One Tempting Proposal (5 page)

“Yes, I will dance with you, Your Grace.”

Move, go, walk away.
Her glued-­to-­the-­floor feet were the least of her problems. Every individual in the circle around Kitty broke into a grin. Even the duke who'd been so eager to castigate her in the sitting room wore a pleased smirk that tilted precariously toward smug.

She usually made a man work a bit harder to secure a dance with her, and the little group seemed terribly pleased with her acquiescence. As if she'd finally transformed from an obstinate mare into a tame show filly, as compliant and biddable as every daughter of a marquess ought to be.

But it was only one dance. She hadn't agreed to marry the man. No matter how much his gaze unsettled her, her determination not to take the bridle her father had been attempting to impose all her life hadn't wavered. Not even when Wrexford touched her. One dance with the man meant nothing. He was a wealthy duke, practically the brother of the man Hattie wished to marry. Dancing with him would be impossible to avoid. Why not dispense with it now and settle any awkwardness between them? Perhaps it would ease the buzzing in her belly.

S
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as Kitty rushed away, Miss Benson and Pippa falling in behind her in a symphony of swishing satin and taffeta silk. But the mirth ebbed and his face stiffened until he was certain he was grimacing rather than indicating an ounce of the pleasure he felt at the notion of having Lady Katherine in his arms.

What have I done?

He'd given into impulse again, as if he'd abandoned ten years of staid studious behavior the minute he crossed the threshold of the Marquess of Clayborne's front door. Waltzing was nothing he excelled at. He'd danced one waltz in life, and done it very ill. Lord Moreland's daughter had been incredibly patient as he'd whirled the girl around her father's ballroom. She'd stifled her winces of pain with the fortitude of a soldier. But no one had missed how the poor thing had hobbled away afterward.

“Well done, Your Grace. My sister is very particular about who she admits onto her dance card.” Lady Harriet stared at him as if he'd just trounced a dragon. Or a tigress.

“Yes, well . . .” Seb glanced down at his feet, a chance to glare them into submission and avoid Lady Harriet's overeager gaze.

“What's this I hear? Seb, are you to stand up with Lady Katherine? Well done, indeed.” Ollie added his exuberance as he approached and then turned his attention to Lady Harriet. “Shall we join this set, sweet?”

Now it was the young lady's turn to avert her gaze. She blushed, the peach stain setting her skin aglow, and nodded before taking Ollie's arm and allowing him to lead her back into the fray of dancing ­couples.

Which left Seb alone to contemplate his foolishness.

Lady Katherine had stared at him with such indifference after their encounter in the sitting room. As if none of what passed between them had affected her beautiful practiced composure. As if her eyes hadn't widened and her pulse hadn't thudded as his had the moment he'd touched her skin. But however much he wanted to know if Katherine Adderly was soft and pliant in his arms, or as sharp and flinty as her green glare, making a fool of both of them wouldn't help Ollie's plan to woo her sister.

He longed for a bit of Pippa's resourcefulness. As a child she'd had an agile mind, but now, as a young woman, she was absolutely fearsome in her pursuit of skills and knowledge. Pippa assured him one could learn anything by reading a book on the subject and then practicing to the point of proficiency.

Why hadn't he at least perused a damned book on dancing?

Ollie and Lady Harriet swooped past him. The man's eyes were alight with a contented bliss the likes of which Seb had never seen, and certainly never experienced himself.

He stretched up, straightening his back, reaching out to align each cuff. He could do this. For Ollie. For old Wrexford and the title he'd left to Seb, one he was still learning to accept as his own. And for Pippa, who deserved a brother who was, if not brilliant at dancing, at least better than a complete ballroom dunderhead.

Now to wait for the next waltz and ignore the tingle at the center of his palms. One of his palms would soon be pressed against hers, his other nestled in the curve of her waist. Would she be warm in his arms? He vowed then and there not to lick his lips when he tasted vanilla in the air around her, and heaven forbid he duck his head to draw in the aroma mingled with the unique scent of her skin.

He flicked his gaze left and right to ensure none glimpsed whatever ridiculous expression settled on his face while he indulged in lascivious meanderings—­and about the worst-­behaved woman at the ball. Lady Katherine engaged in just the sort of petty gossip and troublemaking he loathed.

