Tarnished (17 page)

I opened my mouth. Found no words.

He took my hand once more. “I must confess,” he said, and his voice slipped around me in this small pocket of light and electrical noise. I drew it to me, wrapped myself in it the way I imagined I would wrap myself in his coat should he offer.

In his hands, should he draw me closer.

I shook my head hard. “My Lord Compton,” I began, only to gasp as the tip of one gloved finger settled across my lips.

It was warm.
He
was warm, his heat reaching out to mine through the constraints of his coat. I sucked in a breath, my eyes flying to his once more. They seemed so close. His hair settled over his forehead in a sandy curl and I found myself struggling not to brush it away.

“I must acknowledge how much admiration I hold for you, Miss St. Croix.”

“Admiration?” I repeated the word dumbly.

His lips curved beneath his trimmed mustache. His handsome face seemed at ease, even shadowed as it was by the unusual light. “There are few ladies who could bear the burden of this society as gracefully as you. To have suffered and lost so much in the death of your parents, to have persevered with only a small staff to assist you.”

“They . . . do well by me,” I managed. When I inhaled, his cologne pierced my thinking mind. I smelled man and sweetening water; the affluence of his grooming and something warmer.

Long gloved fingers touched my cheek, soft as a feather. Unsure as a breeze. I swayed, drunk on the moment. The uncertainty. “You are a marvel,” he murmured.

I hadn’t realized how close he was. How warm his breath as it whispered across my lips. “M-my lord—”

“Forgive me,” he breathed, and touched his mouth to mine.

The exhibit around us had been put together for one reason: to study the effects of electricity on dead tissue. But had the odd professor asked me, I could have written a proposal on the effects of electricity through live flesh on the spot.

The instant Lord Compton’s mouth joined with mine, a current arced through my lips, down into my chest to set my heart pounding. It sizzled into my stomach, pooled lower into that soft, dark, wet place that had been so affected by my accidental view of the Menagerie just the night before.

My eyes drifted shut.

I think I made a sound; I must have leaned closer because Compton’s breath caught on a low note—surprise, maybe—and those fingers curved behind my head. I felt my hairpins as they dug into my scalp; they didn’t matter. All I knew was that his lips pressed firmly into mine. His chest was suddenly warm and solid against my own, and I curled one hand into the front of his coat.

His mouth was sweet, clean and warm and his lips tasted faintly of the tea he must have had before arriving. Softer than I expected. His lips clung to mine as they moved in a wordless inquiry, his mustache tickling.

“There you are!”

We leapt apart as if a spring had uncoiled, separating ourselves with as much grace and speed as we could muster. My fingers flew to my lips, tingling and too warm, while Compton cleared his throat and said perhaps too loudly, “Professor, how is Mrs. Fortescue?”

All I could do was stare in soundless disbelief.

“Good, good,” the professor said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling far above. “Out with your footman, Miss St. Croix. Er, my lord.”

“Right,” I managed. Then again, stronger, “Right. Thank you, Professor Woolsey. Truly, I find your work fascinating. But I feel my chaperone should be taken home.”

“Ladies,” Woolsey replied knowingly. His fingers plucked at his rumpled apron as Compton offered a short bow, then extended his arm to allow me to precede him.

As I passed, the professor caught my hand, his fingers once more pressing into my hand. “Delighted to see you, Miss St. Croix.”

A hard edge curved into my palm.

I smiled at him, though my ears burned as I curtsied quickly and hurried for the entrance doors. I was keenly aware of the professor’s owlish stare in my back as I left, and Compton’s warm, solid presence at my side.

As the earl escorted me to the gondolas, I clenched my fist around the small object the professor had pressed into my hand.

Curious, indeed.

The instant I was safely ensconced in the gondola, I lowered my hand to my side and, using my skirts as a shield from Fanny’s smug, not unwell regard, unfolded the scrap of parchment.

10 o’clock
.

I read the cramped, slanted handwriting, frowning.

Was I to meet the professor at ten that night? Surely, or else why risk being caught passing notes to me?

“Tonight’s ball,” Fanny said, breaking the charged silence, “will be the end of your isolation, my dove.”

I bit my lip before I said something to ruin what tenuous truce my chaperone and I had achieved. The bloody ball. It seemed as if the skeins of my memory had become as ephemeral as a breeze; I was forgetting more than I remembered.

Ten o’clock. And here I was committed. Lady bloody Rutledge.

Damn and blast.

Chapter Ten

I
spent the rest of the day arguing with Fanny and Betsy both. I drew the line at more flowers in my hair, compromising instead with a handful of soft gilt-touched feathers, and I wasn’t inclined to listen to either woman’s sly inferences about Lord Compton’s intentions.

