Why Lords Lose Their Hearts (2 page)

Thus far, the threats against her had not persuaded the headstrong Perdita to curb any of her normal activities, a resistance for which she was inordinately proud. But Archer, who had been there for the aftermath of the attempts on the lives of both the Duchess of Ormond and Lady Coniston, was not so happy about her resistance to any kind of curtailment of her behavior. Yes, he wished to see the coward who threatened her thwarted, and Perdita going about as if nothing were amiss did so, but knowing that her defiance put her life in jeopardy frightened him and he wasn’t afraid to admit it. And since Perdita refused to listen to reason—especially when it came from the mouth of Lord Archer Lisle—he’d decided to see to it that she remained safe whether she chose to listen to him or not.

At present Perdita was waltzing with Lord Dunthorp, a viscount of middling years who had spent the last few weeks dancing attendance on her. Her luxuriant strawberry-blond hair was dressed in a simple chignon that put the fussier styles of the other ladies to shame. And her gown, a cerise-colored silk that was simply cut but hugged her slim figure in all the right places, also put the others to shame. He’d seen Dunthorp’s eyes wander from her pretty face down to her impressive décolletage more than once since they’d taken to the floor—a circumstance that made Archer long to gut the other man, though it would be dashed bad manners toward his hosts.

He’d been half in love with her ever since they’d met. And it hadn’t taken long for that half to expand into a whole.

It wasn’t just because she was beautiful—though she was. No, though he appreciated her fine-boned loveliness, it was her spirit that solidified his affection for her. Perdita wasn’t an angel. What woman was? But she had a way about her. A sweetness in the way she dealt with people—he’d heard the servants at Ormond House speak of it—that set them at ease. Even her bad moods—which were rare—were short-lived and often ended with a self-deprecating remark.

But the thing that most endeared her to Archer was something she likely didn’t even recall. It had been a moment some three years earlier when one of the housemaids had fallen pregnant. There were few secrets in a household as large as Ormond House, and Archer had a strong suspicion that it had been the duke or one of his cronies who forced himself upon the girl. But when the housekeeper had informed Perdita, she’d handled the matter with kindness and compassion, giving the maid enough money to return home to the country and with the offer of a reference should she need one in the future. Perdita hadn’t considered the matter in terms of its reflection on herself. She’d only considered the little maid’s feelings. And it had been that bit of selflessness that did him in. From that moment on he’d been a goner. And in spite of himself he’d fallen all the way in love with his employer’s wife.

From the corner of his eye, he could see her red gown as they made the circuit of the Sumrall ballroom. He wasn’t jealous. How could he be when his position as private secretary to the Duke of Ormond made her virtually his employer?

No, Perdita was not for the likes of him. No matter how he might, in his heart of hearts, wish to declare himself to her.

“I say, Lord Archer,” Wrotham interrupted his thoughts. “I think Mrs. Fitzroy is attempting to get your attention.”

Pulling himself together, Archer glanced across the room to see that indeed the comely widow was casting a speaking glance his way. And if he were any interpreter of glances, hers was saying something that was not appropriate in mixed company. The lady had been trying to lure him into her bed for weeks now, but though Archer could appreciate the joys of the bedchamber as much as the next man, he was too busy protecting Perdita from herself to succumb. Then there was the whole unrequited business.

He snagged a glass of champagne from a passing footman and took a drink before he spoke. “I believe you’re correct, Wrotham,” he said, nodding to the other man. “But I’m afraid I have other plans this evening. Lovely though Mrs. Fitzroy may be.”

The other man touched his index finger to the side of his nose. “Say no more, old fellow,” he said with a knowing look. “Just between us, I’ve heard Mrs. Fitzroy is a bit possessive, so it’s probably just as well that you not try to juggle her with another woman, if you catch my meaning.”

Since it was impossible not to catch Wrotham’s meaning, Archer just nodded.

“I hope you won’t mind if I have a bit of a try at her,” the other man continued, straightening his cuffs as he placed his own empty champagne glass on an obliging side table. “It’s just that I’m in search of a new mistress and I like the look of your Mrs. Fitzroy.”

Archer would have told the other man to be his guest, but that would have implied that he did indeed have some sort of connection with her, so he simply nodded again and the two men parted ways.

