Suzanne Robinson (5 page)

“I see,” Valin said. He didn’t really, but there was no one else in the family who cared about Courtland’s medieval studies.

Bending over, Courtland dropped the paper he was holding. It sailed past Megan to land under the desk, as he shuffled through his folder and grabbed another sheet.

“Here it is. Look at this, Valin.” Courtland pointed to an illuminated drawing of coats of arms. “This one is the Moore achievement—Argent between three moorcocks and a chevron sable, and this is Langton—per pale azure and gules overall a bend Or.”

Valin groaned at last. “You know I’ve forgotten most of those terms of heraldry. Stop talking like Clarenceaux, King of Arms.”

“Valin, I think this chest holds some of the oldest records of arms ever discovered.” Courtland
lowered his voice in reverence again. “Do you know how rare such a find is? And I didn’t look at the things in the bottom of the chest for fear the shopkeeper would realize how interested I was.”

“And now you want to buy it,” Valin finished for him.

Clutching his papers to his chest, Courtland swallowed and nodded.

“Why don’t you?”

“The shopkeeper may not know the historical significance of the contents, but he knows they’re old. He wants quite a bit for the lot.”

Valin glanced at the quotation sheet in his hand again and whistled.

Courtland swallowed hard. “Too much?”

Noting his younger brother’s pale complexion and the way his hands crumpled the papers they still held, Valin sighed and shook his head. Among their fellow English aristocrats for whom sport was the measure of a man, Courtland had suffered derision and isolation for his scholarly interests. He’d been beaten up at university more than once.

“I’ll write you a cheque.”

Papers flew in all directions as Courtland rushed at him. Valin found himself enveloped in a brief but violent hug.

“I knew you’d understand!”

“Of course,” Valin said as he ruffled his
brother’s hair. “You’ve made a priceless discovery. Just don’t let the shopkeeper know before you’ve got the bill of sale in your hand.”

Grinning, Courtland began gathering his books and papers. “I won’t.”

When his brother was gone, Valin settled in a chair by the fire to read a letter from the queen’s foreign secretary, Lord John Russell. His hand dropped to stroke Megan, then flinched when a harpylike voice screeched at him.

“Valin, I know you’re in there.” Ottoline banged on the door. “The guests have been arriving for ten minutes, and if you don’t come down and receive, my nerves will suffer a fatal crisis. I feel faint already.”

Megan stuck her head under his chair as Valin rose and opened the door. Ottoline stood on the threshold in yards of pale pink satin more suitable to a girl than a widow. Valin suppressed a smile. Aunt had a good heart and she’d been a second mother to him after his own had died, but she made herself comical. With her short stature, wide face and shoulders, and large, protruding brown eyes, she resembled a King Charles spaniel.

Quivering so that the jewels at her neck and on her arms glittered, Ottoline bleated, “Why must you make me suffer so? Have I not done my best as your hostess after you asked me for help? No one
understands my torment.” Her voice changed to the crackle and snap of a master sergeant. “And Thistlethwayte has informed me you’re leaving for Agincourt Hall before the end of May. The end of May, when the Season is at its height. You can’t do this to me. I swear you’ll drive me into a brain fever. Why did you ask me to help you find a suitable wife, if you were going to thwart me in all I try to accomplish?”

Ottoline’s complaints showered over him as Valin turned and whistled to Megan. “Go to Mr. Leslie, girl. Time for your walk.”

The collie was a streak of gold and white. Paws scrambling on the polished wood floor, she hurtled by Ottoline and down the hall. Wishing he could go with her, Valin offered his arm to his aunt and descended to the great marble-and-gilt entrance hall.

Half an hour passed while he greeted guests with such august and ancient names as Howard, Grey, Spencer, and Seymour. It was all he could do to clamp his jaw shut so that he didn’t yawn. Now he was listening to the uninspired and insipid compliments of the lovely Miss Adelaide Beresford, who offered her most fascinating comment so far.

