An Unconventional Miss (9 page)

‘Not what one might call the ideal set of surroundings!' nodded Wyvern, with a pensive frown. ‘I can hardly shout my offer at her!'

‘Nevertheless,' pointed out Sir Simon, ‘there's nothing to stop you having a quick word with Draycott himself—arrange a suitable interview—that sort of thing?'

‘Give me another day's grace, in any event,' returned the earl, with a heartfelt sigh of relief. ‘I'd better do it now, then, before I'm given a chance to change my mind!'

‘Good man!' said Sir Simon, while Fitzallan gave a fervent nod and clapped Wyvern on the back.

Although his heart was in his boots, it was with a strangely detached air that Wyvern threaded his way through the thronging mass to the far corner of the ballroom, where he found the Draycott party in conversation with a group of their friends. Having already stood up for the requisite two dances with Felicity, he knew that there was no danger of her imagining that he would press her for a third, so he simply acknowledged her presence with a smile and a swift bow and, turning to her father, asked if he would be good enough to spare him a moment of his time.

‘Indeed, sir!' rejoined the baronet, his eyes brightening, as though he had every reason to know what was about to follow. And, taking Wyvern's arm, he drew him towards a more secluded corner of the room.

‘Now then, my boy. And what may I do for you?' he enquired, his bracingly jovial tone of voice causing the earl to wince in distaste.

‘I had it in mind to call on you tomorrow morning, sir,' said Wyvern, endeavouring to still the tremor in his voice. ‘Will you be available—at around eleven o'clock, say?'

Sir Jonathan drew a deep breath and gave a satisfied nod. ‘But of course! Of course, my boy! Point taken! Say no more! Eleven tomorrow it shall be then!'

Hardly able to believe that he was finally on the verge of committing himself, Wyvern inclined his head and, in something of a daze, was in the process of returning to his anxious comrades when a sudden flurry of excitement over by the room's threshold claimed his attention.

Craning his neck, he peered over the heads of the crowd in order to acquaint himself with the identity of what he could only suppose must be yet another illustrious dignitary who had chosen to grace the gathering with his or her presence. As his eyes lit on the party at the doorway, his heart did a double somersault and every vestige of breath seemed to have been knocked from his body.

There, along with her brother Matt and cousin Imogen, stood Jessica Beresford, looking unbelievably lovely in a gown of shimmering silver gauze that seemed to cling to every faultless curve of her body; her pale blonde hair, caught back with a diamond-studded filigree tiara, fell about her creamy shoulders in a profusion of shining ringlets. Around her neck she wore a delicate silver chain bearing a single, flawless diamond, which nestled provocatively in the cleft between the rising mounds of her perfectly formed breasts.

For several moments, due to his inability to take a full breath, Wyvern stood rooted to the spot, watching his grandmother greet the newcomers and usher them into the room. An involuntary groan escaped his lips when he realised that Jessica seemed to be paying little attention to the various high-born guests to whom the Dowager was introducing the little group. Instead, her bright eyes were keenly searching around the room—as though she was looking for someone. Fairly certain that it was him for whom she was seeking, Wyvern gritted his teeth in dismay and stepped back hurriedly, hoping to make it to one of the side doors before she could spot him, thereby avoiding the necessity of having to acknowledge her presence.

Having barely recovered from a grim contemplation of the unwelcome fate that the morrow held in store for him, the very last thing Wyvern needed at this moment was to find himself anywhere in the vicinity of the captivating Jessica Beresford and her oh-so-compelling green eyes, for he was only too aware that, in his present highly vulnerable state, it would be well nigh impossible for him to conceal his growing desire for her.

Reaching the relative safety of the doorway that led into a side passage, he shot a quick look over his shoulder to ascertain that he was still unobserved. Unfortunately for him, just at that same moment, the movement of the dancers on the floor left a clear space between the keen-eyed Jessica and himself. Briefly raising one hand in recognition, she beamed a smile at him and, before he could determine what she was about, she had separated herself from her party and was making her way towards him.

