The Blue Devil (The Regency Matchmaker Series) (2 page)

Kathryn could do nothing but stand and listen for a chance to slip away. Perhaps they might become so . . . involved that she could escape without their knowledge. The room was large, and as they moved away—toward the bed, no doubt!—their voices became difficult to discern. She thought she heard the bed creaking. Then the man raised his voice. He seemed to be passionately angry.

Or just passionate, perhaps.

A maiden she might be, but Kathryn was not ignorant in the ways of love. She had seen the horses and other animals on her father’s estate mating many times. The act of love was always violent, and it was often hard to tell if a pair were courting or fighting. In fact, Kathryn had made up her mind long ago that she wanted no part of it. Marriage seemed pleasant. Her parents were happy. But what one had to go through to get children must be horrible. After all, even her parents, who loved each other, had only been able to endure the rigors of having one child, Kathryn herself.

Listening now to the muffled, angry-sounding voices of this couple, Kathryn’s resolve strengthened. No. She would ask Ophelia to find her a husband who definitely did not want children. Perhaps Ophelia could find a widower with a liking for windswept country hills, one who already had an heir.

After a few moments, the couple seemed quite distracted. She could hear struggling and grunting and then something which sounded like ripping cloth. Now was her chance. She slipped deftly from the clothespress and raced in what she thought was the direction of the outer door—only to smash into the cheval glass, re-injuring her already throbbing toe. The pain was intense, and Kathryn cried out. “Owee! Owee! Owee-
me
!” It was the pain chant she’d invented while just a toddler. It never failed to embarrass her when it escaped her, but she could no more stop it than she could stop breathing—something Kathryn fervently wished she could do just then, for just as the stupid pain chant left her lips, the woman cried out from behind her.

“Who is there? Blackshire! We are not alone!”

Kathryn wildly groped for the door and flung it open, flooding the room with weak light from the dim hall sconces. She ran blindly, looking for a place to hide until she came upon a darkened, shadowy alcove where stood a large, ornate statue carved in the shape of a satyr. There was just barely enough room for Kathryn to squeeze behind it

The lady appeared first. She rushed past Kathryn’s hiding place, crying and holding the ripped bodice of her white muslin gown to her chest with one delicate hand. Why, she was younger than Kathryn by a margin of at least five years! She was dressed as Artemis, and a small diamond-studded archer’s bow, entangled in her long, brown curls, swung wildly across her shoulder as she ran. But Kathryn had no time to further contemplate her appearance or her tender years, for the gentleman emerged from the room, calling after her.

“Lydia!” he hissed. “Lydia, you must not be seen in that state. Come back here—at once!”

But Lydia did not heed him. She ran headlong down the hall sobbing instead, and disappeared around a comer. Kathryn was stunned. It seemed she’d been mistaken. Poor Lydia had not been the participant of a tryst. No. The dear girl had been sorely used. Taken advantage of. Compromised unwillingly!

Kathryn turned to deliver a set-down to the man—who was certainly not a gentleman—but her breath caught in her throat as his gaze swiveled in her direction, and she shrank back into the dark alcove. The beast’s eyes were black as midnight, and the sconce light seemed to flash and glint across them as though they were made of obsidian. Hard they were, hard and cold. Kathryn sensed the man was angry beyond measure, and she was gripped with a sudden, paralyzing fear.

Her intended scolding stuck, nearly forgotten, in her throat as the man drew from the pocket of his trousers a blue satin demi-masque and tied it over his eyes. Kathryn blinked. If he thought to conceal his identity and escape the house, she decided with satisfaction he wasn’t going to be very successful. His thick, dark hair was unfashionably long, and, even without the uncommon style, he’d hardly be difficult to spot across a crowded ballroom, for he was tall and broad-shouldered. In fact, he looked quite strong. Quite strong and quite able to overpower a lone female, Kathryn realized. She wondered how poor Lydia had escaped.

Would Kathryn herself be so lucky, if the need arose?

