Scandalous (27 page)

"Ow!" He jumped back out of reach, clapping a hand to his jaw, but didn't seem otherwise dismayed. Indeed, he was grinning.

"Such a violent creature you are, Gabriella," he said reprovingly.

"Get out of my room." The covers forgotten, she surged to her knees, swinging at him. He retreated, laughing.

"Temper, temper."

She growled, remembered the book in her hand, and hurled it at him. His eyes widened as he saw it coming, and he dodged barely in time. It smacked into the wall just beyond his shoulder.

He tsked. "And to think that I was always taught that the mark of a lady born was that she was gentle, soft spoken, and kind."

Maddened, she glanced at the bedside table and grabbed the nearest object to hand: a brass wick trimmer. She hurled that at him too, and then snatched up a hairbrush and flung that. He retreated before the onslaught, one hand upflung to protect his head, laughing.

Gabby leaped out of bed, hefted a small crystal clock, and prepared to give chase. There was no need. He ducked into the dressing room.

"Sweet dreams, my vicious little bedbug," he called. As she ground her teeth, moving with swift purpose to brain the graceless lout, she heard the door between their apartments close. Then, just as she gained the dressing room, the key turned in the lock.

The cowardly blackguard had locked her out.

By the time she finally returned, fuming, to bed, she had wedged a straight-backed chair firmly beneath the knob.

*  *  *

The next two weeks passed in a whirlwind of activity. The season was in full swing, and they were soon caught up in the feverish pace of it. There were parties and dances and dinners and breakfasts, visits to the theatre and drives in the park, calls paid and returned. Claire and Beth both soon developed their own circle of friends, which was composed of unmarried young ladies of compatible temperament and similar ages. Gabby made many agreeable acquaintances of her own, but found that she was often the odd person out in any gathering of ladies. She was too old to be numbered among the unmarried girls, but the young matrons who were her contemporaries inevitably talked of husbands and babies, which left her with very little to say. Not that she bemoaned her status. She had acquired a very respectable beau of her own— a widower with children, to her secret amusement, who was quite devoted— and, more important, Claire was a raving success. Every afternoon their drawing room was packed with eligible gentlemen jockeying for a favored place on the sofa beside the Beauty; and Claire received so many bouquets and other small tokens of esteem that Gabby, not without some pride, was forced to contemplate the necessity of throwing a great many of them out. Preparations for their own ball, to be held on the fifteenth of May, proceeded apace. In addition, the vouchers for Almack's having arrived as promised, they were involved in making ready for Claire's first appearance there. These preparations included repairing a shocking lapse in Claire's education: although she could perform her part in country dances creditably enough, thanks to Twindle's tutoring and those assemblies in York, she had never been taught to waltz. Having left fashionable London behind when she had moved with Claire's mother to Hawthorne Hall, Twindle had never learned the steps, and so was unable to instruct her charges in them.

"Of course, you may not waltz until the patronesses have given you permission to do so," Aunt Augusta cautioned when she learned of this shocking omission. "But when one of them— Lady Jersey, say, or Mrs. Drummond-Burrell— presents a gentleman to you as an agreeable partner, to be unable to accept because you did not know the steps would be to risk being labeled a rustic. Nothing could be more fatal, I assure you. Well. A dancing master must be engaged at once."

Accordingly, early in the afternoon of the day before Claire's much anticipated debut at the august supper club, Gabby, Claire, Beth, Twindle, and Mr. Griffin, the impecunious young dancing master who was already, after a quartet of visits, showing alarming signs of growing infatuated with Claire, were gathered in the long ballroom at the rear of the house, practicing the waltz.

Twindle was at the piano, playing a tinkling melody from sheet music provided by Mr. Griffin. Claire, under Mr. Griffin's eagle eye, was dancing with Beth, who was, to her disgust, assigned the part of the gentleman. Gabby stood near the door, applauding her sisters' sweeping twirls about the room, which were marred only when Claire forgot that Beth was to lead, or Beth trod on Claire's slippered foot. Mr. Griffin, watching their peregrinations with the eye of an expert and ignoring, with commendable tact, the muttered threats that flew back and forth between the sisters like bullets in a war, moved with them, doling out criticism and encouragement as he deemed necessary.

