Kathryn Smith (4 page)

All those things he had put her through—the bath, the creams, the potions—all of it had been worth it. Her skin felt as soft as a newborn’s. She smelled of strawberries and honey, every inch of her tingling from her friend’s pampering.

“How do you know so much?” she asked, watching her skirts swish as she twirled around.

Nathaniel chuckled. “I spent many hours with my
mother’s maid as a youngster. Everyone thought I was infatuated. I was—but with what the girl could do rather than the girl herself.”

“And now I reap the benefits of your education. Oh, Nate! I can scarcely believe my eyes! I am actually pretty!” Was it vain of her to admire her own appearance? But it was true—she felt so very, very pretty.

“You always have been pretty, my love.” Nathaniel’s smile was kind. “All I did was help you notice.”

She swished her skirts again, enjoying how the fabric felt against her legs. “I’m so glad I allowed you to talk me into buying this gown. It is perfect for a winter party.”

The gown was soft, luminescent satin in a shade not quite white. The skirt and bodice were dotted with tiny crystals that sparkled in the light, and little pearls that added more shimmery warmth. Her gloves and slippers were the same shade of cream as well. Her only other adornment was the delicate diamond tiara on top of her head. She wore no other jewelry at all.

“I hope Anthony is watching,” Nathaniel said, his voice tinged with regret. “He would love to see you this way.”

Moira squeezed his hand. “He would be happy to see me wearing the tiara. He always wanted me to wear it more.”

“It suits you.”

Moira chuckled. “He told me if I married him he would treat me like the queen I was. The tiara was a wedding gift.”

“He adored you.”

Moira smiled. She didn’t need to be told. She knew what her husband had thought of her. “Is it still painful for you to think of him?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “Not like it was. There is more happiness than pain when I think of him now.”

Poor Nathaniel. He had gone through full mourning with
her, feeling Anthony’s loss as Moira should have. How could she mourn Anthony as a wife should when he hadn’t truly been her husband? She had mourned him as one would mourn any dear friend, but Nathaniel had mourned him as a lover, and Moria’s heart had wept more for Nathaniel than it ever had for dear Tony.

Two years had come and gone. Moira’s mourning clothes were packed away, but Nathaniel still wore somber shades—grays and dark blues, plums and browns. No one but someone who truly knew him would notice the change. Once upon a time he had worn bright colors, the very height of fashion, now he was more subdued. Still, not even Brummell himself could find fault with his appearance.

Moira’s only wish was that someday the sparkle would return to her friend’s eyes. To think she had often envied Nathaniel’s relationship with Tony. Perhaps she envied it still, but she did not envy him his pain. The idea of loving someone so much that they took a part of you with them when they died was terrifying.

And yet…How wonderful it must have been for both of them while Tony was still alive. Never mind that they could never love publicly—they could have been imprisoned for daring to have such a relationship. They had loved perfectly, without shame and without regret. Yes, Moira would always envy them that.

“Come,” Nathaniel’s voice cut through her thoughts. “He would not want us to ruin this evening by being maudlin. We have a party to attend.”

How right he was. No one thought anything of Nathaniel accompanying her to so many social events. His longtime “friendship” with Tony made it understandable. It also provided an excuse for neither of them to form romantic attachments. Everyone simply assumed that one day the widow
would marry her late husband’s best friend. It was the perfect arrangement. This way no one found out the truth about Nathaniel, and no one found out that Moira, for all her years of marriage, was three-and-thirty and still a virgin.

All those years of starving herself so she’d be thin enough to attract a husband, and the man she married hadn’t wanted her body.

So why was she still trying so hard to be what society thought she should be when she had no intention of marrying again—not unless she met a man who made her believe in love?

Because she was an idiot, and because she had always had difficulty doing what she wanted. Once she might have blamed her mother for that, but now that she was a grown woman, she could blame no one but herself. She was a viscountess—even if a dowager. If she couldn’t bring herself to act as she pleased now, she never would.

“What will people say when I arrive looking like this?” she asked, a shameful echo of fear in her voice. “They will talk, for sure.”

