Julia London (66 page)

He shifted uncomfortably and glanced up the gravel path. “Pardon, madam. Please allow me to explain myself. I merely wondered what would bring you to London, as I thought your heart belonged to Rosewood, and then, of course, it dawned on me, and I am—”

She unconsciously released a quiet shriek of frustration. “If you please, Mr. Christian, unless you have been charged with the royal authority for this interrogation, I hardly see what difference it could possibly make to you
what
I am doing in London!” She lifted her chin, pleased with herself for thinking of a rejoinder with a brain completely numbed by the sight of him.

She was not the only one who was numb. Startled by his own discomfiture and her apparent indignation, Alex’s gaze swept the eyes framed with long, dark lashes, the slender neck, and the inviting swell of her bosom. Lauren’s eyes sparkled with great irritation, and he thought them the most enchanting eyes he had ever seen. He clasped his hands behind his back, absently wondering why her entry into the marriage market should annoy him so. And why was she so angry with him for stating the obvious?

“Miss Hill, it is certainly no concern of mine what you are doing or
not
doing in London. I simply remarked that it surprised me. I should think you would not find that so terribly odd given that I have seen you sing to a hog, fence a young orphan, and sled into a tree,” he attempted to jest. “By all means, if it is matrimony you want, I am quite certain you will be very successful.” He thought he was handing her a compliment, but her sparkling eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Is that so?” she said in a very low, very soft voice. “You cannot imagine how it warms my heart to know you approve, Mr. Christian. Thank God, I should be able to sleep tonight now that I have your implicit approval! If you will
excuse me, sir, I should go inside where
gentlemen
do not remark on a lady’s motives for attending a silly afternoon reception! Good day, sir!” she snapped, and with a curt toss of her head, marched past him.

Bloody hell, what had he said? Stunned, Alex watched the gentle sway of the angel’s hips and the grace of her movement in spite of her near sprint. He thought about her dark blue eyes as she skipped daintily across the path of a couple. She disappeared through the doors and, shrugging in bafflement, he followed her inside.

Much to his considerable annoyance, he found himself looking for her. The angel was not hard to find; she quite naturally stood out among everyone. She was in the company of a young man leaning on a cane. He assumed it was her brother Paul, as the children of Rosewood had said enough for him to know about his infirmity. That he was relieved it was her brother irritated him.

But it was nothing compared with the swell of irritation when a very large and very handsome golden-haired man joined her. Lauren smiled up at the stranger, and he very instantly and possessively put his hand on the small of her back to lead her through the crush toward the door. Angry that he was even remotely curious, he was positively mystified by the unusual twinge of jealousy in his chest.

“Alex?”

He turned sharply toward the sound of his fiancée’s voice with a sheepish grin. She smiled sweetly. Gazing at her lovely smile, he was glad that
she
was his betrothed, and not some petulant woman who sang to hogs. He could not help himself; he slipped an arm around her waist and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead that made her skin heat beneath his lips.

She pulled away from him with a nervous laugh and glanced shyly around them. “Oh my, what has come over you? I am sorry you had to wait.” He grinned unabashedly and kissed her forehead again. Marlaine’s cheeks fused pink
and she cast a demure gaze to the floor, the nervous little smile still on her lips. “Darling,
please.
What will people think?” she whispered sweetly.

“I don’t give a damn,” he answered, and laughed when Marlaine’s eyes grew wide.

The Season commenced with a vengeance in the three days that followed the Granbury reception, and Lauren attended more routs and teas than she had in all her life. Every day was spent madly dashing here and there in order to be seen in all the right places, and the constant social whirl was beginning to take a toll on her measly wardrobe.

Standing in the ladies retiring room at the Harris ball, Lauren tugged at the gown of sapphire blue brocade, the skirt draped with a thin layer of chiffon. She was squeezed so tightly into the thing, she very much feared her bosom would spring free with the slightest misstep. Her discomfort was made even worse by the fact that she found it impossible to dress her own hair without Mrs. Peterman to help her. She had resorted to a simple twist—hardly the height of fashion.

