"Has anyone ever told you that you have a wicked way with words, Lady Henrietta?"
Product of two older brothers, Henrietta was proof against seductive smiles. "You, usually. Generally when I've out-argued you over something."
Miles rubbed his chin in an expression of lofty thought. "I don't recall any such occasion."
"Oh, look!" Henrietta leaned confidentially towards him, the embroidered hem of her dress lapping at the toes of his boots, "I do believe you've been saved. Mrs. Ponsonby has latched on to Reggie Fitzhugh."
Miles followed the path of Henrietta's fan and noted with some re-lief that the crazy woman had indeed honed in on Turnip Fitzhugh. Turnip wasn't in the direct line for a title, but his uncle was an earl, and he did have an income of ten thousand pounds a year, enough to make Turnip a very attractive marital prospect for anyone who didn't mind a complete absence of mental capacity. That, from what Miles had viewed of this year's crop of debutantes, didn't look to be a problem. Besides, Turnip was a good chap. Not the sort of man Miles would want to see marrying his sister (there was little danger of that, as Miles's three half sisters were all considerably older, and long since leg-shackled), but he had a good hand with his horses, a generous way with his port, and a winning habit of actually paying his gambling debts.
He also had a positive talent for sartorial disaster. He was, Miles noted with mingled amusement and disbelief, dressed entirely a la Carnation, with a huge pink flower in his buttonhole, wreaths of carnations embroidered on his silk stockings, and even—Miles winced—dozens of little carnations twining on vines along the sides of his knee breeches. Turnip's recent sojourn on the Continent had clearly done nothing to improve his taste.
Miles groaned. "Someone needs to kidnap his tailor."
"I think it adds a touch of color to the evening, don't you? Our flowery friend will be so flattered."
Miles lowered his voice and made a show of toying with one of the ruffles of his cravat. "Be careful, Hen."
Henrietta's hazel eyes met his brown ones. "I know."
Since he was there in loco fratensis, Miles was about to say something wise and big-brotherly, when he was distracted by a familiar pounding noise.
It wasn't the headache—being a big, strong man, Miles never succumbed to such minor ills as the headache—and it wasn't French artillery, and as far as he knew, there weren't any giant-bearing beanstalks in the vicinity, so it could only be one thing.
The Dowager Duchess of Dovedale.
"I'll just get you that lemonade now, shall I?"
"Coward," said Henrietta.
"Why should two of us suffer?" Miles started to edge backwards as the duchess thumped forward.
"Because"—Henrietta caught hold of his sleeve and tugged— "misery loves company."
Miles looked pointedly at the Dowager Duchess, or, to be more precise, at the bundle of fur draped over the dowager's arms like a particularly mangy muff, and yanked his arm out of Henrietta's grasp. "Not this company."
"That hurts." Henrietta clasped a hand to her heart. "In here."
"You can pour lemonade on the wound," replied Miles unsympathet-ically. "Oh, hell, here she comes. And her little dog, too. Damnation!"
Miles fled.
"Hmph," said the dowager, stumping up to the three girls. "Was that Dorrington I saw fleeing?"
"I sent him to fetch me some lemonade," explained Henrietta on Miles's behalf.
"Don't try to fool me, missy. I know flight when I see it." The Dowager Duchess watched Miles's rapidly retreating back with some complacency. "At my age in life, making young men run away is one of the few pleasures left to me. Had young Ponsonby jump out a second-story window the other day," she added with a cackle.
"He twisted an ankle," Charlotte informed Henrietta softly. Having her grandmother in the vicinity had a considerably dampening effect on both Charlotte's spirits and her voice.
"Of course, it wasn't always that way," the Dowager Duchess continued, as though Charlotte hadn't spoken. She chortled in gleeful reminiscence. "When I was your age, all the young bucks were mad for me. I had no fewer than seventeen duels fought over me in my youth! Seventeen! Not one of them mortal," she added, in a tone of deep regret.
"Aren't you glad to know you weren't the cause of a good man's death?" teased Henrietta.
"Hmph! Any boy fool enough to fight a duel deserves to die in it! We need more duels." The Dowager Duchess raised her voice. "Reduce the number of half-wits clogging the ballrooms."
"What?" Turnip Fitzhugh ambled over. " 'Fraid I didn't catch that."
