Earls Just Want to Have Fun (16 page)

“Do you mean to tell me your name is Marlowe Marlowe?”

“No,” Dane said at the same time Marlowe said, “Yes.”

The duchess blinked. “Well, which is it?”

“My parents liked the name so much, it is also my given name.”

“How odd,” the duchess said.

“But her middle name is Elizabeth,” Dane said. “We often call her that, don't we, Elizabeth?”

Marlowe did not answer. A reply did not seem to be required. “Enjoy the ball, Miss Marlowe,” the duchess said. “I do hope to see you dancing in the first set.”

Dane pulled her away, just as Marlowe murmured, “Not bloody likely.” She wouldn't have to feign a megrim, after all. She could already feel one beginning.

Dane tugged Marlowe to where his mother and sister were standing and watching them anxiously. “Now what?” his mother hissed.

“Everything is fine,” Dane assured her. “Miss Marlowe Marlowe was having a discussion with Her Grace about mutual friends in Yorkshire.” He did not know why he found this amusing. If the duchess ever learned who Marlowe really was, the Dane name would be tarnished for decades to come. His family honor was not something he took lightly. But when he was with Marlowe, his upper-class sensibilities seemed so foolish and inconsequential, which was amazing in itself. He'd spent the last few years of his life proposing bills to keep the classes separated. Why now was this girl from the lowest class charming him?

And why did he find it so amusing when Marlowe glared at him and his mother closed her eyes. “I do not think my nerves can withstand this.”

“She is doing quite well, Mother. You have nothing to worry about.”

A gentleman approached, and the company spoke to him briefly. When he inquired about reserving a set with Susanna, Dane lost interest and glanced about the room. It was filled with the usual company—poor younger sons looking for rich heiresses, desperate girls in their third seasons, debutantes who were already weary of the Season's mad rush, and his least favorite, the meddling mamas. God save him from those grasping fingers.

“Did you mean what you said?” Marlowe asked. He looked down at her and almost forgot who she was. For an instant, she'd looked like she belonged. She was as beautiful as any other lady here, and as well dressed. When the footman had removed her wrap, Dane might have intervened before she practically accused the poor chap of planning to steal it, if he hadn't been struck speechless by the look of her in the violet gown. He'd seen Susanna wear it, and he'd barely noted the gown. On Marlowe, the material seemed to hug her curves and slide over her lush body. The bodice was low cut, as were most evening gowns, and now he could not quite keep his gaze from lowering to that delicious span of pale flesh on display.

Dane prided himself on behaving like a gentleman. He did not leer at ladies, but he was certainly leering now. He raised his gaze, and there was that hard twist of her mouth. That was what set her apart from the rest in attendance. There was no softness in her, no frivolity. “I beg your pardon,” he said.

“You should.”

Ah, so she'd seen his gaze dip.

“I asked if you meant what you said.”

He raised a brow quizzically.

“Do you truly think I am doing well?” There was a hesitation before she spoke, as though she were weighing the correct words to use, and her accent was not quite right. He'd managed to convince the duchess Marlowe sounded as though she was from the north. He had no idea if she sounded thus or not. To him, her accent sounded rusty from lack of use. Was it because she did not practice aping her betters very often, or because she'd had the accent as a child and lost it?

“I do,” he said, finally. “Far better than I imagined you would. Shall I fetch you a refreshment?”

Her eyes widened. “And leave me alone with your mother?”

He laughed. “Somehow I think you are up to the challenge.” He gave her and his mother and sister stiff, formal bows. “I will return momentarily with refreshments for all.”

His mother frowned at him. Footmen were circling with glasses on silver trays. Dane did not need to seek one out, but he needed some distance between himself and Marlowe. No sooner had he stepped away, than he was waylaid by Mr. Heyward, the younger son of Baron Wye. He was an amiable fellow, although he played with a rather fast set. Dane himself had never been one for too much drink and debauchery. There was his family name to think of. Not to mention, his mother would have had his head on a platter if Dane's name was associated with the sorts of entertainments Heyward frequented.

“Dane,” Heyward said with a nod. He lifted a glass of champagne from a passing footman and handed it to Dane, then took another for himself. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

“I didn't expect to attend, but my services were required.”

The men stood, watching the train of guests entering the ballroom. From his vantage point across the room, Dane could see Marlowe and his family. His mother and sister had their heads together, while Marlowe stood straight and stiff, her eyes assessing everything and everyone. She was probably calculating each item's worth.

