“—and remember to keep your voice low and your glasses on. And be polite to the ladies present,” Giles instructed as the brougham slowed to a halt. Avery stared outside. They’d entered a private square off Regent’s Street, not far from the river. Elegant broughams and barouches lined the street, depositing their titled owners outside a magnificent house. Her mouth went dry.
“If the situation requires and there are not enough gentlemen present, you may be required to dance,” Strand continued as it became their turn to pull before the mansion’s front door.
“I don’t dance.”
“Why not?”
Avery shot him an incredulous look, knowing that nerves more than ire were making her tense. “It was not part of my curriculum. You keep forgetting I was not being groomed to take a place in Society, but as a scientist. Scientists are not required to dance.”
The carriage door opened and Will, newly apprenticed to the coachman, Phineas, unloaded the block
stairs. Giles automatically reached out to aid her then, realizing how odd this would look, waited for her to descend, then followed her out.
Giles glanced at Will. “Keep an eye on things, eh?” He tossed the boy a coin. Will caught it one-handed, giving a curt nod in reply.
Wordlessly, Strand followed Avery up the staircase. The mansion door swung open and a tall, liveried footman stepped aside to allow them to enter. “If I may take the gentlemen’s coats?”
Avery shed her outer garment and handed it over, then waited for Giles to do likewise, trying to calm herself. With every step she felt more vulnerable and exposed. The rooms in Giles’s house were lit by only a few tapers. Here she would be exposed under the light of five hundred candles.
She tugged at the coat Strand’s tailor had hastily made up using one Mrs. Bedling had sewn for a template. If possible, it fit even worse. She was horribly aware of the ridiculous figure she cut, toad-bodied, spindly legged, in a coat that stretched across the belly and puckered at the shoulders, with country brogues on her feet. At least her cravat would excite no criticism; Giles had tied it.
He’d taken one look at it as she’d entered the carriage and,
tch
’ing lightly, bid her sit beside him so he could redo it properly. His fingers had worked quickly and impersonally, barely brushing her neck, and yet she had been as exquisitely aware of his touch as if he trailed his lips along her flesh.
Why
couldn’t she forget about that kiss?
“Remember,” Giles said as he led the way towards the ballroom, “I cannot spend the evening at your side. It would invite interest, and interest is something we want to avoid. Hug the edges of the room. Move about. Eat. But stay in the shadows if at all possible.”
And then they were through the doors and in the midst of the most magnificent ball Avery had ever attended. Not surprising, since it was the only such ball she’d ever attended. She couldn’t help but be awed. The place was afire with light. It shone from the enormous twin chandeliers on the ceiling to the mirrored back plates of elaborate sconces and the multi-stemmed girandoles lining the walls. Jewels sparkled around slender necks and from the snowy nests of perfectly tied cravats. Heavy silver and gold threads gleamed in fantastic embellishments on hems and waistcoats. Crystal and sequined birds flashed and glinted
from elaborate coiffures. Even the ladies’ bare shoulders and décolletages seemed to glow.
And it was loud, a cacophony of voices vying to be heard above the faint strains of a musical ensemble seated in the minstrel gallery. Avery, bedazzled, stood at the entrance until Giles secured her elbow and led her to the side of the room where Sir Isbill was dolefully greeting his guests. Beside him stood a tall, pleasant-faced woman with iron gray hair. Sir Isbill looked up and his blunt-featured face lightened.
“Ah. My comet-finding young friend. How good of you to come. You, too, Strand,” he said, sparing Giles a cursory glance.
“Sir Isbill, thank you for inviting us,” Giles said. “Lady Isbill, a pleasure.”
Lady Isbill smiled distractedly, her gaze traveling to the door where the footmen were assisting an antique fellow in a wig. With a quick apology, she hurried off to greet him.
Sir Isbill leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Don’t generally go in for this sort of thing, but my wife insists on at least one party for those poor souls obliged to return to town in the middle of winter.”
“I’m sure her efforts are appreciated.”
