Darrington 01 - Marriage Minded Lord (17 page)

“I don’t think—”

“Come now, my dear. I’d rather do this fitting now so we can talk before my mother returns with Felix.” A snicker escaped Charlotte. “I don’t relish having to explain your presence to either of them just yet. Felix would be pleased, no doubt, but Mother? I’m simply not ready to fight that battle.”

Her attitude was infectious. Clarice smiled. “No, I don’t suppose that would be an easy problem.” She would have preferred Charlotte to stand
at her front, but there was nothing for it. She pulled the shift up and off her head then died a thousand deaths as Charlotte sucked in a breath.

“Good God, Clarice. What happened to you?” She touched a finger to one of the many bruises on Clarice’s back, and Clarice grimaced. “Were you beaten?”

Obviously, the proof was on her skin, and denying it would be an outright lie, but to give up Lady Drummond as the abuser? What sort of trouble would that land her in? She stayed quiet as indecision swept over her.

“You poor lamb.” Charlotte dropped the gown to the floor. With gentle hands
she smoothed a shift over Clarice’s head and helped her pull her arms through. “Lady Drummond did this to you, didn’t she?” She turned Clarice around, peered into her eyes then engulfed her in a hug. Clarice stiffened, gasping at the aches. “I’m so sorry.”

After the initial shock of being held by a friend, Clarice slumped into the other woman’s arms. “Thank you. There are times that being in the employ of someone as… determined as Lady Drummond is a trying prospect.” At least she hadn’t confirmed anything. Still, the tears she’d held back since the attack in the carriage came spilling forth and she cried on Charlotte’s shoulder with all the abandon of a
lost child.

“Shhh. It’s going to be all right.” Charlotte’s soothing murmurs and her gentle strokes on her back touched Clarice’s heart. “We’re going to put you in that dress and you’re going to look like a princess, blast it.” She pulled slightly away and peeked into Clarice’s face. “No matter what, you will shine at the Amherst rout and eclipse that detestable Lady Drummond. I’ll do everything I can to make it happen.”

Clarice’s tears fell harder. How was it she’d landed in the lap of such wonderful people as the Darringtons? “Thank you. You are an angel.”

“No, I merely want the people I care about to live happy lives.” Charlotte hugged her again. “Now that includes you. We’re going to be fast friends.”

Chapter Eight

Clarice feared her heart might burst from her chest it beat so hard. She followed Lady Drummond through the entryway at the Duke of Amherst’s mansion in Grosvenor Square. After handing over her nicest spencer, she climbed a flight of stairs which led to the rooms where the rout was being held. Candlelight flickered in every chandelier and holder. Mirrors reflected glittering jewels and sumptuous fabrics. The heavy scents of melted candlewax, pomade and talc powder hung in the air. Her palms sweat inside the elbow-length navy gloves she wore. All around her people mingled, laughing and talking, as she and Olivia approached the reception line.

Never had she attended such a lavish party; never had she seen such wealth or such blatant displays of it in one place. The amount of money some of those people probably spent on their clothing could feed a poor family for a year. Clarice trembled at the disparity of it all. She, from humble roots, born on the wrong side of the societal blanket, dressed as a peacock in order to blend in with the very people she knew she should despise.

But oh, how she wanted acceptance for just this one night.

From the back of her mind, she told herself she was the granddaughter of a
comte
and she had every right to mingle with these people.
I can claim my own heritage if I choose.
With a quick intake of breath, she grasped a handful of skirting, lifting it so she wouldn’t trip on the hem of the borrowed gown. She smiled as she waited for the line to shuffle forward. The wonderful dress of turquoise silk with a navy blue mull overskirt had split over sleeves and a V-neck bodice in a very French style. Silver embroidery decorated the bodice and hem, glinting with each step she took. She’d protested the indecent amount of cleavage the gown showed when Charlotte made her try it on that fateful afternoon when their friendship began, but Charlotte had laughed away the complaint saying she’d look beautiful and would catch Felix’s eye.

