Elizabeth Powell (7 page)

At that moment, Miss Hastings threw back her head and gave a whinny of laughter that carried throughout the entire room.

Nigel hunched his shoulders and winced. “Then again, perhaps ten thousand pounds is not nearly enough. To think of having to listen to
that
for the rest of one’s life …” He shuddered, then continued his
scrutiny. “Now then … the girl in blue by the refreshment table is Miss Gray. I believe I mentioned her already. Fetching little thing, but she tends to chatter. And the reticent lady sequestered behind the statue of Cupid is Lady Amelia Winthrop….”

Sebastian did not hear another word, for at that moment a vision of loveliness waltzed past. He stood transfixed, as though he had been struck by a bolt of lightning. A vision in silver and white, the lady possessed raven’s wing hair, skin the color of fresh cream, and a slender, willowy figure. Her lovely face radiated perfection from the arch of her cheekbones to the delicate dark brows that flared over her green eyes. She tipped her head toward her partner and smiled, and Sebastian felt a sudden sweeping desire to taste those perfect pink lips.

“Who is that?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Nigel followed the viscount’s gaze; he brightened. “Oho! That, my dear fellow, is Miss Penelope Rutledge of Leicestershire, the reigning Toast of the Season. From what I understand, her father died about eighteen months ago, just as she was about to make her debut, but I daresay he left her well compensated for the loss. She inherited the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds.”

“She is enchanting,” Jace murmured, staring after the lady.

Nigel elbowed his friend in the ribs. “Close your mouth, Jace—you’re gaping like a fish.”

“So are you,” Havelock retorted, flushed.

“Yes, but word has it the lady is after a title, and that leaves us both out of the running. What a pity. For a chit like her, I might be tempted to forswear bachelorhood.”

Jace growled something under his breath.

“Does she seek a love match?” Sebastian asked warily.

Nigel shrugged. “To my knowledge, affection is not one of her requirements.”

The viscount exhaled in a long, slow sigh. “Then she’s perfect. Can you arrange an introduction for me?”

Lord Nigel replied with a cocksure grin, “Of course I can. One advantage of being an acknowledged gadabout is that I know almost everyone in London Society. A word of warning, though—be wary of Miss Rutledge’s mother, Lady Portia. Very high on the instep, that one, with a tongue sharp enough to clip hedges. She tolerates me only because I am so very charming.”

Jace snorted. “The fact that you’re the brother of a duke doesn’t hurt, either, of which you are well aware.”

Nigel’s grin widened.

Sebastian adjusted the folds of his cravat. “I’ll be careful.”

“Tally ho, then,” said Nigel, and led the way through the crowd.

Miss Rutledge was not hard to locate; they had but to pinpoint the largest cluster of gentlemen. She stood in one corner of the ballroom, at the center of a throng of admirers.

Nigel shouldered through the crowd, heedless of the black looks thrown his way by the other eager hopefuls, and installed himself at the lady’s side. “Ah, my dear Miss Rutledge! How delightful to see you again. And Lady Portia, you are as enchantingly lovely as ever.”

Miss Rutledge dimpled. “Good evening, my lord. Mama, you remember Lord Nigel Barrington?”

The older woman arched a skeptical brow, then extended
a hand to him as if she were the queen herself. “Of course.”

Nigel bowed over her gloved fingers, then unbent and gestured to Sebastian. “I simply had to introduce you to my two greatest friends in all the world. Allow me to present Viscount Langley and Mr. Jason Havelock.”

Was it Sebastian’s imagination, or did Miss Rutledge’s eyes narrow at the mention of his name? She smiled, but rather than offer her hand to either of them, the beauty dipped a graceful curtsy.

“A pleasure to meet you both,” she murmured.

The orchestra struck the opening strains of an allemande; as if on cue, the viscount stepped forward and made an elegant leg. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Rutledge?”

“Yes, go on, dear,” Lady Portia urged with an almost predatory smile.

“I—I cannot, Mama,” the beauty protested. “I have promised this set to Lord Elmore.”

“Penelope.” Her mother said the name in a warning tone that raised the hairs on the back of Sebastian’s neck. The older woman targeted her gorgon gaze on poor Lord Elmore; the baron turned pale and gulped.

