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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

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She watched Nigel stand there, his innate politeness warring with his reluctance to leave his friend in her nefarious clutches. The look of dismay on his face almost made her laugh out loud.
“Capital,” exclaimed Major Stanton, clapping his friend on the shoulder. Nigel staggered slightly under the blow. “Run along now, Dash. I assure you, I'll take good care of her ladyship.”
He gave her an outrageous wink and, for the first time in days, Bathsheba began to enjoy herself.
Nigel hesitated, then gave his usual faultless bow but couldn't help muttering to himself as he moved off through the crowd. Major Stanton lifted his eyebrows and he and Bathsheba broke into laughter. He settled with easy grace onto the chair next to her.
“Never saw Dash act like that before,” he said. “I honestly thought he was going to refuse. Must have wanted to keep you all to himself.”
“Something like that,” she murmured.
They spent the next several minutes engaged in an amusing and lighthearted conversation. He quizzed her about life in London—claiming ignorance after so many years spent abroad in the army—and paid her any number of ridiculously entertaining compliments. The man was a hardened flirt, but she didn't think she'd mistaken the genuine interest in his gaze when it traveled over her.
A cautious hope dawned in her breast. It hardly seemed possible, but this just might be the man who could make her forget John Blackmore and solve her money problems at the same time.
When the orchestra struck up a waltz, Major Stanton broke off in the middle of an amusing tale about the latest antics of the royal princes. “Well, there's a piece of good luck. The first waltz of the evening and I just happen to be sitting next to the most beautiful woman in England. My dear lady, tell me that my luck will hold out and that no one else has engaged you to dance. I would hate to have to break the poor fool's head who tried to take you away from me.”
He was outrageous, but she laughed anyway. “I'm all yours, Major. If you want me.”
Something flickered in the cool blue gaze he leveled on her and, suddenly, what had been a light flirtation transformed into something much more serious.
“Oh, yes, Lady Randolph,” he answered in a low rumble. “I definitely want you.”
The moisture in her mouth evaporated, and she suddenly felt uneasy. But that was ridiculous, so she pinned a bright smile on her face and took his hand. After all, she could hardly afford to ignore the glorious opportunity that had just fallen into her lap.
“Lead on, Major,” she said.
He swept her onto the crowded floor. As he swung her into the first turn, his torso brushed against her, sending an unexpected and unwelcome flash of heat right down to her toes. He was big and hard, both graceful and unyielding in the way he held her just an inch too close to his chest. She looked up into his face and the polite words she had been about to speak froze on her tongue.
His gaze held both ruthless calculation and hot lust, a combination that startled her and set her nerves jangling once more. For the first time in a long time, Bathsheba felt trapped in a web not of her own making. She shivered, even though the room was hot and he held her fast in his arms. Something bad was happening, something she couldn't seem to control.
She dropped her eyes to his waistcoat, taking slow, even breaths—not an easy task with such an active dance partner. As she tried to focus on the steps, she silently berated herself for acting like a naïve fool. Flirtation and seduction were second nature to her, the most effective tools she possessed. This was what she wanted. No, needed. And she'd be damned if John Blackmore or any other man, including the one she was dancing with right now, would prevent her from reaching her goal.
“Lady Randolph?”
She looked up. He must have sensed her emotion, for he inspected her face with concern.
“Yes, Major?”
“Is something wrong?”
He seemed genuinely worried, and her nerves began to settle.
“I'm just a little overheated. I fell ill a few weeks ago, and I don't think I've recovered all my strength.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” he said. He slowed his steps as he eased her toward the edge of the dance floor. With a few graceful turns they were out of the crowd and standing in a window alcove.
“Blast Nigel,” he muttered as he scanned the room. “Where is he with that damned punch?”
A little spurt of laughter escaped her lips. “Really, Major, I'm fine. Please don't beat Mr. Dash when he comes back. I'm sure he thought I'd abandoned him. The fault is mine.”
