To Lure a Proper Lady (15 page)

She hadn't. She'd decided not to take the trouble of hiring musicians. And her current knowledge of the family's finances made her glad she'd not gone to the additional expense of transporting performers in from London. “I'm afraid I didn't consider it.” How she hated to disappoint him. “I can see if some of the young ladies might provide a little entertainment, but I'm not completely certain what sort of talent we have at hand.”

Heaven only knew she was hopeless behind the pianoforte, Caro's fingers were better suited to a pair of reins, and Pippa preferred her paintbrushes to an instrument.

“It will not do for you three to provide the music. I intend to dance with each of my daughters tonight.”

A sudden knot in her throat had Lizzie struggling to swallow. She couldn't remember the last time Papa had shown any interest in dancing, let alone with each of them. “I'll see what I can do,” she said thickly.

“And I wish to see you waltz with Snowley.”

“Oh, Papa, really.” She didn't need to say more. The pairing to open the soiree would certainly make a statement, especially in front of such gossips as Lady Whitby. It was easily as much of a declaration as Snowley leading her in to breakfast on his arm. “Did Snowley put you up to this?”

“Why would you think that? Besides, I just got through saying I've seen nothing of him today.”

“He could have asked you at any time.”

“And you know just as well that I've asked you to consider his suit.”

Yes, he had. Over and over. Although he'd originally claimed to want a match between Snowley and any of his daughters, of late Papa had been relentless about pushing Lizzie in her cousin's direction. “Why are you so set on this match? Can you tell me that?”

“Oh, my dear.” Papa took a step closer, and brushed his hand along her arm. “To be frank, Snowley needs you.”

And what of her needs? She clamped her lips down on that particular retort, but she couldn't stop herself from a short reply. “How?”

“You know I've no choice when it comes to my heir. Do you think if I did, I'd wish the estate to go to someone like Snowley?” Papa shook his head. “I realize the boy's family, however distant, but he takes after his grandmother in a way. He simply has no sense.”

“I beg to differ. Great-aunt Matilda possesses quite a lot of sense compared to Snowley.”

“My point exactly.” Papa put both hands on her shoulders, his knobby knuckles contracting in an affectionate squeeze. “If I had my choice in the matter…If I were allowed to do it, I would name you my heir.”

“Me?” She could barely breathe, let alone formulate a more coherent reply.

“You, my dear. You're the most capable of my daughters. You've proved it over and over.” He caught her gaze, his eyes clearer than she'd seen them in recent memory. Not a single cloud of medication marred his gray irises. “It is a burden, I know, but so is running an estate. I simply wish to ensure my lands pass into the proper hands after I'm gone. Do you understand?”

How could she not? “Yes, Papa.”

“Then you know why I'm so adamant that you consider Snowley's suit.”

“Considering is not the same as putting on a show before society,” she replied faintly. Thank goodness Dysart had resolved to stay away and thus would not be present to witness the display. “People will talk, as you well know.”

“It is only my wish to see you properly settled.”

Properly settled, yes, but happy? The problem was, she didn't have the heart to tell him. Not now.

Even worse, she suspected he already knew.

Like any proper gentleman of his station, Papa was as good as his word. He turned up, dressed in dark blue superfine and a perfectly starched cravat, in the drawing room to preside over sherry. A wash of pink stained his cheeks, hiding the ever-present smudges beneath his eyes. Glass raised, he smiled at the company and downed his portion of deep ruby liquid.

In Lizzie's opinion, something had happened to shave years off his appearance, but she couldn't place her finger on what. Could there possibly be something to Sven's cures?

Through course after course, she watched Papa from her place at the foot of the table. He partook of everything, eating with surprising relish. Or perhaps not so surprising, given his usual fare. Properly spiced beef and richly sauced fowl surely beat a steady diet of offal.

Lizzie wasn't the only guest to take notice. Now that the gentlemen had joined the women in the drawing room, Lady Whitby gravitated toward the duke like iron filings to a magnet. Smiling, he leaned down and muttered something in her ear, and she threw her head back in a peal of laughter.

Pippa downed her glass of watered sherry in one go. “If she ends up joining the family, I shall never forgive myself,” she said low enough that only Lizzie heard her.

“Perhaps it's Papa's way of ensuring we accept the first offers to come our way,” Lizzie replied from behind her fan. “Or…” A new thought struck. “Do you think that's why Lady Whitby hasn't already run off with her nose in the air over all the scandalous goings-on? Because she's had plans for Papa all along?”

Pippa blanched. “Heaven forbid.”

“You'll want to watch that one,” chimed in a voice from behind Lizzie's shoulder. Great-aunt Matilda had sidled up. “She had her heart set on being a duchess, back in the day.”

“What?” Try as she might, Lizzie could not call to mind an image of her papa as a young and robust man, even if she knew he must have been one, once.

“Oh, she had her cap set, did the future Lady Whitby.” Great-aunt Matilda gave an authoritative jerk of her head. “She may well think she's got another chance at a better title.”