The music was lovely, a magical, intoxicating tune, and Gabby found herself swaying with it without even really being aware that she was doing so. She only noticed when, to her surprised consternation, Wickham's voice said in her ear, "What, Gabriella, no partner?"

Startled, she glanced over her shoulder. He stood behind her, having apparently entered through the open door without her noticing. She had seen him only in passing since she had driven him from her chamber; she was rarely home, and neither, apparently, was he. She, at least, came home in the small hours to sleep, but whether he did or not she couldn't say. In any case, she had heard no sounds from his room at night, although, much as she hated to admit it even to herself, occasionally she would find herself lying in bed and listening hard to see if she could. She had even given up wedging the chair beneath the knob; clearly he no longer had any thought of invading her chamber. Perhaps, she thought waspishly, instead of passing his nights in his own bed he was spending them with Lady Ware.

He smiled at her then, quite as if he could read her thoughts, and the teasing quality in that smile set up her back even more thoroughly than her speculations about him and his mistress.

Knave, she thought, and skewered him with a disdainful glance.

His black hair had been trimmed, and was brushed back from his forehead in the most fashionable of styles. He was clean shaven; the hard lines of his jaw contrasted with the crooked curve of his mouth. His broad shoulders were showcased by a bottle green coat that fit him to perfection. His linen was snowy, his breeches biscuit-colored and snug, his boots tasselled and gleaming. If he was not a belted earl— and he was not— he looked the part, far more than did most of the nobles of her acquaintance.

All this she noticed with a glance, and wished she had not. Turning a cold shoulder on him, she lifted her chin a notch and pretended to ignore him. To actually do so was, of course, impossible, she discovered to her chagrin.

"I'd be happy to offer myself up in the name of contributing to a worthy cause." His blue eyes laughed at her.

"Thank you," she answered shortly, casting him a cold glance before looking away again. "But I do not dance."

29

"Nonsense," he said, and pulled her into his arms. Gabby stumbled forward willy-nilly, and for a moment found herself held close against his chest. She glared up at him, to which look he responded with a wicked grin.

"I am lame," she hissed, resisting. Furious at him for forcing her to make such an admission, humiliated because her defect was thus glaringly exposed, she put both hands against his chest and shoved. To no avail: his hold was unbreakable.

"I won't let you fall," he promised. And then he wrapped one hard arm around her slender waist, clasped her reluctant hand in a strong grip, and began to move in time with the music, slowly, counting the steps off under his breath for her edification. If she was not to make a scene— and with her sisters and the rest present she certainly did not wish to— she had no choice but to follow his lead. She did so with her head held high and twin spots of angry color dotting her cheekbones. Her eyes burned with temper at finding herself so coerced, and her lips were pressed firmly together with the effort involved in keeping her limp from becoming too dreadfully apparent.

If there was any way on earth to prevent it, she would not appear clumsy before him— before them all.

"You look like you'd give a monkey to box my ears again," he murmured teasingly. "Remember that we have an audience, and smile."

Indeed, a quick glance around told her that the others were looking their way with some interest now even as they continued with their own activities. Reminding herself that Wickham was supposed to be her brother, of whom she was quite naturally fond, she pinned a smile on her lips, and murdered him with her eyes.

"That's my girl," he approved with a lurking grin, ignoring her killing glare, and whirled her into a turn. Clinging to his shoulder for support, leaning back against the hard strength of his arm, Gabby felt her skirt bell out around her as she matched his steps. As long as she came down only on the ball of her foot on her weak side, she discovered, she could manage. She was never going to be as graceful as, say, Claire, but at least she would not fall on her face.

"Do you always ride roughshod over everyone?" she said through her teeth, the coerced smile still plastered on her face.

His eyes twinkled at her. "Only when I find that it's necessary to do so to get my own way."

She drew in her breath. "Bully."

"Shrew." He smiled at her.