Smiling, Nathaniel draped a ermine-lined cape around her shoulders. “Only until someone else arrives for them to whisper about. They will remark on how fine you look, my friend. Nothing more. And those who are nasty will be so because they are small in mind and feeling.”

He was right; in her heart Moira knew it too. Secretly she wanted to be looked at and admired.

It was just so bloody unfortunate that she had to go out in public to have it happen.

Would Wynthrope Ryland admire her appearance? Would he know that she had dressed to attract his attention? Would she want that attention if he gave it? What if he ignored her?

No, he wouldn’t ignore her. As much as part of her hoped he would—and put an end to this foolish dream of hers—
Moira knew he wouldn’t let her have her peace, not yet. Ryland hadn’t gotten what he wanted out of her, and he wasn’t the kind of man to give up until he had. Regardless of his reasons for flirting with her—it might have been an accident for all she knew—he wanted to kiss her, and he wouldn’t stop pursuing her until he had done so.

Perhaps she should kiss him at the party and get it over with. Perhaps she should ask him what he stood to gain by stealing a kiss.

Nathaniel offered her his arm, his smile giving her courage to face the evening. “Shall we depart?”

Placing her hand on his sleeve, Moira exhaled a deep breath. “Yes. I wager Minnie is just about ready to throttle us both for taking this long.”

Her friend shrugged. “It will do the chit good to wait for you for a change. I daresay she will be positively green with jealousy over your appearance.”

“You shouldn’t say such things about my sister.” It was a halfhearted rebuke, and they both knew it. As much as Moira loved her younger sister, the girl was a trial at times.

They walked down the corridor to the stairs in the silence. Somehow the pale blue walls seemed closer, as though the town house had shrunk while Moira was in her room. It was impossible, of course. Even the stairs, which were composed of many gentle steps, seemed steeper, each foothold narrow and tenuous.

“You are shaking,” Nathaniel remarked as they descended. Were it not for his guidance, she would have tripped for certain.

“I am nervous. Is that not ridiculous?” Holding her skirts out of the way of her leaden feet, Moira kept her gaze focused straight ahead. “Octavia and I have been planning this party forever, it seems, and now that it is here, I am all a-flutter.”

“It is not the party that is to blame for the fluttering in your stomach and the tremor in your limbs.”

“Do not say it.” She knew what he was implying.

“I do not have to. You know who is to blame as much as I.”

“
He
has nothing to do with my anxiety.” Why was she bothering to deny it? She never hid her feelings from Nathaniel, why do so now? So she wouldn’t have to face the sympathy in his eyes when Wynthrope lost interest in her?

Nathaniel appeared not to have heard her—or was willfully ignoring her? “I used to feel the same way every time I knew I was going to see Anthony.”

Moira swallowed against the hard lump of envy in her throat. “It is hardly the same situation. I have only just met the man.”

“You have thought he was beautiful since you first laid eyes on him.”

Yes, that was true. For as long as she could remember, she had believed Wynthrope Ryland to be the finest man in Christendom. Odd how they had never actually met before this. “So?”

He stopped on the steps. She had no choice but to stop as well. He waited until she looked at him to speak. “So stop acting like you are the one who could be clapped in irons for daring to be attracted to someone and take some pleasure from your life.”

Moira glanced away. He knew just where to poke her to get the reaction he wanted. He was right. He was the one who had to conduct every relationship in secret, under the threat of persecution, not her. All she had to face was a little public embarrassment. Surely there were worse things.

Like having to return to her parents. Just the thought made her blood run cold.
That
was why she couldn’t risk an affair.

She couldn’t risk anyone finding out she was still a virgin and her marriage void.

Unless, of course, her lover promised not to tell. Unless he fell in love and wanted to marry her. Such a man wouldn’t betray her secret, not if he loved her and she him.

It was such a big risk, and Moira wasn’t entirely certain it was worth it, not when she’d been made sport of in the past.

“I will consider it,” she promised her friend. Considering was a far cry from actually doing. And by making such a vow to Nathaniel, she was ensuring herself at least a brief reprieve from his well-intended pushes to “take some pleasure” from her life.

