For Love Alone (5 page)

Casually, she looked around, her gaze locking almost instantaneously with that of a tall, hard-faced gentleman standing in the small alcove to her left. A jolt of something she could not define flashed through her as their eyes remained fixed on each other. Fear? Excitement? Anticipation? Or dread?

She could not look away from him, the impact of his bold stare so overwhelming that she simply stood there helpless, unaware of anything happening around her. It was only when his gaze dropped to the man standing next to him that she was able to jerk her eyes away and became aware of Marcus laughing at something Andrew had said.

Shaken, she forced a smile and tried to pretend the odd moment had never happened. It was only by the greatest effort that she kept herself from looking again in the stranger's vicinity.

“Oh, I say,” Lord Coleman murmured from where he stood at her side, “here comes Percival Forrest. Did not expect to see him at this sort of affair.”

“Who is that big, bruising-looking fellow with him?” asked Caldwell. “I do not believe that I have met him before.”

Percival advanced upon them before Caldwell's question could be answered and, bowing gracefully before Sophy, said, “Lady Marlowe, how delightful to see you again. How have you been?”

Sophy made some reply, unbearably aware of the tall, intimidating stranger at Percival's side.

“Lady Marlowe, allow me to introduce my friend Viscount Harrington,” Percival went on smoothly. “Like you, this is his first London Season.”

Coolly acknowledging Lord Harrington, Sophy thought her heart would literally stop when her eyes plunged once again into the depths of his devil green stare. He smiled at her, a smile that made her heart kick into a mad gallop, and she did not know if that smile was the most exciting thing she had ever seen or the most terrifying.

I
ntroductions were exchanged with the other members of the group around Sophy, but she was hardly aware of anything but the imposing man in front of her. He was definitely not handsome, she decided judiciously, as his features were too harsh and forbidding. But there was something about him ... something dashingly attractive about his dark, craggy visage and those glinting green eyes.

Even when he turned away to acknowledge the other introductions and she was no longer the object of his forthright stare, she was tangibly aware of Lord Harrington. And she did not like it. The man was simply too arrogant by half! The way he had looked at her—as if she were a tempting morsel he might snatch up and consume at any moment. By the Devil's eyes! She would like him to just try it.

Lord Harrington's name was not unknown to her. There had been much gossip about him when he had arrived in London a few weeks ago, and Sophy had naturally heard the bare facts surrounding his unexpected ascension to his new title. That he was looking for a wife had also been mentioned, along with news that half the young ladies of the ton were sighing over him and eagerly setting their caps for him.

If he had flashed those same swooning young damsels the sort of look he had just sent her, she reflected wryly, their reactions were understandable. Of course,
she
was utterly indifferent to him. It would do him no good to waste his charms on her. In fact, she admitted with unaccustomed malice, she would take great delight in spurning him.

Sophy was appalled at her own thoughts. Under lowered lashes she studied him, wondering why he aroused so much antagonism in her breast. He was no threat to her, and had done nothing out of the ordinary. Well, he
had
stared. Still, she had no honest reason to feel as she did.

She had absolutely no interest in him whatsoever, she told herself stoutly. Not as a lover, if I were inclined to take a lover, which I am not, thank you very much. And as for a husband! She nearly snorted aloud. Viscount Harrington was certainly not the sort of man she would choose to wed
if
she were ever foolish enough to marry again.

Without warning, his eyes met hers, and Sophy was conscious of the way her stomach seemed to drop right down to her toes. She returned his stare squarely, unable to let him win even in this small skirmish. His dark head dipped almost imperceptibly, as if he were acknowledging the challenge she had thrown him.

A militant sparkle leaped to her eyes and a flush stained her cheeks. Suddenly she felt wonderfully alive, and the evening, which she had viewed with boredom, had become inexplicably exciting. With a toss of her golden head, she coolly looked away and murmured a quip to Lord Coleman that brought a smile to his face.

Despite telling herself that she was a fool, Sophy could not help listening with more than polite interest to the conversation between two gentlemen near her.

“Have you been in London long?” Lord Coleman asked Harrington politely.

“Since mid-March. And I must say that it has been a fascinating experience so far.”