But he'd glimpsed something else beyond her formidable exterior. When he'd found her in that empty room, she'd been crying, and he had no doubt the malicious sneers of her friends had been the cause. Why had they turned on her? Perhaps those who engaged in idle talk about others were most likely to become the victim of it themselves.

“Don't let her lead.”

Seb had been so consumed with thoughts of Lady Katherine that he hadn't noticed her sister and Ollie return to his side.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Kitty,” Lady Harriet continued in a conspiratorial tone. “Papa says from the moment of her first formal dance, my sister has always tried to lead. You shouldn't let her.”

Wonderful.
Not only did he need to worry about not treading on the lady's feet, but he would have to wrestle the reins from her too.

 

Chapter Five

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flirting with spring for weeks, with warm sunny days followed by rain and cool breezes. The day of the ball brought an onslaught of showers that had her mother fretting about muddy floors and drenched guests, but Kitty welcomed the embrace of dense moist air as she stepped onto the balcony. She needed it to chase away the overheated flush she'd been unable to shake since her encounter with the Duke of Wrexford. Resting her hands on the balustrade at the balcony's edge, she drew in long drams of fresh air.

The longer she contemplated it, the more certain she became. She couldn't dance with the man. Feigned illness or a broken heel would suffice as an excuse. Why should she endure another moment of his self-­righ­teous disdain? He was in
her
home. And he was a novice at the games involved in a London season. He could look as elegant as he liked in his well-­tailored evening suit and flash that irritatingly lovely grin, but she didn't miss the little tells of distress—­the pinch of his mouth, the occasional narrowing of his eyes and clenching of his fists—­as he stood along the edge of the ballroom. He looked lost, completely out of his depth. For a man used to dusty lecture halls at Cambridge, the heat and noise and constant movement of a ballroom must seem quite an overwhelming muddle. And whom did he know? Beyond his sister and Mr. Treadwell, was there a single face he recognized among the guests?

Even if she hadn't perceived his discomfort, the fact that he'd asked her to dance proved his ineptitude. The man didn't have the sense to know his host's eldest daughter wasn't on offer like all the other eager misses. Was he unaware she'd turned down six offers of marriage and refused thrice as many suitors? Perhaps he'd yet to hear her referred to as Cruel Kitty or Coy Kitty or, as one blunt nobleman had put it, “not at all worth the effort.”

That comment had cut her, a stunningly sudden and sharp pain, and brought her as close to fainting as she'd ever come in her life. She hated the baron who'd said it for that most of all, that he'd found a weak spot, the chink in her armor of polite smiles and practiced poise.

“Are you well, Lady Katherine?”

At Lady Philippa Fennick's resonant voice, Kitty drew in a bracing lungful of cool air, straightened her shoulders, and turned to face the two young women who'd followed her out of doors.

“I brought Miss Benson out to ask her the very same question.”

Annabel stiffened and began shaking her head before replying. “Me? Yes, of course. I'm fine. Why do you ask, Lady Katherine?”

So it was to be ice between them now, the frosting over of any of the easiness they'd achieved beyond polite civility. Men did wreak such havoc on female friendships, and they weren't even vying for the same one. But Annabel's cool tone wasn't wholly undeserved. Kitty should have shielded the girl from Cynth and the others, or at least seen to it that Robert Wellesley asked Annabel to dance.

Annabel had never been anything but kind, if a bit too naive about men and the wide world around her.

“If you mean Mr. Wellesley . . .” The girl tried to say more, but his name seemed to tangle her in knots and she twisted her gloved hands and turned away to compose herself.

“Balls and soirees, particularly the first of the season, seem to bring out the worst in all of us.” In herself especially, but Kitty bit back the admission. After all, Cynthia Osgood had been the one to laugh and point at Annabel. Kitty suspected it was half inspired by Cynth's wish that
she'd
been the one Wellesley had asked for the first dance. The man was handsome enough to turn friend against friend, but Kitty couldn't comprehend why the ladies bickered over him. Rob was almost too pretty, and he was overly fond of his own witticisms. No woman would ever impress him as much as he amused himself. His too obvious charms had never unsettled Kitty half as much as a few minutes spent in the Duke of Wrexford's company.

