“Only hunters who miss on the first thrust,” Ruan answered with a slight smile.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mary, Lady Jordan, snapped. “Can you not conduct your seductions in private? This is a ball, not a bawdy house.”
“I’m afraid, Lady Jordan,” Sophia said into the shocked silence, “that Lord Ruan, knowing he would not find me in a bawdy house, must make do with ballrooms. Is that not so, Lord Ruan? ”
“Lady Dalby, I would seek . . . and find you, anywhere,” he said, bowing, his eyes never leaving her face.
“Is that the orchestra?” Amelia said, robustly inserting herself into the midst of what was a most blatant seduction.
“I believe it is,” Iveston said, smiling first at Amelia and then at Sophia. Iveston was such a lovely man, so affable and reasonable. What a delicious husband he’d make for some deserving girl. “Shall we proceed in? Or shall the interview take precedence? ”
Amelia flushed, which gave her such a sweet and delicate air, and she knew how to use that air to her advantage, clever girl.
“I think, Lord Iveston, that you may have quite befuddled Lady Amelia,” Sophia said, turning away from Ruan and ignoring him completely, though not so completely that she didn’t know to the precise degree his eyes stopped sparkling and his mouth etched downward in a subtle frown at being so ruthlessly ignored. “Do you mean to say that you
want
to be interviewed for the post of Lady Amelia’s husband? I must confess that I suspected you would be eager, but I do not think Lady Amelia shared my prediction. Would you mind terribly explaining to her, and to her dear aunt, precisely why you are so eager?”
Iveston, a truly elegant man in all respects, directed his answer to Amelia, who looked up at him in all her virginal, blond splendor. “Why Lady Amelia, surely it must be plain to you that, having conducted an interview upon the Duke of Calbourne, I should find myself slighted egregiously to be found lacking of even the opportunity to present myself for your consideration. I am not a duke now, but I have every hope of becoming one. Can your list stretch to include me?”
Sophia turned her gaze upon Amelia, who blinked once and then said with delicious sincerity, “How charmingly put, Lord Iveston. Put thus, how could I refuse to add you to my list?
“Hell and blast,” Cranleigh spit out, not at all discreetly, which of course, was equally charming, but in an entirely different way.
Men. They were so very entertaining.
With the tuning of the orchestra, the mob, keeping a careful eye on which direction Sophia and her troop were heading, moved ponderously in the direction of the music. The Prestwick town house—on let from Molly, the Duchess of Hyde’s sister, Mrs. Sally Elliot, a fine coincidence—was on the end of Upper Brook Street with a fine view of Grosvenor Square. The light was excellent and so a study on the front of the house had been converted a few years back into a petite conservatory that was just now filled to bursting with roses in the first flush of full bloom. Delightful.
The house was not exceptionally large, but it was supremely well appointed with fine boiserie in lustrous walnut lining the walls of the dining room, which tonight had been transformed into use as a ballroom. The dining room was not open to the conservatory, although they shared a wall, but had only one opening into it, that from the hall. Once in the dining room-cum-ballroom, it would be very difficult to get out again. Intriguing possibilities there.
The hall, beautifully done up in Flemish tapestries of exotic locales, also led into the drawing room, where the guests were gathered in advance of the dancing. The drawing room, quite a sumptuous room, was done up in scarlet silk damask, the walls fetchingly sprinkled with family portraits and the odd landscape or two.
That the crystal chandeliers were sparkling, the woodwork gleaming, the floors waxed all spoke to the care the Prestwicks were devoting to keeping the house in top form. That they had let the house from a close relative of the Duke of Hyde was hardly something that had come about by chance. Little Miss Prestwick, quite a stunning girl of black eyes and black shining hair, was shopping for a husband. Sophia didn’t suppose that the girl would mind it at all if she found one among the sons of Hyde. The man did have five sons; Miss Prestwick couldn’t possibly have anticipated that Lord Henry, his fourth son, would be snatched up quite so quickly by Louisa Kirkland, but that still left four.
Sophia’s gaze drifted away from Miss Prestwick and on to Lady Amelia. She was managing Lord Iveston quite well, Cranleigh growling, the two younger sons of Hyde listening, watching, smiling.
“You had hardly a word for Lord Dutton, Lady Dalby,” Ruan said at her side. “Has he displeased you in some way?”