"My point exactly," snapped the Dowager Duchess. "Speaking of half-wits, where's young Dorrington got to? I like that boy. He's a pleasure to torment, not like some of these young milksops." She glowered at poor Turnip, the nearest available milksop. "What's Dorrington doing, squeezing the lemons?"
"Probably hiding behind a pillar somewhere," suggested Penelope. "He's good at that."
Henrietta shot her best friend an exasperated look.
Charlotte came to the rescue. "There's usually a crush around the refreshment table."
The Dowager Duchess eyed her granddaughter without favor. "All this namby-pamby good nature came straight from your mother's side. Always told Edward he was weakening the bloodline."
Henrietta unobtrusively reached out a gloved hand and squeezed Charlotte's arm. Charlotte's gray eyes met hers in a look of quiet gratitude.
"Aha!" The dowager let out a crow of triumph. "There's Dorrington! Never made it as far as the lemons. But who's that hussy he's talking to?"
* * *
Orgeat: 1) an almond-flavored syrup commonly served at evening assemblies; 2) a deadly and swift-acting poison. Note: The two are almost entirely indistinguishable.
—from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation
Miles wheeled off in the direction of the refreshments, taking care to put considerable distance between himself and the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale. And the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale's little yippy dog. Miles and that dog had an unhappy history—unhappy for Miles, at any rate.
Miles was just casting a backwards glance over his shoulder to make sure that the canine from hell hadn't scented him (it could move bloody fast when it wanted to, and it generally wanted to when Miles was in range), when there was a throaty "Oh!" and something warm and wet trickled down the side of his leg. Miles turned, expecting another pastel-clad debutante.
Instead, he found himself facing a sultry vision in black. Her dark hair was pulled simply back at the crown, and allowed to fall in long, loose curls that teased the edge of a bodice as low as anything being worn in Paris. The stark hairstyle illuminated the fine bones of her face, the sort of bones that in ladies more advanced in age are generally referred to as elegant, high of cheek and pointed of chin. But there was nothing aged about the woman in front of Miles. Her skin was orchid pale against the jetty loops of her hair, but it was the pallor of a carefully protected complexion, not illness or age, and her lips, so red they might have been rouged, arched in invitation.
Against the pink and white prettiness of the young girls in their first season, she was as exotic as a tulip in a field of primroses, a stark study in light and shadow against a wall of watercolors.
"I'm so sorry," the same husky voice said, as Miles did an involuntary hop at the touch of the liquid, his shoes squelching in the sticky puddle of orgeat beneath his feet.
"Quite all right." Miles could feel the orgeat seeping between his toes. "I wasn't looking where I was going."
"But your breeches—"
"It doesn't signify," said Miles, adding gallantly. "May I fetch you another glass?"
The woman smiled, a slow smile that began at the corners of her lips and worked its way up through her cheekbones, but never quite to her eyes. "I'm not entirely displeased to be relieved of the stuff. I prefer my refreshments to be… stronger."
The glance she cast Miles's shoulders suggested that she was referring to more than just beverages.
"You've found yourself in the wrong place, then," replied Miles frankly. Almack's, after all, was known for its weak beverages and even more lackluster company. Unless one was passionately fond of Lady Jersey, and Miles didn't think this woman fell into the Lady Jersey idolizing faction.
Lashes as dark as her hair swooped down to veil bottomless eyes. "Every now and again, one finds exceptions to any general rule."
"That depends," Miles drawled, "on just how far one is willing to bend the rules."
"Until they break." The last consonant hung delicately in the air.
Miles favored her with his most rakish glance. "Like a maiden's heart?"
She drew a long-nailed finger delicately along the fringe of her fan. "Or a man's resolve."
On the other side of the room, Henrietta snatched the Dowager Duchess's lorgnette, and peered through the crowd. There, quite definitely, was Miles—his blond head was unmistakable. No one else's hair could attain quite that degree of disarray in an airless ballroom. And he was also unmistakably in conversation.
With a woman.
Henrietta held the lorgnette away from her eye, inspected to make sure it was in proper working order, and then tried again. The woman was still there.
