dull.”

His voice took on a rasp as he remarked, “You
would find me much less so had you taken me to the gallery.”

“The gallery?! As if I would—you are
indecent!” She almost pulled away but must have thought better of
the scene she would create, instead merely stepping back, clearing
her throat and calming her voice, if not her tone. “I can only
think you have some plot to make my husband jealous to advance your
business.”

“If I make your husband jealous, I stand to
lose twenty thousand pounds. I am plotting to advance myself with
you, business be hanged. In no time at all, Huntleigh will think
nothing of us using given names. Soon enough, I will be able to
invite you to my home alone with your husband none the wiser.”

“I think that unlikely.”

“I have no doubt you do.”

“You need not bother conniving. You are not
half as fascinating as you seem to think.”

“When my hands move beyond your waist…” One
thumb brushed lightly along the edge of her corset under her arm,
“or your wrist…” The other moved against her gloved palm. “When I
do not have to restrain my kisses to your hand,” he leaned close
enough to leave the heat of his breath on her ear, “I think you
will find me very interesting indeed.”

Now he could see the attraction of the bright
red blush. He made himself nearly drunk on the color rising, the
white of her teeth against her lower lip.

“You have quite a high opinion of yourself.
My husband would shoot you dead if he heard how you speak to
me.”

“Then you must be sure to tell him, so I’ll
stop.”

He pulled himself a half-step back from her,
still in perfect tempo. “The music is nearly over now, and you
mustn’t look sad to see it end.”

She made a good show of hiding her
disappointment, and when the music stopped, they weren’t but a few
steps away from her husband, so Nick delivered her without delay.
She tried to give the impression Nick was tiresome, annoying,
insignificant. She didn’t entirely succeed, but Nick was pleased
she made the attempt. He was also thankful her false disregard
seemed to fool her husband, too gullible for his own good.

Nick’s public behavior with her was
immaculate outside the dance they shared, even while he engaged in
speculation with her husband about the new cargo ship he had just
agreed to buy outright. He left so little room for suspicion that
he could see her wondering the rest of the night if she had dreamed
his outrageous proposals. He didn’t touch her arm or shoulder,
didn’t bring her ratafia, didn’t try to find himself alone with her
in a corner or on the terrace, and he spent no more time with the
Huntleighs than his other acquaintances in attendance. She might as
well have been a hundred-year-old dowager for all the notice he
took while in public.

But when she sought him out at the end of the
evening, with no reason but to say she and Lord Huntleigh would be
leaving soon, he blocked her husband’s view, then everyone else’s,
half-hidden behind a pillar, just on the right side of proper.
While she kept her eyes from his face to make sure no one was
watching, he gently tugged the glove from her left hand.

“I shall return this to you one day soon,” he
said, placing it in the pocket of his tailcoat, “and until I do,”
he ran his fingertip over the back of her hand, then dragged his
fingernails across her palm, “you might consider what skin you next
want to bare to me.” She gasped. “I have ideas of my own, of
course, but I would hate to disappoint if you were longing for me
to touch you elsewhere.”

Her face lost both its color and its
objections, so he pushed his luck, moving his light contact from
wrist to forearm to elbow, “How I wish it were your stocking I had
just removed, and the back of your knee inviting my kiss, not the
crook of your elbow.” She looked as though the breath caught in her
throat might keep her from speaking the rest of her life.