The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) (21 page)

CHAPTER 22

Freshly bathed and perfumed, the lake’s residue washed from her hair, Adaira stood before the mirror in her chamber. She adjusted the bodice of her gown. Satisfied with the modest expanse of skin above the lacy edge, she fastened an ornate ivory and silver cameo around her neck. She then donned the matching earrings.

A movement on the bed caught her attention. The tiny dachshund attacked a stack of pillows, growling low in her throat as she tugged and pounced at the satin and lace edges.

Adaira grinned. “Little fiend.”

She crossed to the bed, stockinged feet sinking into the plush carpet. The puppy rolled onto her back and wiggled ecstatically on the satin counterpane. Adaira rubbed the dog’s belly. The pup tried to nibble her fingers.

“Irmgard. What a ridiculous name for something as adorable as you.” Bending, she kissed the puppy’s snout. “No, I shall call you Kiki because it means beginning a new life, and this is a new life for you, sweetheart.”

“Here be your slippers and fan, Miss Adaira,” Maisey said, extending the items.

Adaira straightened, and her skirts swished about her ankles. This was one of her favorite gowns. She’d only worn it once before. The silver beaded embroidery work was extraordinary, especially across the neckline. There was a fairy-like quality to the filmy garment and its gauzy netted overskirt. The air stirred with expectancy as if something enchanted was about to occur.

She smiled at her nonsensical thoughts. She didn’t normally have a penchant for fanciful musings. Whatever had come over her?

A handsome face with sensual lips and unsettling blue eyes.

A delicious shiver skimmed her senses. Yes, that might well be the cause.

She slid her feet into the shoes before taking the fan. “Thank you.”

Kiki let out a whimpering woof. Adaira swiveled to the bed. The pup was curled in a tight ball, her nose tucked beneath her tail. She twitched and snuffled in her sleep.

“Maisey, why don’t you take Kiki below? Ask an under footman to care for her this evening. I don’t want to add to your duties.”

“I don’t mind. She be a wee nipper.” Kiki growled in her sleep and Maisey giggled like a little girl with her first pet. “If she gets to wiggling around too much, there be a couple laddies in the kitchen who’d be happy to play with the tyke.”

After slipping on her gloves, Adaira hesitated, eyeing the cameo bracelet. It was too bulky for her taste, and too big for her small wrist. But Mother expected her to don it tonight.

Setting the clasp, she took one last look in the mirror. A beaded silver ribbon entwined her dark hair, the strands shiny from a fresh washing and Maisey brushing them dry. Several long curls framed either side of Adaira’s face. A rosy flush of excitement tinted her cheeks. Her lips glowed red from constant nervous nibbling as the maid dressed her hair.

Adaira wanted to be at her best tonight. No one would call her a dowd or frump when she faced his lordship and his guests. A stab of unease poked her. What Banbury tale had Lord Clarendon concocted that could possibly excuse her jumping fully clothed into a lake?

The way he’d stared at her this afternoon caused the blood in her veins to sing. Why, she was truly anticipating this evening’s dinner and entertainment. A first for her. Humming a Scottish ditty, she strolled the length of the corridor, then continued on to one of the stairway landings.

Fierce whispering under the other arched staircase brought her up short. Should she continue or return to her room? Or make a great deal of noise? She grinned. The latter ought to do it. She turned, then halted mid-step.

“She locked him in a dungeon?” a high-pitched, outraged female voice asked.

“Yes, but it was a case of mistaken identification. So, I was told by my abigail, who heard it from one of Lord Clarendon’s housemaid, who heard it from his lordship’s valet,” another female replied.

A bored male voice entered the conversation. “How can you be certain it’s true? Most likely nothing but servant tattle.”

“Oh no, Sawyer,” the second female denied. “When we boarded the carriage to return to the mansion this afternoon, my Trask found he was without his cane. He’d left it propped against a tree in the grove of oaks, you see.”

Clothing rustled before she continued. “While fetching the cane, he overhead Lord Ramsbury. He and Lord Clarendon were on the other side of the trees. Ramsbury teased Clarendon about Miss Ferguson getting into
another
scrape. Clarendon laughed and said, ‘At least she didn’t lock me in a dungeon this time.’”

