The Incomparable Miss Compton (2 page)

“I doubt I can live up to my own reputation,” he told Chas. “I have no intention of spending hours flattering a woman’s vanity to win her hand. I believe marriage is a partnership no different from a business venture. And I know what I need in a partner. I need someone who will manage my home efficiently. More, I need someone who’ll listen to my positions and find the flaw in my logic. Someone who’ll correct the turn of phrase in my speeches so my words will be memorable. Someone who’ll tell me when I’m about to make an ass of myself.”

Chas clapped him on the shoulder. “Malcolm, old chap, if you attempt to say that to any of the young ladies out there, you
will
make an ass of yourself. You’ve just described a very efficient personal secretary. Where’s the romance, the fire, the passion?”

“Do you honestly believe in that rubbish?” Malcolm countered. When Chas bristled, he held up a hand in surrender. “All right, all right, I see that you do. But Prestwick, you’re young. I feel a great deal older than you.”

“Well, you’re hardly aged enough to stick your spoon in the wall just yet,” Chas replied. “You’re in the pink of health. You nearly put me away with that right of yours at Gentleman Jackson’s the other day. And that mane of devil’s black hair of yours has but a few strands of gray.”

“A few more than I’d like,” Malcolm grumbled. “Don’t try to make me appear youthful, my lad. At thirty and eight, I’m well aware that I need an heir, and a wife who will be an asset to my career, not a hindrance. But I tell you, Prestwick, when I consider marrying one of those simpering misses out there, I feel ancient. Every time I bow I expect to hear my bones creak.”

At that moment the door creaked open. Both Chas and Malcolm turned to eye the dandy in the lemon yellow coat who attempted to enter. One look at Malcolm’s frown sent him scurrying back into the ballroom. Chas shook his head.

“You can’t hide in here all night, Malcolm. Is there anything else Anne should know about your requirements? Should the lady be tall or short? Fair or dark? Willowy or voluptuous? Anne will not rest until she has found you a bride.”

Malcolm knew that for the truth. In the first year of their marriage, Lady Prestwick had managed to find a husband for each of her two widowed aunts. It was her success in marrying off the elder of her aunts, the crusty Lady Agatha Crawford, that had made Malcolm believe she might be similarly adept at pairing him up.

“I am not so arrogant as to think I can dictate the lady’s hair or eye color,” he informed the young earl. “Though, mind you, I’d like the lady to be neat and simple. She must also be sensible. My real love is politics. Any woman who marries me must accept that.”

Chas shook his head. “You sound cold, Malcolm. But I’ve seen the fire in you when you’re out on that floor debating for something you believe in. Do you really intend to share that heart only with your work?”

“Did I hear something about heart?” Rupert Wells strolled through the door to the gentlemen’s retiring room, dark head high, face bland. Malcolm knew him well enough to see the light in those heavy-lidded gray eyes. “Do not tell me you’ve succumbed already, my lord,” Wells drawled.

Malcolm inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Good evening again, Wells. Enjoying the ball?”

“Tolerably,” Wells pronounced, moving to eye his reflection in the looking glass affixed to one wall. He must have decided his evening black was acceptable, for he turned quickly to meet Malcolm’s gaze once more. “And you?”

“Something seems to have disagreed with my lord Breckonridge’s disposition,” Chas said, making an easy excuse for their prolonged visit to the retiring room. “I’m sure he’ll return to the ball shortly.”

“I should hope so,” Wells replied. “The young ladies appear to be getting restive. We wouldn’t want a riot, would we?”

“You give me too much credit,” Malcolm told him. “By the way, thank you for your assistance this afternoon. The act won’t come up for a vote until next session at this rate, but I appreciate your support. We appear to have a majority now.”

Chas raised an eyebrow. “Both the Tories and the Whigs in agreement? You
are
a miracle worker, Wells.”

The young man inclined his head. “You are too kind, my lords. I hope you finish your discussions soon. Barrington is bouncing up and down from foot to foot outside the door. If he doesn’t have a moment in here soon, he’ll likely make a further spectacle of himself.”

“Tell him I won’t eat him,” Malcolm said. “And assure Lady Prestwick we’ll be out shortly.”

“Always your servant, my lord.” Wells bowed again and quit the room. Chas shook his head.

“I’m not sure why you trust him, Malcolm,” he said as the door creaked open and the bright-coated Barrington put in a pale face. Malcolm waved him in, and the fellow scurried to the screen in the corner to make use of the chamber pot provided there.