Minerva was indeed waiting for them, pacing the drawing room carpet as though she sought to wear a hole in the delicate fleur-de-lis pattern. Her jaw dropped when her gaze fell on her older sister.

Moira hid a smile. “Sorry to keep you waiting, dearest.”

The pretty younger woman simply stared at her, her brown eyes as wide as saucers. “Moira! You…you look so lovely.”

Her surprise wasn’t meant to be hurtful, Moira knew that. Still, it was all she could do not to wince at her sister’s tone.

“I shall be the envy of every gentleman present,” Nathaniel remarked, saving Moira from having to respond. “How fortunate I am to be escorting two such lovely ladies.”

Minnie beamed under his praise, even though she must know just how charming she looked with her glossy ringlets and flattering peach gown. She was all hair, eyes, and bosom, her little sister. She knew she was attractive to the opposite gender, and yet she seemed to always need reassurance of it.

They arrived at the party ahead of the other guests. It was only right that Moira be there to welcome guests along with
Octavia. After all, it was because of her and Minnie that Octavia had offered to host the gathering to begin with.

Octavia was content to let Moira stand beside her and her husband, North, until the house began to fill with partygoers, then she sent Moira off to mingle—something Moira found as painful as having a tooth pulled. She never knew what to say to people. Fortunately, she knew that most people liked to talk about themselves.

She was standing by herself near the ballroom mantel, sipping champagne and listening to Varya Christian, the Marchioness of Wynter and a Russian princess, play the pianoforte when Minnie scurried up to her.

“He is here.”

This was more enthusiasm than Moira had seen in a long time. It worried her. “Who?”

“Wynthrope Ryland,” her sister responded, her eyes bright and her color high. “I wonder if he will want to dance with me tonight.”

Oh, this was not good. Minnie had decided that Wynthrope Ryland was a challenge to overcome. “Do not allow him to affect your evening, Minnie.”

Her sister shot her a sharp look. “You do not think he will ask me.”

“I do not know if he will or not.” Was it wrong of her to hope that he wouldn’t? Minnie was no match for Wynthrope Ryland. For that matter, neither was Moira.

Minnie frowned. “You want him for yourself.”

“Of course I do not, but what matter if I did? You only seek his attention because he snubbed you.” She took a drink of champagne to still her tongue. Minnie’s temper did not need much encouragement, and the last thing Moira wanted was a scene.

“That is not true.” The tone of Minnie’s voice told otherwise.

Moira turned to her sister with a gentle hand on the arm. “Dearest, why not put that energy into finding a man who does not have to be convinced that he likes you?”

Maybe she was being a bit harsh—and a bit selfish. Maybe she did want Wynthrope Ryland for herself, but she also didn’t want to see her sister injured.

But Minnie obviously didn’t see things the same way. With her jaw set defiantly, she turned her back on Moira and wandered into the crowd, swallowed up by a whole host of people who no doubt would soothe her ruffled feathers as the dancing began.

Perhaps there was some truth in Minnie’s hopes. Perhaps Ryland had known what kind of reaction his asking Moira to dance would cause in Minnie. Perhaps that was exactly what he wanted—Moira’s sister.

Or maybe
, a little voice in her head whispered,
he really is interested in you, you great foolish article.

“I think too much,” she mumbled under her breath as pain pulsed in the front of her head.

“A thoroughly unattractive trait in a woman, I assure you.”

Oh no.
Her cheeks burning, Moira raised her gaze to the dark, mocking blue eyes of Wynthrope Ryland. His mouth lifted slightly to the right—a satiric imitation of a smile if Moira ever saw one.

“Good evening, Lady Aubourn. Would you care to dance?”

She could not escape him now.

Her gaze was wary as it met his, her cheeks stained with a becoming blush. She really was a striking woman, if a little on the thin side. She looked especially lovely this evening, as though she had taken particular pains with her toilette.

Had her efforts been for his benefit? His pride refused to believe otherwise.

She looked away. “I am afraid I am not much of a dancer, Mr. Ryland.”

Ah, so it was to be like that, was it? “Very well. Perhaps your sister—”

“No.” The wary gaze was determined now.