He gave her a lopsided, apologetic grin, and the last bit of her anxiety died away. Major Stanton really was a very nice man, and exactly what she needed right now. Perhaps God had forgiven her all her sins, after all.
Someone cleared his throat loudly behind them. Bathsheba turned, and her heart sank when she encountered Robert Stanton's stony gaze. Grandson to General Stanton and brother to Sophie Stanton—now the Countess of Trask—young Robert had as much cause to hate her as anyone.
“Robert,” said Major Stanton. “What are you doing lurking about and making the ladies jump out of their skin? Where's your wife?”
“Annabel is sitting with Grandmama,” he replied. Then he turned from his cousin and gave Bathsheba an exquisitely correct bow.
“Good evening, Lady Randolph,” he said. “My wife tells me that you were recently ill. I'm very sorry to hear that.”
As Bathsheba murmured a polite reply, she had to acknowledge that none of the Stantons—or Simon, for that matter—had ever publicly snubbed her. They might hate her, but only the most astute observer would ever guess how they felt. Their conduct baffled her and left her feeling vaguely resentful.
As the three of them chatted about nothing, she couldn't help thinking what a fine young man Robert Stanton had turned into. She wished she could tell him she wasn't the ogre his family thought she was. That she would do anything to take back what she had done to his sister. But that was a lie, really. Bathsheba had been an ogre that autumn in Bath two years ago and, given the same situation, she didn't know if she'd act any differently now. To pretend otherwise would be cowardly and foolish.
Depression took up its familiar lodgings in her chest, and she couldn't completely stifle a sigh. The two men paused in their conversation and Major Stanton lifted an aristocratic brow. Now that she thought about it, he looked alarmingly like his uncle, General Stanton. Only much younger and better looking, of course.
After a quick glance at Bathsheba, Robert turned to the major.
“Sir, I hate to interrupt your conversation with Lady Randolph, but Grandmama sent me to fetch you. She says you haven't said a word to her all evening, and she insists you not neglect her a moment longer.”
Bathsheba's depression turned into an absolute fog of gloom. That was why Robert had butted in. His grandmother had sent him to rescue the unsuspecting major from the claws of the family's enemy.
So much for God's forgiveness
.
Major Stanton looked exasperated. “Robert, I'll be along shortly. But I have no intention of deserting Lady Randolph.”
“Of course not, dear fellow,” Robert spluttered. “I'd never suggest such a thing. I had every intention of escorting Lady Randolph down to supper myself.”
He turned to her with a brave smile, rather like the ones she imagined the Christian martyrs gave each other before they were thrown to the lions. Well, the Stantons could all go to perdition before she allowed herself to be an object of contempt—or pity.
“Indeed, that won't be necessary, Mr. Stanton. I'm sure your wife is already missing you,” she said, fixing a generous smile on her lips. “Major, of course you must see to your aunt. Family always comes first, you know. I'm a firm believer in that philosophy. I'm having supper with Mr. and Mrs. Ormond, so you needn't have a care about me. No, no,” she said as the major started to object. “I insist.”
“Well, my lady,” Major Stanton said with obvious reluctance, “if you insist. But I hope you will remember we didn't finish our waltz. Don't be surprised if I come to claim another.”
“I shall look forward to it,” she said with genuine warmth.
Robert made a quick bow, obviously relieved to have escaped from the lion's den, and practically dragged his protesting cousin away. Bathsheba watched them make their way to Lady Stanton's side before easing her way through the crowd to join the small knot of people who had clustered around Sarah.
“Darling,” cried her friend as she pulled her into the middle of the circle. “Isn't this a sad crush? Especially for August! It's a wonder we haven't all swooned away from the heat. And who was that ravishing officer you were dancing with?”
