Cecilia Grant - [Blackshear Family 03] (28 page)

Louisa’s face betrayed no reproach. On those few occasions when their eyes met, she smiled, an expression of such brave artifice as reminded Kate … as reminded her of Rose, in fact, on the day of the knotted embroidery thread. But this time she was the source of the pain, and could not be its cure.

No, that last part wasn’t true. She could discourage Lord Barclay with cool manners. She could spend the entire dance speaking of Louisa’s virtues, and doing her best to promote her friend’s interest.

“I’ve grown fond of living in London, to be honest,” the baron said. She’d gotten him onto this subject, ushering him along from Almack’s to the Houses of Parliament to his club, which was Brooks’s, to Lord knows what else. She’d attended intermittently at best. “I’m not entirely without society in Kent—my property is near enough to Astley’s that I can visit often—but I expect I’ll
miss all the vibrancy of the city, now that I’ve gotten so caught up in its life as I have.”

He had an estate of his own. Even if he never succeeded to the marquessate, he had property in the country, and doubtless a good deal of consequence there. Could she really afford to discourage him before she’d had a chance to speak to Miss Smith and ascertain her feelings beyond the very last doubt? “I’ve always wanted to see Kent. For natural beauty, it’s said to be one of the finest counties.” She sounded as if she were angling to be taken there; perhaps installed there as a bride.

She was despicable. What did she think Louisa would tell her, that she couldn’t already see for herself? And didn’t a man as worthy as Lord Barclay deserve a wife who’d been drawn to him by affection and esteem instead of by a dispassionate reckoning of his holdings, his prospects, and what he could do for her family?

She pivoted, as the dance required, and saw again the empty spot where Mr. Blackshear had stood earlier.

Another sick pang sank her stomach. Miss Smith’s un-happiness wasn’t the only source.

He’d stood there with his lady friend, holding her hand for a pointed long time. Even a girl as sheltered and inexperienced in these matters as she, could not mistake the theme of their discussion. She’d had to avert her eyes.

And several eye-averted pivots later, she’d finally ventured a look and found they’d both vanished. She’d scanned the room, as discreetly as she could while dancing. They weren’t here.

They might have gone to play cards, of course, but they certainly hadn’t looked, in those few moments that she’d dared watch them, as though cards were on either one’s mind. More likely they’d left the party altogether. Or found some convenient dark room.

Her hands curled into graceless fists, creasing the fine silk skirts. As if she hadn’t already known reasons enough to not kiss a man! She might tell Viola to put it in her book:
Think how you’ll feel when you see him pay marked attention to another woman. Think how you’d feel to know he was kissing her just the same as he’d done with you
.

But it wouldn’t be just the same. With a woman like Lady Attainable, he wouldn’t halt the proceedings and say he regretted having begun. His hands would go everywhere. Probably more than his hands. And he’d be grateful for the company of a worldly woman, one who knew the proper response to everything he did. He’d thank his lucky stars he wasn’t with an innocent, ignorant miss to whose family he owed better behavior.

“You’ve been acquainted with Mr. Blackshear for some time, I think?” She nearly jumped out of her skin at the baron’s words. He couldn’t possibly know what was in her thoughts, and still, guilt flooded her.

“I suppose—well, yes.” She shaped her face into a mask of mild unconcern. “He’s been a friend of my family’s for … three years now, I believe.”

“I see. And are you likewise acquainted with his family?” Something in the expression of his face, the indirect quality of his gaze …

Suspicion darted through her, crystallizing into certainty on the way. He’d heard something. Some incomplete rumor of irregularity attending the Blackshear name, and he sought now to have it confirmed.

Her stomach twisted again. Lord knows Nick Blackshear had no claim on her loyalty, slinking off to amuse himself with another lady when he was supposed to be here, watching her. “We haven’t the pleasure of acquaintance with his family,” she said nevertheless. “We came to know him when he was studying with my father, and that has remained the basis of the connection.”

“Ah, to be sure. I suppose that’s generally the way, with professional connections.” To his credit, he looked relieved to abandon the question, and ashamed to have asked.