Softly, the man swore, and the tenor of his voice surprised her. Silken, and strangely warm, it did not match his harsh expression but soothed itself around Kathryn’s senses like a whispered promise. A sudden, ridiculous desire to hear him sing overtook her, and she had to suppress a giggle of rising panic.

Would anyone hear her if she screamed? The walls of her alcove pressed in on her. What had seemed a sanctuary before, now seemed a trap. She fought down an urge to run and tried instead to memorize every detail of the devil before her to tell the authorities later. Maybe she could be of some help to poor Lydia yet.

Kathryn noted for the first time what the blackguard was wearing. He was dressed as a highwayman in a flowing, white linen shirt laced loosely up the front. His throat was wrapped with apparent carelessness in an azure silk kerchief. Kathryn couldn’t help staring at the shocking triangle of browned skin he’d boldly allowed to show below the knot of blue silk. His chest was covered with dark, springy-looking curls, the widest swath she’d ever seen.

Kathryn blinked. Apart from one hairless lad back home in Heathford, she’d never seen a man’s whole bare chest before (her mama had kept her strictly away from the blacksmith’s!). Her gaze slid down the solid column of his torso almost of their own will. His black trousers, indecently tight about his muscled legs, ended in a pair of soft, low boots, very much like the ones Kathryn had left back in Heathford. Clenched in one fist, he held a black cape lined in rich blue satin, and as Kathryn watched, he swept it into the air and fastened the clasp at his Adam’s apple, the material swirling around his massive shoulders. The clasp sparkled with the unmistakable glint of a large sapphire.

Kathryn swallowed, her eyes fixed once more on that triangle of chest crowned with smooth, browned, sinewy neck. She thought she detected a pulsing there, where his blood beat through his veins. She could not look away. Had it been the same for Lydia? Is that how he had fascinated her, by baring his flesh? Was that triangle all he had bared to the poor girl?

And what had he done to her in that darkened bedchamber?

The devil swore again, and she remembered the muffled sounds she’d heard from within the clothespress. He must have been using that silken voice to seduce Lydia. Kathryn imagined how it would be, hearing that soft voice whispering endearments near her own tilted ear, and she shivered. It was a barely perceptible movement, but the demon’s gaze swept her end of the hallway once more as though he’d sensed her presence. She willed herself to stop breathing. He stood motionless, listening, and then, finally, he turned and dissolved like an apparition into the gloom at the other end of the hallway.

Kathryn stood transfixed, staring after him. The corridor seemed to spark with the electricity of his presence. Tiny hairs that had prickled with goose bumps on her arms and down her back gradually subsided, and Kathryn remembered to breathe.

Emerging from her hiding place, she understood how poor Lydia had been lured to such ruin. The man was more than charismatic. His eyes were hypnotic, his voice enchanting. He was exciting. Enticing. Way too much temptation for a flower of tender years and experience such as dear Lydia.

Fortunately, Kathryn was beyond the age where rakes such as Lydia’s tormentor held any real power over her. Though her experience with the manly portion of the population was admittedly lacking, she was still a sensible, cautious, worldly-wise two-and-twenty. Why, she had hardly a blush left in her! Certainly, she was incapable of tumbling into the trap Lydia had fallen into. Wasn’t she?

Her hands were shaking and her heart was threatening to beat its way out of her chest as she stumbled back to the bedchamber, opened the door, and realized that it wasn’t the same room. Stepping in, she gasped. And then, immediately, she heaved a sigh, for Kathryn knew instantly that this bedchamber—and no other—was the one Auntie had intended for her.

There on the dressing table stood an enormous bouquet of violets, her favorite flower, with a note that said, “For Kathryn” resting against the vase. The other rooms on this floor had been decorated sumptuously in golds, crimsons, and blues, with no expense spared. But this room, though equally beautiful, was not the same. The bed and windows bore counterpanes and draperies of deep, liquid purple exactly matching the shade of the violets, while the rest of the room was decorated in shades of palest lavender and cream. No gaudy gilt moldings or flocked wallpaper spoiled its simplicity. Kathryn looked up and wondered at the magnificent high ceiling. It was painted in trompe l’oeil to look like a blue summer sky, complete with puffy white clouds and a bird flying high above. The entire effect was lovely.

