A Risk Worth Taking (13 page)

“I simply feel so exposed. As if everyone knows the reason I’m here.”

“Nonsense.”

“It would not be more noticeable if I had worn a sign reading, ‘Wanted: Husband with sizable fortune to provide for destitute aging spinster and her younger sister.’”

“Don’t, Anne. You’re not that old, and your situation is no different than anyone else’s here. Just look around you. Most of the ones still unattached are seeking the same thing. A husband with an impressive title, or a wife with a sizable dowry.”

“But I don’t have an attractive dowry. I’m penniless.”

“I’m certain that will not matter. There are any number of unattached young men who are not seeking a large
dowry.” Patience squeezed Anne’s fingers. “There are other reasons people marry, you know.”

Anne looked into Lady Patience’s eyes, searching for confirmation that there could be more. “Is love a possibility?”

The countess hesitated, then smiled. “That remains to be seen.”

“Did you and the earl marry for love?”

“No. But many marriages begin without love, then change.”

Anne thought of how stiff and formal the Earl and Countess of Covington appeared in public. Even in private, there seemed little difference—the earl seldom shedding his austere exterior, the countess always the epitome of decorum.

Anne thought of what her future might hold. She didn’t want her marriage to begin without love. Her mother had lived her whole life desperate to win her husband’s love, then lost her will to live when she failed. She didn’t want to live the same fate.

“Don’t worry, Anne. Enjoy yourself tonight and perhaps, when you least expect it, you’ll find that perfect match. Everyone in the room is in awe of you already. How could they not be? You look absolutely stunning.”

Anne fought the wave of guilt. Even though it was less than the customary six-month mourning period for a sibling, Patience had talked her out of wearing mourning colors. “It’s the gown. I had no idea when we chose the material that it would make up so grand.”

She ran her fingers over the beautiful peach silk moiré and sighed. The gown was remarkable on its own, but what
made it even more so were the three wide lace flounces overlaying the peach, each one gathered at various lengths around the skirt by large peach bows. The exposing, off-the-shoulder bodice was trimmed with the same lace.

Anne suddenly felt very bold and daring—and beautiful. She smiled as Candlewood and Lord Mechon came toward them, each carrying two glasses.

“Here is your punch,” Candlewood said, holding out a glass. Lord Mechon handed Patience a glass at the same time.

Anne thanked the men and took a swallow, grateful to find the liquid still a little cool.

She was introduced to even more strangers as the group of men and women surrounding them increased in size. There were so many that it was doubtful that she would remember their names after tonight—or wanted to. The shallow men and tittering women simply reaffirmed her distaste for city life. The crowds made her uneasy, the packed ballroom was too confining, and the false laughter assaulted her ears.

She waved her fan in front of her face to cool her burning cheeks. She prayed she could find a way to escape from the confines of the crowded ballroom.

If she hadn’t been so uncomfortable with her surroundings, she might have realized sooner than she did that he was close by. But she didn’t.

There’d been no sounding alarms or gunshots fired to warn her. Only the goose flesh that rose on her arms and the ghost of a whisper that ran down her cheek as an indication that he was near. These were all the warnings she needed.

Before the person next to her mentioned his name, Anne was aware that he was watching her.

Her heart picked up speed, but she refused to turn to face him. She decided to pretend his presence wasn’t important, that she didn’t care that he’d come to watch her every move. Just as she tried to forget that it was impossible not to compare every male she met to Griffin Blackmoor—and find them all lacking.

Anger welled inside her, anger directed more at herself than at him. She was here to find someone suitable who could be her husband, not have her thoughts muddied by visions of a man she would never consider, a man she’d rarely seen sober since he’d walked into her life.

She turned her thoughts back to the crowd around her. She laughed at their conversations with greater enthusiasm, spoke with more animation while discussing the opera with the Marquess of Candlewood, and batted her eyes when he paid her the most flattering compliment. Just as she’d seen a few of the other debutantes do.

“Would you care to dance, Lady Anne?” the marquess asked, holding out his arm.

“I would love—”

“I’m sorry, Candlewood. This dance is promised to me.”

Blackmoor’s deep, rich voice sent a shiver of apprehension down her back. She turned to face him, to tell him with a glance she didn’t appreciate his interference. He barely noticed as he focused his challenging glare on the Marquess of Candlewood.

“Is that so, my lady?” Candlewood asked, refusing to back down from Blackmoor’s effrontery.

She hesitated. She couldn’t allow them to argue over her, couldn’t allow them to cause a scene. “Yes. I’m afraid it is, my lord. I’m sorry. I had forgotten.”

She lifted her gaze. The look on Blackmoor’s face brimmed with smug self-confidence. Her blood roared in anger.

She placed her hand ever so lightly on his outstretched arm. She wanted to dig her fingernails into his skin to show him how furious she was with him. She had never been so outraged.

She refused to consider that her agitation might also be caused by his nearness. Instead, she convinced herself that the sole reason for her outrage was the high-handed way he’d manipulated her in front of everyone.

He led her to the dance floor. The minute he turned her in his arms, she glared at him with a look she hoped would singe his dark hair. He’d cut it since she’d last seen him.

“That was unconscionably rude, Mr. Blackmoor,” she hissed, refusing to walk into his outstretched arms.

“Yes, it was.”

“Then why did you do it?”

He smiled. “Because dancing with the Marquess of Candlewood would have been a waste of time.”

“How dare you.”

“I dare because I intend to help you find someone suitable to marry.” He paused. “Candlewood isn’t suitable.”

Their gazes held, and Anne’s heart thrummed in her breast as sporadic shivers raced down her arms. She fought to quash her reaction to the fact that he held her in his arms.