The waltz having just ended, Archer threaded his way toward the side of the ballroom where Dunthorp had just left Perdita—presumably in search of champagne for her. But before he’d made it halfway there, their hostess clapped her hands from a position near where the musicians were set up. “Lords and ladies,” she said once the chatter in the ballroom had descended to a low murmur, “if I could have your attention, please!”

Not wishing to do her the discourtesy of walking while she spoke, Archer paused.

“I am delighted to tell you that I’ve arranged a wonderful bit of theater for you this evening, thanks to the gracious proprietors of the Theater Royale,” Lady Sumrall said. “For your enjoyment, we have not just one, but three superb actresses: leading lady of the stage Mrs. Alicia Lloyd; her charming understudy, Mrs. Pfeiffer; and the soon-to-be-famous ingénue, Miss Desdemona Wright. And playing opposite all three is the incomparable Mr. Charles Keating. All starring in a pantomime that is sure to bring everyone to rapturous applause!” As she introduced each of the actors, they stepped forward. Archer could see more than one gentleman eyeing the actresses, and Lord Carston, who was rumored to be Mrs. Lloyd’s current paramour, beamed, despite the fact that his wife was also present in the room.

“Let the play entitled
The Secret
begin,” Lady Sumrall said, before stepping aside while the actors took their places before the musicians’ dais.

Intrigued despite himself, Archer folded his arms across his chest as the performance got under way.

Mrs. Pfeiffer and Miss Wright stood to one side while Mrs. Lloyd and Mr. Keating took center stage. As both of them remained silent, Mrs. Lloyd stood before an imaginary table arranging flowers, moving them this way and that as she assessed them. Behind her, Keating stormed forward, his face thunderous as he roughly touched her on the shoulder. As she turned in surprise, he brandished an invisible letter as if to admonish her with whatever was written there. Her eyes wide, Mrs. Lloyd clasped her hands before her, pleading with him as he glared at her, his grip on her arm tight and painful-looking. The actress exaggerated her actions, throwing her head and making as if to escape his grip. Then Keating grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.

Though it was obvious that the two were acting, Archer shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the scene making him uncomfortable.

From stage left, Mrs. Pfeiffer entered, and stomped her foot. Keating and Lloyd turned, feigning shock. From stage right, Miss Wright entered and gasped loudly. Seeing the other woman, Keating pulled Mrs. Lloyd against him and placed an invisible knife to her throat. Archer watched in dawning horror as Mrs. Pfeiffer clasped an invisible pistol between her hands and pulled the trigger. At the same time, Mrs. Lloyd twisted out of his grasp. Then Miss Wright and Mrs. Pfeiffer rushed toward Keating as he fell senseless to the floor. All three women embraced and stilled, the performance over as the ballroom erupted in thunderous applause.

His mouth agape, Archer stood motionless as the three actors took their bows and Lady Sumrall’s guests continued to rain praise upon them. Then, he pushed his way through the crowd, desperate to get to where he’d last seen Perdita. Because he knew without doubt that she would have been as disturbed as he was by the performance.

Not because the subject matter was so shocking. One can and did see more melodrama at the theater every evening of the week.

No, she’d be shocked by this show for another reason altogether.

Because the actors from the Theater Royale hadn’t simply been performing a play written for the entertainment of Lady Sumrall’s guests. It had been written to instill fear in the heart of one person and one alone. Perdita.

The scene hadn’t depicted a scene from the imagination of the playwright. It had been the retelling of a scene that was all too familiar to the widowed duchess. Because she’d not only witnessed it, but lived it.

On the day her husband died.

*   *   *

Perdita, Duchess of Ormond, stood chatting with Lady Entwhistle on the side of the Sumrall ballroom, slightly out of breath from her waltz with Lord Dunthorp. He’d gone in search of champagne for them both, and if she were completely honest with herself, Perdita was slightly relieved to be out from beneath his watchful eye.

Dunthorp was a nice enough man, but his unrelenting pursuit of her had become a bit of a discomfort to her in the past few weeks. It wasn’t that she disliked him. If that were so she’d have sent the man packing when he’d first begun to show interest. No, it was just that Perdita, having only last year emerged from beneath her husband’s controlling thumb, was not quite ready to call someone else her lord and master. She liked being able to make her own decisions and come and go as she pleased. She enjoyed choosing her own gowns and not having to worry that the bruises Gervase had left on her the night before would show no matter how she tugged down the sleeves.