It seemed she was home.

Kathryn turned the key in the lock behind her, lit a candle, and set it in the window to await the arrival of John and her clothing, but there was no need of them, for Auntie had already provided a costume for the masqued ball. On the bed lay an exquisite gown of sheerest white silk. Beside it lay a wreath for the hair fashioned of violets and the palest yellow roses. Eyes wide, Kathryn examined the creations. The gown was sewn with tiny faceted silver beads that sparkled even in the pale candlelight. It was stunning, and Kathryn smiled.

Ducking into the small dressing room, she made efficient use of the water basin and some soft linen toweling before donning the gown, fluffing her short blond curls with her fingers, settling the wreath of flowers on her head, and finally marveling at the effect in the cheval glass. The magnificent gown fit reasonably well, and Kathryn wondered how Ophelia had accomplished that. Studying her image, she was reminded of the fairy character Titania from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, which Ophelia had taken Kathryn to see when a traveling company had passed through Heathford some years before. Kathryn had openly admired the gown the actress wore, and it was obvious Auntie had ordered this gown to be made similar to that one.

A box on the bed held matching silver gloves and slippers, a delicate lace reticule, a white satin-and-silver lace masque, and at the very bottom . . . sparkly silver wings and a wand! Kathryn tipped her head back and chuckled, wondering how she was to don all of the accessories at one time. Then, remembering Ophelia’s admonition that ladies of the
ton
did not laugh out loud, she clapped her hand over her mouth. Lifting the filmy gauze wings out of the box, Kathryn twirled about the room, and then she noticed the diamond-studded coronet waiting for her on the dressing table.

Diamond-studded, just like Lydia’s bow.

Her feet stilled. How could she have forgotten the girl’s plight? Or the man responsible, the rotter? Outrage surged through her. Would he have the audacity to appear in the ballroom after what he’d done?

Poor Lydia certainly could not appear below, not with her dress torn and her hair wildly askew. No. Everyone would see her chaperon was otherwise occupied, and dear sweet Lydia would be ruined instantly.

Spoiled. Sullied. Done for.

And the shameless despoiler, meanwhile, would no doubt return to the ball with impunity. Perhaps he would try to deny he’d had any part in the unpleasantness. Perhaps he was someone of importance, someone who could ruin Lydia with a single word. Perhaps he would attempt to place the blame elsewhere and implicate some unsuspecting young man to save his own reputation. Then two lives would be ruined, for, even if they wed, Lydia and her nameless young man would both be cast from Polite Society. Well! Kathryn was not about to let that happen.

She snatched up the wings and other accessories and hastily finished dressing. Since dear, innocent Lydia could not defend herself, Kathryn was honor-bound to come to the sweet flower’s aid!

CHAPTER TWO

T
HE SWEET FLOWER
, meanwhile, was much too busy to be concerned over what was being said about her in the ballroom. Having slipped the grasp of her elderly duenna, the Honorable Lydia Northam was making the most of the resulting opportunity. Though the delectable but tiresome marquis had been reluctant to act the part his highwayman costume suggested, Lydia found that the handsome thing dressed as a stable boy, whose company she was enjoying, felt no such reluctance.

In fact, he was behaving exactly as a stable boy could be expected to—which was not at all surprising, since he was a stable boy. Lydia was very glad her hair matched the color of the straw in which they were rolling. Her duenna was old and dotty, to be sure, but she was not as blind as Lydia could wish.

While Lydia was doing her best to attract the attention of the opposite gender in the stables, inside the ballroom, Nigel Moorhaven, Marquis of Blackshire, was doing his best to avoid it.

Though Nigel’s title was not the loftiest to be found at Ophelia Palin’s ball that evening, his wealth was superlative. All the scheming mamas had their eyes on the marquis. He would not be likely to spend his bride’s dowry before the ink on the betrothal documents was dry, for all six of his estates had smooth plaster and intact roofs. Blackshire steered well clear of dun territory, and it was well known he was not in dire need of a dowry.

The trouble was, the marquis didn’t seem to be in need of a wife, either.