“‘Pon my rep! It’s illegal to imprison a peer,” a man with a nasally voice exclaimed. “Whyever didn’t someone bring charges against her?”

“I’ve no idea, except her half-brother
is
Viscount Sethwick.” Squeaky woman again. “After her behavior at the lake, I’m quite convinced she’s an incorrigible tart.”

“I don’t believe she was wearing a chemise. Did you see the way her gown clung to her?” snooty lady two asked.

“Scandalous, I tell you. Whatever is Clarendon thinking, inviting those uncouth Scots to his house party?” sniffed the first woman.

Uncouth Scots? I’ll show them an uncouth Scot.

Pressing her lips together, Adaira clenched her fan, wishing she possessed her crop.

“I quite liked the gown. . .” Sawyer started to drawl.

“Sawyer!”

Adaira heard the unmistakable
whump
of a person being smacked.

“Let me assure you, Helene will hear of this,” lady two declared.

“Is that necessary, Lady Bradford?” Sir Nasal said. “She’ll get her back up. You know how she is when in a froth.”

“Sir Oliver, you know full well she’s been waiting for Clarendon to propose for nigh on a year,” Lady Bradford scolded.

“He couldn’t very well do so earlier as he was mourning his wife and child,” the first lady offered sagely.

Her voice grated along Adaira’s brittle nerves.

“Helene’s my dearest friend, and it’s beyond the pale. I cannot in good conscience keep this from her,” Lady Bradford said. “She won’t be happy he’s brought a chit of questionable standing into her future home. No indeed. She fully anticipates Clarendon to declare himself, perhaps this very evening, so an announcement can be made at the ball tomorrow.”

The blood singing in Adair’s veins transformed to a gloomy dirge. Lord Clarendon was a widower, and he’d lost a child? How tragic. He was much too young to have suffered such sorrow.

And he intended to marry Mrs. Winthrop?

Adaira’s vision blurred, and she blinked rapidly. They’d make a brilliant match. The widow was the perfect example of
haut ton
desirability. Cultured, well-spoken, and the epitome of feminine delicacy, fashion, and grace. Not to mention perfectly rounded in all the places a man desired. Precisely the type of woman he’d take to wife.

Not a slender one that chews straw, rides astride, and wears breeches.

A queer ache pinged near the vicinity of Adaira’s heart. Absurd. It was of no import to her. It was compassion causing her eyes to tear. Nothing else.

She edged closer to the balustrade. The gossipmonger’s faces and upper bodies were concealed by the stairs. Why weren’t they with the rest of the guests in the drawing room? Had they just arrived? Craning her neck, she saw Westbrook bidding new arrivals welcome at the entrance.

Returning her attention to the chinwags, she tried to identify them. The men wore almost identical garb—black breeches and shoes with white stockings. No clue there.

The women were a different story altogether. One woman’s gown was a travesty of excessive green ruffles, ribbons, and bows. And that was only from her knees down. Adaira half expected vine shoots to sprout from the skirt and begin creeping along the staircase. The other woman’s gown was elegant in its simplicity. A shimmering champagne color with a gossamer overskirt in the same shade, it screeched sophistication.

The voices faded as the gossips moved away, their shoes clicking on the marble floor.

Lady Bradford’s last words rang in Adaira’s ears.

“You don’t suppose the little upstart has designs on his lordship? Helene will be furious, I can tell you.”

Little more than half an hour later, Roark sat at the head of the immense dining table surveying his guests. A full fifty sat for dinner, resplendent in their formal finery. Their chatter, the clanking of china and crystal, and the occasional shouts of laughter and feminine giggles created a pleasant din.

Candlelight glinted off the ladies’ jewels and the crystal teardrops of the ten evenly spaced polished candelabras on the table.

He sought one guest in particular.

Adaira sat three quarters of the way along the table.

She was beyond breathtaking in gauzy white and silver. In the candlelight, the gown glowed, the effect ethereal and nymph-like. Her earrings bobbed as she nodded in answer to spinsterish Miss Darlington’s question. The cameo teasing the crest of Adaira’s breasts repeatedly begged for a leisurely assessment of the ivory mounds.

His fingers and lips itched to touch that same tempting flesh. His groin pulsed against his tight breeches. Never before had he so appreciated the privacy a tablecloth offered.

