The Wagered Widow (28 page)

Walter Street, who had been engaged in converse with a military man, now turned to ask, “May I make you known to Captain Holt, Mrs. Parrish?”

Rebecca gave the captain her hand, and he bowed over it stiffly. “And did you track down all your poor Jacobite wretches, sir?”

“Had I done so, ma'am,” he said, his eyes chips of ice, “I might already wear a major's epaulettes.”

De Villars gave him a surprisingly friendly smile. “Better luck next time. Ah, there you are, my Peter. Have you seen The Little Parrish?”

“A vision well worth the waiting for.” Sir Peter bowed over Rebecca's hand, then turned to greet Holt.

The Duchess of Chilton came up to say she had met Anthony earlier in the afternoon and found him a delightful child. She was a large lady of late middle age, with a jolly face and an amiable but lethargic disposition balanced by a tireless tongue. De Villars' attempt to monopolize Rebecca was foiled, and he turned with faint boredom to the discussion of the rebellion that now occupied Ward and Captain Holt. The Duchess was well under way with an enumeration of the sterling qualities of each of her numerous grandchildren. Rebecca managed to appear politely attentive, but her attention drifted to Ward and de Villars as they stood side by side.

They presented a marked contrast, for although both had the easy assurance that comes with birth, breeding, and a fine education, there all resemblance ceased. Ward, his powdered hair enhancing the perfection of his features, was clad in a coat of maroon velvet, open to reveal a superb brocaded waistcoat. His knee breeches were of deep pink satin; diamonds glittered in the buckles of his shoes and in a great ring he wore. He presented a handsome, gallant figure, the very essence of masculine grace and charm. De Villars, on the other hand, looked positively Satanic. He also wore a velvet coat, but it was black, the only trim being heavy silver embroidery worked on the cuffs of the great sleeves. His waistcoat was of silver lamé, his breeches a light grey. His hair, which, when allowed to curl, tended to soften his gaunt features, was well powdered, but far more austerely dressed than were Ward's softly waving locks, and the only jewellery he affected was a great ruby ring. He was not Satanic, of course, Rebecca thought judicially. But he lacked Sir Peter's gentleness and kindness. His manners were haughty and often offensive, his every thought and action directed towards the furtherance of his own schemes. Her verdict, arrived at with regret, was that he was, at best, a care-for-nobody; a violent gentleman of lascivious appetite. And of minuscule fortune.

Sir Peter proffered his arm. She cut off her deliberations and went with him to be presented to those guests whose acquaintance she lacked. The ladies were gracious, the gentlemen gallant, and Rebecca chattered and laughed and won them all with her gaiety and unaffected good manners. But her heart was heavy, and her mood did not improve when a flurry of activity at the door marked the entrance of a tall lady whose hair shone red-gold in a ray of sunlight. Rebecca was fairly sure that The Monahan was the “charming lady” who had informed Snowden of the wager which had precipitated the duel. If she had “a score to settle” with de Villars, however, there was no visible sign of ill-feeling between them now. He lost no time in joining the small crowd surrounding The Beauty and kissed her hand with obvious affection, while she laughed and appeared to flirt with him merrily.

The room became warmer and noisier as more and more guests arrived. Many were bachelors, and soon Rebecca stood at the centre of a group of admirers. She was teased about her fishing prowess, scolded for having deprived London Town of her divine presence these past few weeks, flattered, and flirted with to a highly satisfactory degree. From the corner of her eye she noted when Sir Peter gravitated to The Monahan and a little later was amused when Mr. George Melton came in, looked about, and wandered nonchalantly to the side of Mrs. Boothe. His sober visage seemed to be even more grave than usual, marking which, Rebecca wondered if he was jealous because her aunt had been chatting with Colonel Shephard, a chubby, red-faced, and genial retired heavy dragoon with a splendid pair of whiskers.