“What rubbish.” Pippa waved a dismissive hand. “What good would it serve for Papa to make her an offer when he believes he'll be off to meet his maker any day now?”

“Does he look like he's got a foot in the grave to you?” Great-aunt Matilda asked.

“Not tonight, no.” Pippa tapped her chin with her folded fan. “So what was he up to with all the dramatics before the party?”

“Ensuring it happened, I suppose,” Lizzie said. But that made no sense. Indeed, very little of the entire situation made sense. Without thinking, she cast a glance around the room, but couldn't find what she was looking for.
Whom
she was looking for.

Dysart. She needed him to gather the various shards of facts and rebuild them into some reasonable semblance. She wanted him to turn them into a stained-glass window that would explain everything in a single clear image.

But he wasn't in the drawing room—just as he said he wouldn't be. The man had been as true to his word as Papa.

Because he's a gentleman.
As much as he tried to hide his upbringing, he couldn't escape it.

To make doubly sure, she scanned the room once more. Pendleton lurked in the corner, a half-full glass of brandy in his white-knuckled grip. His gaze shadowed Caro. Blast it all, there was another good reason she needed Dysart's presence—as a deterrent. And if another fight broke out between the men, at least she'd have an excuse to send Pendleton packing.

Papa certainly hadn't noticed the growing tension from that sector. Lady Whitby commanded his complete attention, her lips flapping like a bird's wings, recounting heaven only knew what amusing anecdote. She pressed a glass of sherry into Papa's hand.

Lizzie caught her breath. That glass might be perfectly innocent. Then again, it hadn't come from a servant's tray, not that Lizzie had seen. Any number of others could have touched it before it came to Lady Whitby. Could she afford to take any chances, given even the slightest possibility of poison in the glass?

The entire room separated her from Papa. The most she could do was cause a distraction. Thankfully, Papa shook his head and set the glass on the mantelpiece.

Then he clapped his hands. “Your attention, if you'd be so kind. Lady Elizabeth has arranged for another entertainment. If you'd all like to follow me to the ballroom, we shall have dancing.”

Out of nowhere, Snowley appeared to offer his elbow. No doubt he expected her to open the first set on his arm. A statement, just like the others. His mark on her. She suppressed a shudder.

“Step aside, young man. Your turn will come.” Thank goodness for Papa, even if he had seen fit to throw Snowley a small bone.

“Are you certain you're up to all this excitement?” Lizzie asked as he escorted her to the manor's massive ballroom.

The servants had outdone themselves on such short notice. Hundreds of candles glittered in the chandeliers, casting a flickering glow over a riot of summer blooms gathered from the gardens. The scent of a cool summer evening wafted in from the open casements that overlooked the terrace. In one corner, partially hidden behind the fronds of a few potted palms, their makeshift orchestra sat at the ready, Anna Whitby ensconced behind a pianoforte and a few of the older chaperones brandishing bows.

Papa nodded his approval. “You've done well to put all this together so quickly. You'd make any gentleman here proud to have you on his arm.”

“Thank you, Papa.” What else could she say in the face of such blatant hinting? She had no need to point out that most of the gentlemen present were not expected to offer for her. Only Snowley. She clamped her teeth down on the inside of her cheek.

“As for your other remark…” Papa led her into the middle of the dance floor to the jaunty opening notes of a reel. “I shall choose to ignore it.”

“Papa—”

He held out a hand and guided her into the first steps. Layers of blush-pink silk frothed about her ankles. “I do not wish to hear any protests. Not tonight.”

The dance saw them exchanging partners, and Lizzie found herself circling Lord Allerdale. Somehow, he'd managed to ask Lady Whitby for this dance. Lady Whitby, who was partnering Papa, at least for the next few measures. She exploded into coquettish giggles more befitting her daughter than a woman her age.

And Papa, blast him, chuckled right along with her.

“What did Sven do to you?” Lizzie demanded the moment she got her Papa back.

“Haven't we had this conversation? I seem to recall telling you earlier. Perhaps you'd like to try one of his cures.”

“You are not acting…well, yourself,” she protested.

“I'm feeling better than I have for years. Since your mama died, if I'm being honest. I thought I might enjoy that time with my daughters.”

And Lady Whitby, seemingly, but she could hardly point that out. The mere thought caused her palms to prickle with guilt inside her gloves. Damn and blast. “Yes, Papa. You're right, of course.”

Once more, they changed partners for the space of a few measures. For all that they'd been thrown together at the last minute, the orchestra was acquitting itself rather well. Lizzie had never heard that Anna Whitby was known for a particular talent at the piano, but perhaps she ought to be. Her fingers fluttered over the keys without a hitch.

“Pray it lasts, my dear,” Papa said when they switched back. “I never expected to live long enough to see all three of you settled, but I hope to witness at least one of your weddings.”

