Scandal (19 page)

The thought of having Mrs. Evans so close to his person seemed quite a delicious encounter, but when he saw her face, he said, “If you don't mind, Mrs. Evans, I prefer King tie my cravats.”

She looked rather too relieved. Mightn't she be just a little disappointed?

“I'll write out the instructions for him, my lord. Will that do?”

He bowed. “I'm sure it will, ma'am.”

He and Tommy walked toward the stables. When he was certain he was out of earshot of Mrs. Evans, Banallt said, “I don't see why I should fix my cravat when I'll only have it off in an hour.”

He had the feeling he'd be dreaming of Mrs. Evans again tonight. Something wicked, he thought, involving novel uses of a cravat. They visited the bawdy house after luncheon, and damned if he didn't call out Sophie's name when his crisis came.

Sixteen

Upper York Street, London,
MARCH 30,1815

 

 

 

SOPHIE PLACED HER GLOVED HAND ON BANALLT'S EXTENDED palm, and his fingers closed around hers, a light touch. Proper. Nothing remarkable. They were friends. Nothing more. As the music swelled, tardy couples hurried to take their places. She was peripherally aware of Mrs. Babington and Miss Wright continuing to stare. Miss Wright clasped her hands under her chin and grinned madly.

“My lord,” Sophie said. She could hardly hear herself over the pounding of her heart. Time bent around her again, and for an eternity, she imagined how lovely it would be to dance with Banallt. Completely inappropriate, but lovely. She wanted nothing more in the world than to dance with him.

“I mean to dance with you before Tallboys finds you again. Or Vedaelin. Or some other ... rogue.” She shook her head, and he went on, “It's only a dance. Friends may always dance with one another.” Then he smiled, and her breath caught again. “Am I such a monster that you cannot have a public peace with me?”

“That's not it, Banallt.”

One black eyebrow rose. How on earth did he do that? “No?”

She turned to the women at her side and decided they did not look offended to be in Banallt's presence. Quite the opposite. “Mrs. Babington, Miss Wright. May I introduce you to Lord Banallt?”

Mrs. Babington and Miss Wright offered their hands in turn. “My lord,” they murmured.

Banallt inclined his head when he'd kissed the air over their hands. “Ladies. I trust you're enjoying yourselves?”

Miss Wright recovered first. “Yes, indeed, my lord. We've been delighted to meet Mrs. Evans. Such a charming young lady. Don't you agree?”

“Completely, Miss Wright.” He returned his attention to her. “I hope you will not think poorly of me if I take her away from you? The waltz is next, and she is not engaged.”

“Not at all,” said Miss Wright. She opened her fan and waved it beneath her chin. “Not at all. Her foot's been tapping since she sat here.” She sent a look in Sophie's direction. While she did that, Banallt took Sophie's hand and brought her to her feet. “She's too young to sit with old women like us.” Miss Wright fluttered her eyelashes at him. “And every young woman ought to waltz with a wickedly handsome man at least once in her life, my lord. Don't you agree?”

Banallt bowed. “I cannot agree more, Miss Wright.”

“Banallt,” Sophie murmured.

He smiled, though perhaps smile was too charitable a word for the look that came over his face. He was all hauteur and ice-cold certainty. “There is no complicated pattern to learn. All you have to do is follow my lead.”

“I'll humiliate us both,” she said. “People will talk.” She took a step toward him. “There will be a scandal.”

“A scandal over dancing? I think not. All anyone will see is Banallt waltzing with the sister of Vedaelin's political protégé. I will be accounted astute for it, I assure you.” His fingers tightened around hers, and she let him draw her onto the ballroom floor because, after all, she must mend things between them, if only for John's sake. And hers, she thought. “We will continue to be thrown together, you and I,” he said, drawing her into the proper position for the waltz. “Can we not make our newfound acquaintance a public one? If only for the sake of my reputation, ma'am.”

“Your reputation,” she said with the slightest emphasis on the word
your.

“You are admired for your good sense and taste. To be in your apparent good graces would be quite a coup for me. You won't be cast out of the ton merely for waltzing with me.”