“I do so admire your floral arrangements, my lord. Using flowers as decoration is so festive.”

Valin’s stupor evaporated at the sound of a throaty feminine voice that cut through the drone of the crowd and the music.

“Indeed, Miss Beresford. How unusual to see flowers at a ball. But I think his lordship would prefer a more poetic expression. ‘The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,/ Though to itself it only live and die.’ ”

While Adelaide gave a murmur of incomprehension, Valin turned to welcome the only person in years whose conversation might not make him wish to put a gun to his head rather than listen. His artificial smile faded as he met the forthright gaze of a young woman whose manner surprised and delighted him. Unlike most, she met his eyes without blushing, simpering, looking at his boots, or flapping her fan as though she were doing an Oriental dance.

“Oh, I am remiss,” Adelaide said. “Valin North, may I present the honorable Miss Emily Charlotte de Winter. Miss de Winter is the great-niece of Miss Cowper, come home from school in France.”

Valin bowed, his gaze taking in auburn hair, emerald eyes above a small straight nose, and a figure the stance of which reminded him of a grenadier on parade. Except for the curves, which immediately forced him to revise the image. Miss de Winter wasn’t a great beauty—she wasn’t as
rounded or as pale as she should be for that—but the whole of her person fascinated despite this disadvantage. He lifted his eyes to those of his guest to find her watching him with detached amusement.

Another surprise. Few young ladies met him with such an attitude of equality and lack of feminine calculation. Although fawning admiration disgusted him, Valin found himself growing a bit irritated that this young lady excepted herself from the rest. As he straightened from his bow, he noticed that she curtsied in an offhand manner, as though it were an afterthought. Why did she not make this gesture a display of her grace, as did the other eligible girls introduced to him? Surely she knew he was available. And why was she smiling at him as though she knew what he was going to say next?

“You were at school in France, Miss de Winter?”

“Yes, my lord. A prejudice of my mother, who was finished there as well. But now I’m come home to be shown off and married off.”

“Emily!” Adelaide was blushing and shushing her friend.

Miss de Winter shrugged, another gesture an English girl would avoid. “Everyone knows it. I might as well say it.” She turned to Valin with a wry smile.
“So much more efficient than speaking of the weather, which is horrid dull, don’t you think?”

“I’m beginning to, Miss de Winter.”

Before he’d spoken she moved down the receiving line, not at all bothered that the next girl and her parents had dislodged her from the place opposite him. While he engaged in yet another inane welcome, he watched Miss de Winter out of the corner of his eye. She was listening with sympathy to his aunt’s complaints about the crush of people.

What was it about her? Even her dress was different, perhaps because it was French. That was part of it. She wasn’t dressed in delicate pink, white, or ivory. Miss de Winter wore a rose-patterned silk gown of chestnut and bronze green. There were ivory roses in her swept-back hair and on her left shoulder, and the skirt of her gown was shaped differently, like a cone with a train that revealed yards and yards of luxurious, shimmering fabric.

He would never have noticed such details had he not spent the last tedious weeks listening to the conversation of young ladies. But thanks to his ordeal, he was able to recognize the work of Charles Frederick Worth of Paris. He remembered his aunt remarking that Worth spent time with his clients and designed a wardrobe that fit their personalities.
Evidently Miss de Winter was dramatic, bold, and original.

As he bowed to his next guest, Valin murmured to himself, “Take heed, Miss de Winter. I’m going to find out if you’re as fascinating as Mr. Worth would have everyone believe.”

Valin North wasn’t the fool Emmie had hoped he’d be.

To make things worse, his mere physical presence was interfering with the proper workings of her mind. To her dismay a part of herself she never knew woke, sat up, and paid bright, ear-pricked attention to Valin North—his horseman’s body, gleaming mahogany hair, and wide mouth. This was a man who, despite his threatening, scowling manner, could have been a model for a sculptor or for a knight of the round table.