Clenching his teeth in consternation, he ducked out of the door and hurried down the passageway, having assumed that Jessica would remain in the ballroom with her family. At the sound of the door re-opening behind him, however, his stomach clenched and he spun round in alarm, only to witness Jessica peering round the edge of the doorway, frantically signalling him with her fan.

Grasping the handle of the nearest door, he flung it open and shot inside, slamming it shut behind him, fully confident that the girl would hardly be so foolish as to enter the room after him. After a moment or two, as the doorknob rattled and started to turn, his anxiety turned to dismay and he felt a flush of anger rising; his eyes narrowed and his fists clenched at his sides. What the deuce could she be thinking? Had she no sense at all? Surely she could not be so naïve as to be unaware that she was about to walk straight into one of the most compromising positions in which it was possible for a young lady to find herself? All at once, it came to him that saving the headstrong Jessica Beresford from herself seemed to be turning into somewhat of an unlooked-for habit with him. He took a deep breath and stepped way from the door just as it began to open.

‘Your lordship?' came a hesitant whisper and Jessica, her hand still on the doorknob, inched tentatively into view.

Flinging out his hand, Wyvern grasped her roughly around the wrist and dragged her into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

Jessica's eyes widened in confusion and she attempted to free herself from his grip.

‘My lord!' she protested. ‘Please let me go! You should not—!'

The rest of her words were silenced as Wyvern hauled her towards him and clamped his free hand over her mouth. He was beside himself with fury.

‘Are there no brains at all inside that pretty little head of yours?' he rasped. ‘Are you mad or just plain stupid? Have you no thought for your reputation?'

Ignoring Jessica's vigorous shaking of the head and her frantic gestures towards the door, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her close to his chest. She squirmed furiously in his hold and, as he felt the movement of her threshing legs against his own, a shiver of arousal ran through him. Unable to contain himself, he bent his head to her upturned face.

‘Or was this the
real
reason that you followed me here?' he demanded hoarsely as, disregarding the concerned expression in her eyes, he lowered his mouth to hers. But, even as their lips touched, he felt a sharp rap on the side of his face.

His hand on his cheek, he thrust himself away from her and stared down at her in something of a daze. Dear God! What in hell's name was he doing?

The look on Jessica's lovely face was something to behold. Her viridescent eyes were flashing with righteous indignation and her hand, still upraised, held what was left of her ivory fan, its delicate sticks now shattered beyond repair.

Swallowing hard, he put out a hand, as if to defend himself. ‘You need not expect me to apologise!' he said bitterly, as he watched her march to the doorway and fling open the door. ‘You led me to believe—you should not have followed me in here! What was I supposed to think?'

‘I take leave to point out that you are the one who is at fault on this occasion, my lord!' came Jessica's swift rejoinder. Flinging up her hand she pointed at the beribboned posy of flowers that was hanging on the outside of the door, clearly indicating the room's intended function. Then, as a mischievous glint suddenly filled her eyes and a gurgle of laughter threatened to overcome her, she laid her head on one side and enquired sweetly, ‘Unless, of course, your lordship is in the habit of frequenting the ladies' retiring rooms?'

No sooner had the sense of her words begun to penetrate his conscious than Wyvern felt his stomach clench in dismay. He staggered backwards, his eyes flicking wildly around the small salon until, having taken in the dressing table, along with its conglomeration of hairbrushes, the powder pots and papers of pins, the assortment of female garments draped over the chairs and, most telling of all, the corner screen that concealed the commode, a dull flush spread across his face. Clutching at his cravat, which all of a sudden was beginning to feel much too tight, he stepped hurriedly towards the door, intent upon making as speedy an exit as dignity would allow.

‘Your pardon, ma'am,' he croaked, not daring to look the now highly amused Jessica in the eyes.

