St. Raven (41 page)

Then he had a conventional though speedy courtship in mind. He’d love to do a Lochinvar and once again ride off with her, but nothing must stir extra talk. The world would talk anyway when ordinary Miss Mandeville caught the Duke of St. Raven, but there must be no breath of scandal. Embers would still smolder among the ashes, and a breath would be enough to stir them to flame.

It was inconvenient that the Mandevilles were about to leave London, but once he had status as suitor, he could travel with them. Plymouth was not far from the Mount, so they could conclude with a short visit there. Because of her parents’ travel, the wedding would be hasty.

In nine days, she would be his. Everything else could fall into place from there.

The music ended, and Jean-Marie stepped onto the dance floor. “I have just realized! Ze oh so stupid Crofton mistook poor Miss Mandeville for zis delight! Behold, my friends, and marvel!”

He took Miranda’s hand and twirled her.

Lord Blayne was lolling on a sofa with a whore, but he staggered to his feet. “Croffy must need spectacles as much as she does!” He lurched over to leer at Miranda. “To imagine that pallid porridge was this spicy dish.”

Miranda wriggled and blew him a kiss.

Something Cressida would never have done.
Be careful, Miranda
.

“I understand,” Jean-Marie continued, “zat ze Mandevilles are hosting a ball tonight at Almack’s before leaving for India. Miss Porridge dances zere like our so lovely demoiselles, while St. Raven enjoys zis spicy dish. And some fool linked his name with hers! Lunacy!”

“Aye!” shouted Jolly Roger. “Shiver me timbers, that’s fit for Bedlam.”

“St. Raven wouldn’t waste time on a dull piece like that,” chortled another.

Tris gritted his teeth behind his smile and started a new ball rolling. “Except for her dowry. Her father has wealth again, and she’s his sole heir. Makes a man think.”

The world was going to believe that he’d married her for her money, but Cressida would know the truth. And in time everyone would see that love had grown.

“Bugger me, it does,” said Tiverton, who was single. “Seems a shame to let such a rich prize sail off to India!”

“She’ll be snapped up in no time there,” Lord Peterbrook said. “All those men starved of a bit of white tit.”

Intolerable disgust spurred Tris into action. He flicked Jean-Marie a look and called out, “My cousin challenges me to a wager!”

He had their attention. These men cared for little, but they all cared for and remembered a wager.

“He bets a thousand I can’t make it from the arms of my Turkish delight to the arms of Miss Porridge before midnight.”

Jean-Marie’s eyes flashed amused alarm, but the men cheered and started to make side bets.

“On one horse, St. Raven?” one man asked.

“By curricle, and I keep horses on the London road.”

The odds instantly switched to his favor.

“You going to try for her?” Tiverton asked. “Bloody unfair. I was thinking of having a go.”

Useful. “Then race with me, Tiverton. You have your rig here, don’t you? You’ll have your chance, too.”

“Against a duke!”

“I have the impression that Miss Mandeville wants nothing to do with high rank. Are you game?” He looked at all the men. “Lay your bets whether I, Tiverton, or none shall win the lady’s hand before she leaves England.”

Someone demanded a book to record the bets. Tris left Jean-Marie and Cary to deal with it, and ran up to change into evening clothes. Not suitable for driving, but a double-change might take too much time.

Tiverton didn’t have evening clothes, so he’d have to do a change in London, and he howled at the unfairness even as he raced to his curricle. Let him have the lead. Tris ran downstairs and climbed into his own vehicle.

Jean-Marie had come out to see him off.

“Wish me luck,” Tris said.

“When a thousand rides on it? I think not, my friend, though it is clever to take a witness to it all.”

“Good fortune dropped that into my hands.”

“Then good luck, cousin. In love, at least.”

Tris caught up to Tiverton near Ware, but didn’t try to overtake. Jolly Roger would have to change. The real danger was an accident, but there was enough moon to show the road, and it was in good condition.

They should have slowed when they hit the streets of London, but Tiverton took wild risks trying to build a lead, and Tris had to drive like a madman to keep close or Tiverton might suspect a sham. Time was short, but that wager didn’t matter.

Tiverton yelled back a curse as he veered off toward his rooms, knowing the race was lost. But he’d follow to try his luck with Cressida. Poor man.

