Barbara Metzger (22 page)

Clarice ignored the slurs to her age and the number of Seasons she had gone through. Stanford could not be squiring her cousin around! He simply could not. “But she's a schoolteacher! She's a hoyden! She's—"

"A guest in my home.” Wynn spoke quietly. “I am sure you will be calling on us to see how she goes on.” Which meant, of course, that if Clarice Haverhill ever wished to speak to the viscount again, she'd have to play the doting relative to her cousin. He turned his back on the fuming female. “Your Grace, may I make you known to my sister's friend, Miss Rosellen Lockharte? My mother quite dotes on the chit already, almost like another daughter."

The duchess looked from the clench-jawed, raven-haired harpy on her son's arm to the pale, delicate deb on Wynn's. Miss Lockharte was making a gallant curtsy, despite the cast on her wrist and the cousin's waspishness. Her Grace knew which she'd prefer for a daughter-in-law. “A favorite of Lady Stanford's, eh? I'll send round an invite to my next do. Come, Rafton, Miss Haverhill, we can miss the next act. This one's been interesting enough."

Life was full of surprises. For two years at the academy, Rosellen's days had been remarkably unchanging: the same gray gowns, the same apathetic students. Changing from uppercase letters to lowercase ones had been a big event, switching from chalkboard to pen and ink a major diversion.

Since her illness, nothing was the same from one hour to the next, not her footing, not her feelings. The world was still spinning, and her brain was not even concussed.

Like when they returned from the opera to find Lady Stanford and Lord Hume playing three-handed whist with Wilkins, the butler, and all three were sipping brandy and smoking cigars. Was this how real ladies conducted themselves? The viscount had hurried her past the open parlor door, saying, “Don't even think about it. I try not to."

Like the drawing room filled with floral offerings the next morning, many of them for Rosellen. She could not remember the faces that went with half the cards, yet these gentlemen were sending her bouquets. One nosegay was from the Duke of Rafton. So what if his mother had pushed his graceless grace into doing the pretty? Rosellen Lockharte, disgraced penmanship instructor, of no particular face or fortune, was receiving flowers from a duke!

Like how annoyed Lord Stanford had been to see all the baskets and vases. He'd stormed off to his private office, looking thunderclouds, when he should have been delighted with her reception among the ton.

And like the dog. The Heatherstone twins arrived after luncheon, while the viscount was busy in his office with Stubbing, thank goodness. If Wynn hadn't liked the flowers, he was not going to appreciate the gentlemen gifting her with a dog, especially not this one. Rosellen could not imagine where the twins had found such a disreputable beast, but she was certain that the creature's owner had been happy to part with him.

The animal was huge, for one thing. If the kitten was Noah, this mongrel was the Ark. Surely there were two of every type of insect residing in his mangy fur. He was also missing an eye, part of one ear, and most of his tail. And he snarled.

When Rosellen had thought of owning a dog, she'd pictured a fluffy little lap pet, a furry toy to cuddle and carry. She could almost ride this one. And he growled at her.

The twins assured her the dog was housebroken and friendly, once he got to know her. She noticed, however, that they left immediately after handing over the ogre's rope. Susan was no help, hiding behind the sofa.

"Nice doggie."

"Grrr."

"This isn't going to work."

"Toss him a macaroon,” Susan suggested from her position of safety. “Dogs aren't supposed to bite the hand that feeds them."

No one had told the troll. Luckily his teeth slid harmlessly off the heavy bandage on her wrist. Susan said, “I think he wants another."

The enormous mutt ate all of the macaroons, an entire poppy-seed cake, the remaining contents of the teapot, the milk pitcher, the sugar bowl, and two napkins. Then he lay down on Rosellen's foot and went to sleep. She took a step backward and he growled.

Rosellen decided that she did not really like surprises. There was something to be said, after all, for monotony.

Uncle would turn purple with apoplexy at the price of Rosellen's ball gown. Aunt Haverhill would go ashen at the low cut. Clarice would turn green with envy. Rosellen was pink with pleasure.