Now, as she watched as the feather in Lady Drummond’s elaborately dressed hair bobbed, Clarice concentrated on keeping her breathing even. The stays cut into her ribcage and she fanned her face to keep away the worst of the heat.
Thankfully, the redness and swelling had all but disappeared from her cheeks and forehead. Though the bruises on her back were fading, they didn’t hurt as much. With her free hand, she touched the amethyst stone that dangled from a black velvet choker. The coolness through the gloves it imparted gave a modicum of relief.

“Waiting is so insufferable at times, isn’t it?”

Felix!

The whisper at her ear sent warmth tumbling through her insides and goose flesh over her skin. She twisted around to meet his twinkling blue gaze. From behind him, Charlotte gave a tiny wave and an encouraging smile while an older woman wearing a gray turban—most likely his mother if the resemblance was anything to go by—scowled and looked quickly away. Clarice didn’t care. Her attention
remained fixed on him and how dashing he was in the requisite dark evening clothes. His ivory waistcoat gleamed in the candlelight and the few military medals of distinction pinned to his left lapel lent authority to his bearing. Her heart tripped. Longing throbbed between her thighs. For a man like him and to feel what she did now, she’d do almost anything.

Heat swamped her. “I assumed you had already arrived, Fe…, er, my lord,” she whispered, catching her slip in time. She couldn’t very well rely on intimacy while in the midst of such high born company.

“If it had been up to me, I would have, but my sister and mother wanted to arrive fashionably late.” His lips curved with a smile. A sapphire winked from a pin in his snowy cravat. “The line is moving, Miss Delacroix.”

Lady Drummond glanced over her shoulder at the same moment Clarice faced front. “What lovely timing, Felix. Come, you can escort me as we’re introduced to
His Grace. Once people see us together tonight, it shouldn’t be long before we can make an official announcement, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d rather eat my mother’s turban,” he whispered to Clarice as he passed.

Clarice snickered and stepped aside to make room for Felix, then she devoured the breadth of his shoulders with her hungry gaze. The nip of his waist and the strength of his thighs showed to perfect in his evening clothes, and she stifled a sigh before it left her throat.

There was no more time to worry or even think as the line advanced at a quick clip and she offered her hand to men and women who she couldn’t remember their names let alone their titles. She swore her feet didn’t touch the ground as her mind whirred and her heart raced. Then she stood before the man who’d fathered her—the Duke of Amherst.
More gray than blond touched his hair, and age as well as fondness for excess lined his face. Dark, beady hazel eyes stared at her as he looked down an aristocratic nose, and indeed, the way he held his chin was the same gesture she’d seen in the mirror countless times. Every inch proclaimed him a powerful duke, a man not to be trifled with. No hint of warmth softened his features.

Her knees knocked. Her hand shook as he briefly touched her fingers and her name was announced as Lady Drummond’s companion.

“A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” Clarice whispered. She didn’t care that her voice wavered. The moment she’d dreamed of since her mother died had finally arrived.

Lord Amherst
kissed her gloved knuckle, his attention on Charlotte beside her. When he released her hand, his eyes narrowed as he focused on her. “You have the look of someone I once knew years ago. Met ‘er in France and brought ‘er back here in ‘er heyday. Damn, but I hate the French now.” His expression darkened. “Took one of my sons from me.”

Clarice couldn’t linger, for Charlotte gave her a tiny nudge. As she moved down the receiving line, meeting the remainder of the duke’s family, she caught his whispered comment to the person beside him, “Can’t help but remember that fine bit of French muslin. Daughter of a Frenchie aristocrat who’d fallen on hard times, she’d said.” His laugh sounded like a rusty garden gate. “Rousing good time between the sheets but a horrible singer. Fooled no one. Let
‘er go when she got too long in the tooth to make men jealous I had ‘er.”

The bastard!
Clarice bristled. Her steps faltered. When she would have taken him to task, Felix brushed a hand against her elbow. He gave her a barely discernible shake of his head. She blew out a breath. Nothing good would come of losing her temper or confronting the duke, especially in this gathering. She followed Lady Drummond as she led Felix into the bowels of the house. Clarice swallowed the lump of disappointment in her throat. That man may have fathered her but she wasn’t like him; she didn’t resemble him in most ways either. He cared nothing for anyone except himself. She wanted no part of him.

