Warren watched all of this with a jaded eye. He was eight years older than his sister but he felt two decades older most days. As for the other young ladies, they seemed to grow sillier every year.
The second evening, the Baxters set up a great revelry in their ballroom which he attended out of social obligation more than anything else. He danced with three of the unattached women, again, out of social obligation. The first chattered on nearly as effortlessly as Minette. The second two he chose for their wallflower qualities, so they were much quieter.
At the end of the third dance he considered his social duties discharged and headed to the card room where the gentlemen—and some of the older ladies—gathered to play, drink, and smoke. He’d just settled into a hazy corner with a glass of port when he heard his name.
“Warren? Why, it
is
you. What have you been up to, you filthy beast?”
Warren frowned at the Earl of Stafford. “Do you mind piping down? I have a reputation to preserve.”
“We know your reputation, Wild Warren,” the man replied, arching a dark brow. Someone had long ago joined Warren’s hated first name and his title to create the moniker. He forgot how much it irritated him until now.
Stafford, who loved to irritate people, sat beside him without waiting for a by-your-leave. The earl was an Oxford classmate who had long run in the same debauched circles as Warren and his friends, but none of them liked the man. He was unpleasant at his best, and downright degenerate at his worst. He waved a be-ringed hand toward the ballroom doors. “Why aren’t you out there putting a sparkle in the eyes of the unmarried guests?”
“There’s enough sparkle on your fingers already, old chap.”
Now Stafford was the one whose lips twisted in irritation. “Ha, you’re a funny fellow. How is your sister? What’s her name? Winnie? Minnie?”
“Minette,” Warren said, looking about for some avenue of departure.
“Pretty thing. Such a smile, and those curls. She’s got to be marrying age now, yes?” The man’s handsome features twisted into a leer. “I wouldn’t mind courting her, young as she is. She’s got the famous Bernard breasts.”
With that outrageous remark, Stafford managed to insult both Warren’s sister and his late mother. It wouldn’t do to brawl in his host’s home, but if Stafford didn’t move along soon, Warren might lose his composure and plant a fist in the man’s face. “If you so much as look at my sister, I’ll kill you,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll kill you slowly and painfully, with great amounts of torture. That is a promise, Stafford, not a threat.”
The earl threw back his head and laughed. “I’m only joking, dear boy. Deliver me from overprotective brothers. No, I’ve got my eye on someone else. Only reason I’m here at this damned boring party, you know.”
“Damned boring? You’re happy enough to drink Baxter’s wine, though, aren’t you?” Warren liked Baxter, and thought Stafford a preening, self-concerned arse.
“Oh, Baxter’s a grand sort,” the man said with another wave of his rings. “At least, I’ll let him believe so while I’m paying my addresses to that daft chit he wants to marry off.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Warren said. “Are you drunk?”
“I’m speaking of Baxter’s ward, man. The Baroness Maitland. She’s looking for a husband, and I’d be as happy as anyone else to get my hands on her fortune.”
Ah, the pale and tragic Lady Maitland. Even more tragic, to be courted by Stafford. “I’m sure you’re not even in the running.”
“Oh, I am,” Stafford said with a smirk. “I can be charming enough when I need to be. Even charming as you, Lord Warren, and I’ve not much competition in this case, since the girl is so strange.”
“If she’s strange, why do you want to marry her?”
“Money, of course. And she’s titled too, a baroness in her own right. Her father passed down everything—fortune and title, and a parcel of property not so far from yours.”
“Maybe he thought her too homely to find a husband.”
“Homely? No one could call her that. She’s got beautiful auburn hair, a slim little waist, and great, big, bountiful—”
Warren pushed down the man’s hands as he sketched curves in the air. “Be that as it may, do you really want a daft woman having your children?” The Stafford line was already mentally thin, though Warren didn’t say so aloud.
Stafford shrugged. “I’ve looked into all that. She’s not insane or anything, only a bit rough in manners. She grew up in foreign parts, so what do you expect? I can always have someone else raise the children if she’s a hassle, and stow her in Bedlam. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“What a detestable fellow you are.”
“Detestable? I call it practical. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do as much.”