He looked anything but convinced. “I suppose. Happily, the Royal Astrological Society is also holding its yearly conference, so at least there’re some like-minded men about. Donald Fuller should be here soon. You’ll want to talk to him, Mr. Quinn. I’ve told him about your design for a new parabolic lens. He’s intrigued.”
She flushed, worried and pleased all at once. “I shall look forward to it.”
“Good. I’ll point him in your direction as soon as he arrives.” He looked over their heads to where his wife was bodily supporting the old gentleman. She stared fixedly at Sir Isbill. “Yes, yes, Martha. I’m coming. I’ll speak with
you
later,” Sir Isbill said and tapped Avery directly on what would have been her bosom had it not been buried in padding before heading towards his wife.
Avery’s eyes went round with shock. Giles cleared his throat, looking almost as uncomfortable as she felt. “Hazard of the game,” he said a little gruffly. “Let’s find you some place less well illuminated. No lad has ever had such smooth cheeks as yours.”
He led her along the side of the room, lifting a hand in greeting to various men, though he did not stop to introduce her. She could not
help but notice the admiring glances, both female and male, that covertly followed their progress. She quite understood why. Strand looked splendid. His hair gleamed like polished gold. His gray eyes seemed to catch the light like quicksilver. His freshly shaved jaw was firm and square above the immaculate white of his cravat, and where her coat was crimped and wrinkled, his stretched in a smooth, flawless expanse across shoulders that needed no augmentation.
He managed to convey both dash and self-possession, with a confidence and ease that was as attractive as it was envy producing. Yet, with each passing moment his mood seemed to darken. She had no idea why. Finally he found a place out of earshot of the rest of the company and turned her so they could speak in relative privacy.
“I can’t offer to fetch you a drink. I can’t stay with you. I have to leave you to your own devices for a while. Do you understand why?”
Is that why he was acting so odd? How peculiar.
“Perfectly.” She nodded. “You don’t want anyone to think I’m your catamite.”
“Dear God. Why in the name of all that’s holy do you even know about such things?”
“It’s a Latin word derived from a Greek word. I’d been taught both languages by the time I was twelve.”
He closed his eyes as if he were trying very hard to keep his temper under control. “That doesn’t explain how you know the meaning of that word.”
“Every household I have ever boarded in has had an extensive library that included many books written in both Latin and Greek. Indeed, I have long suspected most people collect such books simply because they look impressive on their shelves even though they might not be able to read them.”
She lowered her voice confidingly. “I daresay many a lady would faint dead away if she knew the contents of some of the books populating her library. The Greeks in particular were most descriptive in their writings.”
He muttered an oath, passing a hand over his face.
“So you see, I quite understand your concerns. And I would share them if I were you. So please, go forth. I shall be fine. Do not worry about me. Besides, Sir Isbill will be looking for me as soon as Mr. Fuller makes his appearance.”
His expression filled with a pained sort of concern. “I hate this,” he finally said in a low, harsh voice.
“I know. But soon enough, it will all be over one way or the other,” she tried to reassure him.
It didn’t seem to work. He gave a slight shake of his head and said, “Be unobtrusive,” and, without waiting for her answer, left.
She watched him go, feeling well and truly alone then looked around, intent on finding some value in the situation. She decided to consider it a study of her fellow man. And woman. Unfortunately, none were so fascinating to her as Giles Dalton, the Marquess of Strand.
A beautiful, dark-haired woman in a ridiculous state of near undress all but tripped over herself in her haste to put herself in Giles’s path. He had to swerve to keep from walking straight into her and his hand shot out to keep her from colliding with him. Her pink mouth formed an “o” of feigned surprise and she flicked open her fan, waving it agitatedly before her face before snapping it shut again and rapping him playfully on the chest.
For the shadow of an instant, Avery thought she detected a sort of tired resignation in Giles’s expression. But then it was gone so completely she doubted herself, especially since the look he now bent on the beautiful woman was anything but distracted. Before Avery’s eyes Strand turned from a man unsettled by his would-be ward’s unsavory knowledge of sexual proclivities to a fashionable fribble and womanizer. His keen gaze grew hooded and lazy, seeming to caress the woman’s person. His smile became inviting.