Mr. Street was Rebecca's dinner partner, and she was seated between that gentleman and Captain Holt. A tall, extremely ornate silver epergne blocked her view of the person sitting opposite, until that individual summoned a footman to remove the offending article. A laugh went up. From across the table Rebecca encountered two deeply lashed eyes of grey that twinkled at her irrepressibly. Scarlet, she saw Mrs. Monahan lean forward slightly, so as to see who had requested the adjustment, then settle back, an enigmatic smile on her lovely face. Rebecca could only be grateful when Mr. Street engaged her in a lengthy discussion of the merits of Mr. Walpole, despite his scandalous relationship with Molly Skerrett. Captain Holt was not a bright companion, but after a few glasses of wine, he become fairly human and dinner went along merrily enough.

Someone asked Ward what he planned for them in the way of entertainment at the ball. “A few surprises,” he said smilingly, “and—I hope—several delights. Among which will be our lovely Mrs. Parrish, who will sing for us.”

De Villars asked through the applause, “Before midnight, Peter?”

“No. It will have to be after the unmasking.” Ward explained to Rebecca, “Did you sing before midnight, ma'am, everyone would recognize that pretty little voice of yours.”

The Reverend Boudreaux said that Ward was too good to them, but over his mild tones could be heard Lady Ward's comments that Mrs. Parrish
did
have a pretty enough speaking voice, although it was rather husky. As the reverend stopped speaking, her following remark was murmured with disastrous clarity, “I wonder if that could be because she tipples.”

Mr. de Villars, who had just taken a mouthful of wine, choked, and had to be pounded on the back. His chivalry aroused, Lord Glendenning launched into the tale of a jaunt he had made to Wales in search of a splendid stallion who had proved to be a perfect slug.

Rebecca knew that several diners were looking at her sympathetically, but her dislike of Lady Ward's arrogant manner was fanned to a flame. She stared fixedly at the blancmange on her plate, and hoped with all her heart that tomorrow at least twenty other ladies would have decided to be Queen Boadicea. Warming to the notion, she decided that each of their costumes would be far more attractive than that of Lady Ward. From here, it was but a step to envision the great house fairly crawling with Boadiceas. Ward Marching would be positively overrun with versions of the fierce first-century Queen. There would be some famous mix-ups, thought Rebecca gleefully, and the ball might turn out to be a much livelier affair than one might have— She stiffened with shock as her ankle received a brisk kick.

De Villars was regarding her with a look of warning. She was appalled then, both by her lapse of manners in having allowed her thoughts to drift while at table, and also by the knowledge that she must have presented a picture of dejection. De Villars' eyes turned to the right. Glancing that way, Rebecca discovered another gaze pinned to her. She responded brightly to a remark of Mr. Street's, but her heart sank. My Lady Ward had very obviously noticed her behaviour and was probably thinking her an ill-bred girl, sadly wanting in manners.

She looked gratefully at The Wicked Rake. He was conversing politely with Mrs. Shephard, a flirtatious woman considerably younger than her husband, but as though he sensed her regard, he glanced at Rebecca. She smiled a silent “thank you.” A grin flickered, then he returned his attention to his dinner partner.

From the head of the table, Sir Peter Ward marked this small exchange. His own polite smile faded into something approaching a frown.

Mrs. Monahan, who had also missed none of it, was affected differently; her reaction was, in fact, exactly the reverse of Sir Peter's.

*   *   *

When the ladies adjourned to the withdrawing room, Lady Ward entertained them with a kindly lecture anent the ills of absent-mindedness, which was, she declared, the product of an inferior intelligence. Her austere gaze rested often upon Rebecca during this monologue, and there was little doubt but that the widow was being reprimanded. Happily, Rebecca was rescued. A footman approached to tell her that Sir Peter sent his compliments and the suggestion that she might wish to look through the music and make her selections. She agreed at once, and he led her to the music room, adding, “The master says he will join madam so soon as the gentlemen are done with their port and cigars, and that if it is convenient, you could practise your songs with him in the morning.”

A fire burned in the large pleasant chamber, although the evening was not very chill, and the room was a blaze of light from the many branches of candles. The footman, having ascertained that Mrs. Parrish was comfortable, bowed and departed. Rebecca found quite a lot of music in the armoire chest he had opened for her, but upon leafing through it, discovered that it consisted mainly of pieces for violin or harpsichord, and there were very few songs. She could accompany herself, if necessary, but she always sang more smoothly if she could concentrate on the words without having to attend to the music as well. It occurred to her then that the lighter pieces might be more often played, and thus be stored in the harpsichord bench.