Bathsheba answered her questions absently, letting the conversation ebb and flow around her. All her attention was focused on Major Stanton and Lady Stanton, now deep in conversation on the other side of the room. Once, his head jerked up, as if he was startled, and his gaze searched for and then found her. He watched her for a few moments, and even across the length of the ballroom she could feel the change in his demeanor, could see his countenance grow hard. Then he turned back to his aunt and didn't look her way again.
The ache in Bathsheba's chest grew into an icy block, spreading its chill through every inch of her body. There would be no more waltzes with Major Stanton.
Chapter 11
Bathsheba would have snorted with derision if anyone had predicted she would find herself stalking the dirt paths of Green Park at ten o'clock on a Friday morning. The only other people up and about so early were nursemaids and their young aristocratic charges, duly trotted over for a bit of fresh air from the nearby streets of Mayfair. No fashionable person would be seen walking at this time of day, and if her friends saw her now they would likely think her touched in the head.
She'd awakened again at the crack of dawn—hot, restless, and sick of London in summer. That had never happened before, since she much preferred the city at any time of year to rusticating at Compton Manor, or just about anywhere in the countryside. If she could have afforded it, she would have decamped to Brighton with the Regent and the rest of his crowd. Not that it would likely make any difference. Bathsheba suspected she would be just as bored and restless in Brighton as in London.
She veered off the Broad Walk and headed in the direction of the ornamental dairy, her footman trailing discreetly behind her. Perhaps when her bad temper subsided she would stroll up to Hatchards. The search for a husband was providing precious little entertainment, but a new book might give her a bit of relief from the cares that pressed in on every side.
As if to remind her of the swift passage of time, a church bell tolled out the half hour. She had returned from Ripon two weeks ago and was no closer to finding a husband. Not that men didn't flock to her side. But what most of them wanted was something she could no longer afford to give. And, if she were honest with herself, she had to admit that her heart wasn't in the hunt. Every time she tried to develop an interest in a man—even on the most basic, physical level—all she could think of was John, and how much she missed him.
She scowled as she stomped along the path. The fact that she still ached for him made her want to scream. The blasted man was ruining her life, and if she were to ever see him again she might be sorely tempted to hit him over the head with the nearest heavy object.
Compounding the situation was the absolute dearth of interesting men in London, especially at this time of year. With the exception of Major Stanton, she had yet to meet one man who made her feel anything but depressed. If something didn't happen soon, she just might get desperate enough to have a go at Nigel Dash, even if he did loathe the very sight of her.
She sighed, slowing to a halt in front of the foolish but pretty little dairy that was the park's main attraction. The sting of humiliation still burned as she recalled that night at Lady Fancote's, and the way Major Stanton and his aunt had turned their identically cool, disapproving gazes on her. Even worse, whenever she encountered the major at a ball or a party, she had to resist the urge to blurt out an apology for the harm she had done his family. But she couldn't do that. Her actions had been taken to protect
her
family, and she could never be sorry for that.
She gave herself a shake and headed back to Piccadilly Street. Enough moping about. Her time would be much better spent in running through the potential list of candidates she had compiled in her mind.
As she strode up the path, she reviewed her options. Mr. Portnoy had an attractively large fortune, so large that Bathsheba could almost forget it had been acquired in trade. But Mr. Portnoy was almost as big as his bank account and, shallow creature that she was, she quailed at the thought of spending the rest of her life with a man who wore a corset.
Perhaps Lord Brompton might do. He was titled, rich, and not bad looking. But then she remembered his mother—a veritable dragon who barely let him out of her sight and, rumor had it, managed his finances.
That left only one man—Sir David Roston, a cultured, polished, and very wealthy baronet. He had shown her quite a lot of flattering attention over the last several months. Bathsheba had never considered him because his attentions had been more those of a friend than an aspiring lover. Because he was a good fifteen years older than her, it simply hadn't occurred to her that Sir David would be on the lookout for a wife. But now that she thought about it, lately, he had made a point of searching her out at every party they both happened to be attending. True, he had a very dreary sister who lived with him, but that could hardly be considered an obstacle. Sisters could always be taken care of, especially when their brothers were as rich as Sir David.