She ignored the fillip of jealousy that goaded her, focusing instead not on how he had changed, but why.
When they’d dined with Sir Isbill, he’d asked insightful questions and made well-reasoned observations. And when they were alone, though his humor could be quick, it was never caustic. In private, she saw the man that the boy she’d known had promised to become: astute, discerning, but with a ready smile and an easy laugh. But his public face was just the opposite: cavalier, supercilious, and careless. Why?
And what had he been doing the other night dressed like a cit and coming into the house where no one would see him? Where had he been and why had he gone to such pains to distract her from asking questions? And why was his home not a home at all, but an impersonal setting for the character he played…?
The character he played.
That was it exactly. Just as surely as she was playing a role, Giles was playing one, too. But for whom was this show intended? And why did he not drop it in the privacy of his own home? But then, she had only to look to the servants to find her answers.
The “servants’ network,” he’d called it up at Killylea, when he’d asked how she knew about Sophia’s presumed pregnancy. For whatever reason he wanted all of London to know him as nothing more than a fop and dilettante.
“I say, Quinn. Is that you?”
At the sound of the booming voice, Avery swung around to find Neville Demsforth descending upon her, beaming with delight.
“I am
so
glad to see you!” He reached out, grabbing Avery’s hand in his great paw and pumping it heartily. “What are you doing back here? You should be out in the ballroom, looking over next spring’s gaggle of debs. They’re all here, you know. Not officially out, course, but that don’t matter. Come along, we’ll go see if we can spot the next toast.”
Avery hung back. “I’d really rather not, Neville.”
“Why not?”
“Well, what’s the point? It’s not as though I’m in the market for a bride.”
Neville had the grace to look embarrassed. He’d clearly forgotten that Avery and he did not share the same social position and she could not help but like him all the more for it. He recovered quickly. “Well, I am. Or will be if Mother has her way. So come along and let us see if we can spot a likely Lady Demsforth amongst the flock.”
He was so congenial and so good-natured she could not refuse. Besides, the alternative, to stand about holding up the wall, was not appealing.
“You won’t insist I ask some chit to dance?”
He looked appalled. “Lord, no. Not unless you do me a similar disservice. Never did discover the knack of keeping me feet under my knees.”
She followed him out into the ballroom and together they sauntered along the edges, Neville keeping up a running commentary on the potential bridal material in every girl that passed within ten feet of them.
“Has a squint. Can’t abide a girl with a squint.”
“Her mother is a friend of my own. I need not say she is therefore out of contention.”
“Too thin. Looks like she’d break if she stepped too hard. Dress is awfully pretty, though.”
The dress was lovely, ivory-colored gossamer silk edged in tulle ruffles, the bodice spangled with sequins and piped in pale blue grosgrain. Avery had never owned a dress anywhere near as lovely. She had never wanted to before this evening.
She glanced over at where Giles was talking to Lucille Demsforth. Neville’s sister was even more beautifully gowned. And she was smiling at Giles tonight, her pretty face alight with interest in something he’d said. He did not appear dismissive of her tonight. Not at all. His expression was filled with admiration.
Would he look at her with similar admiration if she were dressed in the height of fashion? Would he find her appealing? Desirable?
“—as a wet cat in a kennel.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Mills-Appel gel. She seems as comfortable as a wet cat in a kennel. She can barely lift her eyes above the floor. Pity. She has nice eyes.”
“Oh.”
“Her sister’s just the opposite. Too cunning by half. While the cousin—that’s the cousin standing behind the pair, the one with the yellow hair—the cousin is lovely, but poor as a church mouse.”
Already feeling handicapped and frustrated, Neville’s last comment rubbed Avery on the raw. “I didn’t realize a fortune was a requisite. I thought your family was well-heeled.”
“Oh, we are,” Neville stated ingenuously. “Positively dripping in gravy. It’s just, well, I never thought of marrying a
poor
girl. Mother’s always said I must marry a girl who could add to the family’s consequence, not deplete it.”
“Certainly there are other ways a young lady may augment a family’s good name besides monetary ones,” she said.
He raised his brows questioningly.