Have You Any Rogues? (10 page)

“No one can with the likes of them,” Aunt Damaris agreed.

Crispin glanced again at the object of so much scorn and thought she looked pale and drawn. Hardly the carefree Jezebel she was being made out to be.

“It is scandalous,” Lady Portia agreed. “Mourning should never be mocked thusly. It shows a want of proper breeding.” The girl shook her head. “I don’t know why she would even consider coming out when it is obvious no one will dance with her.”

At those three words, Crispin stilled.

Dance with her.

They sang with an impossible tug at his heart. Pried a wedge inside it. Reopened a bottle of desire he’d furiously pounded a cork into.

Had drank and gambled and whored himself nearly to death in hopes of forgetting.

He looked over at Henrietta Seldon and knew forgetting would never be possible. Not when she stood there, defiant in her red gown, her chin tucked up at a noble angle, as if she had merely deigned to make an appearance, not risking everything by coming here.

Dance with her.
It was a clarion call that he couldn’t shake free. Couldn’t ignore. His boot edged forward and then came to a practical halt.

No, he didn’t dare do this.

“It is only a matter of time before she takes a hint and leaves,” Lady Portia added with another sniff—very much like her mother’s haughty disdain.

This time when Crispin looked over at the very perfect and proper face of the lady who, up until a few moments ago, he’d been nearly certain was to be his viscountess, he saw her in a new light.

And it was hardly flattering. Instead of seeing his world graced with well-heeled manners and an aristocratic sense of place and honor, he saw instead a lifetime curbed by restraints.

Then he looked at Henrietta and felt his heart soar free.

“Yes, whoever would be so foolhardy to go near her now? She’s put two husbands in early graves. Gracious heavens, what would she do to a third?” Lady Lindsey asked, to which there were nods all around.

Save Crispin, because he could imagine quite perfectly what she would do for him. Knew all too well. Open his world up beyond the strictures that his aunt and just about everyone around him wanted to impose upon him now that he’d, as his aunt liked to say, “finally come to his senses.”

What was the point of being the Dale of Langdale if he couldn’t rule his own destiny?

Much as Henrietta Seldon had always done with hers.

It was something that he admired about her, as much as it drove him to distraction.

Then she glanced up and looked him directly in the eye. The challenge in her glittering gaze, the pride that held her fast and dared him to come claim her—it was more than he could resist.

Calypso, his Calypso. His again. His always.

That hope, that dream pitched him forward—deaf to the protests rising in his wake.

Besides, she owed him an explanation. Or two.

And then they could make up for lost time before she got it in her impetuous head to run off with another rogue.

Save one.

Him.

H
enrietta watched Crispin start across the crowded ballroom. It had only been by chance that she’d discovered that he was going to be here tonight. A stray comment over tea at Aunt Zillah’s afternoon in.

Lady Portia Claybourne is to be commended. Her first Season and she’s making a most advantageous match. A most proper one.

Henrietta assumed this bit of news was more a slight on her own social history than it was the bit of gossip it might outwardly appear to be. After all, it had taken her three Seasons to “catch” Astbury, and then there was her most improper elopement with Michaels.

Still, the gossip appeared to be one of the newer bits being bandied about by the
ton,
for there were approving smiles all around Aunt Zillah’s drawing room at the news until one of the ladies made the benighted mistake of mentioning the groom-to-be in a Seldon home.

”
A most handsome fellow—Lord Dale,
” Lady Weybridge declared. ”
I do believe his aunt had despaired that he would never start his nursery—what with that horrible business in France and all his devilish ways . . .”

There were nods all around, some disapproving and others with a slight smile over the viscount’s exploits.

“I, for one,”
Lady Weybridge continued,
“will be at Lady Knolles’s soirée tonight, dreary as such company is, if only to witness the happy announcement. Who doesn’t love seeing a rogue of the first order finally being tamed.”