“Darling Lord Ruan,” she answered, “are you fishing? You make the most abysmal fisherman.”
“But a fine hunter?”
“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”
He looked down at her, a smile playing around his mouth, and she felt a flutter under her heart. The last time she had fluttered was with Dalby. How peculiar and so unexpected. She hadn’t thought to flutter again and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. It wasn’t unwelcome, but it was . . . uncomfortable.
“Is that a promise, Lady Dalby?” he said softly.
“I rather thought you were the one making promises, Lord Ruan. A mighty thrust and all that,” she said, considering him. The tiniest flutter, again. Yes, definitely uncomfortable and very distracting. “But as to Lord Dutton,” she said, changing the subject completely, and permanently, “I find him as entertaining as I normally do.” Ruan lowered his black brows and studied her, encouraging her to continue by his very silence. “He is a handsome man, which never hurts, and he knows how to talk to a woman.”
“He flatters her?” Ruan said, his mouth quirking into a smile.
“Profusely. And then he sobs into his whiskey. It’s irresistible,” she answered, smiling.
“He can’t have done this with you. No man would find cause to sob with you.”
“Why, Lord Ruan,” Sophia said, almost forgetting that she had determined to put Ruan out of her thoughts not a moment ago. The man was nearly mesmerizing. “Are you aping Dutton’s technique? Flattery and then . . . oh, but you can’t sob now. I haven’t given you cause. Yet.”
“And you can’t convince me that you gave Dutton cause,” Ruan said. “But Mrs. Warren, he might well throw himself off of Westminster Bridge for her.”
“Can he swim?” Sophia asked brightly.
Ruan chuckled. “If I knew, should I tell you? You might push him off yourself.”
“Might I?” she said, laughing up at him. He was quite tall and she always had preferred tall men. “Why should I do that? ”
“I wish I knew,” he said.
His voice was serious, but not alarmed. He thought he knew something and wished to know more. But could that not be said of everyone? What they thought they knew and what they wished to know, such a chasm, nearly uncrossable.
“Darling Lord Ruan, you assign much to me. I bear Lord Dutton no ill will. He is perfectly safe from me.”
“But is he safe from Mrs. Warren?”
“I’m afraid only she can answer that, Lord Ruan.”
Twelve
T
HE Marquis of Dutton, unpleasantly sober, wanted nothing so much as to grab Anne Warren by the back of the neck, drag her into a dark corner, and kiss her until she melted in his arms. Unfortunately, not only did Society frown on behavior of that sort, it was not at all the plan that he and Lord Ruan had devised. Actually, Lord Ruan had done the devising. Dutton had done the scowling and the arguing. In the end, Ruan had won his point and convinced Dutton to proceed accordingly. Dutton might have agreed, but he was still scowling.
“Mrs. Warren,” he said, drawing near to her as the crowd continued to shift as they made their way into the ballroom. “You’re looking well.”
She was looking bloody marvelous, but he wasn’t going to confess any such nonsense as that. Women positively fed off that sort of thing and, where Anne Warren was concerned, he meant to starve her into compliance. He’d landed wrong-footed with her, though he still could not see quite how it had happened.
He had noticed her.
He had approached her.
He had kissed her.
She had promptly got herself engaged to Lord Staverton, a viscount fully three times her age. Well, perhaps only twice her age, but he had not aged well and he had an eye that wandered erratically. Literally. Still, for the daughter of a failed courtesan, Anne Warren had done well for herself. That she had done it to spite him he knew without a doubt. Unfortunately, that knowledge had no value whatsoever. Anne Warren, perhaps because of his bold kiss or perhaps because he had only become interested in her when he discovered her mother had been a doxy, was ignoring him. He suspected that she was doing it to drive him mad; the problem was that it was, literally, driving him mad.
“And you, Lord Dutton, are looking sober,” Anne said sweetly, her hazel green eyes as sharp as knives. “Can’t find the whiskey? ”
“And you, Mrs. Warren, used to be sweeter. You give every evidence that the prospect of marriage to Lord Staverton does not agree with you,” he said, which was not at all the conversation he was supposed to have had with her, but dammit, she was being unreasonable. All he wanted was a tumble. Certainly she could give him that. It wasn’t as if she were a virgin and it wasn’t as if she didn’t understand what a man wanted from a woman.