“Why should balls make ­people cross and unkind? I imagined them as nothing but music and merriment and the stuff of happy memories.” Lady Pippa's achingly sincere tone caused a pinch of jealousy in Kitty. Could any young woman truly possess so much youthful innocence? The duke's sister had to be nearly her own age, yet she seemed so fresh and unbruised by life's disappointments. Love must have been showered on her as a child, and what a blissful family the Fennicks must have been to produce such an optimistic young woman.

Kitty couldn't imagine familial bliss. Not anymore. She'd tried as a child, with her cutout paper doll family, smiles carefully drawn on their faces, but years of family rows and resentments, and her failure to obtain an iota of the approval and love she'd sought from her father, had taught her differently.

Stepping toward Lady Philippa, Kitty studied the young woman's high cheekbones, waves of glossy dark hair, and stunning amber eyes. She was a beauty, and a singular one. With a bit more guile and understanding of how to play the game, the duke's sister could best them all.

Tapping her bottom lip a moment, Kitty considered how many of the young woman's illusions to shatter.

“Some see it less as a ballroom and more as a battleground.”

It was the only battleground on which she held the balance of power against her father. After four seasons, dozens of suitors, and all her rejected marriage proposals, her final
yes
to a man of whom he would approve was the only weapon remaining in her arsenal, and she wouldn't deploy it carelessly. That withheld
yes
was her single portion of independence. After twenty-­three years, she'd learned to manage her father's attempts to exert control. But how might a husband stifle and control her? Why give another man the power to dictate her actions and choices?

The duke's sister narrowed her gaze, lowering her sable eyelashes as if Kitty had just read the opening lines of the worst sort of penny dreadful, and she considered every word of it dubious at best.

“If we could all step into the basket of an aeronaut's balloon and ascend high above that room . . .” Kitty stepped toward the French doors that led back into the ballroom, staring through the windows until the living palette of rich-­hued gowns and men dressed in evening black and white blurred in her field of vision. “We'd see men and women moving with as much strategy as any battle commander has ever employed.”

Lady Philippa had drawn to Miss Benson's side by the time Kitty turned her attention back to them. The two were shivering, but she couldn't be certain if a glimpse of harsh reality or the increasingly bitter wind was the cause. She didn't wish to frighten the young women, merely to equip them. Ladies like Cynthia Osgood would relish the opportunity to take advantage of Lady Philippa's naiveté and Miss Benson's infatuation.

“Women's futures depend on their success in that room. Men's happiness rest on the choices they make. Is it any wonder we all take it far too seriously?”

The young women stared at her, lips parted, as if they might offer a retort. Perhaps they were wondering why they'd decided to accompany Kitty onto a balcony so that she could drain all of the enjoyment from their evening. The music filtering out from the ballroom had reached a lull, a brief respite before the musicians would play the next waltz. The duke would come looking for his sister, or perhaps for Kitty herself to claim his dance. And Wellesley might search out Annabel. The man couldn't see that the girl was besotted with him, but he was hawkishly protective of her in a brotherly way.

“Though I admit to having doubts before, I now appreciate the appeal of a grand ball, and I intend to enjoy every minute of this one,” Lady Philippa announced. Her lip quivered and Kitty feared she'd have to explain to the most daunting man she'd ever met why she'd caused his sister to cry, but then the young woman pursed her lips, turned, and stomped toward the doors, wrenching one open before calling to Miss Benson.

“Are you coming, Annabel?”

Annabel nodded at Lady Philippa before turning back to Kitty. “You should come too, Kitty. It's freezing out here.” Kitty heard a hint of Annabel's usual warmth in her tone. It was the opening she needed to swallow her pride.

“Forgive me, Annabel.”

They were the wrong words to say. A tear welled up, glittering in the moonlight, and Annabel blinked her eyes a moment to set it on its path down her wind-­rouged cheek. “Of course I do. Thank you for an invitation to the ball.”

The words were still too polite for Kitty's taste.

“It's not your fault he doesn't notice me, Kitty. You can't make Rob see me, or force him to dance with me.”

As Kitty watched Annabel follow Lady Philippa back into the ballroom, a scented swell of warm air rushed through the doors to surround her, to lure her back into the fray.

It truly had turned bitterly cold, and Kitty wrapped her arms around herself as she considered Annabel's plight.