All the others twittered with excitement, though not Aunt Zillah, who glowered at having a Dale being bandied about her parlor. Meanwhile, Henrietta tried to breathe.

Crispin? About to be engaged?

No, it couldn’t be.

But to her dismay, the chatter—as it was wont to do—shifted again, and Henrietta was left floundering and grasping at nothing more than those spare tidbits.

Worse yet, she could hardly ask Lady Weybridge for more details. Not in front of Aunt Zillah.

Instead, she had to sit with her hands folded in her lap and do her best to appear quite bored by it all.

That is, until she came up with a likely excuse to escape and scurry back to the Seldon town house on Harley Street, where she frantically sorted through the huge stacks of invitations on the long-neglected salver; Christopher barely deigned to show his face in proper Society—and Society was probably more than relieved for that small measure of good fortune—and Henry could have cared less about soirées and balls.

Especially when hosted by such low
ton
as Lady Knolles.

But to Hen’s great delight and even greater horror, there it was, printed on thick vellum: an invitation to Lady Knolles’s soirée.

Henrietta stared down at it for what seemed like an eternity before she straightened, steeled her spine and marched upstairs, ordering Poppy to find a dress that might fit her thin frame—then adding, “Nothing in black,” much to her long-suffering maid’s horror.

She’d never quite recovered from the loss of her child, then Michaels’s shocking death had left her ever so thin and drawn. But Poppy, true to her loyal nature, clucked and flitted about, doing her best to ensure her mistress appeared to advantage.

Yet deciding a thing and doing it was turning out to be an entirely different matter. While Hen had known her arrival would be met with some degree of disdain by the more stuffy members of the
ton,
she hadn’t expected to be given the cut direct by everyone in attendance.

Well, not everyone, she reminded herself. Lord Juniper had come over to give her his regards. Dear, kindly Gusty—always her greatest champion—had come directly to her side, that is until his mother had dragged him away.

And now here was Crispin prowling toward her.

When he’d first arrived, she’d done her best not to rush to his side, relegating herself to simple glances in his direction, until she hadn’t been able to stand it any longer and had blatantly stared at him.

Look at me. Oh, please, Crispin, forgive me.

And then he turned, his eyes meeting hers, and all her regrets about coming tonight drifted away.

Still, it was nigh on impossible to believe he was truly coming toward her. He couldn’t be . . . It would be too scandalous. But given the look of pure horror on his Aunt Damaris’s face, Hen realized that was exactly his intent.

Despite those horrible words he’d said that night.

. . .
a momentary lapse in judgment. . .

. . . Ill-bred lot. . .

. . . a meaningless dalliance. . .

Oh, bother, why had she come here? He was most likely coming over to toss her out as a favor to Lady Knolles. She was naught but a momentary lapse to him and always would be.

But what if that isn’t the case?

Her insides fluttered as that spark of hope kindled inside her. What if she’d been mistaken that night? Overheard him wrongly? She tried to catch her breath, which suddenly seemed caught in her throat. This was the moment she’d been waiting for. And yet . . . whatever would she say?

I was a fool. I was ever so mistaken.

Besides, wasn’t this what Michaels had urged her to do as he’d lain on his deathbed?

She drew a deep breath and exhaled, letting her heart ring with the words that she wanted to say aloud but had never dared.
Crispin, you are my heart and soul. Could you ever. . .

. . . love me?

Henrietta uncurled her hands, which had knotted into two tight fists. She must be prepared to discover that it was too late for them. She’d seen to that.

That didn’t stop Michaels’s reassurances from coming hauntingly to the forefront of her tangled, panicked thoughts.

“Dearest girl, go to him. Forget all this Dale and Seldon nonsense. Live the life I never could have had—free to love as I might. The one you’ve spent far too long running from.”

And so she’d come to London. Far too early to be proper. Something she knew Michaels would have approved of heartily.

Then again, he’d never been one for proper. Apparently neither was she. For here she was, a Seldon in love with a Dale.

