Sattler, Veronica (30 page)

Brett's
chuckle cut her off. "Think nothing of it, sweet. Your delayed entrance
merely served to attract the notice of everyone in this room, judging by the
looks you're getting, and if I know that Irishwoman, she probably calculated it
just about right."

Glancing
about to indeed find all eyes in her direction, Ashleigh blushed, then hastened
to exclaim, "Oh, but Megan wouldn't—"

"There
you are, darling," a purring female voice broke in. "I should have
known you would have gone straight to your guests without changing from your riding
clothes, but I fear I'm late because I searched ever so long for you
upstairs."

Brett
and Ashleigh turned to find Elizabeth Hastings walking toward them, a confident
smile on her aristocratic face. Beside her, looking every inch the grande dame,
strode Lady Margaret.

"Yes,"
added Margaret. "Your poor betrothed was hoping the two of you could greet
your guests together, Brett, dear, rather as an informal means of making your
engagement known."

"Really?"
Brett replied, his mouth turned up in a mocking smile. "I would have
thought Lady Elizabeth was too busy, ah, rearranging her chamber, to even
notice we had guests."

Ashleigh
suppressed a giggle as she caught the look of outrage in Elizabeth's eyes. She
and Megan had heard the news of her ladyship's temper tantrum when they
returned from their ride; and so, she now realized, had Brett.

"Suppose,"
said Margaret, her tone steely and disapproving, "you take you fiancée
about the room and introduce her as such, Your Grace. It is, I think, high time
we were making the news public."

"As
you wish,
Grand-tante,"
Brett murmured with an overly polite,
exacting bow to Margaret. Then, as he took Elizabeth's hand and placed it on
his bent arm, he whispered to Ashleigh, "Have no fear of being deserted,
my dear. Half the gentlemen in the room are on their way to the rescue."

And
as Ashleigh looked up, she found he was right. Several gentlemen she'd spied
earlier seemed, with Brett's departure, to be making a beeline in her
direction. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lady Margaret retreat with a
satisfied smile on her face, but then she had no time to think about anything
else, for a crush of well-groomed male bodies surrounded her.

"Allow
me to introduce myself," said a tall, slender young man with light brown
hair. "I'm William Rhodes, marquis of Wright. And you are—?"

"Come,
come, Will, where have you been?" said a shorter man with straight blond
hair and a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes. "This young woman is the
buzz of the
ton
without having met most of it—yet. Miss Sinclair, isn't
it?"

For
the second time in as many minutes, Ashleigh had her response snatched from her
before she could begin.

"By
Jove, yes! Ashleigh Sinclair, Jersey told me! Lovely name, Ashleigh, but not as
lovely as its owner, eh?" This commentary was being put forth by an older
man, perhaps in his forties, who introduced himself as Lord Selkirk.

Ashleigh
smiled politely at all of them and was just beginning to think her head would
spin off her shoulders if she had to remember one more name when a tall,
incredibly handsome, dark-haired man bent over her ear and murmured, "If
you've had enough of this crush, I think I can arrange a graceful escape."

Looking
up to meet a pair of green eyes smiling down at her, Ashleigh smiled back and
gave a tentative nod.

"Lady
Margaret has announced luncheon being served on the terrace, gentlemen, so, if
you don't mind..." He offered Ashleigh his arm and proceeded to lead her
away.

Amid
several grumbles from her band of admirers, Ashleigh heard him say, "I
hope you don't mind, but I thought you looked rather overwhelmed just
then."

"I
think I was," Ashleigh nodded, then looked up at him. "But, sir, I
believe you have the advantage...."

A
warm chuckle met her ears. "I guess that makes me just as bad as the rest
of them. The name's Edwards... Christopher Edwards. And I hear you're Ashleigh
Sinclair."

"Oh,
you're the earl of Ranleagh!" she exclaimed.

Another
chuckle. "I see my reputation preceded me. Nothing too terrible, I
hope."