In her aquamarine silk gown, Rosellen felt pretty for the first time in her life, especially when the viscount smiled appreciatively. Why she should care about his approval was beyond her; the man had all but ignored her existence during the past week, hidden away in his office, except for reminding her to dress warmly, get adequate rest, and eat all her vegetables.

Wynn did look devastatingly handsome tonight, though, and was flatteringly attentive at her first ball since coming to London for the second time. After seeing her and his sister through Lady Rafton's receiving line, he guided them to gilt chairs along the side of the ballroom, where Susan, guarded by Stubbing, was instantly surrounded by her admirers.

The viscount asked Rosellen for the first waltz and held her carefully, solicitous of her wrapped wrist. Then he made sure she was comfortable, with the Heatherstone brothers and some of her other new friends to keep her company while she sat out the more sprightly dances, since her injured wrist would never withstand the twists and turns of the vigorous country sets. Only then did Wynn leave her to perform his own duty dances.

The light went out of the ballroom, it seemed to Rosellen. Her excitement at being part of the polite world evaporated. The people were dull, the music too loud, the perfumes too strong. Making polite conversation with gentlemen during the quadrilles and landlers and Sir Roger de Coverleys was worse than having to dance with them. How many times could she discuss the weather, her visit to the Royal Academy to see the artwork, or the king's health? And how many times could she watch the viscount dance by with some diamond-bedecked beauty on his arm?

She was being a peagoose, Rosellen told herself, turning her attention to Tom and Tim Heatherstone, who were babbling about a duck race. Then Clarice was there, telling the boys that Colonel Throckmorton was in the card room, talking about his regiment. Did they wish her to introduce them?

Clarice had called at Stanford House once, found the viscount absent, and departed with the barest of courtesies to Rosellen, which suited both cousins. Now she was relieving her of the Heatherstones, most likely thinking to steal Rosellen's beaux. Clarice would never go off with both brothers if she knew how relieved her cousin was at their defection.

Unfortunately, Rosellen now felt conspicuous, sitting all alone in the crowded ballroom. In a way this was worse than when she was a wallflower at her own come-out, for then everyone had ignored her. No one had noticed whether the poor relation had had a partner or not.

Now Rosellen could feel the eyes on her, judging, criticizing, pitying. There was that plain Miss Lockharte, she could imagine the tabbies saying, putting on airs above her station, and look where it's gotten her. She wished the dowager had come tonight, so that she could seek shelter under her chaperonage, but Lady Stanford was at home with Buck, the dog.

The dog did not growl at Rosellen anymore, as long as he was fed. She'd named him Buck, short for Buccaneer, for his missing eye and surly temperament. Nothing but a Barbary Coast pirate could be so mean. The stable crew vowed to hand in their resignations if forced to give him another bath, and the kitchen staff took to arming themselves with pots and pans, to defend the roasts and racks of baked goods. Buck did like a good meal, even if it was the viscount's.

He did like Rosellen in his way, too, his way being to sleep across her door or her foot or her lap when he could, lest she go anywhere without him, like to the kitchens or the park.

When she was not available for some reason, he adopted the dowager. Lady Stanford was delighted. She held on to his collar and Buck towed her Bath chair, so she did not have to call for a footman every time she wished to move. Usually he pulled her in the direction of the nearest candy dish or tea tray, but they were coming to terms.

Buck and the viscount were not. They mutually loathed each other, but Buck had quickly learned that he'd be sent to Coventry for showing his teeth to their host. Rosellen offered to get rid of the dog, if she could find him a good home.

"What, one with no children, small pets, or strawberry tarts?” he groused, his favorite treats having disappeared down Buck's insatiable maw.

"Then I shall send him back to wherever he came from,” she proposed.

"Hell doesn't accept returns,” was all Wynn said before locking himself in his workroom. So Buck stayed on as part of the family. Rosellen wished he were there now. His conversation was more intelligent than the Heatherstones'.

Thinking of Buck made her hungry, so Rosellen decided to find the refreshment room. She'd be less obviously alone there and might find a potted fern to sit behind or something.

There were no tall plants, but Rosellen did take her cup of punch to stand next to the drapery by the French doors to the balcony, where she was away from the stifling heat of the overcrowded rooms. Her Grace did not believe in letting in the night air, so one door was open a bare crack. She did not believe in encouraging young people to get up to hanky-panky by lanternlight, either, so the balcony was in pitch darkness. Rosellen was happy, thinking she might be less noticeable in the shadows.