“You have put yourself in the midst of the Marriage Mart, my friend,” Heyward said. “Have you chosen a new countess, or will you let one of the brigade of desperate mamas do that for you?”

“I am simply escorting my cousin to the ball. She is new in Town and unaccustomed to such entertainments.”

Heyward squinted across the room. “Lovely cousin. Miss Marlowe, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And where have you been hiding her?”

Dane scowled. The last thing he needed was half the men of the
ton
frothing about the mouth and yipping for Marlowe's attention. “Northumberland,” he said, thinking a bit of mystery about her true origins might perpetuate their ruse until the Lyndons returned. As Dane watched, another gentleman approached Susanna. Dane almost smiled as the man gave Marlowe a nervous smile. She ignored him completely. Her gaze was locked on Dane, her blue eyes deep and vivid, even from this distance. No wonder the puppy dared not approach her. She had little elegance in her, but everything about her spoke of confidence. She held her head high and looked others directly in the eye. If his mother would have allowed it, she probably would have crossed her arms over her chest and leaned one shoulder negligently against a wall.

And yet, for all her self-assurance, she was distinctly feminine. It was not a studied femininity of fluttering lashes and tremulous smiles. It was something more earthly, something lush and voluptuous. She had not quite harnessed it yet, but when she did, few men would be able to resist her, and every woman would hate her. No wonder Heyward, with his preference for courtesans, took an interest in Marlowe. She had the potential for that sort of brazen seductiveness.

Belatedly, Dane realized he was being addressed, and he turned to see Heyward exchanging pleasantries with the Duchess of Aycliffe and her daughter, Lady Edith. Heyward bowed and kissed Lady Edith's hand, but the woman's gaze was on Dane.

He could not say he minded attracting her attention. She was the perfect duke's daughter. She had a stately demeanor and was tall enough to be considered regal. She had the perfect English complexion—roses and cream—and a head full of blond curls. Her green eyes were a bit large for her face, her mouth a bit small, and her expression a bit icy, but there was not a man alive who could deny her beauty. Or that she would make the perfect countess—or marchioness or baroness. If Dane were to court Lady Edith, his mother would probably expire from happiness.

“My lady,” Dane said, stepping forward and playing his part. After much bowing and curtsying and talk of the weather—Dane's favorite topic—the Duchess of Aycliffe drew Mr. Heyward aside and left Lady Edith and Dane to converse alone momentarily. Dane was not surprised. After all, the Duchess of Aycliffe had no interest in seeing her daughter married to the prodigal second son of a baron. She would set her sights much higher—on an earl, like himself.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Edith,” Dane said easily. “It has been an age since we last met.”

She blinked at him. “Actually, we spoke the other night at Lady Yorke's soiree.”

“Yes, but even a day without seeing you feels like an age to me,” Dane said, covering his surprise at having forgotten seeing her so recently. The truth was, since Marlowe had entered his life, everything else had seemed to fade into a colorless, dull tapestry—his life Before Marlowe. He hadn't realized he'd seen life as such, but now that he did, he felt his spine prickle uncomfortably.

“Why, thank you, my lord. I was surprised to see Sir Brook the other night. I read frequently of his heroics.”

“Yes, Brook is quite the hero.” Dane sighed. Had he known he would have to spend half the evening extolling his brother's virtues to the fairer sex, he would have gone directly to the card room. There were no ladies there to sigh over his brother's good deeds.

“How did he ever manage to locate Lord Chesham's younger brother? We all thought the poor boy was lost forever.”

“Brook is like a dog with a bone,” Dane said. He could not think of a less romantic image, but Lady Edith did not seem dissuaded.

“And now I heard a rumor that Lord and Lady Lyndon have hired Sir Brook to find their kidnapped daughter. Is it true?”

Dane stiffened. As far as he was aware, both the Lyndons and Sir Brook had kept their association a secret. And Dane certainly did not want rampant speculation swirling about that Marlowe was Lady Elizabeth. If she was not, it would only be harder for the Lyndons if everyone knew of their disappointment and Brook's mistake. Though, for his part, Dane wouldn't have minded seeing Brook make a mistake.

Dane took a breath. “I have no idea, my lady. The last I heard, Lord and Lady Lyndon were in Scotland, and I have not seen my brother. I believe Bow Street keeps him busy recovering stolen goods.” There. That sounded rather menial.