“I wouldn’t do as much,” said Warren. “I’d never put a woman in Bedlam.”
Stafford gave him an arch look. “That’s rich, coming from you. Everyone whispers about your wicked and unnatural proclivities. Word is, you drove one of Madame Cecilia’s girls mad.”
“Drove her mad with pleasure.” It was a well-passed-about myth that he had broken Mary Branham’s mind, but it wasn’t true. The poor lass had been broken to begin with. He’d only set her up in a cottage in Cornwall so she wouldn’t have to sell her body anymore.
Stafford took another gulp of port. The man was considered handsome but wouldn’t be much longer, if he persisted in heavy drink. “Be sensible, Warren,” he said. “Daft or not, Baxter’s ward has money. Why marry a poor woman when you can marry a rich one? The Maitland property’s not much, but there’s enough in the bank to keep a gentleman in cards, wine, and women for the rest of his life.”
Stafford deserved to be heartily beaten. Daily. It was only his title and influence that allowed him to move in polite circles. And if Baxter had invited him here, he must—for some unfathomable reason—approve of Stafford as a suitor for his ward.
“Perhaps I’ll marry her,” said Warren. “Steal her from your clutches.”
Stafford laughed. Warren’s reluctance to marry was a well-known fact.
“So when’s your wedding to this Lady Maitland?” Warren asked. “I’ll want to be looking about for an appropriate gift.”
Like a pistol for her to blow her brains out.
“We’ll wed as soon as I can get the woman to accept me. She’s not crazy to marry but I can romance her, at least until she’s under my thumb.”
“And then?”
“And then I’ll do what I like, won’t I? And with a great deal more gold in the bank.”
It was a bleak picture, this Baroness Maitland languishing with an arse like Stafford for a husband, especially when she didn’t want to marry in the first place. He hoped she was a strong woman with a resilient heart.
Warren stood to excuse himself, having endured enough of Stafford for one evening. “I wish you a pleasant night. And good hunting with Baxter’s chit.”
“Good hunting indeed.” Stafford raised his glass, rings glittering as bright as his ingratiating smile. No wonder the man needed money. He wore more jewels than a king’s whore.
Warren left the card room, feeling unnaturally tense around the shoulders, as if his coat was too tight. He decided to check on his sister, although he knew the stalwart Mrs. Everly was looking after her. Friends greeted him as he walked toward the ballroom. No matter his private exploits, he was generally liked and respected by the
haute ton
, and maintained a faultless public image for Minette’s sake, and for his Parliamentary career.
As expected, his sociable little sister was surrounded by friends, having a fine time. He watched her for a while, then skirted the shadows of the ballroom, lest some ambitious young woman come fluttering about to beg for a dance. He paused by a line of tall potted plants, thinking how grand it would be to hide in them and jump out at tottering dowagers, if only there were tottering dowagers around.
But there was only a young woman in a black mourning gown, peering out from behind a cluster of yellow-green leaves. He stopped and looked again.
Yes, my goodness. This could only be Lady Maitland, that daft and tragic figure of Minette and Stafford’s tales. She had disappeared behind her leafy fortress, but not before he noted thick, glossy auburn hair and a mouth made to be kissed.
He was always up for a lark, and this promised to be a good one. He looked around to be sure he was not observed, then set off with a jaunty sense of purpose to flush out this exotic bird.
Josephine had hoped hiding behind the potted plants would protect her from sociable advances. She’d only agreed to come down to please Lady Baxter, who believed Josephine’s parents watched over her from heaven, and would not want her sitting alone in her rooms. Josephine had
not
agreed to change out of her black gown. Black handily repelled lighthearted people and lighthearted conversation. She didn’t wear it to mourn, and honestly, she didn’t believe her parents could be looking at her from anywhere but the deepest depths of hell.
Unfortunately, the black gown and odious plants had both failed her, for a tall, smiling gentleman was headed her way. He was exceedingly blond, even viewed through the black netting of her fan. When he drew closer, she caught a glimpse of piercingly bright blue eyes.
