“Lord Penrith,” Lady Paignton replied when they passed near to each other again, “I know all the steps. I thought you understood that.”
Whereupon Mrs. Warren smiled and shook her head at Calbourne, who smirked and very nearly shrugged. At Mrs. Warren! It was not to be borne. She had not quite,
quite
decided upon Lord Iveston, and she did not at all appreciate the Duke of Calbourne being literally snatched up before her very gaze, nearly from beneath her very hand.
At least no one was paying any particular attention to Lady Paignton, which was perfectly understandable as she had been properly married to a complete rogue who had got himself killed in a duel defending her honor, which had required considerable defending, the rumor went. Looking at her now, Amelia believed it completely. Lady Paignton was the most overtly seductive woman she had ever encountered, not including Sophia Dalby naturally. Lady Paignton was so much more common about it.
Very
much more common. By every rumor, Lord and Lady Paignton had been well matched, except that now he was dead, of course.
Amelia had been out long enough to be aware of which women she had to be wary of: women who wanted dukes, women who wanted husbands, women who were beautiful, women who were clever, women who were seductive, women who had fortunes. The list was long and comprehensive, the result being that it was the rare woman indeed who was not a threat to her search for a husband. In fact, looking about the room now, there were only two women she even remotely trusted not to steal a man right out from under her, no pun intended—Aunt Mary and Sophia Dalby.
It did strike her as odd that Sophia Dalby, a perfectly deadly sort of woman where men were concerned, was on her very short list of trusted females, but she was and Amelia, perhaps because the list was so very short, was disinclined to remove her from it. In fact, with the way the evening was becoming more complicated with each step of the dance, Amelia more than ever wanted Sophia’s aid.
In keeping Anne Warren away from Calbourne and Cranleigh.
In keeping Lady Paignton away from Iveston and Cranleigh.
In keeping Miss Prestwick away from Calbourne, Iveston, and Cranleigh.
In fact, the only man that Amelia was perfectly willing to throw into the arms of any available female was Lord Dutton. Lord Penrith was far too pleasant a man to throw about that way, but Dutton, he should be punished for making Louisa’s life such a misery until Louisa had discovered that she loved Blakes and not Dutton.
It also occurred to her, as she was making her final move in the dance, that she was developing the loathsome habit of making lists.
It also was perfectly obvious that Cranleigh was on every list she mentally complied. Of course, the tears in her dress would explain that; he was in her thoughts, how could he not be? He’d very literally attacked her, as he was in the habit of doing, as long as she was making lists of habits, which she was
not
going to do.
Cranleigh was so ill-mannered, so effortlessly and eternally ill-mannered. Why, he never should have kissed her that first time. What could he have been thinking? Certainly not that she was irresistible. Two full years out had proved how very resistible she was, especially to him.
He had not offered for her.
She wasn’t particularly beautiful, not nearly beautiful enough. She was attractive enough in a very predictable sort of way, but she certainly wasn’t as ethereally lovely as Anne Warren nor as seductively tempting as Lady Paignton, both forced into her speculations as they each stood not two feet away from her. And then there was the classically beautiful Penelope Prestwick, who was still chatting up Cranleigh, who looked not at all disposed to move away from her.
For the most obvious reason her gaze stayed on Cranleigh and Penelope Prestwick. What a perfectly devious woman she was, to try to make inroads with Iveston through his brother. For that was what it was, clearly. She couldn’t, wouldn’t have any interest in Cranleigh and he none in her. Why, he had a well-established habit, one might even call it a compulsion, to attack Amelia with kisses every time he saw her.
Amelia smiled, forgetting all about Iveston and Calbourne and certainly about Penrith, but not forgetting a single thing about Cranleigh.
He did like to kiss her.
“A lively dance,” Mrs. Warren said to the Duke of Calbourne, her eyes shining.
“A lively partner,” Calbourne answered. “I thank you, Mrs. Warren. You never disappoint.”
Yes, there was that. Mrs. Warren had something of a history of being lively with Calbourne. She had done it at Hyde House not a week past and here she was doing it again. Amelia had no personal animosity toward Anne Warren, none at all, but she did think that for a woman about to be married, Mrs. Warren was out in Society rather a lot. And without her future husband, too.