Nodding politely to indicate her interest in a boring conversation, Emmie scolded herself for losing sight of her goal—all because of a pretty man. She’d spent weeks preparing for this ruse, studying his reputation, learning about the family,
their friends, and their servants. It had taken awhile to prepare her own character, to devise a history, to find a suitable wardrobe, and to find a gullible Society matron to serve as her sponsor.

Emmie stood beside the Society matron, Adelaide’s mother, doing her best not to look at the marquess. It shouldn’t be this hard not to look at him. Never had she encountered this urge to stare at a victim of one of her plots. She would not look at him. She wouldn’t.

Even as she repeated these words to herself her gaze slid sideways to the tall figure striding across the dance floor to open the ball with the traditional quadrille. Who was he dancing with? The lady guest of the highest rank, of course, some dowager countess or duchess.

No, he wasn’t a fool. Valin North had responded immediately to her quotation. He liked literature; she’d discovered that in her inquiries. It never did to embark upon a scheme such as this without knowing something of one’s enemy. But no amount of inquiry could have prepared her for North’s personal charm.

Her mouth had almost dropped open when he turned his gaze on her. For once he wasn’t scowling, and those eyes had captured her attention at once. They were light gray, the color of a storm cloud lit from behind by white sunlight, the color of sunbeams reflecting on water.

Once she’d considered gray an ugly color.… Emmie came to herself with a jolt. What was she thinking? Gracious mercy, she would soon be fawning over him like all the other women.

Forcing her thoughts from the marquess, Emmie busied herself with the business of dancing. Soon she had written names on most of the ivory spokes of her fan, as her mother had described when she was little. However, her most important task was to ingratiate herself with North’s Aunt Ottoline, the dowager Countess of Pomfret.

As his hostess, Lady Ottoline controlled access to the marquess, his social calendar, and most important, his guest list. While couples whirled on the dance floor and the chandeliers dripped candle wax on everyone, Emmie worked her way through a forest of crinolines, lace, and black evening coats to Ottoline’s side.

“Oh, Miss de Winter, shall I find you a partner?” asked Lady Ottoline.

Emmie fluttered her fan and smiled. “I thank you, but this is the only time I’ve had to rest since I arrived. Lord Mimsey said you were a most accomplished hostess, but his compliments hardly did you justice, Lady Ottoline. Neither Devonshire House nor Chesterfield House can compare with North House.”

“How sweet of you, my dear, but what it has cost my nerves no one can know.”

“I’m so sorry,” Emmie said with a sympathetic frown. “It must be difficult.”

“Truly, my dear, it is. The guest list alone was a nightmare. I declare I had to consult DeBrett’s at least a hundred times to get the seating right for supper. And this floor! The beeswax had gone bad …”

Emmie smiled and nodded, frowned and nodded, tut-tutted with compassion, and generally behaved as if Lady Ottoline’s trials were the equivalent of those of Job. She was well rewarded. After a lengthy description of her troubles with her nerves and the vapors, Ottoline placed her gloved hand on Emmie’s arm and gave her a smile.

“You’re such a good girl. Not flighty and uncivil like so many young people today. I shall send my card to you, and you must return yours. You’re staying with Adelaide?”

Emmie, in her guise as Miss Cowper, had written herself an introduction to Adelaide and was indeed staying with her. Expressing her deepest gratitude, Emmie allowed herself to be escorted to the dance floor by her next partner. The most delicate part of her task this evening had been accomplished.

She couldn’t pursue the Norths’ acquaintance unless Lady Ottoline called on her first. Now that the older woman was to send her carriage with a maid to present her card, this would establish Emmie
as a member of the family’s circle—those persons of rank, reputation, and civility with whom the marquess socialized.

Twirling around the room in the arms of a young man with a store of the fatuous conversation appropriate for debutantes, Emmie caught a glimpse of the marquess. He turned his partner in a circle and looked in Emmie’s direction. Emmie gave her young man a glittering smile and laughed, even though he hadn’t said anything funny.