Lord Barclay was a good man. He didn’t deserve to be schemed upon, particularly not by a lady whose thoughts were more than half with someone else.

She would be cordial for the rest of the dance, because he also didn’t deserve sudden, unaccountable coldness. Then for the remainder of the evening she would apply herself to determining whether any other gentleman here, those she was engaged to dance with and those who might yet approach her for a dance, could possibly be a real prospect. And only if she found no such prospects at all … well, even then she couldn’t be sure what she would do. Better to concentrate her thoughts on finding other eligible men.

Fate, however, seemed determined to mock her virtuous resolve. She finished the dance, parted from Lord Barclay with a curtsy, and sat beside the countess to await her partner for the supper dance. Five minutes later he had not appeared.

“I fear he’s discovered you’re no suitable match.” Lady Harringdon, as usual, saw no reason to spare her charge from her worst suppositions. “I did have an apprehension of this. The Cathcarts may think they did you a kindness with this invitation, but there’s no kindness in exposing you to such disappointments.”

Kate rearranged her skirts, declining to make a reply. The music hadn’t begun, so the gentleman might yet prove her aunt mistaken. Couples were taking their places in the set, however, and with each new pair who stepped into line, her self-discontent wavered, reshaping itself into a discontent with her absent partner.

That she might sit out the supper dance, a wallflower in a lovely red gown, seemed more than a little ridiculous.
She’d followed a charitable impulse in granting this dance to Lord John Prior, hoping to make up for his shabby treatment by Mr. Blackshear on the terrace at Cranbourne House, and she would regret her charity thoroughly if he proved to have deserted her.

Which she could not believe he would intentionally do. He’d seemed so polite and deferential. And whatever knowledge of her background he might have gained, there was no reason he should not
dance
with her. Certainly not when men of higher rank were doing so. He was but the fifth son of a duke, and she was, by all objective measures, the prettiest girl here. Some would say he was the lucky one in the pairing.

“At least you can take pleasure in the success of our little Miss Smith.” Lady Harringdon fanned herself, the picture of serene satisfaction, and looked out to where that lady stood opposite her latest partner. “The change to her hair was an inspired idea. I don’t believe she’s sat down for a single dance besides the waltz. She’ll owe you a great debt of gratitude, if her popularity leads to her making such a match as I’ve always hoped she would.”

Guilt curled its tenacious fingers around Kate again. She couldn’t sit and listen to praise for her kindness to Miss Smith. “Will your ladyship excuse me a moment?” She put up a hand to pat her hair. “Since my partner appears to not be coming, I think I’ll take the opportunity to splash my face and see that my hair isn’t coming undone.”

“Very wise. Nothing to be gained by sitting conspicuous along the wall.” The countess rose with her in a grand sweep of skirts. “For my part, I shall see how Mrs. Smith is doing at whist. You may find me in the card room when the time comes to go in for supper.”

Here was another humiliation: she’d thought she’d go in to supper on a gentleman’s arm, but now she must
trail about as a lady’s companion again, for all that she’d had her own invitation and been announced, and for all the impression she knew she’d made on her entrance in the red silk gown.

Or rather, she must go to supper as a lady’s companion if she could not turn up her missing partner. He might yet be here, forgetting the time while he stared out the window at an arrangement of stars, or crouching behind a door somewhere because he hadn’t the courage to tell her he’d changed his mind about their dance. Well, he’d better find his courage, or take prodigious enjoyment from those stars, because if he was in this house he had a reckoning coming. Never mind the washroom; she was going to find Lord John.

N
ICK HAD
been in this room before. He could say that of most rooms in this house, granted. But this one, in particular, he remembered.

He and Will had come down to London with Cathcart one term holiday instead of spending the break at their quiet Cambridgeshire home. His brother and the viscount—not yet a viscount at the time—had got up to all manner of London nonsense, much of it involving drink, and had often ended the evening here, sitting on the carpet before the fire, obediently consuming the toasted bread and cheese Nick had pressed upon them in the interest of avoiding a poor head the next morning.