She halted in her tracks, ignoring her grumbling footman, who apparently grew tired of her stops and starts. The answer had been staring her in the face for days, but she'd been too dull-witted to see it. Sir David, who, fortuitously, would be at Sarah's dinner party this very evening. When Bathsheba returned home, she would send her friend a note asking her to make sure she and Sir David were seated next to each other. With a little luck, she could leg-shackle the man before the rest of the ton returned to London for the Little Season.
With a self-satisfied nod, she resumed her brisk pace up the walk. Sir David might not be the most exciting man in the world, but he would give her exactly what she needed.
As she made her way toward the gates leading onto Piccadilly, she happened to glance to her right. A young and very pregnant woman was leaning heavily on another woman as they slowly made their way to a shaded bench.
Bathsheba paused. The pregnant woman appeared distressed, and the girl accompanying her—a servant, from the looks of her attire—seemed on the verge of tears.
She frowned, glancing around, but no one else was anywhere close to the two women. Grumbling under her breath, she abandoned the path and cut across the lawn toward the bench. Her visit to Hatchards would have to wait.
As she moved closer and finally got a good look at the pregnant woman, Bathsheba had to stifle a groan. It was Meredith, Marchioness of Silverton, niece by marriage to General and Lady Stanton, and sister to Annabel Stanton, Robert's wife.
Oh, joy.
More opportunities to be snubbed by a Stanton. Bathsheba cast another quick glance around, but she and her footman seemed to be the only people in this corner of the park. Lady Silverton had obviously not brought her own footman, and her maid looked ready to launch into a fit.
Bathsheba hurried over to Lady Silverton just as she sank down on to the bench.
“Oh, Lady Silverton,” exclaimed the maid in a quavering voice. “His lordship will have my head if anything happens to you. I knew we shouldn't have left the carriage.” She ended on a high note of hysteria.
“Hush, now, Grace,” gasped Lady Silverton. “I'll be fine. I just need to rest for a minute.”
Fixing a smile on her face, Bathsheba stepped up to the bench. “Lady Silverton, forgive my impertinence, but I couldn't help noticing that you seemed unwell. Might I be of assistance?”
Lady Silverton looked up, her face pale and her skin damp with perspiration. Any reluctance Bathsheba might have felt died as alarm took its place. The woman really did look sick.
Lady Silverton's weary gray eyes flashed with recognition and, Bathsheba thought, relief.
“Oh! Lady Randolph,” she said, trying to smile but failing miserably. “How do you do? I feel so foolish, but I can't seem to catch my breath. My carriage is waiting outside the park, but for some reason I don't have the strength to walk back to it. I wanted to send Grace to fetch one of the footmen, but she wouldn't leave me.”
Grace hovered over her mistress, wringing her hands. “Oh, I couldn't leave you, my lady. Lord Silverton would—”
“Have your head,” Bathsheba interjected dryly. “Yes, we heard you. I suspect everyone in the park heard you.”
The maid jerked back, as if Bathsheba had just given her a bracing slap. Good. The last thing Lady Silverton needed was for her maid to succumb to the vapors.
Grace started to bristle but Bathsheba ignored her, turning back to the marchioness.
“Lady Silverton, where exactly is your carriage?”
“At the other end of the walk,” she answered, pointing in the direction of Piccadilly. She took a deep breath and rested her hands on top of her huge belly, as if to protect the precious cargo she carried inside.
Bathsheba glanced at the maid. “You, er, Grace, is it? Go find her ladyship's carriage and have the coachman bring it to the top of the walk. My footman and I will escort your mistress out of the park as soon as she has rested a bit.”
Grace looked offended, but Lady Silverton gave her a weak smile and a nod. The maid spun on her heel and marched up the walk.