"I'm surprised someone hasn't murdered you before now. I'm tempted to give it another try."

"Ah-ah, you're forgetting to smile."

He made another of those sweeping turns in response to a flourish in the music, and Gabby caught a glimpse of the pair of them in the long mirrors that lined the walls. She blinked, surprised by how well they looked together. He might be a rake and a mannerless churl, but he was also tall, dark, and powerfully built. As far as physical beauty was concerned, she was a mere candle to the blazing light of his sun, but she looked becomingly slim and pale and delicate in his arms, and in her slim, fern-green muslin, with her hair styled in its becoming topknot, she felt almost beautiful.

For the first time in her life, she realized with a sense of wonderment.

And that was not all. She was dancing— with a great deal of effort, it was true— but
dancing,
when she had thought she never would. There was the slightest hesitation in her gait— she was keenly aware of it— but, knowing now that, as he had promised, he would not let her fall, her confidence grew with each gliding step.

"See, you
do
dance," he said as the music ended, and they twirled to a stop. "And very prettily, too."

Claire and Beth came toward them then, laughing and applauding, and Twindle, clapping too, beamed at Gabby from the piano bench. Poor Mr. Griffin, with no idea that he was witnessing a noteworthy family moment, smiled gamely with the rest. Her sisters and Twindle knew, of course, that Gabby never danced, and why. They had never seen any reason to question it, or to wonder if she could, or even if she would like to. It was simply a fact of life. But now that they had witnessed her twirling in Wickham's arms, and beheld her smiling and flushed, they were glad for her, and full of praise for her achievement.

"That was lovely," she said to Wickham, for the benefit of the others, as he let her go.

"That's what brothers are for," he replied, perfectly straight-faced save for the wicked gleam in his eye.

Gabby matched that gleam with a darkling one of her own, then was distracted by her sisters.

"Now that you're here, perhaps
you
can partner Claire," Beth suggested to Wickham hopefully. "I am tired of having my toes trod on with every other step."

"I do
not
tread on your toes." Claire's response was indignant, as was the look she gave Beth. Then she placed a hand on Wickham's arm and smiled up at him beguilingly. Watching, Gabby was surprised to feel a pang of envy. Claire was so ravishingly beautiful— what man wouldn't fall instantly in love with her? Together, she and Wickham were a couple to steal one's breath.

Gabby realized, with some dismay, that never before in her life had she felt envious of Claire.

"I wish you
would
dance with me," Claire said in a charmingly plaintive way to Wickham. "Mr. Griffin cannot partner me because he must watch my steps, and the truth is that Beth treads on
my
toes. Besides, it is very lowering to be forced to dance with one's sister."

"Dancing with a brother cannot be much of an improvement," Wickham replied without any visible evidence of sympathy. "In any case, you'll have to excuse me, I'm afraid. I have an appointment for which I cannot be late."

Gabby did not realize that she had been waiting with baited breath for Wickham's answer until she slowly exhaled after he had gone.

That evening's entertainment was a soiree at the home of Lord and Lady Ashley, followed by a dance from which the Banning ladies did not return until nearly two a.m. Gabby, her experience with Wickham notwithstanding, sat with the chaperones or strolled the rooms on the arm of Mr. Jamison, her worthy suitor. As always, she did not dance, but Claire sat down only for the waltzes. Even then, Claire had a court of admirers around her, vying to bring her ices or lemonade, which caused some of the less favored girls— and their mothers— to eye her with dislike. When Aunt Augusta's coachman set them down at their door, Claire was yawning hugely behind her hand and went immediately upstairs. Gabby, realizing that Wickham, whom she had not seen since he had left the house after their waltz, was still out as she picked up her candle from the hall and noticed that a third one remained, followed more slowly. After Mary put her to bed, Gabby lay awake in the darkness for a long time, tired but unable to sleep.

Finally she realized that she was listening for Wickham to come in. He never did, at least not that she heard, but at last sheer exhaustion did its work, and she slept.

Only to find, when she awoke bleary-eyed the next morning, that the blasted man had haunted her dreams.