Tris arrived at the doors of Almack’s at a quarter to midnight, slightly out of breath, but wild with the thrill of the race and the awareness that Cressida was close. He tossed his reins to a startled footman, dusted himself off, and strode into the building.

A footman tried to demand an invitation, but Tris gave his name and a ducal stare, and the man bowed out of the way. He paused in the arch to the ballroom, thinking of the times he’d come here expecting nothing but tedium broken by the irritation of women acting like hounds on the hunt.

But now the world was different, because Cressida was here.

She was dancing, circling with a rotund gentleman, and glowing with delight. She obviously loved to dance, and he hadn’t known that. She was beautiful, but he’d known that for eons.

He reminded himself to look bored and bowed to Sir Arthur Mandeville, who was hurrying over.

“Your Grace, we are honored you could attend after all.”

Was there something sharp in the man’s eyes? No matter.

“I found a previous engagement cut short, and wished to take farewell of you and your family. You were most generous in the matter of the statues.”

“Oh, that was Cressida’s wish,” the man said with ingenuous innocence, turning to look at where the dance was ending. “You must come and thank her yourself.”

Tris had spoken for the people around, who were paying attention. They all now had a reason for his arrival, and her father had provided a reason for him to go and speak to Cressida.

Heaven was on his side.

“St. Raven!” He turned to see Lord Harry Monke approaching with his pretty wife. “What the devil are you doing here? Oh, yes—you met Miss Mandeville in Hatfield.”

Tris kissed pretty Lady Harry’s hand. “I was able to do her a small service.”

“I heard Crofton’s hopped abroad. Good riddance.”

“A horrid man,” Lady Harry agreed, then smiled at Cressida’s father. “So delightful that you recovered from your encounter with him, Sir Arthur. Now, St. Raven,” she said, tucking her hand on his arm, “save me from being provincial and clinging to my husband and dance with me.”

Trapped, he could not refuse, and perhaps it would be better not to go straight to Cressida. He glanced over and met her startled eyes. More than startled, stunned! Praying she wouldn’t ruin everything now, he gave her a slight bow and turned back to Lady Harry’s chatter.

He led her into the next dance. There were two lines, but he made sure they joined the one where Cressida danced. As they progressed, they would meet, touch, turn together. Crumbs to a starving man, but something. He was having trouble paying attention to Lady Harry’s light chatter.

“How do you come to know the Mandevilles?” he asked.

“The Ladies’ Committee for Support of the Foundling Hospital. Unlike many, the Mandeville ladies are genuinely concerned in charitable works, rather than amusing themselves, or seeking to rub shoulders with their betters.”

Their betters
. He was insanely tempted to ask what that meant, how anyone could be
better
than Cressida.

“How provincial,” he drawled.

She surprised him with a disapproving look. “Poverty and suffering exist everywhere, St. Raven. I have been meaning to squeeze you for both money and patronage.”

The music started, and they moved into their places, facing each other, to begin. Tris was honestly surprised by her response. Perhaps there were more goodhearted people among the highest ranks than he’d thought.

So Cressida might not be so out of place.

He glanced down the line to where she was beginning the steps opposite a young man in military uniform. She was smiling brilliantly at him, damn it. He found himself calculating just how long it would be before they progressed along the lines and encountered each other.

Cressida fixed her smiling attention on Lieutenant Grossthorp, but her mind was hooked onto St. Raven. What was he
doing
here? Was he going to ruin everything at the last moment by revealing their connection? She’d seen him with her father and feared they were coming to her, but then he’d asked Lady Harry to dance.

She almost missed a move and pulled her mind back to the dance. But, oh, Lord—she and Grossthorp were progressing up the line, and Tris and Lady Harry were progressing down. In moments, they would be together. She’d have to link arms and swing with him. She would be supposed to look into his eyes and smile…

She looked back at her own partner and smiled and saw a startled look in his eyes along with his own smile. What message was she sending?

Damn Tris Tregallows.

Tris kept his attention off Cressida, but he was aware of her as if she were an extra instrument in the music, or a bright light at the corner of his eye. Coming closer, ever closer.