Kitty acknowledged that she might not possess the power to make a man recognize a woman's love for him, but this was her father's home and her mother's meticulously planned ball. Surely, she did have the ability to force one silly man to dance with one terribly smitten girl.

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hope for it. He'd have beg off. It'd been bad enough treading on the Moreland girl's feet. He couldn't hobble a marquess's daughter at the first grand ball of the season, especially when Oliver was determined to marry the woman's sister.

And judging by what he'd seen of the Marquess of Clayborne, Seb didn't envy Ollie the task of convincing the nobleman of anything. Every time Seb thought he caught a bit of pleasure in the marquess's expression, the man's face turned hard in the next instant and he glared at his guests as if wishing them all anywhere but in his ballroom.

Seb was beginning to wish he were anywhere else too. The musicians had struck up again, and ­couples paired off and took their places in the center of the ballroom for the second waltz. Oliver and Hattie were among the dancers, standing much too close to one another, cocooned in the bliss of young love and oblivious to anything as unromantic as propriety or those rules of etiquette of which Lady Katherine seemed so fond.

Then he saw Pippa and Miss Benson enter the ballroom. Their mouths had gone pale and they chafed their hands and upper arms as if to ward off a chill. Worse, they were unaccompanied. Had they truly followed their host's daughter onto the balcony only to leave her out in the cold on her own? And why was he so concerned with the woman's whereabouts? The next time he saw her, he'd have to manage a waltz without trouncing on her toes.

Seb made his way toward his sister, wending past Lady Katherine's group of friends, ignoring stares and trying not to bristle at the sense of being stripped bare as they assessed him. He turned his head to meet the gaze of the boldest among them who'd moved to position herself in his path, a dark-­haired beauty with eyes as cold and devoid of warmth as chips of onyx.

“Your Grace.” The young woman dipped her head and made a slight bending motion, an uninspired version of a curtsy.

They hadn't been introduced, but Seb couldn't bring himself to be as rude as she'd been to Miss Benson. He nodded to acknowledge her and continue on his way just as Katherine Adderly stepped into the ballroom, halting him midstride. Half expecting her to approach and claim the waltz he'd offered, he shivered with a trickle of anticipation at the prospect. But she didn't spare him a single glance before making her way toward the young buck. Wellesley, Ollie had called him.

Seb almost felt sorry for the peacock. Eyes flashing with determination, stride quick and forceful, Lady Katherine looked like Athena marching into battle. And Wellesley defended himself as well as he was able in the middle of a ballroom, crossing his arms over his chest and taking two steps back when she reached his side.

They were too far away for Seb to hear their discussion but from the vigor of the man's nods and the way she kept wagging her finger at him, Seb guessed the lady would get her way, whatever she was after. He suspected she usually did.

The Wellesley gent tipped back the glass of whatever he'd been drinking, handed the vessel to an unsuspecting chap nearby, sketched a half-­hearted bow in Lady Katherine's direction, and set off on the mission she'd given him. His stride nearly matched hers for determination as he beelined toward Pippa and Miss Benson. Both young women looked as shocked as Mr. Wellesley had been when Lady Katherine approached him, if a good deal less frightened. Miss Benson blinked several times before allowing the young man to take her hand and lead her to the edge of the ballroom floor to wait for the next set.

“Do you think it's a trick?”

Seb heard Pippa's voice before he saw her emerge through a group of ladies and gentlemen gathered near his edge of the ballroom. Rather than move around them, she'd reached out an arm to force her own path, whispering excuses and ignoring their irritated glares and tuts of disapproval as she passed.

“Careful, Pippa.” She stumbled as she drew near, and Seb reached out a hand to steady her.

“If she's engineered this to humiliate Annabel, you can't possibly dance with her.” She was upset and a bit disheveled, strands of hair breaking free every which way. She scooped several behind her ear. “And despite Ollie's hopes, you mustn't dream of marrying her.”

Pippa couldn't know it—­she'd been young and occupied with lessons in the nursery—­but Seb had heard the same words once before. Not the bit about Annabel Benson, of course, but the plea that he not allow the notion of marrying Miss Alecia Lloyd to enter his mind. His father's face had been sad when he'd said it, his tone fearful, much more pleading than stern. Their father had never managed stern. And Seb hadn't required the admonition. He'd already begun to see beyond her façade and unravel a few of her lies.