Then, from behind, a hand grabbed her arm above the elbow. She looked around, a scream on her lips, but another hand was clamped over her mouth and she was being hauled out the doors, onto the balcony. In the dark, with the music echoing in her ears, Rosellen felt herself being dragged toward the edge of the balcony, until the metal railing was pressing into her. “Now jump, blast you."

The orchestra was starting another waltz and Wynn was looking for Miss Lockharte. Where had the plaguey chit gone off to now? He'd had a miserable evening of it, watching her chat with one man after another, heads pressed close to be heard over the music. He was glad she was popular, he told himself, but deuce take it, he did not like the way those cads were looking down the narrow top of her gown. He should have had Madame Celeste add a lace fichu. He was responsible for the female, by George. Someone had to look after her. At home he let the dog do it.

Confound it, he thought again, he should have been the one to give her a dog, a proper dog, not the ravening beast the Heatherstones had found for her. At least the creature earned his considerable keep by keeping the scores of gentleman callers in line. While Buck was on duty, Wynn knew none of the mooncalves would dare step beyond the pale, so he felt free to spend time in his workroom. Painting was not as relaxing as he'd used to find it, though, despite knowing his mother, sister, and Stubbing were nearby to protect Miss Lockharte from unwanted advances, if the mammoth mutt fell asleep on the job.

Who knew what could happen to her away from the crowded ballroom, though, if the chit went off by herself? She had as much town bronze as a baby bird. Wynn knew he couldn't sit in her pocket all night either, not without stirring up a hornet's nest of conjecture. So he'd partnered his sister and two simpering debs, one dashing widow, and a friend's wife, who was all too willing to set up an assignation on the balcony. Wynn had made his escape, claiming he was promised for the next set, a waltz. Now all he had to do was find his partner.

He caught a glimpse of turquoise disappearing through the doors to that same suitable-for-seduction balcony and cursed under his breath. This time he'd strangle her for sure. He stormed over to the doors and wrenched them open, looking both ways to see where she'd gone. He spotted a man disappearing into the far shadows, his white neckcloth giving him away. He could hear Rosellen's heavy breathing nearby, damn it.

"By all that's holy, don't you know better than to come out on a deserted balcony in the middle of a ball? Are you trying to prove your cousin right? Didn't you learn anything?"

Rosellen tried to speak, but he was shaking her too hard. “He tried to ... to..."

"I know what he tried to do, blast him; it's what every man in the room has been wanting to do all night!” Dash it, why should some bounder get to kiss the minx when Wynn was careful not even to think of such a thing?

"If you care so little for your reputation and mine,” he said in a harsh whisper, “I might as well share the bounty, too.” He pulled her closer, until her body was pressed against his hard chest, and then he lowered his lips to hers.

Rosellen was staggered by the weight of his anger, the accusations, the fact that he was actually kissing her. She could not have stood on her own without his firm support if her life depended on him, which it did, of course, but he wasn't giving her the chance to tell him. Oh, my, she thought, before she stopped thinking altogether, this was nothing like her first kiss, two years ago. This one might even be worth getting ruined over. She kissed him back, with all her inexperienced but awakening passion, just to make certain.

She was certain. And Rosellen was equally sure the viscount was kissing her only out of anger that she'd caused him more annoyance. He didn't like her, didn't respect her, and never believed a word she said, the worm. So she hauled back her broken right wrist and cracked him along the jaw with her new plaster cast.

Why did they call them the weaker sex? Wynn asked himself. This one could flatten him with a word, a look, a broken wrist. She could twist his words, twist his insides so he didn't know which way to turn. He turned to his workroom and his soldiers. They never answered back, demanded apologies for the unforgivable, or incited him to lunacy. Miss Lockharte did all three.

Why did she bother to speak, Rosellen wondered, when Wynn refused to listen? If his mother wasn't threatening to have a spasm over his behavior, he'd never come out of his office at all. She couldn't blame him for not wanting to show his contused cheek, but how was she to make him understand the danger?