Marriage was not, would never be, and has never been foremost in my mind. At least, inasmuch as I resolved to spend my life a free woman. That both maid and chaperone seemed convinced it was only a matter of time before I found myself
settled
by the earl galled me.

Nevertheless, I was once more dressed and perfumed and bedecked in all manner of feathers and trim. This time, the gown was a daring chocolate hue, flattering my hair and turning my skin to milk. It was darker than strictly suggested, but the fabric shone with every step I took. As if I’d been sculpted in bronze.

It was also daringly low at the décolletage. I eyed Betsy as she affixed the pale ivory feathers into my hair. Each bob and sway of the delicate tines caught the light in glints of gold, gilded just for that effect. “Are you attempting to force me to snag a husband in here?” I asked baldly.

She burst out laughing. “I would pay good coin to see it.”

“As would I. To someone else, please.”

“Oh, nonsense. You look beautiful.”

I rolled my eyes, but refrained from tugging at the bodice. To be truthful, I did look . . . well, rather eye-catching. My waist had been drawn to a narrow span, emphasizing the unfortunately broader curve of both hip and bosom. The shimmering fabric hugged my body as if the gods themselves had come down to paint me in their gold-flecked favor, and my hair gleamed with the fire of the darkest rubies from the far-flung Orient.

I took as deep a breath as my corset would allow, smoothed my hands over the bustle to ensure it remained flouncy. “I believe I am as ready as I can ever be,” I announced.

Betsy wrapped her arms around me from behind, surprising me. “You look beautiful. Whatever happens, miss, you’ll outpace them all.”

I returned her embrace, but my look was suspicious in the mirror. “What’s happening, Betsy? You’re acting very strange.”

She sniffed a little, but shook her head. “I’m just pleased to see you looking so grown-up,” she confessed, fanning her reddening cheeks. “Truly. Your mum, she’d be happy.”

“Hmph.” Less than gracious, I knew, but as she draped my cloak about my shoulders, I kissed her forehead. “Good night, sweeting. Go home to your patient Mr. Phillips.”

“When I’ve cleaned up,” she assured me, and hastened me out the door.

Compton arrived precisely at nine. The very picture of cordiality, there was nothing in his carriage or word that even hinted at the impropriety of this morning’s clandestine kiss, and I mimicked his care as I sank into a formal curtsy.

“I shall be the talk of the city,” he declared simply, replacing his formal top hat upon his head. “With such beauties at my side.”

Fanny couldn’t hide her smile, or keep a little extra sway from her step as she followed us to the gondola. She wore a beautiful shade of violet, not so dark as to bring gloom to the event but not inappropriate for a widow, either.

My Lord Compton sat across from me in his spacious gondola, and Fanny beside.

All throughout the ride, I was torn between the knowledge that I had kissed the marchioness’s son, the awareness of his eyes on me, and the realization that the haphazard professor would be awaiting my presence at his odd warehouse.

I would go back to the exhibit first thing tomorrow, I decided. Make my apologies.

Chatter was polite and appropriately light. Although it was comprised of absolutely nothing of consequence, I found myself enthralled with his voice—mild but not meek. Sure and polished and—was it my imagination? Did it warm when his eyes met mine?

How strange a man he was, I thought, who could seem so proper and kind, and yet whose footsteps led him—like me—to opium dens in the dark and smoke.

I resolved to find out why. I’d be lying if I didn’t confess to a small hope that his desires might, even a little, echo mine. And when I idly pondered this, I caught myself frowning.

Why did I bother with this charade? What could the earl possibly give me, aside from an endless eternity of balls and soirees, that I would find interesting?

The gondola stopped, and he helped us alight with firm, sure hands.

Butterflies danced in my stomach. The instant my foot touched Lady Rutledge’s spacious docking berth, they moved into my throat. My eyes narrowed as tiny spots began to dance in the corners of my vision.

I would have given good coin for even a tiny grain of opium.

As though he could read my apprehension, Lord Compton lowered his head to murmur, “I have never seen a more lovely lady. You shall be the talk of the ballroom.”

“Of course I shall be,” I replied smartly. “The madman’s daughter has an earl on her arm.”

His smile danced in his eyes. “The madman’s daughter has every right.”

It was as if he’d swept my feet from beneath me. Staring, I had no choice but to hasten my steps, follow his lead until I was divested of my cloak and blinking in the light of a thousand glittering shards.

The ballroom was already full, lit by two enormous chandeliers dripping with crystals. Color swirled around me, and I was only dimly aware of my name being announced to the throng.