“Naturally,” Mrs. Warren said with sweet acidity, “you have got it all twisted, Lord Dutton. It is you who does not agree with me. I find myself ever out of sorts in your company. If you will excuse me?”
“I will not,” he said sharply. He moved to lay hold of her upper arm, but she gave him such a look that his hand dropped to his side. Someone gasped on his right. He didn’t bother to see who. It was the worst folly, to engage her this way. It was not at all to plan.
Blast Ruan and his damnable plan.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, swallowing his annoyance. “I am not myself. I had only wished to bid you good evening and to, if you will allow, ask a favor of you.”
“No, I will not kiss you, Lord Dutton. Nor will I lift my skirts for you. If you have any pearl necklaces hidden upon you, I do not want them,” Anne whispered harshly, her eyes flaring bright. She had the most remarkable eyes, a greenish hazel that could look pewter soft in candlelight. She was in candlelight now, but they did not look soft. She looked as wild as a cat, her red hair gleaming like sunset.
“My pearl necklace days are over, Mrs. Warren. After Lady Caroline’s rather scandalous acquisition of one, mine have been locked away in safety, a gift for my future wife.”
She drew as still as a doe at the words and he thought for the first time that Ruan might have a plan at that.
“In fact,” he continued, “I had wondered if you could help me with that.”
“With what?” she said crisply, her cheeks growing slightly flushed.
“It is being rumored,” he said softly, watching hungrily as she leaned closer to hear his words, “that Lady Amelia is on a quest for the ideal husband and that she is, oddly enough, conducting interviews.”
“Yes? ”
“It is also rumored that you are aiding her as a clerk of sorts, a most trusted position, to be sure,” he said, lowering his voice even more. She leaned closer, so close that he could catch her scent and see how the light glimmered off her porcelain skin. Dutton blinked a few times and grabbed hard for his purpose. He must not lose his way now, not even if she did smell of roses. “I wondered if you could help me there.”
Anne looked up at him, her eyes wide and clear, her breath catching in her throat. He almost had her. In a second, he could be kissing her, would be, if they weren’t in the middle of a noisy throng in a well-lit room.
She must have read the thought in his eyes, for she pulled away and swallowed audibly.
“Help you? I can’t see how, Lord Dutton. And, I must say, these matters can’t concern you.”
“But they might concern me, Mrs. Warren, if you would but help,” he said, turning slightly so that his arm brushed against her. She trembled slightly. He was relieved he was sober enough to notice. “If you could just arrange for me to be on that list, Lady Amelia’s marriage list, I should be so grateful. I do think she’d make a wonderful wife and, as you have pointed out, I do need a woman to settle me. I fear, Mrs. Warren, that I have fallen into debauchery. Who better than a wife to pull a man back onto the straight and narrow?”
She looked, if he could be immodest, and he could, like she wanted to faint.
Damned if Ruan wasn’t a genius.
LORD Iveston was behaving beautifully, walking quietly at Amelia’s side as they entered the ballroom, listening to her exclaim over the beauty of the boiserie, the gilded plasterwork on the ceiling, the sweetness of the violins, all the things a woman said to a man when she could think of nothing to say. Amelia was entirely certain that the reason she could think of nothing to say to the elegant Lord Iveston was that Lord Cranleigh was hovering at Iveston’s side and staring at her with his icy blue eyes. The man could freeze a volcano.
It was perfectly obvious that Cranleigh was making the point that the only way to avoid
him
was to avoid Iveston, which flatly was not going to happen. She wasn’t about to be manhandled into giving up Iveston now.
“I had no idea,” Cranleigh said, practically cutting off her latest comment regarding the cellist, “that a discussion on the merits of string instruments was part of your interviewing process, Lady Amelia. One can but wonder how it pertains to the issue of marriage.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, staring around Iveston’s well-tailored shoulder at his thuggish brother, “I should have guessed that a discussion about the merits of music would effectively remove you from the conversation, Lord Cranleigh. Perhaps you might find other conversation elsewhere that interests you. Perhaps with the . . .” She was so very tempted to say
with the footmen
, but as she did not want to appear unnecessarily ungenerous and surly in front of Lord Iveston, she said, “hostess, Miss Prestwick. A charming woman, by all accounts.”