She tugged at the gown one last time before leaving the retiring room and emerged onto a crowded landing. Slowly, she made her way to the dining salon, where a large buffet had been arranged with an elaborate display of food. Swiping
a bite of cheese, she pushed onto the ballroom, where large crystal chandeliers ablaze with dozens of candles hung from elaborate ceiling friezes. At the far end, five sets of French doors opened onto a wide balcony and the gardens beyond, allowing air into the packed house.

Lauren gratefully accepted a glass of punch from a footman and stood to one side, surveying her opulent surroundings—until she saw Magnus standing at the bottom of the great curving staircase. His eyes slowly traveled the crowd; he saw her at almost the exact same moment she saw him.

Lauren frowned.

Magnus actually grinned.

And he began to move steadily in her direction. Lauren sighed, downed her punch, and with a stealth a jewel thief might have admired, moved swiftly and silently along the wall, her eyes trained on the crowd for any sign that the Bavarian was gaining on her. In so doing, she stumbled upon Charlotte Pritchit.

“Goodness, Charlotte, what are you doing back here?” Lauren gasped once she realized she had collided with her friend behind the wide leaves of a tall green plant. In her bright pink satin gown and newly cropped hair, Charlotte reminded Lauren of a miserable china doll. “You look faint! Are you quite all right?”

“You would look faint, too, if your mother was arranging your dance card for you,” Charlotte muttered.

“But don’t you
want
to dance?” Lauren asked.

“Of course I do, but she won’t allow me to dance with just anyone! They must be titled, and not just any title but only an earl and above,” she muttered helplessly. “She harbors some fantastic notion that I shall dance with the Duke of Sutherland, of all people! She honestly believes a single quadrille with him will create an
interest,
” she said disgustedly.

“Is he here?”

“I don’t
think
so! He rarely comes to these events, and
even if he did, he would not be remotely interested in dancing with me, I can assure you!” Charlotte groaned miserably.

“Oh, Charlotte,” Lauren laughed, “why on earth not? I cannot imagine what man would
not
want to dance with you!”

Charlotte smiled meekly. “That is exceedingly kind of you, but you do not understand. The Duke of Sutherland is one of the most popular men in all of England. Every woman in this
room
will want to dance with him. If he determines to dance—and he never does—he should not deign to look at me! And dear God, if he
should
, my mother will make an absolute
cake
of herself.”

Lauren shrugged. Obviously another aristocrat with an overinflated view of himself. A man like that would not suit Charlotte at all. “He is a cabbagehead,” she said with great authority, missing Charlotte’s look of horror. “I have an idea! Come with me to the far side of the room—your mother cannot possibly see us there! You can say you lost your dance card and stand up with whomever you please!”

Charlotte gaped at Lauren as if she had just spoken heresy, but slowly, a tremulous smile spread across her lips. “I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “My mother can be quite ill-tempered.”

Lauren suppressed the urge to snort her agreement with that. “Come! She cannot possibly think of dragging you from the dance floor without causing a scene. Besides, I know a man who has a proper enough title to suit her, and he shall be happy to stand up with you,” she said with supreme assurance. She grabbed Charlotte’s hand, determined that Magnus should be the first to escort her onto the dance floor.

   The Duke of Sutherland and Michael Ingram, the Marquis of Darfield, having come from the gentleman’s smoking room, stood uncomfortably at the entrance to the
ballroom. Surveying the crowd, Michael sighed unconsciously, bringing a grin to Alex’s face. If there was a person who despised the Season’s events, it was his old friend, Michael. Once known as the Devil of Darfield, Michael had shunned society with a vengeance until his delightful wife, Abbey, had come along and changed everything. He attended the events now, but reluctantly. Earlier, the two had escaped to the smoking room, where they had stayed just long enough for Michael to divest Alex of two hundred pounds in a card game.

Alex shared Michael’s lack of enthusiasm, and this ball was no different than countless others. The house was filled to overflowing, the rooms were stifling, the champagne tepid, and the dance floor a moving obstacle course. But Marlaine enjoyed it, and he had to admit, she looked particularly lovely tonight. He had been very proud to dance with her.