When Anthony had told her of his encounter with the mice, she had supposed the creatures to have been lurking somewhere underneath the bench. She discovered her error when she opened the lid. There were four of them: a mother and her offspring, and they had been busy, for the music was in shreds. They began to scurry wildly about and, with a yelp of fright, Rebecca dropped the lid and retreated. She was almost to the door when she heard Sir Peter's pleasant laugh ring out. The gentlemen must be leaving the dining room. She paused, her eyes thoughtful.

“No, really,” called Ward. “I shall return directly.”

He was coming to fetch her. She ran swiftly back to the bench. Quick light steps were approaching as she opened it. The resultant confusion was chaotic. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “But there are no cats, you know.”

The steps were very close. She let out a discreetly quiet scream, and swayed convincingly.

A startled exclamation. Swift movements, and a strong arm was supporting her. She could smell the fragrance of him. A faint essence of shaving soap; a hint of a clean, manly scent. She sagged limply, not daring to peep. Her pulses leapt with triumph when she heard a quick intake of breath, then felt a kiss pressed tenderly on her brow. He would do better than that, surely? She had not long to wait. His lips were soon caressing her cheek, her throat. Her heart began to thunder when the kisses moved lower. Ward was more daring than she had thought.
Much
more daring! She shivered to an electrifying thrill.

And she knew. Her eyes flew open.

With a mocking smile, de Villars bent above her.

“You!” she exclaimed, leaping back.

He bowed. “Am I not the most fortunate of men to have been delegated to come and fetch you?”

“You are
despicable!
” she raged. “Have you not insulted me enough?”

He put up his quizzing glass and scanned her flushed face with offended innocence. “Insulted you? How?”

“You know what you just did!”

“
I
do,” he grinned. “But
you
should not, for you were swooning, I think.”

“Well, I was, but— Oh! I thought you were Sir Peter!”

“You surprise me. I'd no idea he was such a naughty boy.”

“He is not! You know—I mean—I would
not
have—”

“Not have objected had he—ah, caressed you as did I?” He swung the glass gently at the end of its red velvet riband, and murmured shrewdly, “Or did you perchance fancy you had entrapped him—at last?”

With a snort of impotent fury, Rebecca turned on her heel. And was seized, wrenched around by hands of iron, and crushed against his muscular body. “Foolish, most enchanting little creature,” he breathed huskily. “Why will you persist in denying your heart?”

His mouth was very close; his eyes ineffably tender. And whether or not it was denied, her traitorous heart was trying its best to jump right through her poor abused ribs. “I—I do no such thing,” she asserted, and demanded feebly, “Loose me … at once.…”

He did not loose her. Instead, his lips sought hers with a fierce insistence. She seemed to melt under them, and that same heady weakness was overpowering her faint decision to scratch him. A fundamental need to draw breath rescued her from this disgraceful delirium. She tore her head away and dragged a hand across her mouth.

Still holding her, de Villars murmured, “I love you, sweeting. More, I swear, than I have ever loved. Forget this sordid pursuit of fortune. It would not serve, for—”

“Sordid!” She pushed him away and, because she was very afraid, half sobbed, “Let me be! Oh—let me
be!
Can you not see that I do not
want
you? And you do not love me! You
desire
me, only, and try to force me. But—
love
cannot be forced! Have you never learnt that?”

He stiffened. With a curl of the lip, he said, “Were Peter Ward as—as penniless as I—would you choose him, I wonder?”

“Yes! And yes! Were he poor and had no title, I would still honour him, for he treats me always with respect. Not once has
he
grabbed me as though I were the merest trollop! Never has he forced so much as a hug upon me, much less crushed me like a demented bear and smothered me with odious unwanted kisses!”

His mouth became a thin, hard line. He gave a grunt of cynicism and with anger flaring in his eyes said curtly, “The more fool he!”

“How typical that
you
should think so! Oh, you may say 'tis only that I long for position and—and security. But the truth is that Peter Ward offers so much more!”