"Oh,
no, not at all! It's just that I heard His Grace mention you when we were
riding earlier and he thought he recognized your team."

Christopher
grinned. "He ought to recognize them! They used to be his. I won them from
him at whist last year."

Ashleigh's
eyes went huge. "You
won
them...?" She had heard that
high-stakes gambling was common among the rich and titled, but the actual
specifics of such a wager amazed her. From the looks of that team of bays, they
must be worth a small fortune!

"But
just to be honest about it," the earl was saying, "I must confess he
won at least as much back from me the next night—probably more, come to think
on it."

They
were walking through the conservatory now, following the lead of their host
who, with Lady Elizabeth firmly attached to his arm, was ushering them toward
the open French doors that led to a wide brick terrace with a slope of
immaculately tended gardens beyond. Hedges of box yew curved symmetrically
about well-clipped green lawns, and everywhere the eye chanced to glance,
flowers bloomed, competing with one another in a riot of color, some in
well-tended beds, others in large clay pots and urns, still more against
strategically placed trellises and stone walls.

On
the terrace itself, several tables had been set up, each covered with snowy
damask cloths and bearing tableware of paper-thin porcelain and heavy, ornate
silver. Among these, footmen rushed to and fro, bearing trays of food and
drink.

Suddenly
Ashleigh wondered who had put all of this together on such short notice, and
with a guilty start, realized that perhaps
she
ought to have been
involved. But just then, as she looked toward an open door leading into a wing
of the house that abutted the terrace at one end, she spied Jameson, the
butler, conversing animatedly with a tall, redheaded female figure.
Megan,
of course. What would I do without her?
she thought for what seemed like
the hundredth time since she'd come here.

Lady
Margaret, however, seemed to have taken charge of the seating arrangements, for
Ashleigh saw her directing the footmen toward various people who were led to
specific tables. One of the footmen now approached her and the earl.

"Begging
your pardons, Miss Sinclair, your lordship, but her ladyship and His Grace
would have you sit at the table with the blue floral arrangement. If you will
kindly follow me...?"

Ashleigh
saw Christopher glance at the table where yet another footman was in the
process of seating the marquis of Wright and a honey-haired woman in green whom
Ashleigh hadn't met yet.

"We'll
find our own way to the table in just a moment, thank you," said
Christopher, dismissing the footman with a nod. Then he turned to Ashleigh.
"I might as well warn you, my dear. Judging by the look on Pamela's face,
we're not likely to have a pleasant time of it over luncheon. She's in a snit
over the news of Brett's engagement."

Ashleigh
glanced toward their table and, in particular, at the beauty in green and saw
that Ranleagh spoke the truth. If looks could kill, anyone in the honey
blonde's line of vision would have been fodder for the graveyard right then.
"Pamela...?" she questioned tentatively.

"Why,
yes, my dear," Christopher replied as he took her arm, "Lady Pamela
Marlowe, Brett Westmont's mistress."

Ashleigh
summoned all her resources to keep from gaping as she digested Christopher's
words and allowed him to lead her to their table.
His mistress!
At that
instant all of the warming thoughts about her employer that had been building
during the past twenty-four hours fled, and she was filled with an abhorrence
of the man, nearly as keen as that felt with her original assessment. What kind
of a man was he, she fumed, to be capable of entertaining his mistress in his
home on the very day he made his betrothal known?
Rake
and
blackguard
came to mind, but neither seemed to do adequate justice to Brett Westmont.

As
she was being helped to her seat, she had a moment to glance at the table where
a politely smiling Brett bent his chestnut head in Elizabeth's direction and
nodded at something she said. He looked totally at his ease, cool and
unruffled, as if such a situation were daily routine, and Ashleigh had to
glance away quickly, lest her face reveal the repugnance she felt. Oh, the
conceit, the arrogance of the man!

But
then she had little time left to contemplate this latest revelation, for
Christopher was introducing her to Lady Pamela.