He sat back on the sofa, stretching his legs out toward the empty hearth. No fire tonight. No candles, either. He’d left the door open, to invite whatever light the hallway sconces could provide, and pushed aside the curtains to let moonlight in as well.

Not that there was anything he needed to see. The partial dim, with vague shapes of furniture in the shadows and paintings indistinguishable beyond their size
and shape, suited him very well. The music rising from the ballroom pleased him better than it had when he’d been downstairs with the musicians in view.

He’d stayed here longer than intended. He knew because one song had ended and the next one begun. But he felt no inclination to return. Surely Miss Westbrook could keep out of trouble for the length of one more dance, at the end of which he’d drag himself off this comfortable sofa and go back downstairs to play watchful sheepdog for the last time.

A creak on the hallway staircase signaled some person’s approach. He turned his head, without either sitting straight or unfolding the arms crossed over his chest, to see whether anyone would appear in the doorway. He needn’t be formal for Cathcart, who would share his memories of sitting down on the hearth, and he felt a perverse defiance at the thought of any party guest intruding on his respite.

Slippers; that could be a lady or a gentleman. Not a servant. Softly but steadily over the hallway floorboards they came, a graceful lady or a slight and stealthy man. No, a lady, without question; the rustle of her skirts reached him. Too late it occurred to him it could be Lady Cathcart, whom he would not like to offend by slouching in her second-best parlor, and before he could make any alteration in his posture, a feminine shape slipped into view, peering into the room without entering, and it was not, after all, Lady Cathcart.

Of course it wasn’t. Who else would it have been on this night but Kate Westbrook, apparently sworn to not only spoil his prospects but disturb his few minutes of badly needed peace?

Ah, but she hadn’t expected to find him. He could see the surprise on her face.

Good God. Who
was
she expecting to find?

“Miss Westbrook.” He pushed up from his slouch,
setting his elbow on the back of the sofa as he turned to confront her. “What the devil are you doing so far from the ballroom? I explained to you at the last party that your behavior has consequences for me as well as for you. Were you not listening?”

She started at his incivility, but he was thoroughly tired of being civil. His obligation to her had cheated him of what could have been an excellent night, and for all he knew, might have done permanent damage to his friendship with Mrs. Simcox. Now here she was on God knew what reckless errand, putting her reputation at risk again as though she’d learned nothing from their close call of last week. She’d surely earned a little blunt talk.

Only for an instant, though, was she taken aback. Her brow lowered as he watched, and her shoulders set. Shadows shifted across her bosom, and one small stubborn fraction of his brain took thorough notice of that.

The better part noticed her anger, and welcomed it. If she wanted an argument, she’d come to the right place. This conversation was long overdue.

T
HE SIGHT
of him sent her stomach into knots that would do a sailor proud. The way he’d been sitting, with such defiant, sated sensuality, not caring whether she could guess what he and his lady friend must have been doing here no great while since. Then the presumption of his words to her, even without that context, simply took her breath away.

She forced in a breath, to replace the one he’d stolen, and willed her stomach calm. “Yes, you did lecture me about my behavior. I remember that. I also remember what happened subsequently, behind the sofa in the Astleys’ library.”

“I apologized for that. I regret it thoroughly. And it has nothing to do with the matter of what you’re doing here, and why you looked surprised at the sight of me. You were expecting someone else, I presume.”

“How do you dare to speak so?” She could hardly hear her own words for the blood pounding in her ears. “As if I couldn’t deduce what your own business in this room has been.” She shocked herself, giving voice to such thoughts. But she couldn’t let his foul accusation rest unanswered.

And she apparently didn’t shock him at all. His brows went up. His mouth twitched as though he found her very amusing. “What do you accuse me of?” He made a show of looking about the room. “Do you think I’ve hidden a lady behind one of these pieces of furniture?”

“Of course not.” Really, how dare he invoke hiding behind furniture? “The fact there’s no lady here now doesn’t prove there was no lady earlier.”

“I assure you my time in this room has not been nearly as interesting as you suppose.” He held her gaze in silence just long enough to make her heart race. “And I ask again: what reason do you have for stealing away upstairs and looking into darkened rooms? I cannot imagine any respectable explanation.”