“Yet crass enough to demand a duke for a husband,” Cranleigh said softly, staring at her with his pale blue eyes.
She felt a shiver slide down her spine. Small wonder
the sailor
was rarely out in Society. He could not even be civil when the occasion demanded it.
“Demand?” Sophia said. “I was not aware that any demands had been made, Lord Cranleigh. Must I remind you that Lady Amelia speaks only of standards? Certainly you cannot object to that.”
It was perfectly obvious that he would indeed object to that. And Sophia had spoken
again
, drawing all eyes to her. It was simply not to be borne.
“As your brother finds no objections to my very reasonable standards, Lord Cranleigh, I do wonder why you should,” Amelia said, and very curtly, too. Cranleigh was not the only one who could be less than civil.
“You may not have noticed it, Lady Amelia,” George Blakesley said, his features of a most arrogant slant, “but Iveston is not of a temperament to readily take offense. And Cranleigh is.”
“How unpleasant for Lord Cranleigh,” Amelia said, turning her own blue eyes upon Cranleigh. “And to everyone who knows him, I daresay.”
Oh, yes, it was rude, excessively so, and bold, and perhaps even crass, but there was something so very,
very
pleasant about annoying Lord Cranleigh. Why, just look at how his silvery eyes burned in outrage.
Why, he was almost as much fun to torment as Hawks. If he did not stop hampering her attempts to wrangle Iveston into a proposal, it might be very necessary to torment Cranleigh nearly endlessly.
Amelia smiled just thinking of it.
“My, my,” said Sophia, speaking
again
, “you have made a strong impression, Lord Cranleigh. Is that common?”
“I should say most things about Lord Cranleigh are common,” Amelia said.
At that point, Mrs. Warren gasped.
Lord Iveston blushed and ducked his head.
Amelia hardly noticed. Her attention was completely held by the look of pure, icy determination upon Cranleigh’s rugged features. He looked quite completely enraged. She couldn’t possibly have been more pleased. Why, it was almost impossible not to laugh in his face. He didn’t have much to say now, did he?
“As to common, Lady Amelia,” Cranleigh said, “I believe you have outstripped me. I can’t say where Iveston falls on your infamous list, but I can say with complete certainty that you have fallen off his. Good evening.” He bowed, stiffly and very reluctantly, and turned to leave. He clearly expected his brothers to follow him. And they might have, if Sophia had not then spoken.
“But, no, truly?” Sophia said. “I had not thought the Blakesleys to be so skittish in the face of friendly fire.”
“Friendly fire?” Cranleigh said, looking over his shoulder at, not Sophia, but Amelia. Amelia’s breath caught in her throat. He looked completely lethal.
“But what else?” Sophia asked with a smile. For once, Amelia was happy to allow Sophia to take the lead in the conversation as she couldn’t have formed a syllable if given half an hour. Cranleigh’s look had impaled her. She hated him for it, even more than she already hated him. “Is this not all part of the marriage dance, which is danced, badly, at every ball during the Season? Lady Amelia is more forthright than any woman you’ve yet to encounter, but is that just cause for retreat? Lord Iveston, are
you
frightened of this pale and slender girl?”
The Marquis of Iveston considered Amelia slowly and with complete detachment. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. When he had finished his perusal of her face, he said, “I find no need to fear Lady Amelia. She is a woman looking to wed, which is hardly cause for alarm as women possessed of the same goal populate every salon in Town.”
“How wise of you, Lord Iveston,” Sophia said, her dark eyes sparkling merrily at him. “I’m quite certain your brothers will follow your lead, trusting in your discretion.”
At which point, Cranleigh swallowed heavily, scowled at Amelia pointedly, and stayed exactly where he was.
Amelia was not at all sure if she should be relieved or upset. As Iveston had decided to stay, she decided to be relieved. She would indulge in an upset about Cranleigh later, when she had the privacy to be upset properly and without restraint. She predicted it would take approximately an hour, give or take.
Eleven
A
S she was the hostess, Miss Penelope Prestwick could not indulge in a proper upset, but she wanted to. She was an observant girl, and it was her house, after all, so she had noticed to the second when Lord Iveston had entered and made a direct path to Amelia Caversham. He had been ensnared in conversation with her for a full fifteen minutes and showed no signs of leaving her to circulate among the other guests.