But then, as the sound of female voices drifted down the passageway outside, Wyvern grew pale and retreated from the doorway in alarm. It was impossible to conceive the scandal that would ensue if he were to be discovered here with Jessica Beresford! Any likelihood of a union between the Draycotts and the Ashcrofts would be demolished in a trice! In mute appeal, he cast her a despairing look. In an instant, the self-righteous smile flew from her lips and, grabbing the dumbfounded earl by the hand, she thrust him towards the nearby corner of the room.

‘Get down!' she hissed and, before he had time to consider his options, she had dragged one of the high-backed sofas crosswise in front of him. Hastily grabbing one of the papers of pins from the basket on the dressing table, she flung herself down upon the sofa, whereupon she proceeded to pull up her skirt, ripping several inches of the flounce away from its hem.

As two ladies pushed open the door and entered the salon, Wyvern felt the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to rise. He had the distinct feeling that, in allowing himself to be so easily coerced into this ludicrous situation, he had merely leapt out of the proverbial frying pan straight into what was like to be a veritable inferno!

The first of the newcomers, the Honourable Mrs Fortesque-Jones, nodded a pleasant greeting to Jessica and settled herself on the stool in front of the dressing table, where she proceeded to effect repairs to her topknot, several coils of which had disengaged themselves from the feathered concoction to which they had been attached. Her companion, Lady Blackmore, after flicking a powder puff over her florid cheeks, then commenced to wander aimlessly about the room, peering short-sightedly through her lorgnette at the various pictures on the walls and making unfavourable comments as to the skill of the artists. Jessica, apparently intent upon pinning up the damage to her gown, could only pray that neither of the ladies would deem it necessary to disappear behind the screen in order to relieve herself!

She could not begin to understand how she had managed to get herself into this situation. To have followed Wyvern into the passage was unforgivable, she knew, but she had merely wanted to ask him not to mention the Oxford Street incident. And then, having seen him disappear into the ladies' tiring room, she had felt bound to inform him of his mistake. He had, after all, come to
her
rescue twice already. How was she to know that he would grab hold of her in such a violent manner? She raised the tips of her fingers to her mouth, recalling the delicious sensation that had run through her in that fleeting moment when his lips had pressed against hers and wondered how it would have been if she had allowed him to continue. Only the sudden shocking memory of that other dreadful occasion with Wentworth had brought her to her senses and given her the strength and courage to strike Wyvern with her fan. Jabbing disconsolately at her hem, she wished that the women would make haste with their toilette, so that she could release Wyvern and get back to the ballroom before her disappearance was remarked upon.

‘I hear Draycott is expecting young Wyvern to make an offer any day now,' said Mrs Fortesque-Jones, as she patted her completed hairdo back into place.

‘And
I
, for my part, am surprised that Sir Jonathan has seen fit to encourage such a match,' returned Lady Blackmore tersely. ‘Word is that the Ashcrofts are pretty well under the hatches! It's my guess that this evening's do is some sort of last-ditch stand!'

Jessica flinched as the pin she was weaving into her hem found the tip of her finger instead. Wyvern and Felicity Draycott? A silent sigh escaped her lips and her heart sank. It would seem that she still had a good deal to learn about the strange ways of the opposite sex.

Wyvern, crouched uncomfortably between the rear of the spindle-legged sofa and a large copper urn containing a potted palm, closed his eyes in despair. As if being in imminent danger of having his presence discovered in the ladies' tiring room were not punishment enough for his precipitate actions, it seemed that he was now about to suffer the added ignominy of having his character shredded in front of Jessica Beresford.

The arrival of yet another female into the salon, however, saved his blushes.

‘So this is where you've been hiding, Jess—I've been looking for you everywhere!'

The newcomer was none other than Imogen Beresford, looking decidedly exasperated as, sitting herself down beside her cousin, she surveyed Jessica's botched handiwork in some dismay. ‘Oh, my goodness! Your lovely gown! Why on earth did you not call for me to help you?'