The Bride Price (11 page)

The look on her face said that her London unhappiness was all but forgotten, at least for tonight. Good.

But Sarah’s future happiness was worrisome. She bowed to her father in everything, and would never risk his wrath. As she partnered with William Manning for a second dance, Caroline’s anger at the earl grew. He would never
let
someone landless and title-free marry his daughter. And he would never release her from this competition. Further, Sarah would never leave.

She watched the activity from the shade of Manning’s pillar after she returned from another bout of ghost gossip in the retiring room. She had to commend Manning—it was a great spot to see without being seen.

A low hum of vibration thrummed through her as someone stepped behind her.

“Aren’t you going to dance?” a voice whispered in her ear.

She watched the dancers come together and fall apart. She tried to keep her breathing steady. “No.”

“Pity.” The edge of his coat brushed her shoulder and the back of her bare arm as he rounded her. She kept her eyes on the dancers, the whisper of a wild wind at Roseford brushing through her mind.

“I notice that you haven’t been dancing either, Mr. Deville. A weak area for you?”

“Is that an offer to find out for yourself?”

“Merely an observation and a question.”

“Coward.”

There was something heavy and sensual in the air that blanketed her ire, unwillingly pulling her toward him. “You have been much on the lips of the guests. They say you prey on debutantes
and discard women like tattered handkerchiefs. I would do well not to speak to you at all.”

“Oh, I won’t discard
you
, Caroline.”

The blanket of heavy air rubbed along her bared skin. “I am hardly going to allow you the opportunity.” She edged out of the shadows so that she could be seen, stepping away from the suddenly weighted air.

“Worried for your reputation?”

“Perhaps you should be more worried for yours.”

He smiled dangerously. “But where is the fun in that?” He withdrew a cheroot from his coat.

“You surely do not intend to smoke that here.”

“If I desire to do so, yes.” He tapped it against his sleeve.

She pinched her lips together, her irritation crisper the farther away from him she traveled. “You are no gentleman.”

“I believe we have already established that. And it is a good thing, as I don’t believe you would have much interest in me if I were.”

“What a ridiculous comment.” She cleared her throat, suddenly hoarse.

“But true, is it not? Your knees are firmly locked in the presence of such men as Everly and Manning. Too poncy or too gentlemanly. Oh, but then you
like
gentlemanly behavior, don’t you?”

He lit the roll of paper and cloves. She stared at him in disbelief as he exhaled.

Smoking. In a ballroom.

True, no one could see him at present, but she somehow didn’t think an audience would make one whit of difference to him.

“I do, and gentlemen don’t smoke in ballrooms.
Ruffians
don’t smoke in ballrooms.”

“I guess that makes me a saint.” He smiled and leaned against the pillar, crossing one leg over the other at the ankle.

She crossed her arms. “In a sinner’s world, you would be revered as one.”

“Then welcome to paradise.” He extended his hands, waving the cheroot in a mock-blessing gesture.

“You choose to be difficult.”

“I think we have established how utterly trying being good is.”

“Why is that?” She cocked her head, frustration at the feelings he produced, totally at odds with her good sense, causing her to lash out. “Trying to get revenge against your brother?”

His eyes narrowed, his crossed foot tapped a jarring rhythm against the floor. A sliver of smoke curled into the air.

“To gain society’s attention?” she continued.

The whispered confession of a man saying that long ago he had desired to turn into a sparrow and fly away echoed in her mind. A desire she could more associate with the persona he had presented at the Grange, but not one she was comfortable reconciling with the smooth social demon in front of her.

“Hardly.”

“To gain your father’s attention then?” She needed him to stay away from her, to stop muddling her thoughts.

Something glittered in his eyes that she couldn’t
read. “I didn’t realize what a creative mind hid behind that icy exterior, Caroline.”

Her name stretched out on his lips irritated her further.

“There is always a kernel of truth in the rumors. And they say that your father is forever cleaning up your affairs. You risk little through your behavior except to drive attention.”

He laughed, a brittle, ugly laugh. “Silly girl. Is that what you hear? A kernel of truth to the rumors?”

He pushed away from the pillar, and suddenly she found him directly in front of her, pressing an invisible wall against her chest. “Well, I hear you are a frigid princess.” The sibilant last syllable hissed from his tongue. “If it weren’t for the way you
performed
last week, I’d believe it too.”

He leaned back and flicked ash into the potted plant hiding them from main view.