Henrietta was justifiably perplexed. Over the many times Miles had been dragooned into escorting her, a comfortable pattern had emerged. Miles would show up as late as decently possible; they would bicker a bit; Miles would fetch her lemonade, and some for Penelope and Charlotte, too, if he was in an accommodating mood; and then he would hare off to the card room with the other harassed brothers and husbands. He would pop out from time to time to make sure all was well, and fetch more lemonade, and dance whichever dance might be left empty on Henrietta's dance card, but otherwise, he kept carefully within the male sanctum of the card room.
He most decidedly did not speak to debutantes.
Of course, the woman in black—Henrietta squinted through the lorgnette, wishing she had an opera glass instead—didn't much look like a debutante. For one thing, debutantes didn't wear black. And their necklines, for the most part, tended to be somewhat more modest than that sported by Miles's companion. Good heavens, did that dress even have a bodice?
Henrietta fought down an unreasonable surge of pure dislike. Of course, she didn't dislike the woman. How could she dislike her? She hadn't even met her yet.
But she looked dislikable.
"Who is she?" Henrietta asked.
Pen gave a very unladylike snort. "A husband-hunter, no doubt."
"But aren't we?" Henrietta countered absentmindedly as the woman laid a black gloved hand on Miles's arm. Miles didn't seem to be making any move to divest himself of the appendage.
"That," decreed Penelope, "is beside the point."
"I would prefer my future husband hunt me," sighed Charlotte.
Penelope grinned mischievously. "He'll lurk beneath your balcony and cry, 'My love! My love! O love of my life!'"
"Shhh!" Charlotte grabbed one of Penelope's outflung arms. "Everyone's staring."
Penelope squeezed Charlotte's gloved hand affectionately. "Let them stare! It will only increase your mystique, don't you agree, Hen? Hen?"
Henrietta was still staring at the dark woman with Miles.
The dowager slapped Henrietta's hand.
"Ow!" Henrietta dropped the lorgnette straight into the dowager's lap.
"That's better," muttered the dowager, lifting her eyepiece. "Ah."
"Yes?" prompted Henrietta, wondering if it would be possible to ever so casually wander over there and eavesdrop a bit without looking like she had done so on purpose. Probably not, she decided ruefully. There was nothing large to hide behind except Miles, and his companion would probably catch on if she saw Henrietta peeking out from behind Miles's back. She would undoubtedly mention it to Miles. And Henrietta, wicked way with words though she might have, would have a great deal of trouble explaining that one away.
"So that's who it is! Whoever would have thought she'd be back in London?"
"Who?" asked Henrietta.
"Well, well, well," tutted the duchess.
Henrietta directed an exasperated look in the direction of the Dowager Duchess, but knew better than to speak. The more interest she expressed, the longer the dowager would take to get to the point. Making gentlemen jump out ballroom windows wasn't her only source of pleasure. Tormenting the young of any gender fell into the same category. Young being interpreted as anyone between the ages of five and fifty.
"If it isn't little Theresa Ballinger! I thought we'd seen the last of that girl. Good riddance, too."
"Who was she?" asked Pen, leaning over the duchess's shoulder.
"She was the reigning beauty of 1790—the men were all mad for her. Men!" snorted the duchess. "Sheep, the lot of them. I never liked her."
Henrietta had always known the Dowager Duchess to be a woman of discernment and extreme good sense.
"She married a frog—a titled one."
"A frog prince?" Henrietta wasn't able to resist.
"A frog marquis," corrected the duchess. "Not that she would have turned down a prince if she could have gotten one. That girl always had an eye for the main chance. I wonder what she's doing back in London?"
The other outraged onlookers viewing Miles's little flirtation had no doubts on that score. It was altogether too clear what the beautiful Marquise de Montval was doing in London—snaring a viscount. Viscounts being a rare commodity, her progress was regarded with more than a little distress by a sizable portion of the ballroom.
"She had a husband already!" one girl complained huffily to her mother. "And he was a marquis! It's not fair!"
"There, there, dear," clucked her mother, glowering in the direction of Miles and the marquise. "Mummy will find you another viscount. There's that nice Pinchingdale-Snipe boy…"
Their consternation was all for naught. Miles wasn't interested. Well, he wasn't entirely uninterested—he was male, after all, and between mistresses at the moment, and that was quite a respectable expanse of bosom being presented for his delectation. He just wasn't interested enough. The offer was flattering, but there was an old adage about not fouling one's own nest. If he was going to dally, it wouldn't be among the ton.