Then he noticed that the lady he turned with now was goggle-eyed, and he dragged his mind back to the moment. His meeting with Cressida would come, and in the meantime to dance with a duke would be an unforgettable thrill for many of these ladies, even for a sensible middle-aged mother like this.

He smiled at her and exchanged a comment. When he moved on to a starry-eyed young miss, he paid her a light compliment and sent a message with his eyes that had she but been older… With a frisky grandmother he said outright that had she but been younger…

She chuckled and called him a wicked rascal.

Then it was Cressida, and all words escaped him. They linked arms and turned, eye-to-eye, then reversed. Soon this moment would be over, and he hadn’t said a blasted thing.

The clock struck, and he found a word. “Midnight.”

Was that the best he could do?

She stared, as well she might. “What are you
doing
here?”

“Dancing with you.” On that inanity, their encounter ended.

He wanted to howl with laughter or tears. He hadn’t been such a tongue-tied blockhead at sixteen!

“Midnight,” said Lady Harry as they stepped together. “You’re lucky this isn’t one of the assemblies or even you would not have gained admittance this late. And you’re not in knee-breeches, either.”

“If this had been an assembly, I’d have come earlier and correctly dressed.”

“True. Apparently Sir Arthur was set on this ball and this location because his wife and daughter could never get vouchers. Said that before they left London, they would dance at Almack’s.”

Her expression was not unkind, but she recognized as he did that Sir Arthur had missed the point. Dancing at Almack’s meant not this place, for hire to anyone, but the exclusive weekly assemblies held during the season.

Tris did not care deeply for the ways of the elite, but he realized how natural they were to him and his sort. Could Cressida learn the strange and at times incomprehensible customs and values?

She must. She would. He would be her experienced guide.

As the dance was ending, he saw Tiverton enter, scanning the room for his prey. Tris strolled over to the man and passed Lady Harry on. She wouldn’t mind as long as she gained a young, handsome dance partner.

Tris turned back and saw Cressida surrounded by four men vying to be her partner. Damnation. She couldn’t know that he was in process of clearing the risk of scandal, so if he asked her to dance she might reject him.

He sought out Sir Arthur. “Alas, sir, your daughter is surrounded by would-be partners. Perhaps you can pave my way.”

“Your way is paved with strawberry leaves, Duke,” said the man, causing a chuckle among the people nearby, for strawberry leaves decorated the ducal coronet. “But if you want a father’s blessing…”

That caused some looks. So, Tris thought, Cressida’s father had ideas, and was not opposed to the match.

Sir Arthur broke into the little group vying for Cressida’s hand. “You can all go away. Here’s St. Raven demanding a dance, and a duke’s a duke, after all.”

The men dispersed, grumbling. Tris bowed to her, unable to stop a smiling look. “If you are completely opposed to the idea, Miss Mandeville…”

“She wouldn’t be so silly. One dance with you, and she’s made—here and in India.”

Cressida looked into his eyes, her round cheeks flushed. Everyone would take that for excitement, but was she angry?

She lowered her lids and curtsied. “How can I refuse, Your Grace?”

Her father left them alone together, but in a crowd. A crowd that would be watching every movement, every expression, simply because of who he was. He put her hand on his arm and turned to stroll as they waited for the next dance to start.

“This is the first time we’ve been together in society,” he said, looking ahead as if they spoke nothings.

“Yes.” She was doubtless doing the same thing. She would handle this correctly, his intrepid Miss Mandeville. “Why are you here? It’s so dangerous.”

“No. Trust me. I…” He almost spilled his proposal then and there, but he had a scrap of sanity left. “Crofton has fled the country,” he said.

“Oh. Good.” But the glance she flashed him showed worry. “I fear he has left his poison behind.”

“Not after tonight—”

The music broke in, signaling the dance.

“Trust me, Cressida,” he said softly as they moved into the lines.

It was a waltz, which meant they would be together throughout the dance, and would have moments turning in one another’s arms. Many still thought it scandalous, and now he saw why. It turned him dizzy with delight.

Soon, soon, she would be in his arms as his wife.

In Tris’s arms for the first waltz turns, Cressida felt as if she danced on sword blades, but with delight. As the dance progressed and no one screamed out in shock, she began to dream.