Malcolm stood silently until the fellow had scurried out again. Then he sighed. “Young Wells deserves a chance that he likely won’t get unless I sponsor him. I knew his father. Thank God, Wells appears to be made of stronger stuff. He could have a brilliant career ahead of him if he’d learn to let his passions show more often.”

“Ha!” Chas proclaimed. “This from a man who doesn’t consider love important in a marriage.”

“You’re an idealist, Prestwick,” Malcolm replied with a sigh. “A well-meaning one, I’ll grant you, but an idealist none the less. My life is politics, and politics is compromise.”

“Or perhaps learning what you’re willing to compromise and what you’re not,” Chas suggested. “Very well, then. I’ll tease you no more on the matter. I can’t make the same claim about Anne. She’ll be disappointed if you don’t find someone of worth after all this effort. Perhaps if you were to spend a bit more time with each lady, you might be able to form a more accurate assessment.”

“I’ve never needed time to form an accurate assessment of character before,” Malcolm countered.

“Perhaps you could try putting them at ease by dancing.”

“If a woman is so timid she cannot speak until we dance, she can hardly be the woman I seek,” Malcolm pointed out. “Besides, I abhor these tedious country airs. God bless Sally Jersey for bringing home the waltz from Vienna. Almost makes me forgive her Tory tendencies.”

“High praise indeed,” Chas acknowledged. “Well, Malcolm, I don’t know what to do for you. I only know that if we don’t return soon, Anne will likely sally in here to get us.”

Malcolm sighed. “Very well. Let us not disappoint your unflappable bride. Lead on.”

They exited the room and stepped back into the press of the ballroom. However, no one seemed to notice. Indeed, all eyes were turned toward the entrance to the room, where a young lady stood framed in the archway. Her golden curls tumbled back from a perfectly oval face of translucent cream. Her curves in the demure violet gown were willowy. She held herself with the command of a duchess. Malcolm raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

Chas grinned. “Perfect. Here’s a lady for you, old man. Allow me to introduce you to the belle of the Season, the Incomparable Miss Persephone Compton.”

Chapter Two

Sarah Compton was halfway across the main salon at Almack’s when she realized her cousin Persephone wasn’t following. Keeping her head elegantly high and fully prepared to ride to the rescue as the stern-faced chaperone, she turned to see who was detaining the girl this time. Persy had gone on and on about this event ever since Lady Prestwick had sent them an invitation. Nothing Sarah had said could dissuade the girl from attending, even though gossip had it that the ball had been set up for the sole purpose of finding a bride for Viscount Breckonridge, the famous orator. Even Norrie agreed that Lord Breckonridge would surely want a more mature bride than the seventeen-year-old Persephone. Norrie had been Countess of Wenworth for over three years now and could be counted upon to know how things were done in the fashionable world.

Even if she were somehow wrong, Sarah could not imagine what Persy would find to even
say
to a man like Lord Breckonridge. Yet her cousin had been determined. Sarah somehow doubted the girl would turn faint-hearted now.

She need not have worried. It was plain to her that Persy was merely making the most of the moment, standing framed in the entryway to allow everyone to get a good look at her. Her cascading golden curls caught the light of the crystal chandeliers overhead. The simply cut silk ball gown, a violet that matched her almond-shaped eyes, flowed over the curves of her willowy body. Her rosebud lips were curled in a smile of welcome, as if she was pleased to see everyone in the room. She was a delight to behold for anyone looking.

And they were looking. Ladies whispered behind their fans, casting her covetous glances. Gentlemen young and old raised their quizzing glasses or straightened their cravats. Several elbowed their way closer to the entrance, obviously hoping to be the first to make her acquaintance. Though she was used to the reaction her cousin caused, Sarah shook her head and walked back to the girl’s side.

“That’s quite enough, Persy,” she murmured, linking arms with the girl and smiling charmingly. “Another minute and you’ll have them drooling.”

Persy smiled in obvious satisfaction, and Sarah was able to lead her away from the door. “I am a bit of a sight, aren’t I?” the girl whispered with a gossamer giggle. “Do you see Lord Breckonridge? Does he look interested?”

Sarah refused to make a further spectacle by glancing about for the gentleman Persy had come to impress. The safest thing she could do was to greet their hostess and find Norrie in all this crowd. Together they surely could keep an eye on Persephone before she incited a riot.