She was not so distracted by him that she didn't notice they were being stared at. Well, was he not the Earl of Banallt, a wicked man by a reputation he'd earned, and yet one of the most eligible men this season? An earl without a wife or an heir, still young and handsome.

“I'm hoping as well to frustrate Tallboys and all your other admirers who haven't the nerve to approach you.” The music started and he looked meaningfully at the dance floor.

“Admirers?” She laughed. “I won't have any left after they've seen me try to waltz.”

He leaned close enough to put his mouth near her ear and said, “Mrs. Evans. I will not permit you to humiliate us while we are dancing. Have no fear. I will get you through the ordeal unscathed and with your slippers and toes intact.”

“On your head be it, my lord,” she said.

Banallt nodded, and before she was ready, he swept her among the dancers, one hand holding her palm, the other pressed to her back. Her feet stuttered, but he adjusted smoothly. Though she felt awkward, they glided across the room as well as anyone else seemed to be doing. The pressure of his hands on her back and around her fingers tightened whenever he physically directed her body.

She quickly caught on to the count and pattern, and after that hurdle was bested, she and Banallt moved through the room with hardly a misstep. She felt it when she went wrong, but he always recovered easily and gracefully. Sophie relaxed, and their movements became more fluid yet. She felt herself smiling, inside and out. Dancing with Banallt was lovely. Too lovely for words.

“What are you thinking,” he asked, “that's put such an expression on your face?”

She headed right when she ought to have gone left, and his arm tightened around her as he bodily pushed her in the correct direction. She frowned and tapped his shoulder. “Hush, my lord. I need to concentrate.”

“Forgive me. I shan't distract you again.”

And he didn't. She fell back to the joy of waltzing. Alas, though, the music ended too soon. Couples broke apart, and the noise of conversation buzzed through the room. More than a few women laughed or giggled. They'd done the right thing, she and Banallt, to renew their friendship. She was glad, fiercely glad that he was back in her life. For a very long time, he'd been her only friend, and she had missed that more than she'd realized.

Banallt stepped away from her. Only a half step, but her hand slipped off his shoulder and his palm dropped from her waist. Slowly, he released her other hand and bowed. Very properly. The other ladies curtseyed to their partners. Sophie realized too late that she ought to do the same. His attention followed her movement. When she straightened, his eyes were on her, and for a moment, she was frightened at her reaction to that dark gray gaze.

The intensity of his regard was nothing unusual for him. She'd never known his eyes to be anything but compelling. And, though his gaze burned through her, his manner was reassuringly cold and distant. “Would you care for something to drink?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.” She'd danced the better part of the last forty minutes and was parched. “I should like that very much.”

As they walked along the side of the ballroom, Banallt gave no sign that he either noticed or cared that they were an object of curiosity. Doubtless, he was used to such attention. So be it, she thought. They reached the tables where the punch bowls were arranged. Three tables, each with a liveried footman in attendance.

“Orgeat?” Banallt asked. “Or ratafia? It's possible there's lemonade.”

“Orgeat, if you please.” Rider Hall was a world away. The rules there had been different. Their roles, their relationship to each other had fundamentally changed since then. She was not the same woman she'd been at Rider Hall, and she was beginning to think Banallt was no longer the same man.

She stared at his back while he made his way to the punch bowl. Compared to her, most everyone was tall, but Banallt towered over most of the other men nearby. His hair gleamed blue black in the light, and Sophie couldn't help but notice his body was trim. He was an athletic man. Even when he was sitting indolent on a couch or chair, he was physically intense. Just as his eyes were emotionally deep when he let down his guard. Just before a space appeared for him at the bowl, he glanced over his shoulder. His gaze met hers, and his mouth curved in a smile. Sophie felt he'd touched her someplace private. She'd missed him terribly. More than once after Tommy died, she'd found herself thinking how Banallt would react when she told him of something she'd read or heard—and she'd had to stop the thought there.