Then the terrible moment of truth arrived as Crispin stopped in front of her and they stared at each other.

She should say something, but words failed her. The last time she’d seen him, she’d been in his arms, shivering with passion.

Yet now . . . oh, bother, she was trembling like a leaf for altogether different reasons.

He inclined his head slightly. “My lady.”

She dipped into a curtsy. “My lord,” she managed.

“Dance with me.” He held out his hand.

He couldn’t have said anything that could have shocked her more. It was one thing to come over and acknowledge her but quite another to ask her to dance.

Together.

In front of everyone.

“Calypso, take my hand.”

Calypso
? That name said more to her than anything else. If she was still his siren . . . his Calypso . . . might he?

She wouldn’t know until . . . Reaching out, she let him capture her fingers. Immediately, that familiar spark of recognition ran its wild course up her arm. If he noticed, he only paused for a second before folding her hand into the crook of his arm and guiding her out to the dance floor.

Henrietta didn’t look left or right. She ignored the whispers, the wild flutter of fans, the blatant stares, as well as the plain old ill-mannered pointing.

He’d come to claim her, and all she could do was follow her heart.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

Marry a Seldon and regret the rest of your days.

A
DALE
CAUTION

“Y
ou’ve been unwell,” Crispin said, more than shocked at how thin she’d become, how frail she felt in his arms.

“There have been some difficulties,” she murmured, glancing away. “But they have passed. It is just that—”

“You don’t have to speak of it if you do not want to,” he rushed to assure her.

She nodded and offered no further explanations.

But before she turned her head, he saw that tiny spark in her eyes extinguish in an instant at the very mention of her situation.

What the devil had that bastard Michaels done to her? Crispin would murder him on the spot if the cheeky fellow hadn’t already stuck his fork in the wall.

And where the hell were her brother and that good-for-nothing nephew, the Duke of Preston? Why hadn’t they seen to her well-being?

He ground his teeth together. It was all unpardonable.

Yet he couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Calypso—” he began even as she whispered his name, “Crispin—”

Their names entwined together, lifting up through the ballroom as if the Fates had always bound them just so.

And when Henrietta looked up at him, he knew. For there it was once again, starting to flicker to life. That light that was his and his alone.

He couldn’t help himself; he grinned wickedly at her.

Still, he had to ask. Had to know. “Why, Calypso?”

“Why what?” she asked, glancing away again.

He tugged her closer. “You know what.”

She shivered a little, and how he wished she wouldn’t tremble so.

“That night,” she began slowly, “at Bletcher House. I heard you. You and your aunt. I overheard what you said about me.”

Crispin could feel his brows pull together as he thought back to that night. Both unforgettable and horrible. And he remembered. “Oh, good God! You believed that?”

“Well, yes,” she told him, her gaze lifting to his again as if she was searching for something. “You said—”

“I know what I said. How could you believe me so faithless? Especially right after—”

She glanced away. “I wanted to believe it wasn’t true, but you and I, us, our families, there is so little trust—”

He knew exactly what she meant. How he’d hated her the next morning when he’d learned that she’d run off with Lord Michaels.

As faithless as a Seldon
is what the Dales said.

Looking at the evening from her side of the door—where, he would point out, she was eavesdropping—he supposed the Seldons had much the same opinion of his relations.

More to the point, however could she have known what was truly in his heart when he’d never said the words?

Never had the chance, if he was being honest.

Still . . . “Whatever did you expect me to say to my aunt?” he asked. “She was already in a pet over the seating arrangements. Should I have just added to it by telling her that I was madly in love with Lady Henrietta Seldon and that I planned to marry her?”

She stiffened in his arms. “If that was what you truly meant to do—”

He leaned over and nuzzled her neck, caring not a whit that every gossipy cat in the
ton
was watching them. And for her ear and hers only he whispered, “Do you have to ask, Calypso?”