What was she to do? She could continue to hide and hope he didn’t find her, or step out and make herself known, but that might require speaking to this stranger, and Josephine hadn’t any desire to do that. She dithered so long that he came upon her unexpectedly, so she startled and then stumbled. She was obliged to grasp at large, waxy leaves to keep her feet.
He reached to steady her too. “Why are you hiding?” he asked. “Shall I rescue you?” His hands closed on her waist, a strong, warm pressure that startled her nearly as much as his unwelcome appearance.
“I don’t need rescuing,” she said.
But he had been joking. A corner of his mouth turned up in a lazy smile. He was a charmer, she could see—and therefore not to be trusted. The one thing Josephine had learned in her wretched life of traveling was to read people, particularly when they might pose a threat. His direct gaze unsettled her so much she looked away, but not before she noted strong, noble features and a chiseled jaw. Though his hair and eyes were light, his complexion glowed golden, as if health and contentment spilled from his very soul.
“I’m perfectly fine now,” she said. “You may release me.”
“Certainly I’ll release you, if you’re sure you won’t tumble out of the trees again. Or the brambles, or bushes, or whatever these are.”
What a mad person. They were obviously house plants, and she hadn’t tumbled out of them, only lost her footing when he snuck up on her unawares. Her throat worked at the awkwardness of the conversation. “I am the Earl of Warren,” he continued, when she failed to speak. “But we haven’t yet been formally introduced to one another, so I wouldn’t advise you to acknowledge my presence.”
She raised her fan before her face and fluttered it. He was joking again, and giving her that expectant look, like he expected her to sally back. Perhaps he waited for her to say her name. She wouldn’t give it to him, not here behind the plants, as she flushed rather furiously.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
“No. I would rather not.”
“We can dance back here if you like, where no one can see us.”
She became aware of the indelicacy of their situation, that she was not within view of others, and therefore alone with this man. She scooted from behind the plants to take a more proper and public position upon a chair against the ballroom’s back wall.
“What a capital idea, Lady Maitland. Let’s escape this overgrown jungle and have a bit of sun. You are Lady Maitland, aren’t you? The esteemed baroness?”
Josephine could scarcely breathe. He had fetched a chair, setting it directly beside hers. When he sat, his right arm contacted her shoulder for a heartbeat of a second before he straightened. He felt very warm and…hard.
She did not utter a word, didn’t even look in his direction. She stared instead at the swirl of the dance floor, her gaze going in and out of focus on a rainbow of pastel dresses and dark evening coats.
“My dear lady,” he said at last, “it is customary in England to reply during conversations, perhaps even introduce topics yourself.”
She brought her great black fan up between them as if it were some layer of defense. “I do not care to make conversation. And I was not raised in England.”
“But you are here now, and shall be for the foreseeable future, I gather.”
She hated him for his jovial courtesy and his smooth, steady voice. Fear and anxiety roiled inside her, an uncontrollable reaction to his closeness. She knew little of English gentlemen or their manners, except that they could not always be trusted. This one in particular seemed very threatening. Light, but dark. Humorous, but with a rather pointed edge. Her parents had warned her English society was peopled by vipers who poisoned one’s soul. She stole a glance at Lord Warren, wondering if he was a poisonous sort of person.
As for him, he made an exhaustive study of her mourning dress. Or did he ogle her bosom? She held the fan so it shielded her chest.
“I would like to express my sincerest condolences to you, Lady Maitland, on the loss of your parents.” He dragged his gaze back to her face. “It must have been a terrible blow to lose both at once. When my parents died, I hardly knew how to go on afterward. I was only ten.”
It was hard to picture this cheerful man as a sad, orphaned child. It hurt her to even imagine it. “I’m sorry for you, if you loved them,” she blurted out. “But I never liked my parents, and I don’t miss them now that they’re gone.” There, that had shocked him into silence.
But after a moment he bent closer and asked, “Why didn’t you like them?”
Josephine was embarrassed to have revealed so much, especially to this stranger. “My family matters are none of your concern.”
“Perhaps not, but I’m curious. Did they beat you? Starve you? Deprive you of love?”
She needn’t answer him, but some expectation in his tone had her searching for the words. “They…they put me in danger. They were very…selfish.”