“Really?” drawled Sir Alfred in languid tones, a supercilious expression on his face. “My dear fellow, a word of advice—one should never
admit
to enjoying the London Season.”

“I did not say that I was enjoying it,” Ives returned lightly, a gleam in his green eyes, “merely that having spent my youth in the military and these past years fighting in the wars, I have been finding it . . . somewhat titillating.”

Sir Alfred looked displeased, but it was Thomas Sutcliff who asked eagerly, “Have you fought against Bony himself?”

“His armies,” Ives returned with a grin. “The majority of my service has been in India and Egypt. I cannot claim to have actually crossed swords with the Little Corporal himself.”

The younger men looked impressed and embarked on endless questions about Ives's military exploits. Sophy was curious herself and though she had already decided that Viscount Harrington was not a gentleman she cared to know better, she thought Marcus and the others would do well to emulate someone of his stamp rather than of Sir Arthur Caldwell's or Lord Coleman's.

Harrington's relationship with Percival Forrest gave her pause, however. She had not forgotten that Forrest had been one of Simon's newest cronies before he had died. But for the moment, she saw no harm in allowing Marcus to embark upon a friendship with the viscount.

Shortly, Forrest and Lord Harrington took their leave and a few minutes later Marcus, having ascertained that the young lady who had captured his interest was not amongst the throng crowding the Denning house, declared the evening a devilish bore and suggested that they go on to more exciting entertainments. Since they had stayed their allotted time, everyone was in agreement.

Their stop at the Dennings' had been the last social engagement that Sophy had planned to attend that evening. She was quite happy when she was finally settled into Sir Alfred's carriage and it was heading toward the Grayson town house. It was past midnight, and though the comings and goings of the ton could last until after four in the morning, she was longing for bed.

Having seen Sophy to the door, Marcus and the others took their leave of her, eager to partake of more masculine entertainments. She was aware that Lord Coleman would have liked to linger, but she gave him no encouragement. After kissing her hand with more warmth than was polite, he had joined the others.

Once inside the house, Sophy smiled at the waiting butler. “Oh, Emerson,” she said, as she delicately stifled a yawn, “I am so tired. I never knew that London could be so exhausting.”

Emerson made a polite reply, his blue eyes twinkling in sympathy. Sophy had hired him, along with his wife, an excellent housekeeper, on Lord Coleman's recommendation, and she had liked them both the instant she had laid eyes on them. Whether it was Emerson's exceedingly kind expression or Mrs. Emerson's bustling cheerfulness that had won her over Sophy did not know. Certainly, they had proved themselves to be hardworking, efficient, and pleasant to a fault.

After telling Emerson that he need not wait up for Marcus, Sophy bid the butler good night and went upstairs. She had been positive that the moment her head hit the pillow she would be sound asleep. Instead, to her annoyance, she was rather restless and alert. Her annoyance grew when a dark face with mocking green eyes and a brigand's smile kept hopping into her thoughts.

Blast the man! I am not the least bit interested in him. He is just another stranger, a gentleman whose path I happened to cross and, if I have anything to say about it, will not cross again.

Having thoroughly convinced herself of this, she was finally able to banish Harrington's disturbing presence from her mind and drift off to sleep. Sleep, however, betrayed her. Harrington, his green eyes challenging, his bold mouth laughing, relentlessly pursued her through her dreams.

 

After Ives had departed from Sophy's presence, he knew there was no reason for him to remain at the Dennings' house, having just left behind the only fascinating creature present. His search for a wife, he admitted glumly, was over for the night.

Although Sophy Marlowe was out of the question as a prospective bride, Ives was astute enough to realize that for the moment, hers was the only image he would judge any other lady against. And he suspected—nay, was bitterly certain—they would all be found lamentably lacking.

Jane Scoville's daughter, he thought disgustedly as he and Percival left the Dennings' house behind and made for one of the St. James's Street clubs in Ives's comfortable coach. Of all the women there tonight, why did
she
have to take my fancy?

“You do not look very happy,” Percival remarked, after a quick glance at Ives's face.

“I am not,” Ives growled. “I am bloody furious! And I am thinking that it is palpably unfair for a heartless jade like Jane Scoville to have whelped that little golden butterfly we just left behind.”