“I have no idea whether he saw you,” she told her cousin, steering her expertly through the groups of gossiping gallants. “As I have only seen his caricature in
The Times
, I cannot be sure I’d recognize him if I
did
see him. Come along now, and pay your respects to Lady Prestwick.”

Persy’s pretty mouth set into a petulant pout, and Sarah wondered whether she had been too forceful in her wording. One could never be certain how Persy would react to suggestions. Sometimes the girl seemed eager to please, sometimes she acquiesced graciously, and, more frequently of late, she stamped her foot and tossed her head, refusing to budge while her normally creamy complexion turned an unbecoming shade of red. Fortunately, as they drew near to where the ivory-gowned Lady Prestwick was standing with a regal older woman in deep green, Persephone’s lovely face broke into a charming smile.

“Lady Prestwick,” she gushed when their hostess had offered a smile and the other woman had paused in her conversation to eye the girl and Sarah appraisingly. “I just had to thank you for inviting me. This is the most wonderful ball of the Season!”

Sarah wasn’t sure how their hostess would take such effusions, but Anne, Countess of Prestwick, only smiled more deeply. No bigger than Persephone, the young countess had skin just as creamy, although her hair was a straight midnight black to Persy’s golden curls.

“A very kind person,” Norrie had said when Sarah had asked about the woman. “Prestwick Park is not far from Wenworth Place. I am told that Lady Prestwick is so sweet as to have attained the status of angel in the eyes of her tenants and staff.“

As Lady Prestwick turned to her, Sarah could well believe that. The lady’s gray eyes were somehow warm, her demeanor comfortingly capable. Despite the fact that Sarah knew she looked far less charming than her cousin in the navy silk gown that befitted a chaperone, Lady Prestwick’s smile was just as welcoming to her as it had been to Persephone.

“How nice to see you as well, Miss Compton,” she said in her quiet voice. “The dancing has only just started. Shall I find you both a partner?”

“No need for that,” a male voice intoned smoothly behind them. “I should be delighted to partner Miss Persephone for the next dance.”

Sarah turned to look up at the chestnut-haired Duke of Reddington, who stood tall and splendid in his evening black. His gaze on her cousin was positively worshipful. Sarah hid her smile of triumph under a graceful curtsy, which Persy mimicked.

“Your Grace is too kind,” Persephone murmured. Sarah rose in time to see the girl glide off on the duke’s muscular arm.

Lady Prestwick sighed. “Well, I suppose Lord Breckonridge is doomed to disappointment where your cousin is concerned, Miss Compton. The duke appears to be quicker to act.”

The older woman at her side sniffed through her long nose. Sarah realized she must be Anne’s recently remarried aunt, Lady Agatha Wincamp, whom Norrie had mentioned with a shudder.

“He appears besotted,” the woman clipped in a sharp-edged voice that could not fail to sound critical. “I thought your cousin was going to accept that count, Miss Compton.”

“Count Rogan was called away suddenly,” Sarah replied, trying to block the memory of the count’s angered face when Persy had sent him packing for refusing to carry her parasol in the park. The girl had claimed she could not possibly marry a fellow so insufficiently devoted. Rogan had retired to the country to nurse his wounded pride.

“What a shame. And how is your aunt?” Lady Prestwick asked pleasantly.

“I understand she could not come up for her daughter’s ball,” Lady Wincamp put in, affixing Sarah with a glare that somehow implied Sarah was at fault in the matter. “She must have been looking forward to that since the chit was born.”

“Nothing would have pleased her more than to be here,” Sarah informed the woman. “Unfortunately, our family physician counseled otherwise.” That was only the truth. Aunt Belle had talked of little else than Persy’s come-out for months, even with the girl away for the last year at a fancy finishing school in London.

“Your cousin does not seem distressed by the matter,” observed Lady Wincamp, pointing her nose toward the dancers. Sarah could not argue that fact either. Persy had barely registered a yawn when she was told her mother had to spend the spring and summer in bed. At the moment, the girl was capering through the steps of a lively country dance as if she hadn‘t a care in the world, which, Sarah reflected, she hadn’t. Even when the duke was forced to take the hands of the other pretty dark-haired lady in his set, he could not seem to keep from glancing at Persephone. The other fellow in the set was ogling her so intently that he forgot to accept his partner back from the duke and had to be nudged by the frustrated woman. He stammered an apology, but somehow it appeared as if he were apologizing to Persephone, and not his partner.