Every disk in her spine tightened and snapped into place. She nodded sharply, pivoted and strode straight back to her spot near the dance floor. Another set was forming, and Sarah had a partner. The biddies and matrons were gossiping like hens, probably waxing on about Sebastien Deville or something equally horrifying.

A man stepped into view next to her. “Mrs. Martin, would you care to—”

“Yes,” she snapped, grabbing the startled man’s arm. He recollected himself and hurried her onto the dance floor.

The first steps of the quadrille began, each turn giving her a perfect view across the floor and into the eyes of a demon surrounded by a cloud of hellfire.

Dear Reader, when we have discussed the personalities of this tournament, much has been said of the relationships between the men sponsoring it and their offspring in pursuit of the victory. Much has been shared in this column in the past—the on-dits concerning the various members of the Tipping Seven and their progeny in particular—but something must be said about those members who have chosen to encourage both their latter-born legitimate sons and their natural sons to compete against one another. Such is the mark of an epic battle at its finest, and one wonders what sparks such a man that would light the flame beneath…

S
ebastien stubbed his cheroot into the dirt of the plant, exhaling in irritation as the dancers twirled once more and he caught a glimpse of a shining blonde head.

“There you are.” Timtree strode over to him. “Card game in the back.”

He lifted a brow. “And?”

“And the stakes are good.”

Sebastien doubted that, but as the quadrille was going to last ten minutes more, and he didn’t much feel like seeing his prey in the arms of another, he followed Timtree. “Why include me?” Timtree had negative luck against him at cards.

“Oh, I’m not playing.” He sent him a sly look. “But Lord Benedict is. And the duke. He was just announced a few minutes ago. Returned from London a day earlier than planned.”

He had missed that. Must have been when he was talking to Caroline.

“Well, that just makes my night, Timtree. I can’t express my gratitude for you coming to get me immediately.”

“Yes, yes, enough.” His sly eyes turned. “But with the people gathered in the room…there is ample opportunity for a memorable occasion.”

Timtree was nothing if not an instigator. Possessed of a cruel streak, he could be an excellent ally or a ferocious enemy.

There were already six full tables. Sebastien lit another cheroot, safe now to do so in the bastion of the game room. Though it was not as much fun as seeing Caroline’s shocked and appalled face.

A table with Benedict, the duke, Cheevers, and Petrie was already in progress. Benedict and Petrie were partners. Sebastien withheld a grimace and gave Timtree a look that he returned with an un-abashed grin. Timtree had known then how this would end up. The bastard.

Sebastien stuck his free hand into his pocket and leaned against a wall of books, waiting. He smoked while Timtree kept a running dialogue of
the night, both of them playing their parts as they waited for the next act to begin.

There was a movement from the duke, and Petrie excused himself. The duke beckoned Sebastien over, heavy signet winking in the lamplight as always.

Timtree smirked and strode off into the smoky gloom as Sebastien moved forward to join the table.

He seated himself across from Benedict and saw the irritation and anger in his half brother’s eyes. Sebastien smiled in response, causing Benedict’s anger to darken further.

Cheevers overturned four cards to determine the deal. “How is Lord Grint?”

Sebastien watched his partner’s face. If there was one person that Benedict loathed as much as he hated Sebastien, it was the duke’s heir.

“He’s doing quite well. I would have been quite happy to have him married to your daughter, but for his determination to root himself in Parliament first. Boy has a fine head on his shoulders for politics.”

Cheevers nodded. “You should be quite proud of him.” The implication that he was the only one of which the duke should be proud wasn’t lost on Benedict, and Sebastien watched his shoulders tense. Feeling just the tiniest bit of sympathy for him, tiny as a mote of dust, but there all the same, he dropped his cheroot below the table edge and ashed onto the expensive rug, grinding it in with his boot.

“As should you with your own heir. Boys can be quite difficult.”

Sebastien tossed a card onto the table and ran a few numbers in his head about how much his
newly scrubbed persona would take a hit if he tossed a few fingers in their directions instead.

“At least you have all male children, however misbehaved, instead of blasted females,” Cheevers said.

“You have one daughter, Cheevers, and a model of meek propriety at that. How bad can it be?”

He waved the hand holding his card before playing it. “Birth one, then tell me.”

Sebastien’s eyes met Benedict’s accidentally, their reflected emotions quickly morphing into dislike.

“Lady Sarah is a very nice young lady,” Benedict said diplomatically. The bootlicker.