“Sophy? Need I remind you that you were the one who wanted to meet her?”

“Whether or not I wanted to meet her is beside the point! She is a complication I do not need. My sole purpose, before tonight, for being in London was to find a suitable wife. Suddenly, meeting Jane's brats has changed all that.”

“You could just forget about them,” Percival offered. “Let sleeping dogs lie and all that.”

Ives speared him with a glance. “You expect me to forget what Jane did to Robert? Am I to forget that she drove him to suicide?”

Percival shrugged. As he had grown older and was able to consider Robert's suicide independently of Ives's oft-stated opinion, Percival had decided that Robert had been something of a weak, selfish fool. Of course, he would never say such a thing to Ives! And Percival had not been alone in his regard of Robert's feet of clay. Robert's own father had often stated that he had not been quite the golden young god his family believed him to be.

Be that as it may, Ives had idolized Robert and over the years had endowed his dead brother with many virtues and traits which had been utterly lacking in the live person. Robert's death, while tragic and senseless, had occurred at a particularly impressionable age for Ives. He had, unfortunately, never quite dealt with the reality of it. To do so, Percival thought slowly, would have forced Ives to see his brother as he really had been, a spoiled and self-centered young man who had been solely responsible for his own death.

Robert had made the choice. To hold some resentment against Jane for her treatment of Robert, Percival understood. To blame her entirely, as if Robert had had no say in the matter, was not the conclusion of an intelligent man—something he knew Ives to be.

There were few men Percival truly admired and respected, and Ives Harrington was one of them. Brave, honest, fair, and loyal; Ives was all of those things and more. It was only in this one area that Percival ever found fault with Ives: his blind, stubborn idolization of Robert.

When Percival remained silent, Ives demanded, “Well?”

Consideringly, Percival studied him. A thought occurred to him. “You know,” he said neutrally, “there is a perfect way for you to extract your revenge if you are dead set on it . . . you could challenge young Grayson to a duel and kill him.”

At the look of appalled outrage that crossed Ives's face, Percival almost smiled and glanced away quickly to hide his expression. Seemingly absorbed in the act of plucking an imaginary speck of lint off his jacket sleeve, he went on casually, “In fact, it is a rather clever scheme, if I do say so myself. You kill young Marcus, and Robert will truly be avenged. Jane brought about Robert's death; so it is only logical that you kill Jane's son.”

“Of all the bubble-headed nonsense I have ever heard!” Ives burst out explosively. “If I were to face that young man on the dueling field, it would be tantamount to cold-blooded murder. He seems a likeable cub—I would have to be a black-hearted fiend to consider such a plan. What do you take me for, a killer of innocents?”

“It was just a suggestion,” Percival said dulcetly. “I mean it would make just as much sense to use Marcus to gain your revenge as his older sister, would it not?”

Ives shot his friend a narrow-eyed glance. He was not a stupid man, and he realized immediately what his friend was doing. The guileless face Percival turned his way confirmed his suspicions. A reluctant laugh was dragged out of him.

“Damn you, Percival!” he said cheerfully. “Must you be so deucedly logical? Though it pains me to admit it, I see your point.” Handsomely he added, “And of course, you are right—if revenge were my only motive, Marcus would make as much a target as his sister—perhaps easier. I am sure if I put my mind to it, I could find a way to insult him and create a reason for a duel. But you ignore the fact that it is not Marcus who arouses my, er, antagonism . . .” He smiled wolfishly at his friend. “And since you have unerringly put your finger on the flaw in my plans, shall we simply say that my interest in the young lady is not
entirely
devoted to thoughts of vengeance?”

“Ives,” Percival began worriedly, his amusement having fled, “why must you have anything to do with Lady Marlowe? Has it not occurred to you that to trifle with her may be dangerous? Her husband is dead. And there are some people who believe that she killed him. Does this not give you pause?”

“Nay, it does not,” Ives returned blithely. “I like a good fight. I always have. Marcus would be no match for me, but the little butterfly . . . I suspect she will reveal wings of finely honed steel. And as for her reputation, it only adds spice to the situation and whets my appetite further. I think I am going to enjoy crossing swords with the formidable Marquise Marlowe.”