“I should think Lord Staverton must be most disappointed that he so rarely sees you, Mrs. Warren,” Amelia said. “Or I presume so as I never see you with him.”
Anne turned her very pretty face from Calbourne’s to Amelia; her eyes looked silvery in the candlelight, her skin like pearl. It was most inconvenient.
“Lord Staverton is visiting his various properties in advance of our marriage. He wants all to be in order before we leave on our wedding trip,” Anne answered without a hint of irritation. She was clearly a superb actress.
“And when is the wedding to take place?” Lord Dutton asked, having elbowed his way into their small circle of conversation. It was a pity that he hadn’t managed to elbow Lady Paignton out of it. Amelia was forming a fast dislike of Lady Paignton as it was becoming obvious that she was nearly brazen.
“Within the month, Lord Dutton,” Mrs. Warren answered firmly. “Hardly any time at all to make my preparations.”
“You must have them well in hand to be out as often as you are,” Amelia said.
Mrs. Warren smiled and answered, “Lord Staverton insisted, as does Lady Dalby. I believe it is so that I will find my feet in Society before becoming Lady Staverton. I should so dislike being a disappointment to my husband.”
“An impossibility,” Calbourne said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Dutton? ”
Lord Dutton stared at Mrs. Warren with an intensity that was not at all called for. “I would.”
“If you will excuse me?” Iveston said, already drifting away. “I did enjoy our dance, Lady Amelia.”
Amelia could feel panic rising in her throat. Penrith and Lady Paignton had already left the room, Mrs. Warren was smiling beguilingly at Calbourne, who was smiling back at her. And Dutton, dear dreary Dutton, was looking at Mrs. Warren with all the subtlety of a tiger.
“As did I, Lord Iveston,” Amelia said, attempting an even tone. As it was hardly possible, she supposed she could be excused for the tremor in her voice. “It was a lovely prelude to our interview. Where shall we conduct it? Someplace more private than this, surely.”
Everyone stopped, turned, and stared at her. She couldn’t have been happier. She was so very tired of everyone ignoring her at the first opportunity. Everyone except Cranleigh. If being slightly scandalous and forward was what was required to keep a man’s interest, well then, that’s what it required. There was little point in bemoaning the fact. She had suspected long ago, long before Cranleigh’s first kiss, that men were little better than ravaging beasts. After Cranleigh’s first kiss, and indeed upon all his subsequent kisses, she had known it for a fact.
Iveston looked down at her from his very compelling height, his brow furrowed in surprise. He glanced around the room almost negligently, smiled slightly at her, and said softly, “Perhaps the conservatory?”
Amelia swallowed firmly and answered, “Why not?”
Seventeen
T
HE entire room watched Lord Iveston escort Lady Amelia Caversham from the ballroom, through the drawing room, which was scarcely empty, and into the conservatory, which was. It was just as it had been, the roses scenting the air, the chandeliers overhead casting a twinkling light against the dark glass, the sound of the music coming from the other side of the wall.
Iveston did not close the door, but he didn’t need to. His two younger brothers, by some silently communicated command, stood guard at the portal. Guarding her against ruination, was all she could conclude. She and Iveston were not alone, not actually, not with both George and Josiah Blakesley within sight if not earshot.
Iveston’s hair was very blond, quite unlike Cranleigh’s shade, which was very dark. She couldn’t help but notice the difference as she had
just
been in the same room with Cranleigh. It would have been rather silly of her not to make a comparison, wouldn’t it? Very logical. Some might even argue that she was
forced
to make a comparison. She certainly would.
Where was Cranleigh?
It was logical to wonder. He had watched her leaving the ballroom with Iveston, watched her like a wolf watches a rabbit, and she did not care for the comparison to a rabbit at all. She was not a rabbit.
Where
was
Cranleigh? He was not guarding the door, which she couldn’t imagine him doing anyway.
“You had a question for me, Lady Amelia?” Iveston asked politely.
He was such a nice, calm man, so pleasant and mild, even if a bit quiet and withdrawn. That could be so restful. Surely she should enjoy being married to a restful man.