At nine-and-twenty, he had never shown the slightest inclination toward making any commitment. Blushing Diamonds waited behind every fluttering, inviting fan, but the marquis remained enticingly, stubbornly single. He was obviously quite out of reach—which of course made him all the more attractive to the mamas and their daughters.

Consequently, the marquis was always up to his cravat in a mire of unwanted attention. If a miss were not swooning conveniently at his feet, she was tripping in front of him and genuinely needing his assistance—usually because she hadn’t yet learned the art of batting her eyelashes and walking at the same time.

It was really quite embarrassing.

Nigel had hoped to avoid that sort of foolishness at Ophelia Palin’s ball this evening. Masquerades were not considered proper for young ladies just coming out, and Ophelia’s balls were notorious for being a bit fast anyway; one never knew what to expect, as she always pulled some outrageous stunt. Thus, Nigel had thought tonight’s company would be composed of only the more seasoned of the ladies, but word of his acceptance must have got out. Ophelia herself had probably spread the news, the dear old vixen, for she wasn’t shy about her letting him know she wished to see him happily wed, and if it were known Nigel was to attend, then nothing could keep the ambitious mamas at bay.

Not that Nigel would have declined Ophelia’s invitation, had he known. He couldn’t stay away. He always tried to attend Ophelia’s balls. She made no pretense of indifference; he was a great favorite of hers. She often said she wished to be forty years younger, and Nigel loved to bring the roses to her cheeks by flirting with the old spinster.

Everyone in London had been trying to beg an invitation to this particular ball for weeks. It was rumored Ophelia planned to display a fabulous treasure beyond value. The old lady was rich as Croesus, and everyone had been speculating about what priceless object she would produce. As of yet the treasure had not been brought out, and anticipation was high, but Nigel now wished he’d gone to his club instead.

That silly chit Lydia Northam had surely caused him trouble.

Nigel had fought on the Continent with Lydia’s uncle, and as a favor to him Nigel had escorted the girl to several entertainments as a way of boosting her status amongst the bachelors of the
ton
. But Nigel knew that Miss Northam, an heiress, had not the slightest need or desire to wed, for she enjoyed the single state too much, and her sweet-tempered, elderly duenna, a distant relation, had not the slightest idea that Lydia’s frequent absences from the ballrooms of London were not excursions into the refreshment rooms at all, but excursions into linen closets, darkened coaches, and hothouses. Nigel’s one evening at the opera with Lydia had been interrupted by one such foray, a trip to the ladies’ retiring room—or so Lydia told Nigel. But when she had not returned in a half hour and her chaperon was snoring softly at the rear of the box, Nigel had gone in search of Miss Northam himself. Fortunately, he’d found her before anyone else had.

She was in the arms of the occupant of the next box, a wet-behind-the-ears young man who, Nigel believed, had just come down on his first holiday from Oxford. Nigel quickly sent the lad on his quaking way and led Lydia back to her chair, with her duenna—and the rest of Polite Society—none the wiser.

During the second act, Lydia flagged down an usher.

That time, at least, the two were safely concealed behind the velvet curtain at the back of Nigel’s own private box. Nigel patiently let the tryst go on until the participants forgot themselves and the rather enthusiastic sound of their kissing threatened to make its way to the ears of the surrounding patrons.

Nigel tipped the usher lavishly and sent him on his way as well.

Lydia apologized immediately and proceeded to ruin his cravat with her tears. He wasn’t offended, was he? It wasn’t that he wasn’t charming and handsome and . . . and rich.

No, Nigel had thought dryly. She was too busy with the eager young lads around her to form a
tendre
for him! He was certain he knew her mind, though she was too well-bred to speak it: the barely-nubile Lydia simply thought Nigel too old.

And he couldn’t agree more! Nigel didn’t have the heart to tell her he wasn’t really interested in her, either. He merely instructed her to be more cautious in the future. She was a sweet girl in spite of her . . . taste for adventure. A harmless and intelligent creature, Lydia was, and she was also, surprisingly, quite shy.