The beauty unfurled her ivory fan and fanned herself with growing agitation. “I fear every dance has been claimed, my lord.”

“Then I must be content to remain here and bask in the glow of your beauty, Miss Rutledge,” the viscount conceded, reining in his disappointment. Obviously Lady Portia had heard the latest gossip and was in alt that he paid his attentions to her daughter. Miss Rutledge, however, did not appear to share her mother’s single-minded enthusiasm. Had she heard the other not-so-flattering
tales the London tabbies still told about him?

Then the girl straightened. “But there is one favor I might ask of you, my lord.”

“Anything,” Sebastian answered quickly.

“I believe my sister is without a partner for this set. Would you be so kind as to accompany her?”

Miss Rutledge had a sister? Younger or older? Whatever her age, if the beauty had to secure partners for her, then she was probably nothing less than an antidote. Sebastian suppressed a surge of irritation; if dancing with Miss Rutledge’s sister would get him into the lady’s good graces, then so be it. “Of course,” he replied, his smile fixed in place.

“Do not do anything you will regret, Penelope,” muttered Lady Portia.

“I cannot dance with two gentlemen at once, Mama.” The beauty’s words were brave enough, though her voice wavered. She fluttered her fan so violently that Sebastian half expected the delicate creation to break in two.

“Very well,” Lady Portia huffed. “But we shall discuss this later.”

Miss Rutledge sighed with obvious relief. “Jane? Where are you?” She glanced behind her. “Oh, there you are. What are you doing in the corner, dearest? Come, I have found you a partner for the allemande. My lord, I would like to present my younger sister, Miss Jane Rutledge. Jane, this is Viscount Langley.”

She propelled a small figure forward, and Sebastian found himself staring down into familiar, changeable gray-green eyes. Recognition lit those eyes, and the younger woman gasped.

Sebastian made little effort to temper his smile of satisfaction.
Well,
this
was unexpected! Never would he have imagined that the imp from his garden would turn out to be the sister of the most desirable heiress in London. A fortunate turn of events, indeed.

“I cannot tell you how delighted I am to make your acquaintance, Miss Jane,” he drawled.

Clearly she had not anticipated this meeting, either; the expression on her elfin features told him that she would rather go to the guillotine than dance with him. His smile turned mischievous as he took her hand and bowed over it. “Cat got your tongue, imp?” he murmured.

“How do you do, my lord?” The arctic tone of her voice matched the chill in her gray eyes.

Sebastian chuckled. From the sound of things, she would like to send
him
to the guillotine.

Then he realized that her discomfort did not stem from his presence alone. She stood, her body tense, her lowered gaze sliding from side to side, taking in the amused glances of the assembled gentlemen. Her cheeks bloomed a fetching shade of pink. For a moment the viscount almost felt sorry for her; she looked for all the world as though she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

He glanced between the sisters. Petite and slender, they bore a strong resemblance to one another, especially in their height and complexions, but Sebastian had to admit that from all outward appearances, Miss Jane seemed but a drab and faded version of her older sister. Even dressed in a pretty gown of soft rose pink, she could in no way compete with Miss Rutledge’s vivid loveliness. Most of her sister’s admirers seemed to either ignore her presence or, worse, tolerate it in a patronizing
sort of way. Small wonder she had sought refuge in the corner.

“Do not dawdle, Jane,” Lady Portia snapped. “You must not monopolize Lord Langley’s attention.”

Sebastian caught Nigel’s eye; a knowing look passed between them.

Lord Nigel turned to Lady Portia. “I must say, ma’am, the color of your gown is most fetching. Sardinian blue, is it not? Very few ladies wear it well, but on you it is captivating; it accentuates your flawless complexion. I vow that when I first met you, I mistook you for Miss Rutledge’s sister.”

The imp—strange to think she possessed so prosaic a name as Jane—stared in disbelief at her mother, who had begun to preen at Nigel’s fulsome praise.

Sebastian offered her his arm. “Let us make our escape while we have the chance.”

She placed her hand atop his sleeve, and he led her away from her sister’s circle of admirers and into the assembly of figures on the dance floor. As they took their place in the set, the neighboring couples eyed them with barely disguised curiosity.