“Thank you, Lord Iveston,” she said, wrapping the shawl tightly around her and keeping well clear of the roses. “I did. I first must say again how thoughtful it is of you to indulge me this way. It is an indulgence, I know, and it is only your superb manners and remarkable disposition that are responsible for this rare opportunity.”
“Lady Amelia,” he said, ducking his chin to his chest and smiling almost shyly, “it can hardly be deemed a rare opportunity when Calbourne has already . . . indulged.” Was that a jest? A play on words? Could it be that Iveston was attempting to be witty? “As to my remarkable disposition, do you know me well enough to claim such intimate knowledge?”
She had offended him. It was a perfectly dreadful beginning. This is what came of trying to charm a man. Best to just speak plainly and hope for the best. It had worked well enough with Calbourne, obviously, as he was still in the game.
In the game?
She was becoming as common as any actress.
“No, Lord Iveston,” she said, looking at him directly, “but I would. Hence, the interview.”
“Proceed, Lady Amelia.” Iveston leaned his shoulders back against the only solid wall in the room, the shared wall with the ballroom. He looked the picture of negligent elegance.
He looked almost nothing like Cranleigh. He behaved almost nothing like Cranleigh either. Cranleigh, after as many minutes as this, would have had her back against the wall and would have been kissing her breathless.
Amelia sighed and remembered her resolve.
“Do you enjoy horticulture, Lord Iveston?” she asked.
“I enjoy the results of horticulture, Lady Amelia.”
“Do you like roses?”
“I like them well enough when they don’t tear pretty dresses.”
“Do you enjoy being in Town for the Season?”
“I enjoy Hyde House, Lady Amelia, and being among friends, in Town or not.”
Amelia sighed again, heavily. It was not going well. It was going exactly like an . . . interview. Not at all what she had in mind. It was so much easier to talk to a man when Sophia was doing most of the talking. Yes, well, she wasn’t inviting Sophia into the conservatory. She would manage on her own.
Bracing her spine, Amelia said, “Do you find me attractive, Lord Iveston?”
Iveston came up off the wall. It was an improvement.
“I find you very attractive, Lady Amelia, as I’m certain everyone does.”
Oh, bother, that was hardly the right answer. It was so very
mild
. Perhaps being mild was not such a good thing after all.
“At the moment, Lord Iveston, I care only what you think.”
“You are a beautiful woman, Lady Amelia,” he said softly, his blue eyes shining at her. “Surely you have been told that before now?”
If one counted Cranleigh, then yes, she had. But she was not counting Cranleigh.
“At the moment, I care only what you think,” she repeated, smiling.
“But, Lady Amelia, you must care what I think for
always
and must care only what I think. Isn’t that the point of this exercise? You want a husband.”
Amelia’s smile faltered and died, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. It was to be hoped that it was too dark for Iveston to observe that.
“I do want a husband,” she said. “Do you not want a wife?”
There. She’d said it plainly.
Iveston left the wall entirely and walked toward her. She did not move, feeling no need to back away from him, to put distance between them. How different he was from Cranleigh. How different this all was from Cranleigh dragging her into the conservatory.
This was better, obviously, but it
was
different.
“I think the question, Lady Amelia, is whether I am the husband you want,” he said, standing very close to her. She felt . . . nothing. “Whether you are the wife I want,” he finished in a hushed undertone.
“And you do not,” she said, feeling . . . nothing.
“Answer first for yourself, Amelia,” he whispered, taking her hand in his and lifting her fingertips to his mouth for a brief brush of his lips. “Do you want
me
?”
No.
But she wouldn’t say it, couldn’t say it. She didn’t want anything or anyone but Cranleigh when he held her, kissed her, touched her. When Cranleigh was in the room, she felt
something
. Not the nothing she was feeling now.
“I don’t know you well enough to know that, Lord Iveston,” she said instead.
What else could she say? She wanted to marry. Cranleigh, after two years, had not offered for her. If not Cranleigh, then
someone
. She
would
marry and she would marry well, and Cranleigh would suffer to see her so well married. She would be happy and Cranleigh would suffer. That’s all she wanted.