Not once had she looked his way, at least not that he’d noticed. He had the distinct impression she was out of sorts or perhaps, unhappiness subdued her.

She answered the questions posed to her by the charming, but at seven and sixty, completely harmless, Sir Harrison on her right, and the equally delightful Miss Darlington on her left. The gentlemen seated across from her were notorious rogues, however. She’d ducked her head and blushed more than once at some comment they addressed to her.

Roark tapped his fingers atop the table. It was gauche to address anyone other than those seated beside you. Dankworth and Pemberton, the rakes, knew better. Although it wasn’t proper, Roark had seen to it that Miss Darlington was seated beside Adaira. The woman was intelligent and kind. More importantly, she wasn’t given to gossip. He was confident she’d do her best to put Adaira at ease.

“Lord Clarendon,” Lady Bradford said, rudely peering past two higher ranking guests to address him. “I’ve never known you to host such a large, extended house party. And my goodness,” she pressed a hand to her breast, “a ball too. Not even when Lady Clarendon. . .”

Fork halfway to his mouth, he arced a brow at her.

Faltering, she gave Roark a dazzling smile, fully realizing her blunder, he’d no doubt. Taking a sip of wine, she recovered swiftly. Leaning forward, her scrawny bosom nearly in her food and Lord Cammish’s elbow up her nose, she pressed Roark.

“Perchance there is cause to celebrate, my lord? An announcement to be made?”

He damned near choked on the peas he’d forked into his mouth. He ended up swallowing them whole rather than spew them like tiny green cannonballs onto the table. These were the people he’d insisted Adaira model herself after? Was he out of his bloody mind?

Lady Bradford sent a sly smile to Helene seated a bit further along the table. Helene returned the smile before leveling her possessive gaze on Roark.

So, they’d plotted this, had they? He took a long sip of wine, forcing the glob stuck in his throat to finish its painfully slow journey to his stomach.

He’d speak to Helene tonight, set things straight with her and make it perfectly clear they were finished. He didn’t envy the scene he suspected might follow. He perused her, and his blood ran cold. Helene glared at Adaira, pure venom in the widow’s eyes.

The count, seated to her right, openly leered at Adaira. Egads, the boor was practically drooling in his food.

A vision of mashing von Schnitzer’s face into his creamed potatoes and peas intruded upon Roark’s imagination. He gritted his teeth and lowered his clenched hand to his lap.

Thank God Adaira’s attention was commandeered by Sir Harrison. The chivalrous old flirt winked at her. She laughed, full and throaty, at something he shared. She scooted her gaze around the table self-consciously. For the briefest of moments, her lovely brown eyes met Roark’s before skittering away.

He recognized the confused melancholy pooled in their depths. His conscience pinged. This was truly trying for her. Most women he knew flourished at social gatherings. Not her. She didn’t welcome the male attention.

Most intriguing
and
telling. He was having a difficult time reconciling the passionate woman he’d kissed to this one, obviously wary of men.

“My lord? Have you good tidings to share?” Lady Bradford persisted.

Lady Arterbury tittered at the nosey question. Lady Bradford sent an annoyed glower across the table. Lady Arterbury raised a brow, still grinning.

Roark clenched his jaw. Lady Bradford was determined and intrusive. The only tidings he had pertained to Edgar’s release from Newgate. Not something Roark cared to share or celebrate. According to Yancy, Edgar had flown to the continent upon his release.

How many guests were aware of his brother’s change in status? Roark considered those at the table. Lady Bradford peered at him expectantly, waiting for an answer to her question. Best to answer her. It was easier to separate green from a leaf than deter the woman once she’d set her mind to garnering
on dit
.

He shook his head. “No, nothing special. Merely the pleasure of having some friends to visit. It’s time I put Delia’s memory to rest.”

Make of that what you will.

Lady Bradford’s hazel green eyes widened. She sliced Helene an unsteady half-smile. Pretending to be absorbed in the glazed duck on his plate, Roark observed Helene through lowered eyes. A puzzled frown crossed her features. She angled her head the merest bit in his direction. She looked between Lady Bradford and him several times.

Raising her wine goblet, Lady Bradford lifted one shoulder an inch, giving a small shake of her head.