“Well,
this
is rather awkward,” Jane muttered.

“But not, I hope, wholly unwelcome?” countered Lord Langley.

“That would depend upon one’s point of view, my lord,” she answered. “May I speak plainly?”

“Of course.”

She squared her shoulders. “My sister, though she means well, takes it upon herself to recruit gentlemen to dance with me. For her, your presence is a welcome circumstance. But as for me, although I like dancing very much, I find myself torn between social convention and
my own conscience, which remembers your conduct of this afternoon all too well.”

“Ah yes … that,” said the viscount with a slight grimace. “I owe you an apology, Miss Jane. I was not at my best this afternoon, and I fear I aimed the brunt of my ill temper at you. I behaved most abominably.”

Jane nearly faltered in the middle of the dance steps. This arrogant scoundrel, who had yelled at her (deservedly so, she had to admit), mocked her, then demanded a kiss of her—was apologizing? “I… I am astonished, my lord,” she managed to reply.

His grimace melted into a rueful grin. “What, astonished that I would beg your forgiveness? You must think me an unrepentant rogue, indeed.”

Despite herself, Jane found herself smiling back. “I do not know you well enough to say whether you are unrepentant or not, my lord.”

The viscount chuckled. “I see. I regret the somewhat dismal beginning to our acquaintance. Perhaps we should cry pax and start over.”

“I confess that would suit me very well. I would like to forget everything that happened this afternoon.”

“Everything?” he teased, an amused glint in his slate blue eyes.

The tips of her ears grew warm. “You are incorrigible, sir.”

“Better incorrigible than unrepentant. You see? I am improving already.”

“An admirable trend. I commend you.”

“Then allow me to continue it; this afternoon I found something that I believe belongs to you, and I would like to return it.”

Jane’s heart lurched sideways in her chest, and she
licked her suddenly dry lips. “And what would that be, my lord?”

“Two somethings, actually—a small book and your shawl. You must have dropped them when the branch collapsed.” He frowned. “Are you unwell? You have turned quite pale.”

Before she could reply, Lord Langley cupped her elbow and led her away from the crush of dancers. He settled her beside an open set of French doors. “Stay here, and I will fetch you some lemonade.”

“Th-thank you,” she stammered.

Panic closed around her throat as she watched him wend his way through the crowd toward the refreshment table. He had the List. Oh, sweet heaven … Had he read it? He gave no indication of having done so, but even if he had, would he admit it? Her hands grew clammy inside her leather gloves; the cuts and scratches on her fingers stung. Pen was never going to forgive her—

“Drink this.” Viscount Langley pressed a cup into her hand.

Jane sipped the lemonade, then made a face; the concoction could do with quite a bit more sugar, but she finished it, bitterness and all. The acrid, lemony tang restored her and unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said. “I feel a little better now.”

His concerned expression eased. “I am relieved to hear it. Would you like to rejoin your mother and sister?”

“No—not yet. Penelope would be alarmed and insist on taking me home immediately. I do not wish to spoil her evening.” Jane struggled to keep her voice steady.

“Then perhaps you would like to take a turn about the room and get some air.”

She nodded, then took his proffered arm.

“This leaves us with a bit of a problem,” he commented.

A tiny frown furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

“Had I known you would be here this evening, I might have arranged some discreet way to return your property to you, but now I realize it would not have been as easy as that. Your mother is quite … vigilant.”

“Yes, she is,” Jane agreed with a sigh. Even now she could all but feel Lady Portia’s vitriolic gaze drilling into her.

“And doubtless she would be curious if a package were to arrive for you,” he speculated.

“She would stand over me while I opened it.”

“Despite what you think of me, imp, I do desire to protect your reputation. So—how am I to get these things back to you? Do you have a maid you can trust?”

Jane thought of McBride and gave her head a vehement shake. “No, my lord. We are renting the house for the Season, and I know very little about the servants.”

“Then I am at a bit of a loss,” he confessed.

“Do you ride, my lord?”

He quirked a golden brown brow at her. “Of course.”

“By happy circumstance, so do I. As a matter of fact, I ride every morning in Hyde Park. If we were to encounter each other at the entrance to Rotten Row at, say, eight o’clock, no one would have cause to think anything of it, would they?”