The duke played his card. “Yes. She is an asset to the competition, Cheevers. Pliable and good-natured.”

“She does as she’s told, but you can never be sure of the female mind.”

“Sometimes it is the quiet ones that make you the most nervous.” Sebastien followed the play, scooping the trick. “They could be plotting the destruction of England and you’d never know it.”

Benedict sneered. “No, you’d be too busy beneath their skirts.”

“Really Benedict, you show your breeding so poorly,” he said as he examined his cards for effect.

The duke raised a brow.

Sebastien simply raised his in response and threw out his lead. “Lady Sarah could be plotting the end of the world right this minute.”

“She’d be purely following directions, if so,” Cheevers muttered so low that Sebastien wasn’t sure that was exactly what he’d said.

Benedict’s face couldn’t contain his spike of glee on the card play as Cheevers followed suit. Really, was the man a complete mutton head? No, he already knew the answer to that. Of course Sebastien was going to lead that suit after Benedict’s play three tricks ago. Regardless of his dislike for his partner, Sebastien knew how to win. And if he was unwilling to let Benedict beat him, he was doubly unwilling to let the duke and Cheevers win.

Benedict wasn’t a terrible cardplayer. Sebastien had witnessed him playing against others and he wasn’t half bad. But he lacked finesse, and he played poorly against Sebastien, letting his emotions rule, the strength of his cards easy to see on his face and in his actions.

“Have you completed your betting sheets?” Cheevers asked the duke.

“Yes, I have.”

“And what did you bet, Father?” Benedict asked, stupidly. Sebastien could have reached across the table and slapped him for falling right into the trap.

“I bet on the outcome of the competition.”

Benedict opened his mouth, and Sebastien couldn’t take it. “Benedict, don’t ask any more questions unless you want to know how little you matter in the scheme of the duke’s life.”

“Really, Sebastien. You hardly know what he was going to ask, or how I would answer,” the duke murmured, anger in his eyes. Upset at his little game being spoiled.

Sebastien lit another cheroot. He wasn’t going to be able to breathe for a day after smoking nearly
nonstop tonight. He was going to maul someone otherwise though. He waved the cloves toward Benedict. “Have at it then. You’ve never been one to know good advice from a pile of sheep manure.”

Benedict shot him a nasty look, then turned to the duke. “Who did you bet on to win?”

“Sloane.”

Benedict obviously wasn’t expecting this. Probably had thought the duke would either pick him, or taunt him and pick Sebastien. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Sloane?”

“Of course. Odds-on favorite.”

“But he’s a bastard.”

Sebastien snorted and blew a ring toward the gilded ceiling.

The duke shrugged. “The status of birth doesn’t matter for these few months.”

Benedict looked shocked. He opened his mouth to say something stupid or pleading. Sebastien leaned back and let the hard toe of his boot hammer into the other man’s knee. Benedict buckled, his cards showing briefly. Sebastien switched the card he was going to play, accordingly.

The pain didn’t seem to stop the conduit between Benedict’s bottle-headed brain and his mouth, however. “Why would you bet on another’s son? At least if you bet on Deville it would explain—”

“Explain what? I bet on the favorite. If you think to win, prove the books wrong.”

Cheevers nodded at the duke’s comment and motioned toward Sebastien. “Deville hardly looks bothered. And he’s a bastard on top of it.”

Sebastien shrugged, the easy, dark smile never
leaving his face as he dropped his cheroot on the rug beneath the table, letting it burn a bit before grinding it into the nap. It wouldn’t be found for weeks by the time he had worked it in. “Why should I be bothered?”

Benedict looked even angrier, if such a thing were possible.

Sebastien would wager ten thousand pounds that the duke had
not
bet on Sloane. Benedict had never understood their father, though.

Being born as a duplicate of a man like the duke helped Sebastien understand exactly how the man’s mind worked. And sometimes that was the worst curse of them all.

“Mrs. Martin, you don’t appear to be enjoying yourself.”

Caroline spun to see William Manning on the terrace. “On the contrary, Mr. Manning, I am having a pleasant time.” She flourished her hands in invitation at the spot next to her overlooking the grounds.

He leaned back against the stone rail to watch the ballroom, the dancing bodies and glowing faces. Partygoers sifted in front of them, gossiping about the competition and seeking relief from the heat inside.

He turned his head toward her, searching her expression. “You do not approve.”

She examined him. She had just met him; she could hardly trust him. Yet there was something about him. She crossed her hands on the stone. “I do not.”