“Ah, there is the happy marchioness now,” Michael said dryly, nodding in her direction. In the center of a group of admirers, Abbey was laughing gaily. “If you will excuse me, old chum, I think I shall go to my wife before White-hurst carries her off,” he said, and walked into the crowd. Grinning, Alex turned his attention to the crowd, looking for Marlaine. He peered closely into the crush, until a flash of light upon a gem or crystal caught his eye.

His eyes riveted on the object, all thoughts of Marlaine suddenly vanquished from his mind. Just a few feet from him, Miss Hill glided across the edge of the dance floor with a firm grip on Miss Pritchit’s hand. His pulse quickened at the mere sight of her; it was little wonder; the angel was absolutely stunning.

She and Miss Pritchit stopped and put their heads together, giggling at something or someone on the dance floor. Her smile was infectious; like a bright star, it illuminated those around her. And those sparkling dark blue
eyes—God, they were enchanting. It was hard to imagine they had flashed with anger three days ago. …

Just what had he said, anyway?

The more he thought of it, the more irritated he became. What exactly
had
he said to cause such ire in her? Jesus, he had merely wished her well! She acted as if it were some grand secret that women came to London in hopes of a good match.

He was so intent on the angel that Lady Harris was able to easily intercept him. “Your grace! I am so glad to have found you in this mob! I should very much like to introduce you to someone,” she purred, and linked her arm through his.

“At your service, Lady Harris,” he replied automatically, but he did not take his eyes from Miss Hill, who was now talking with the same blond man he had seen with her at the reception.

Lady Harris playfully tapped his arm with her fan. “I should very much like to introduce you to the Countess Bergen. She is from the continent after all, and I thought perhaps you had met her before.”

Alex realized they were moving in the direction of Miss Hill. He watched as she turned to Miss Pritchit and introduced her to the stranger. “I am quite certain I have not,” he responded politely.

“Well, you should very much enjoy meeting her now. She is truly a delight! Such joie de vivre! I wish you could have seen her just last week. That girl lost at
least
twelve rounds of loo to Lady Thistlecourt, who lorded it over us all with the decorum of a
skunk
! Honestly, Hortense Thistlecourt thinks she positively
owns
the loo tables! And do you know the dear girl simply laughed, declared to Lady Thistlecourt she was honor bound to seek a rematch, and then blithely offered to fetch her a drink? Can you imagine?” Lady Harris babbled.

Alex only vaguely heard his hostess. The golden stranger
was escorting Miss Pritchit onto the dance floor, and the angel was smiling as if she had just eaten a fat cow. She further startled him by calling after the stranger in German, telling him to please try and smile. “Excuse me, Lady Harris, but where is the Countess?” he asked impatiently, wanting to be done with it so he could speak with the angel.

“Why, she is just there,” she responded happily, and nodded toward Miss Hill.

Alex looked at Lady Harris, then at Miss Hill. “I beg your pardon?” he choked out.

“One can hardly miss her!” Lady Harris laughed. “The dark-haired woman in the sapphire gown. She is quite lovely, is she not?”

God in heaven, for the first time in his life, Alex was utterly speechless. Where in the hell had Lady Harris come up with the idea that Lauren Hill was a countess—the
Bavarian
countess of whom everyone spoke? It was impossible! The little chit had never made mention of a
title
! “I think there must be some mistake,” he uttered.

“Oh, there is no mistake, I assure you!
That
is Countess Bergen!” Lady Harris cheerfully confirmed.

   Lauren chuckled to herself as Charlotte and Magnus disappeared into the crowd of dancers. Magnus had not liked it one bit, but Charlotte had almost swooned. Well, he
was
a handsome man; she had to give him that. When he smiled. Which was rarely. Nonetheless, he was
trying
to be charming.

“Lauren!”

She whirled toward the sound of Abbey’s voice. With a small squeal of delight, she rushed into the open arms of her friend.

“Where on earth have you been? Not a word from you since you left Rosewood! I should be mortally offended, you know!” Abbey gushed, then held her at arm’s length to examine her.

“Oh, Abbey, you cannot imagine how sorely I have missed you!” Lauren cried.