“Anything of interest?” Lady Edith asked. “A priceless painting or jewels?”

Dane let out a slow breath and was saved from replying when the Duke and Duchess of Abingdon announced the commencement of the dancing. The orchestra began to play a minuet, and Dane watched as his sister took her place on the dance floor. Lady Edith's partner claimed her, and with a curtsy, she also moved away. Heyward leaned close to Dane. “Did she convince you to dance a waltz with her?”

Dane shook his head. “She wanted only to talk of my brother.”

Heyward chuckled. “Sir Brook is the bane of many men less heroic.”

Dane grunted. He watched the dancing halfheartedly, having observed the scene countless times before. He was certain his mother would chastise him for not asking a young lady to partner him. But he was here to keep watch over Marlowe, not dance.

Marlowe! Dane's head whipped across the room, and to his horror, he saw she was standing alone. No, not alone. His mother was not with her, but a gentleman was, if Lord Siddon might be called a gentleman. He was a known rake, and Dane was surprised the Duchess of Abingdon had invited the man.

“I wondered when you would notice Siddon and your cousin,” Heyward said.

“Deuce take it,” Dane mumbled. Now that the dancing had begun, he would have to walk the perimeter of the room to reach Marlowe, and who knew what traps laid by the scheming mamas lay in wait?

“Hurry and save her,” Heyward said with a chuckle.

“Go to hell,” Dane said, starting away.

“Better there than the altar!” Heyward called.

Dane pushed his way through the groups of people watching the dance. He knew almost every single one, but he did not stop to exchange pleasantries, which earned him more than a few frowns and raised eyebrows. He plowed forward with a single-minded purpose, ignoring the fans and handkerchiefs that fell in his path, dropped by young ladies hoping he would stoop and retrieve them, thereby giving them a chance to impress him with their beauty or wit.

But Dane did not want to play the gentleman. He found that role more difficult to swallow of late. He stepped over the offerings and finally arrived, out of breath, at Marlowe's side.

“Lord Dane,” Siddon said. “Miss Marlowe and I were just discussing you. She said you had left to bring her refreshment.” The man's eyes lowered to the half-empty glass of champagne in Dane's hand. For her part, Marlowe looked calm and composed and slightly amused.

And beautiful. God, she was so incredibly beautiful. No wonder she'd attracted Siddon. Dane could only be relieved she didn't have more admirers swarming about her. “And now I have returned,” Dane said. He leveled a gaze at Siddon. “Thank you for keeping her company.”

“Oh, I neither deserve nor desire any thanks,” Siddon said. “It was my pleasure. In fact, Miss Marlowe just reserved the waltz for me.”

Dane glanced at her, but she shrugged as though she had no idea what Siddon was speaking of. She probably didn't. “I'm afraid that's impossible,” Dane said. “She's already promised the waltz to me.”

“Then another dance.” Siddon smiled at Marlowe, who gave him a cool, assessing look.

“All of her dances are claimed,” Dane said. “Excuse us.” He took Marlowe's elbow and led her away.

“I could have done that myself,” Marlowe said. “I thought I was supposed to be polite.”

“Not to the likes of him,” Dane said. “Where is my mother? She should not have left you alone.”

Marlowe shrugged. “I am sorry to have dragged you away from your flirtation. If you want, I can pretend I have a megrim now and leave on my own.” She looked up at him. “Or must I wait until after our dance?”

“We are
not
dancing,” Dane said. Waltzing with Marlowe would be his undoing. “We determined that already.”

They stood in silence for a moment, Marlowe's gaze on the dancers in the center of the ballroom. “How does everyone know which way to turn? Which way to step?”

Dane opened his mouth to reply, and then hesitated. She was going to think his answer absolutely ridiculous. And, of course, from her viewpoint it was. She had spent her life attempting to survive. How completely frivolous it would seem to her that his mother had spent funds to pay a dancing instructor to teach him. “Some of the dances one learns by watching,” he said.

Her gaze snapped to his face. She seemed to always be able to tell when he was attempting to hide something. “And others?” she asked.

“Others are taught. Susanna, Brook, and I had a dancing instructor.”

He expected her to snort and make a scathing comment, but she only nodded and looked back at the dancers. “That must have been lovely.” Her voice sounded so wistful, so filled with yearning, that he actually felt his heart tighten.