“Stop staring at them,” her brother George said under his breath. “We’ll be finished here soon and then you can run him to ground like a stag.”
“Lovely. I suppose that makes me the sweaty horse,” she whispered, before arranging a pleasant expression on her face to greet the next guest.
“Not at all, Miss Prestwick,” the Marquis of Ruan said with what might have been a smile. “You don’t resemble a horse, sweating or otherwise, in the least.”
Penelope was quite certain she had never blushed in her life, and she did not do so now. But she wanted to.
“Lord Ruan, good evening,” she said, refusing to comment upon his observation. What could she have said that would have saved the situation? Best just to ignore it and soldier on.
“A mesmerizing gathering, Miss Prestwick,” Ruan said, his brilliant green eyes studying the room, halting on the Marquis of Iveston, though why he should care about Lord Iveston was a mystery. “Mr. Prestwick, a pleasure.”
“A pleasure indeed,” the Marquis of Dutton echoed.
Penelope greeted Dutton with a pretty curtsey, eyeing him discreetly. He looked foxed. The gossip was that ever since Sophia’s daughter had married Lord Ashdon, Dutton had been more foxed than not. It appeared to be nothing but the truth. Did Dutton harbor a
tendre
for Caroline? It was possible. Caroline was a dark-haired beauty, a diamond of the first water. Penelope delicately tossed her own black hair, but Dutton’s slightly reddened eyes only looked at her briefly before fixing on the knot of people that was dominated by Sophia Dalby and Lord Iveston.
Blast it all, she couldn’t even capture the attention of a man who was cup-shot. A massive fortune clearly wasn’t as enticing as it once was.
“Yes, I had hoped that my little ball would attract,” Viscount Prestwick said with very ill-disguised pomposity, “that is, would be found favorable among Society’s elite. I am delighted that it was found to be so. I begin to wonder if my house can hold them all.”
Penelope groaned inwardly, particularly as sardonic amusement was writ large all over Lord Ruan’s rather rugged features.
“I should think it obvious, Papa, that we shall be forced to dance in the streets,” Penelope said bluntly. “We were expecting fully half to decline our invitation, the Season being what it is.”
“Busy?” Lord Ruan said with wry humor, his green eyes sparkling.
“Yes, Lord Ruan, busy,” Penelope said genially.
But, naturally, they both lied. Such pretty lies ought to be fully embraced as the truth would never serve so well. The truth was that Lady Amelia’s interview of the Duke of Calbourne was what had brought them here tonight, the anticipation that she might interview another prospect within their hearing too delicious a chance to miss. That the circulation of guests was becoming knotted at the precise spot where Amelia was talking to Lord Iveston, and that the knot was growing larger by the minute, only proved how fully their hopes had been achieved. Everyone’s hopes except hers, naturally. Poor Papa had no idea about Amelia Caversham or the interview or the true reason for everyone on their invitation list actually choosing to attend their ball. Papa was of the misguided notion that Society was welcoming him fully into its ranks.
Papa was an idealist. It made dealing with him somewhat exhausting. He did think so well of himself and he fully expected everyone he met to adopt his position on the matter. She and George knew better as they were not crippled by rosy idealism and a well-fed sense of superiority, as Papa was. No, they understood very well that they were newly hatched, as it were, and that what they had in their favor was, not to be ridiculous about it, a dose of healthy good looks and a vast fortune, the fortune being the most critical item on the list.
With both her fortune and her looks, she fully expected to get what she wanted, namely, a duke. What else was required? Certainly a sterling pedigree was never amiss, but lacking that, a fortune would more than make up for it. Certainly Society was awash in those who had only pedigree and attractiveness, and look how they struggled. No, a fortune was the essential ingredient. She had one. She did not see any difficulty in attaining a duke.
Except for the fact that Amelia Caversham most obviously had the same goal. That was a problem. That Lady Amelia was beautiful, possessed of a fortune, and had a pedigree few could match made it a problem of epic proportion. The solution was obvious. Amelia had to leave the marriage mart immediately, preferably without a duke in her pocket.