The crowds only dissipated a bit as she entered the ballroom, where people were lining up for the first country dance of the night. A young man intercepted her before she could head for the grouping of chairs to one side. He asked her to dance in a squeaky voice
. She accepted out of sympathy and because she enjoyed dancing. Her partner wasn’t skilled in conversation while performing the meeting and parting required in the Lord Delhousie long dance, and the lack of repartee allowed her to find her bearings in the crush of people. Lord Swandon partnered Lady Drummond, and that lady kept up a stream of unabashed prattle. The only comfort was his expression reflected painful boredom.

Polite clapping followed the conclusion of the dance. Clarice allowed her partner to lead her to the side. She barely had time to catch her breath before Felix was there, bowing and asking permission to take her out for the next set. She nodded and laid her finger
s upon his forearm, hoping he couldn’t feel her trembling. If he did, perhaps he’d assume it was from exertions or excitement instead of being near him.

The set was another longways dance called the Don Cossack Waltz. She and Felix were the first couple. Once the music started, she went through the steps with more enthusiasm than she had with her last partner. Charlotte made up part of the second couple. She grinned in passing, then Clarice touched hands again with Felix and her awareness of him consumed her. He was so handsome yet so formal. No hint of a smile or enjoyment broke through his blank
face. Was it dancing it found tiresome or her company? Her stomach tightened and she stumbled slightly in the steps, but he was there, steadying her with a hand at her elbow before they parted once more.

The set ended all too soon.
The gentlemen escorted the ladies to the sides of the room.

“Thank you for the dance,
Lord Swandon,” Clarice murmured. “It was quite refreshing.” Would he quit the room and head for the card tables or would he squire another lady about? Her heart squeezed. She didn’t like that idea by half.

“It was.” His eyes darkened a trifle and almost matched the sapphire in his cravat. “I enjoyed it so much I’d like to take you out again, if you’ll agree?”

She sucked in a breath. Two dances in a row, and he’d enjoyed himself? “Surely you jest.” He ran the risk of catching the gossip mongers’ attention.

“I never make light of anything I’m dead serious about.” Felix offered his arm. “Come. It would appear they’re setting up for one of my favorites. I haven’t danced the Union Waltz for some time, but I find I desperately wish to do so now with you.”

How could she refuse such a request? Excitement fluttered in her belly as she returned to the dance floor with him. They lined up as the second couple in a set. Once the lively music started and her gloved hands touched his, she lost herself to the wonder of the evening. Each time their hands met, heat licked up her arms. When they stood across from each other, Felix flirted as if his life depended on it. His smile brimmed with wicked intent and the glint in his eyes spoke of untold promise.

The room closed in. All sound faded and the only person who existed in her world was him. She imagined that he belonged to her alone, and that the brush of his fingers on her hands or the small of her back and the intensity of his gaze meant they’d find a future together despite the reality.
Oh, Felix…

Clarice frowned as the set ended and everyone resumed their starting positions. She gave him a slight curtsey as he executed a modified bow.
While the couples broke and headed for the sides of the room, she lingered, hoping, wondering, and dreaming Felix would ask her for an unprecedented third dance. He extended his hand, either in invitation or for escort. His lips parted as if he’d ask her a question, and just when she would have slipped her hand in his, Charlotte bustled over to her.

“It’s not wise to invite wagging tongues or the breath of scandal.” The redhead tugged Clarice away from the dance floor. “Also, it’s best to let the man chase the woman. If you don’t make it easy, he’ll pursue you with grand passion
, regardless that the heat coming from both your gazes will set the ballroom on fire. Now, let’s grab a cup of punch then chat before dinner.”

“You’re probably right. Thank you.” She used every ounce of willpower not to glance back and
locate Felix as she exited the room with Charlotte. If his sister hadn’t come to the rescue, would Felix have committed social suicide and given her the third dance? The idea gave wings to her feet and she floated from the room.