"Ah,
yes, so you're the mysterious ward we heard of in London." Lady Pamela
smiled, but the smile never reached her eyes, which were cold and brittle, like
the amber they resembled. "I must say I'm taken aback by you, Miss
Sinclair. From Lady Jersey's remarks, I had thought you to be a young miss not
yet out of the schoolroom."

"But
Pamela," the marquis broke in, "I hardly see where Jersey's words can
be faulted. She
is
'a beautiful child, too exquisite to be ignored,' if
you ask me." He smiled at Ashleigh. "Delighted to be seated at table
with you m'dear."

Ashleigh
blushed and smiled shyly at the marquis, none of which was missed by
Christopher Edwards. The handsome earl was thinking he'd never seen beauty such
as hers before, perfect in every delicate line and curve, yet awash in fresh,
young innocence. Moreover, there was just the barest hint of mystery about her
accruing not only from the as-yet-vague circumstances of her becoming
Ravensford's ward, but from some quiet aura about the girl as well. One saw it
in the depths of her eyes at times, or in the subtle tilt of her head as she
listened, and at moments, in her smile, which would then bear the fleeting
suggestion of sadness in its curve.

Christopher
Edwards was a connoisseur of many things, including fine food and wines,
blooded horseflesh, good music and art, but, most of all, he was an appreciator
of beautiful and unusual women. Along with Ravensford, Byron, and one or two
others, he was known among the members of the
ton
as a man who sent
female pulses racing, and he lived up to this reputation with a flair that kept
the gossips busy. Moreover, Ranleagh enjoyed the role he played, and play it he
did— to the hilt.

And
just now it was Ashleigh Sinclair he sought to play it with. She was the most
refreshing piece of femininity he'd come across in many a day, and he couldn't
believe his luck at the opportunity presented to him. He'd seen the way Ravensford's
eyes had fastened on the girl when she appeared earlier; it was almost as if he
caressed her with the slightest glance. But the duke had other commitments to
keep, and Christopher was not above moving into the breach. If Brett Westmont
chose to overload his barge, that was
his
problem!

Ashleigh
had noticed the attention the earl was paying her from the outset and found
herself instantly charmed, but also a bit wary; that he was a handsome,
sophisticated gentleman, she was well aware, and it was these very qualities
that caused her to maintain her reserve, for she had already learned the hard
way that, where the rich and titled were concerned, things were not always what
they seemed and one could get trampled in the process of dealing too openly
with them.

But
now, as she once again caught sight of Brett Westmont and his fiancée out of
the corner of her eye and at the same time noticed Lady Pamela glaring at them,
Ashleigh had a notion to toss her reserve to the wind. So he thought he was the
one to play games, did he? Well, she could play a game or two of her own, and
Brett Westmont could go to the devil!

With
her brightest smile, Ashleigh turned to the man beside her. "Tell me
something of yourself and the life you lead, my lord. I am most anxious to
learn all about it...."

As
Brett listened politely to yet another boring snippet of gossip from Elizabeth,
his eyes traveled beyond the white floral centerpiece atop their table until
they came to rest on a table where the flowers were blue. He ignored the
damning glance of Pamela Marlowe as his gaze swept swiftly past her, and he
focused on the obvious display that was taking place nearby. Christopher
Edwards was leaning closely, even intimately, Brett thought, toward Ashleigh
and favoring her with his most charming smile. In the next instant he saw him
whisper something briefly in Ashleigh's ear, to which, a few seconds later, she
responded with a delighted peal of laughter. And in yet the next moment he saw
the two of them looking into each other's eyes and smiling as if they shared
some delicious secret.

Suddenly
Brett found himself seized by a wave of anger so fierce, he scarcely recognized
it as such. What was the matter with him? He'd seen Ranleagh flirt with women
of his acquaintance before; why, in the case of a ball a fortnight ago, where
it had involved Pamela, he'd even welcomed it!
Yes,
a small voice told
him,
but you are anxious to be quit of Pamela, whereas with Ashleigh...