“You are to be commended, Prestwick,” Dutton said, holding himself very erect. He was a very handsome man, tall and lithe, with chiseled features and deep blue eyes. He was rumored to be a rakehell, a scapegrace, and a scoundrel. Penelope would have overlooked all of that, but what she could not overlook was that Dutton was a marquis and not a duke. Some things simply put a man beyond the pale. “This evening may well go down as the event of the Season. I, for one, had no intention of missing it.”
“I am most pleased to hear it, Lord Dutton,” Papa replied, puffing out his chest. As his coat was perfectly tailored, puffing did not mar the line. “Please, enjoy yourselves. Lord Ruan?” Papa bowed elegantly, Penelope dipped her head, and the two gentlemen moved on. Penelope watched them wind their way into the crowd and was not at all surprised that they moved relentlessly toward the knot that was Amelia Caversham and Lord Iveston.
Blast and bother, this simply could not continue or her ball, by which she meant the reason she had given it in the first place, would be ruined. She had to do something about it. If only she could think what.
“IF the girl wants to marry a duke, I don’t see what I can do about it,” Dutton said. “Or that I should care one way or the other,” he added in a somewhat sullen tone.
Dutton had been sullen ever since Ruan had met him at White’s. Ruan attributed it not to himself, but to the fact that Dutton had cast up his accounts twice in the past three hours. Even a three-bottle man could not become a six-bottle man in a single week, though Sophia Dalby could drive a man to try.
“As I said earlier,” Ruan answered, “you should care because Sophia Dalby is quite obviously punishing you for something. Do you mean to stand about and let her have at you?” Ruan paused. Dutton grunted and averted his gaze. Ruan continued, “As to what you can do about Lady Amelia, nothing. She will marry whom she will marry, but as Sophia is the obvious source of this particular manhunt, I would think that would be motivation enough for you. Am I wrong? Are you beaten yet again by that particularly adept woman?”
Naturally, it was enough to arouse even the most blatant coxcomb to stand and deliver. As Dutton was not a coxcomb in any measure, the challenge was caught up without any hesitation.
“Don’t be absurd,” Dutton said, brushing past a group of three women who giggled the moment he glanced in their direction. Which only proved how easy it would be to distract Sophia and hobble Amelia.
“Very well,” Ruan said, glancing at the three women himself. They did not giggle at his look. No, they hushed, their eyes going very wide, their cheeks going pink. There was a difference in degree when dealing with rakes, let there be no doubt about that.
SOPHIA watched Ruan and Dutton approach and did nothing at all to hobble her smile. Ruan and Dutton. How amusing. They had formed an alliance of sorts, though how she could not imagine. The why of it was far easier. Dutton was desperate. Ruan was . . . dangerous. Yes, slightly dangerous. He was unlike any man she had met since coming to London more than twenty years ago. She did not enjoy enigmas of the male variety, though she did not fear them either. Ruan was a man, and as a man, he was predictable. And malleable.
“Ah, you’ve found us,” she said before even the bows had been made. “How mighty the hunter who finds his quarry on the first . . . thrust,” she said, staring pointedly at Ruan.
Ruan’s mouth was shaped in such a way, the corners tipping up slightly, that he looked amused even at his most relaxed. It was a convenient arrangement of features as she was certain he went through life being endlessly amused by nearly everything. It was a pleasant trait for a man to possess and certainly spoke in his favor with her.
“Lady Dalby,” Ruan said softly, his low voice even and calm, another trait she enjoyed. Ruan was not the hysterical type, and so many men, in the guise of manly outrage, became hysterical over the smallest of things. “I had not thought it in you to describe yourself as any man’s quarry. I confess I don’t know what to make of it. Except to thrust.” His green eyes smiled at her unrepentantly. She liked that, too.
“A bold hunter,” she said, the noise of the gathering fading as they faced each other, all ears pricked to hear the next ribald reply. She hadn’t had this much fun in years. “The first thrust is, of course, the most vital. Miss, and your quarry escapes. Having learned your scent, you will never draw so near to her again.”
“Scent can be masked,” he said.
“Not enough to delude an elusive quarry. Every hunter knows that.”