Ever since that night at the opera, she had worshipped him with her eyes. She was not the only female who looked at him in that way, but ever since the opera she had been the only female who could do so without making him feel like a plum pudding displayed before a crowd of starving urchins.

And so it was, that when Lydia had whispered at Ophelia’s ball that evening that she was in trouble and asked for his help, like a gallant knight Nigel followed her without question. Now, he cursed himself. He was not a gallant knight. He was a foolish, gullible knight

He had been wrong. Lydia apparently did not consider him too old for her. Oh, he had been correct about one thing; she was shy—but only with him. Unfortunately for them both, she’d managed to overcome her shyness that evening.

Nigel frowned and made his way through the crush of people at the perimeter of the ballroom. Weaving his way amongst milky alabaster statuary and lavish red rose-and-ivy-swags, he headed for the front stairs, which led down to the street entrance. The musicians started into a lively country dance, and the scent of the roses and beeswax perfumed the air. The huge room was so brightly lit that the dancers turning figures on the gleaming pink marble floor did not throw shadows. Ophelia had spared no expense.

It was a lovely setting—for his betrothal announcement, he thought sourly. For that’s what would happen if Lydia were foolish enough to appear in the ballroom. Upstairs, she’d ripped the bodice of her gown away, dramatically offering herself to him. If she appeared in the ballroom in that condition, she would be questioned about her obvious ravishment If she refused to answer, she would be ruined. And if she uttered Blackshire’s name, his public honor would be destroyed. Either way, Nigel’s personal code of ethics would demand that he offer for her. He could only hope that if anyone did catch a glimpse of her dishevelment, that she would concoct some clever lie.

But was Lydia clever enough?

Nigel snorted and shook his head, drawing curious looks from those nearby. After what had just happened upstairs, he wasn’t so sure. Until now, Nigel had thought Lydia was a sensible girl.

And there was another thought nagging him. Someone—some female, he amended—knew he’d been with Lydia Northam, un-escorted, in that bedchamber upstairs. Judging by her ridiculous howl of pain, it was a servant. And, though a servant’s gossip might be bandied about London, it would not be taken seriously, and they would escape. Still...

“Blackshire. I say, old man, did you swallow a fly?” The speaker, portly Sir Henry Bartling, poked Nigel in the ribs with his elbow. ”You’ve the most sour expression. I daresay I would not be so morose if I were promised to dance with so many lovely young ladies! But p’raps that’s your trouble!” Sir Henry asked with an inebriated slur. “Too much feminine attention, perhaps. Have the ladies tired you out?” He laughed loudly at his own jest.

Nigel looked at Sir Henry sharply and sidled around another blow aimed at his ribs. Had the news of Nigel’s “tryst” with Lydia already spread? No, he decided. Sir Henry would not be so bold—or so subtle, in his condition. Nigel dismissed Sir Henry with a polite nod. He was bound to stay until the ball was over.

He hoped Lydia had the sense to have fled the ball immediately. He strode purposefully toward the card room and peeked in, confirming for himself what everyone at the ball must already know—that Lydia’s duenna was there. The sleepy old lady had nodded off while engaged in a game of whist and was snoozing in the card room as usual. Hell and blast! Where was Lydia?

Nigel swore under his breath and made his way to a post near the main stairs, from which he could keep an eye on all three entrances to the grand ballroom. He leaned with studied casualness against an elaborate Corinthian column, his shoulders tense and his eyes watchful.

If Lydia were bold enough—or silly enough—to enter the ballroom dressed (or half-dressed!) as she was, he would see her immediately. Everyone would see her immediately. If he could reach her before she opened her delicate little mouth, perhaps he could still save them both from her folly. He kept pacing from the stairs to the terrace doors, hoping to catch her before she made an entrance.

He was going to throttle Lydia.

Just as the clocks struck eleven, the fairy queen entered the room. Nigel overshot his column and nearly bumped into an arbor. She was beautiful. Who was she? He was sure he’d never seen her before. Very petite, she floated down the stairs in a filmy gauze creation, sparkling in the candlelight like a silvery crescent moon on the water. Her face was mostly covered in a three-quarter masque, rather than the more common demi-masque, with only her lips and chin showing. Her delicately lavish mouth was bow-shaped and her chin was slightly pointed. He imagined the masque she wore concealed a heart-shaped face. He was suddenly eager for supper, though it had nothing to do with hunger. Supper, as was the custom, was when the guests would unmask themselves.