One would think that since her severed engagement to Lord Coniston, she’d have learned her lesson about attaching herself to single gentlemen before she was quite sure of her feelings for them. Fortunately for her, her friend Georgina had married Coniston shortly thereafter, so he was none the worse for wear. Not that he would have been at any rate, since theirs had been a betrothal of convenience more than anything else. But Dunthorp was not as indifferent as Coniston had been, and Perdita had no more friends waiting in the wings to sweep him off his feet. And if her intuition was right, he was working up to offer for her sometime in the next few weeks. An offer she had no intention of accepting. And rejection would put an end to their friendship.

“Are you aware that Lord Archer Lisle is staring at you as if he wished to carry you off and ravish you, darling?” Lady Entwhistle asked, jerking Perdita from her reverie. “If I had a man of his looks desperate for me,” she went on, “I’d not be wasting time here in Lady Sumrall’s crowded ballroom, darling, that’s certain.”

“Don’t be absurd, Letitia,” Perdita said with a laugh, “Lord Archer is simply playing the duenna. He has taken it upon himself to look after me and he’s worse than an old mother hen.” That she found Lord Archer, with his golden good looks and tall, impressively strong physique, to be devilishly handsome was neither here nor there. She and Archer were friends. That was all, and as she’d just been telling herself, she had no wish for another husband.

“If you say so, my dear duchess,” Lady Entwhistle, who was known for her affairs as much as she was for her impeccable taste, said with a shake of her head. “It’s a shame, though, if you don’t take advantage of all that deliciousness while you still can. Dunthorp is a nice enough man, but look at Lord Archer’s shoulders!”

Perdita was saved from replying by their hostess, who announced a particular entertainment had been arranged for them this evening. It had been thus since the beginning of the season. Each hostess of the ton had made it her business to outdo the ones preceding her. Thus, Lady Glenlivet had imported a real Venetian gondola to give rides in the pond behind her house in Hampstead, though that had come to grief when Lord Glenlivet had attempted to get a bit too close to his mistress in the boat and overturned it and them in the waist-high water. Then Lady Moulton had hired a pair of acrobats from Astley’s to perform in the garden of her Grosvenor Square town house, complete with flaming hoops through which they leaped most impressively … until one of the hoops caught a lemon tree aflame and the fire brigade had to be summoned. Now, it would seem, Lady Sumrall had found yet another means to entertain her guests. Though having mere actors perform in her ballroom was a bit of a letdown, if Perdita were to be honest with herself.

When the players had finished their little tableau, however, Perdita was gasping for breath and trying desperately to make her way through the crowded ballroom to one—any—of the doors leading into the rest of the house. She was on the point of shouting to make herself heard above the din of applause when she felt a strong arm guiding her.

“Easy,” she heard Archer say before she could wrest herself from his hold. “I’ll get you out of here,” he told her, the reverberation of his voice at her ear strangely reassuring.

Silently, they pushed their way past what for Perdita was a blur of colorful gowns, black coats, and white cravats toward the French doors at the back of the Sumrall ballroom. As soon as they stepped outside she was able to breathe again, and she gripped his arm tighter than was strictly necessary as he led her toward a picturesque little bower just out of range of the torchlight coming from the terrace.

“Sit,” he said brusquely, and she knew that if she were in a different mood she’d have chided him for talking to her as if she were one of his spaniels. But she was so relieved to be out of the ballroom, she lowered herself to the little bench beneath the rose arbor and hugged her arms. It was then that she realized her teeth were chattering, and with a curse, he sat down beside her and pulled her against him, warming her with the heat from his body.

“I’d give you my coat but I don’t think I can get the damned thing off without help,” he muttered, rubbing her bare arms with his gloved hands. To her astonishment, she began to cry, with gulping, hideous little sobs that even as she heard them mortified her. But she was unable to stop herself, and Archer, being Archer, seemed prepared for it, and pulled her against his chest and let her sob into his beautifully tied cravat before giving her his handkerchief and instructing her to blow her nose.