Bathsheba inspected Lady Silverton's pale, beautiful face. Little rivulets of sweat were trickling down from under her bonnet, plastering her thick black hair to her neck. She seemed to be focused inward, her eyes half-closed as she took small, gasping breaths.
As Bathsheba sat down next to the marchioness, she pulled a handkerchief out of her reticule, fighting a rising irritation. What in God's name was the silly woman doing out in this heat, especially in her condition?
“Forgive me, your ladyship,” she said, “but I think we should take off your bonnet.”
Lady Silverton's eyes snapped open as Bathsheba began to untie the silk ribbons of her fashionable, high-crowned hat.
“Oh, no,” she protested weakly. “I'm sure I'll be better in a few minutes. I just can't seem to catch my breath.”
“You're overheated,” Bathsheba replied as she gently removed the bonnet and placed it on the bench.
Lady Silverton sighed with relief and gratefully took the offered handkerchief, dabbing her sweat-dampened temples and forehead.
“You must think me a complete idiot, Lady Randolph. I'm absolutely mortified that you had to see me in so humiliating a situation. For a countrywoman to succumb to the heat this way is disgraceful.”
Bathsheba relaxed a bit. It appeared that this Stanton, at least, was not going to bite her head off. Of course, Lady Silverton hadn't been born into the aristocracy, and was barely tolerated by some members of the ton even though she had married one of the most powerful men in the land. By all accounts, she had none of the arrogant attitude so often displayed by her in-laws.
“Well, I did wonder what you were doing out here. You look quite . . .” Bathsheba delicately let her voice trail off.
Lady Silverton grimaced. “Enormous?”
Bathsheba laughed. “I was about to say somewhat pale and sickly, but I suppose enormous is a better description.”
Humor flashed through the marchioness's eyes. They really were extraordinary, now that she got a closer look. Huge and gray, with thick black lashes, and full of curiosity as she turned her gaze on Bathsheba.
“Ridiculous, isn't it? I'm not due for another month, yet I look bigger than the Prince Regent. It's a wonder my husband can stand the sight of me.”
Bathsheba grinned. “Nonsense. All pregnant women are beautiful. And I've noticed how your husband looks at you. It's obvious to the whole world he worships at your feet.”
Lady Silverton blushed, and it brought some color back into her cheeks. “It's sweet of you to say so, but it's been weeks since I've been able to see my feet.”
She took a deep inhalation, breathing more easily. Her skin, which a few minutes ago had been dead white, now kept its faint, pink tinge as she seemed more comfortable.
“Do you think you might be able to walk back to your carriage now? Thomas and I will help you.”
Lady Silverton nodded. Bathsheba replaced her bonnet on her head, leaving the ribbons untied.
“Thomas,” she murmured. The footman stepped forward and they each took one of Lady Silverton's arms, helping her carefully to her feet. Not an easy task, given both her considerable height and her bulging belly.
The marchioness staggered a bit as she came to her feet. Bathsheba steadied her, even though the woman must be a good seven inches taller than her.
Lady Silverton huffed in exasperation. “You wouldn't think such a long meg as I am would have so much trouble carrying a babe.”
“Lord Silverton is very tall, as well. Your baby probably takes after the both of you.”
They slowly made their way up the path toward Piccadilly, Thomas on one side of the marchioness, Bathsheba on the other.
“So you're saying that my baby is probably a giant?” said Lady Silverton, a faint laugh in her voice.
“I think it quite likely. My lady, please don't be afraid to lean on me. I may be small but I'm strong. And Thomas, as you can see, is a very sturdy fellow.”
As they approached the edge of the park, Bathsheba looked ahead. To her surprise, she encountered the astonished gazes of Lady Stiles and her freckly-faced daughter, standing not ten feet away. What were they doing in Green Park at this hour of the day?
“Oh, no,” groaned Lady Silverton under her breath.
Bathsheba gave her hand an encouraging squeeze, but remained silent. No one had to tell her that Lady Stiles and her daughter were incurable and malicious gossips.

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