“Do you intend to stand here arguing while the rest of the couples dance around us, or would you care to join them?”

She looked around the room and saw several pair of eyes watching them. He pulled her close to begin the dance—a waltz.

“Why did you force me away from the group I was talking to? I thought that was the objective of my coming to London.” She spoke softly so no one could hear her. “I thought you wanted me to acquaint myself with every eligible male.”

When he spoke, his voice was hard, with not the least softness in it. “Not the Marquess of Candlewood.”

“Why? He seems quite pleasant.”

“I’m sure he is, as well as charming and funny and very handsome. He is also very self-assured, and is fortunate enough to have more than an adequate amount of wealth to make himself quite the catch. But any woman foolish enough to marry him will have to share her husband with a great number of other women, including the mistress he keeps in grand style on Derby Street.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Everyone knows it. Unless, of course, you wouldn’t mind your husband servicing half the women in London on a regular basis.”

Anne’s cheeks burned.

“Ah. I see you would.”

He firmed his hold around her waist and executed a tight turn on the floor in rhythm to the music. He was an excellent dancer, and her heart raced from the excitement of being in his arms.

She didn’t want to feel such a connection to him. She wanted to step away, to release herself from the grip that heated her skin through the material of her dress, searing her flesh like a branding iron and weakening her knees. At the same time, she wanted him to pull her closer so she could feel the hardened muscles of his shoulders and back. She wanted to press her cheek against his fashionable black tailcoat and silver brocade waistcoat, and breathe in the maleness of him. She wanted to lift her hand to his cheek and run her fingertips over the strong line of his jaw and his thick, full lips as she’d done when she’d cared for him.

She wanted there to be one other man in the room who could set her on fire the same as he did. But she knew there was not.

“There are other men in attendance,” he said, jolting her mind back to the present. “Any of them would be a better choice.”

“Then what do you think of Baron Fillmore?”

“Too young.”

“The Earl of Pendron?”

“Too broke.”

“The Marquess of Lancheister?”

“Too boring.”

She struggled to break free of his grasp. He would not let her. Instead, he twirled her to the side of the room and out the double doors that led to the terrace.

Cool air hit her like a slap in the face and she twisted out of his arms and stepped away from him.

“Is there anyone in attendance who would meet with your approval?”

“I’m certain there are any number of men who would be suitable.” His nostrils flared slightly and his chest rose and fell. “You have just made the acquaintance of the wrong ones.”

“Perhaps I should let you choose for me,” she said without thinking. “Since you are such an excellent judge of character.”

A grin lifted the corners of his mouth, causing the two creases on either side to deepen most seductively.

“Perhaps I should.”

“Over my dead body,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “If you want to play matchmaker, sir, I suggest you experiment on yourself. I’m sure there are any number of eligible young females who could be forced to take your name. Perhaps if you paid them the slightest attention, you could find yourself a suitable wife and leave me alone.”

She had wanted to lash out at him, to say whatever would punish him for causing her such confusion. Her words had somehow hit the mark.

The smile faded from his face and his eyes turned even darker. “I’m afraid not, my lady. I have no desire to marry. That is one risk I never intend to take again. You, unfortunately, do not have that choice.”

A cold chill washed over her. She’d been unforgivably cruel. “Why are you doing this to me?”

He swept a hand across his brow. For the first time, she noticed the light sheen of perspiration that covered his face. He shouldn’t be here. He wasn’t recovered enough, and attending a ball was too big a temptation. Champagne and brandy flowed like water. For a man just resigned never to drink again, this was the last place he should be.

“I’m doing this because I promised Freddie I would take care of you. I have an obligation to fulfill, and I don’t intend to let you make a decision you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

The effect of his words landed in the pit of her stomach like a hollow ache. What a fool she’d been. What an idealistic, muddleheaded romantic. She deserved to feel such betrayal, to feel hurt. If only she hadn’t sat at his sickbed and held his hand—and told him she loved him.

“You need not concern yourself with my welfare, Mr. Blackmoor. I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

“I feel it my duty to warn you—”

She turned on him. “You have done more than is expected of you, sir. I have agreed to find a husband—and I will. The moment I do, your obligation will be at an end. If you will excuse me now.”

She stepped around him and returned to the ballroom. She kept her back straight and her chin high as she made her way to where Lord and Lady Covington stood. “Is something wrong?” Patience asked, the look in her eyes understanding more than Anne wished to reveal.

“No. Everything is fine.”

“Griff?” the earl asked, looking at a spot just behind her.

He’d followed her. How dare he.

“Everything is fine,” he answered.

But everything wasn’t fine. Anne felt trapped. She needed to escape.

“Oh, there is the Marquess of Candlewood,” she said, looking to the opposite side of the room. “If you will excuse me, I promised the marquess a dance before I was interrupted.”

She gave Griff a defiant glare as she stepped past him. It was an effort to keep from visibly shivering at the hostile look he gave her in return. Let him be angry. If she had no choice but to marry against her will, it would at least be to a man of her own choosing. Not someone Griffin Blackmoor and his guilt-ridden conscience picked out for her.

He needed a drink.

What the hell was she trying to prove?

He watched as she stood in the middle of the ballroom, the most beautiful woman there, her upswept hair exposing her long, graceful neck, the mass of mahogany curls cascading down her back while delicate peach ribbons twined through the tendrils. She looked elegant, enchanting. Thoroughly kissable.

He’d never seen anyone more beautiful—far too beautiful, and far too naive to be let loose alone in London Society. Anyone with half a brain could see how innocent and unsuspecting she was. How had Freddie kept her locked away for so long?