Her mind wandered off, as so often happened with her. Banallt had proposed marriage. He'd not been serious, not the way a gentleman ought to be, but all the same, had things gone differently, she might be waiting for her husband to rejoin her. What an unsettling notion. And if she had? Her chest went tight at the thought of Banallt having that level of control of her life and happiness. As a husband, he could only break her heart. Just as Tommy had.

Banallt returned with the orgeat. As he was extending it to her, another gentleman bumped him from the side. He lurched, only just saving the drink from spilling on Sophie. Some of the contents sloshed onto the floor and slopped onto his coat.

“Oy there! So sorry,” said the gentleman. His booted foot landed in the spilled orgeat, and he slid. Banallt caught him by the elbow and steadied him. “Is that you, Banallt?”

“MacNaill,” Banallt said. He released MacNaill to brush the liquid off his double-breasted waistcoat. MacNaill dropped a hand on Banallt's shoulder and held on, very nearly causing another spill. A sharp-eyed footman swooped in to mop up the mess, and the two men stepped out of the way. MacNaill was about Banallt's age, possibly younger, and quite obviously had overindulged in spirits. She recognized the name immediately. When Tommy was home, she'd often heard him lament that MacNaill was not here to entertain him.

“Good evening, MacNaill,” Banallt said.

“Haven't ruined your coat, have I?” MacNaill hung over Banallt, though he wasn't tall enough to succeed well in the maneuver.

“No, no.” Banallt sidled out of the way of the footman, but MacNaill kept his grip on Banallt's shoulder and moved with him. “All's well, thank you. Disaster was averted.”

“I'm headed to the Golden Swan after. Do you fancy going with me?”

Banallt's expression turned about as hot as ice, not that MacNaill noticed. “No.”

“Pity.” MacNaill was a sloppy drunk. “Dropped all your old friends, have you? But look here, I've another complaint to lodge against you, my lord.”

“Oh?” He glanced at Sophie and gave a little shrug. “Perhaps another time you'll tell me what it is. At present I'm—”

“Mrs. Peters won't give me the time of day.” He shook a finger in Banallt's face. “ ‘Tis all your fault, I know it.” Banallt's smile vanished, a fact MacNaill failed to notice until Banallt pushed free of the younger man's grip, and even then MacNaill didn't appreciate his danger.

“That is quite enough, MacNaill,” Banallt said in a venomous tone. “You are speaking out of turn.”

“Out of turn?” He draped an arm around Banallt. “Come now, you've been nothing but dreary since you came back. Liven up, or you'll die an old man before you're forty.”

Banallt disengaged from MacNaill and set a hand to the man's chest. He pushed. “Good evening to you, MacNaill.” He crossed the distance to Sophie and took her elbow in a firm grip. “Shall we find someplace less crowded?”

“Of course.” She was glad, actually, to be reminded of Banallt's relationship with Mrs. Peters. It kept her from the sentimentality that had been threatening her all evening where Banallt was concerned. The lump in her throat almost didn't go down when she swallowed. She had to clear her throat. She was Sophie Mercer Evans, and no one stirred her. No one disturbed her peace of mind. Whatever Banallt chose to do in his private life needn't affect her. Why should it? Their relationship was not what it had been. “Some fresh air would be pleasant, my lord.”

He frowned.
“My lord.
Must you be so formal?”

“All right then, some fresh air would be pleasant, Banallt.”

“Better.”

She placed her arm on his, and he led her out of the ballroom, holding her orgeat in his other hand. Not outside, which she for some reason expected, but to a withdrawing room just down the hall. “Lord Harpenden has a book I thought you might enjoy seeing.” Banallt handed the orgeat to her. Overhead, a crystal chandelier cast shimmering candlelight upon the room, but Banallt struck fire to a lamp and settled it on a side table.

“Really?” she said. She took a sip of her drink. The air here was much cooler, and the door was open. No one would remark if they should be seen. “What sort of book?”

He walked to a mahogany stand on which there sat a thick volume a foot tall and nearly two inches thick. The edges of the pages were gilt. “Come, Sophie.”

Banallt's voice echoed in her ears, though he'd not spoken very loud.