He watched the fairy queen in hungry fascination. Her eyes and her body expressed hesitance. She was unsure of herself as she entered the room, and he wondered why.

As she came closer, he could see a hint of her eyes’ color—a fine sky blue. A wreath of violets and pale yellow roses circled her mass of glossy blond curls.

Instantly, an image of himself ridding her of the flowers and combing his fingers through those glorious tresses gripped Nigel, and without thinking he started through the crowd toward her. She had stopped on the very fringe of the ballroom and was looking about her as though searching for someone, but no man emerged from the crowd to take her arm. Nigel silently thanked Ophelia Palin. A masquerade was the only time when a gentleman could approach a lady without first being introduced. He would go and introduce himself to his fairy queen. Then, he could . . .

Nigel stopped moving.
His
fairy queen?

If he’d be offering for Lydia Northam, it would not do to be seen paying court to another lady tonight. He would be better off introducing himself to the potted palm next to him! The dire nature of his situation slammed home, rendered all the more untenable by a personal code of ethics unusual to a man of the
ton
.

Nigel Moorhaven considered marriage vows sacred, and once he made his own, he would never violate them—even if his marchioness were Lydia, who would most assuredly not view her own vows with any seriousness.

Nigel enjoyed women, but he had never dallied with a married woman. Whenever he had been tempted to do so, a memory beat down the impulse, a memory so painful and so strong it seemed freshly made, though he had been but a little boy of five years at the time.

He was in his parents’ home, the day his mother was buried. There had been several hundred mourners, and Nigel had known almost none of them. His father stood straight and unyielding. In pain himself, he was heedless of his young son’s distress. Nigel felt alone.

And then a lady gathered him into her lap.

Like his father, she was a good twenty years older than his mother. She had dark brown hair streaked with gray, and lines at the corners of her mouth.

He remembered burying his face in the black crepe of her dress and crying. It was the first time he’d cried since his mama had died. The lady crooned softly to him and rocked him until his sobs subsided, and then she gently set him on his feet and walked away. Nigel had been so pitifully grateful. For years, he had worshipped the memory of her soft eyes and tender hands. But then, when Nigel had already reached his majority, he learned the woman who had comforted him had been his father’s mistress for years before his mother’s death.

He couldn’t understand how another woman’s presence could lend his father comfort at his wife’s own funeral. How could he dishonor her memory so? From the day he found out about his father’s mistress, Nigel had never spoken to his father again. When a man and woman wed, they spoke promises to each other. Promises to love and honor. Nigel had always planned to marry only when he could speak his vows and mean them—and then there came Lydia. He sighed and took one last, longing look at the fairy queen, at her wand, wings, and cloud of curls, savoring what might be his symbolic last look at the freedom of choice.

Just then, the fairy queen’s eyes lit for the barest moment on him. Then, inexplicably, they returned, and she rested her gaze with his. Nigel was delighted—and then he was stunned, for the look she leveled on him was one of malevolence.

Pure rage.

So, of course, Nigel smiled at her.

She had to have mistaken him for someone else; he’d done nothing to provoke such a reaction. It would be easy enough to mix up identities at a masquerade, especially if one were new to Town. Nigel couldn’t let the moment pass. What the devil? It couldn’t hurt to introduce himself to her. If he managed somehow to get out of the tangle Lydia had spun, and if the fairy queen were unmarried, then the introduction may turn out to be quite . . . agreeable, he thought while allowing his eyes to glide over her lithe form.

Her gaze never wavered as she watched him advance toward her. Her eyes were stunningly beautiful in her anger, and Nigel couldn’t help wondering how much more beautiful they would be drugged with satisfied passion. He had just gained her side and was feeling a warm glow that had nothing to do with the thousand beeswax candles that illumined the huge room, when Lydia appeared.