How a man of his age, and a duke at that, managed to sound coy, Lizzie would never know. What she did know was that he wasn't referring to just any of his daughters. He was referring to her, and quite directly. “Why wouldn't you be on hand to witness our weddings? Especially now that you're feeling better?”

“I wouldn't be so worried if you girls didn't take so deuced long to make up your minds.” But then his smile faded. “No one knows what the future holds. As well as I am today, tomorrow is another story altogether.”

The music came to an end, and courtesy demanded they observe the niceties. Lizzie spread her skirts and dropped into a curtsey, while Papa bowed. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, and he steered her off the dance floor. Straight toward the side of the room where Snowley waited, his chest puffed out.

From behind the potted palms floated the notes of the next tune, a familiar three-quarter rhythm.

Snowley stepped forward. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

Naturally he'd claim her for a waltz. Part of her wondered if he'd requested the next set on purpose. But either way, what choice did she have? Best get this over with now.

She inclined her head. “Of course.”

Snowley raised his chin and led her back to the center of the room and the center of attention. He might as well take one of Pippa's brushes and paint his name across Lizzie's forehead.

He placed a hand at her waist and pulled her close. Too close.

She went rigid, and he loosened his grip before taking the first sweeping step.

“You could pretend to enjoy it, you know,” he remarked.

She fixed her gaze directly over his shoulder to watch the other couples and onlookers whirl past. This was what Papa wanted for her, a future of putting on a façade of happiness, whatever she felt inside. But how different was her lot from that of any other hopefuls in this room, and indeed in all the ballrooms of society? If she sacrificed herself, at least she could prevent her sisters from suffering a similar fate.

And she
could
do it. She was strong enough. And so she forced her stiff muscles to ease one by one, until she was pliant in Snowley's half embrace. She let him set the rhythm and her feet followed, slipping through each step of the dance as smoothly as her silk skirts billowed about them.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Papa turning about the floor with Pippa. Off to the side stood Caro, her expression unreadable, next to Lady Whitby, who looked distinctly put out. Without a doubt she'd angled to ensnare the duke into a waltz.

Happy for an excuse to change the subject, Lizzie nodded in their direction. “Papa ought to have known better. Caro won't waltz with anyone.”

“Perhaps if she were allowed to lead.”

Lizzie tamped down an urge to tread on Snowley's foot. Her sister had once confided she felt like a newborn colt on the dance floor, never quite sure how to get her legs under her. She much preferred the solid iron bar of the stirrups beneath her boots.

“At any rate, I'm planning on taking your sisters in hand,” Snowley went on.

Lizzie nearly tripped over her skirts. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said I'll be taking those two in hand. See if I don't.”

“I wish you great good fortune in your endeavor.” If he was at all serious, he'd need all the luck in the entire world.

“I mean it. They need proper husbands to keep them in line.”

“Proper husbands?” Good heavens, he
was
serious. “Since when do you care about their marriage prospects?”

“Since once
we
are wed, their behavior will reflect on me more than ever. If I can marry them off…”

Though he left that thought unfinished, she seized his meaning well enough. Once Pippa and Caro married, they'd be their respective husbands' problems. “I'd hoped they might continue to live here at Sherrington Manor for as long as they liked.”

He cast a glance at Caro. “I will ensure they won't linger. I should like this place to myself, and my heirs, naturally.”

The word
heirs
sent a prickle of alarm coursing along her spine. “Don't you think you're getting ahead of yourself just a bit?”

At last, he looked at her, really looked. Did her growing annoyance show? So much the better if it did.

He shook his head slightly. “How am I getting ahead of myself?”

“I think Papa will have something to say about Pippa and Caro's choice of husbands, don't you?” Not that Papa would disagree in principle with anything Snowley was saying. Still, her cousin was overstepping his bounds, speaking as if he were already the duke.

“For all the good it's done. He's allowed all of you to have your heads for far too long. At least you've come to your senses.”

She shook her head at this latest turn in the conversation. “I've come to my senses?”

He made a show of glancing about the ballroom. “I don't see that Dysart fellow. It was high time you sent him packing.”

Lizzie pressed her lips together. If he wished to dwell under that particular illusion, she wasn't about to lift any veils.

“As for your sisters, it's high time someone reined them in.”

Lizzie's foot slipped. Before she could stop it, it landed directly on top of Snowley's dancing slipper. She set all her weight behind it. “That someone being you?” She'd be damned if she was going to apologize. “Who do you think you are?”

“Why, the future Duke of Sherrington.”

“Future,” she emphasized. “Don't forget that bit.”

“You never know when that event might come to pass.”

A sudden chill raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Lord, where was Dysart? “Is that some kind of threat?”

He drew himself up. “It's a simple fact, as anyone who has eyes might observe.”

Once more, she let her gaze drift past his shoulder, to where Papa laughed surrounded by the whirl of Pippa's skirts. His cheeks were flushed, but that wash of pink was happiness, Lizzie was sure of it. “He's been looking better of late, in case that small fact has escaped you.”

“At his age, he can take a turn for the worse on a moment's notice.”