“You are not alone.” Friendly brown eyes were piercing as he leaned back farther, propped against the railing.

“Why then are you here, Mr. Manning?”

“I assume for the same reason that you’re here.”

She cocked her head, intrigued.

“To protect interests,” he said.

“And whose interests are you protecting?”

He smiled, a friendly smile that invited secrets. “That doesn’t matter. But we are perhaps after the same goal.”

“And that is?”

“To see the best man win this competition.”

“I do not think that possible.”

“Oh, come now. At least one or two of the men must be respectable. Sloane, at the least.”

“He is respectable, but he is not for Sarah.”

He cocked his head, mimicking her pose. “And why not?”

She watched Sloane, who stood just inside the terrace doors, effortlessly charming the women around him. “He would treat her well enough, but he’d never understand her. She’d be another bird in a gilded cage.”

“And what is wrong with that life?”

His tone was genuinely questioning, so she spared him the glare she would have given otherwise. “The bird’s spirit withers and dies.” A memory of the earl’s wife flashed in her head.

She glanced at Sarah through the glass, dancing again, for once looking as if she was enjoying herself at a social event. A few of the competitors
were casting her second glances. But interspersed with the second glances were lustful looks at the fallen ladies in their midst.

Men were not faithful. It was part of their society. And if that was just what it was, then she might possibly be able to stomach it. But to make a woman believe that she was the sun rising and the moon glowing and then to turn those eyes elsewhere…the hurt, the pain…to wonder what deficiency one possessed…

No, she didn’t want that for Sarah.

“You think that she needs a man who understands her in order to be happy?” William asked.

Caroline pressed her lips together. It sounded horribly cloying when put that way. “I think that she is still young enough that she defines herself by the way others treat her.”

“Ah. And you are too old to do the same?” His tone was gentle.

“Too jaded, I suppose.”

He acknowledged her statement, but said nothing either in affirmation or in denial. She relaxed against the railing. Here was someone who might just let her
be
. The night began to take on a steadier hue. The activity whirled around them—the chattering, the music, the sounds of feet clomping to the twirling beat.

She felt calmer. “Why are you here, Mr. Manning?”

“To observe, as I told you.”

She turned to him, one hand relaxed against the stone.

He stayed quiet beneath her regard for a peace
ful minute. “To observe that the competition proceeds in a manner the King approves,” he said.

Her heart picked up speed. “You are the King’s watcher.”

“Yes. I’m not to interfere unless something significant occurs.”

“Oh.” Another stick in her sabotage plan—one that could have significant repercussions. She laughed as lightly as she could manage. “Sounds like you will be quite idle during your stay then.”

He looked at the crush inside and the fellow revelers on the terrace. “There is a lot that could happen. So much at stake here.”

She frowned. “Yes, for Lady Sarah.”

His eyes met hers. “For everyone involved. Do you understand what this competition is about?”

“Prizes and glory. Pride and greed.”

His eyes were gently chiding, and her cheeks heated. “For each man competing, this is a dream, and a nightmare.”

“How so?”

“Imagine having everything you’ve ever wanted dangled before you—everything you’ve aspired to, everything you’ve been denied.”

“I don’t understand how that can be a negative for them.”

“Your most fervent dream—in front of your eyes? Terrifying.”

“So you believe most of the men are scared?”

“No. But it is not as carefree an event as you wish to make it, Mrs. Martin.”

She swallowed. “I don’t want to see Lady Sarah hurt.”

He smiled. “Admirable of you. You are a good friend to her.” He grew sober. “There is little you can do to stop the machine, though. Help her to adjust instead.”

He looked inside once again. “Ah, it seems our time is at an end. Until later, Mrs. Martin; it was a pleasure.”

He smiled and slipped back through the doors. A figure, dark and handsome, walked past him in the frame. She grimaced and pushed from the railing, ready to follow William’s route.

“Running already, Caroline?”

“Mrs. Martin,” she corrected sharply.

“And feeling unnerved. I must have done something right earlier.” He reached her and took William’s spot, reclining in almost the same position, but whereas William had made the space comfortable, everything around Deville crackled.

“Doubtful.”

“Miss me?” Straight teeth mocked her.

“Actually, the night had been getting steadily better since your disappearance.”

“I’m hurt, Caroline, truly.”

“Are you trying to convince me you have a heart?”

“A wretched, lonely one.” He put his hand to his chest, another spot-on impersonation of Kean inviting her into the joke.