That it came on the very heels of Earl Compton’s was enough to set the room on its collective ear.

A murmur set up. My cheeks burned. I must have stumbled, or perhaps I simply failed to remember to walk as appropriate, because my toes were suddenly ensnared in the hem of my gown and I entertained a vivid picture of myself pitching face-first into shame.

A warm hand slipped into mine, raising it in formal display. Steadying me. I looked over the bent curve of our joined hands to find Compton’s eyes on mine. Twinkling.

He was supporting me.

The thought came like a whisper, a dream. He knew I was uneasy, could sense the gossip starting around us, and here he was, showing what he thought of it. More, he was sending a very clear message to the gathered throng.

Whatever cut delivered only days ago, it was undone.

The butterflies in my stomach whispered to something much more insidious; terribly reminiscent of the warmth a draught of laudanum engendered from lips to belly. I stared at him as if he were a different man, and for the first time, I wondered if I’d done the man a terrible disservice.

In the corner of my eye, I saw a flutter of matronly fans, and I turned my head just enough to see the Marchioness Northampton furiously waving her fan at her reddening face.

“Oh, dear,” I breathed.

“Your dance card,” Compton said, ignoring the frenetic motions behind him. The music soared, quickly drowning the furious mutterings.

I blinked at the long, beribboned card thrust into my hands. “There must be some mistake,” I gasped. “My lord, this card is nearly full.”

“No mistake.” He let go of my hand, nodding behind me.

I turned, smiled ear to ear as I saw Teddy winding through the gaily dressed throng toward me.

“Save a dance for me.” Compton’s breath warmed my ear, and I clutched my card to my bosom as he added softly, “Perhaps I shall be so bold as to take two.”

And then Teddy was bowing, handsome as a blade in his formal black tailcoat, and I was curtsying. He took my hand, his expression pensive, and led me to the floor. Within moments, he’d found the pace, and we whirled into the dance with aplomb.

My friend glowered at me. “Why are you here with
him
?”

“What?” I tipped my head back, smiling. “You sound like a child, Teddy. What’s the matter?”

“Compton.” His eyes tracked something over my head, and I glanced around to find the earl bending his ear toward his mother. She was gesturing sharply, but his expression remained inscrutable. “I thought we’d be clear of the rotter,” Teddy added grimly. “Are you asking for more trouble?”

I shook my head. “He’s my escort tonight. His invite, even.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

To be fair, I’d thought the same. “He’s apologizing.” I stepped lightly, broke hands with Teddy to turn with a young miss in lovely pale blue, then returned to Teddy’s grasp as the dance dictated. “He’s disagreeing with his mother even now,” I added. “She doesn’t look happy, does she?”

“Harpy,” was all my friend had to say on the matter. We broke again, turned in separate circles with nearby dancers, and came together once more. “I don’t trust him.”

“Nor I,” I admitted, and realized that it was true. Any man who frequented an opium den was suspect. Any woman, for that matter. I, of all people, knew this to be true.

Yet, was it this very knowledge that made him seem more . . . tenable?

Impossible. “But,” I continued, smiling into Teddy’s eyes, “he came to my home and apologized in person. To show he means it, he invited me here. My Lord Compton’s grace has been enough to put me within reach of Lady Rutledge, Teddy. Perhaps if I impress her, I won’t need him anymore.”

Was it true? Even I didn’t know.

Teddy’s frown only deepened. “Will you still need me?”

I almost laughed. But somewhere, I think I realized how worried my dear friend really was. “Of course,” I said solemnly. “I will always need you.”

Finally, a smile shaped his mouth, and his demeanor seemed to ease. “Married or no,” he told me as the music ended and the dancers thanked each other graciously, “I lay claim to our Wednesday debates.”

“Always,” I promised. “And I have no intentions of marrying. Why must I keep reminding everyone of this?”

He only levied an inscrutably indifferent look at me from beneath heavy-lidded lashes as he escorted me into Fanny’s care.

I danced, it seemed, for most of the night. Gentleman after gentleman appeared before me, their names on my card. Old and young, finely dressed to a man, my night became a sea of faces and names and meaningless conversation. I remember laughing as one man, a tall gentleman with sandy blond chops barbered at his jaw, tipped his head to mine and complimented me most artfully on my stature.

“I am short, sir,” I replied with matter-of-fact asperity. “It’s not a difficult word.”

“Too succinct for you,” he told me, but his lips quirked in a manner I found most familiar. His dress was certainly fine and fashionable, every detail tended to with absolute precision.

His hair was darker blond than Lord Compton’s, but there was something to the jaw maybe that caused me to frown at him. “Would you consider me rude if I confess to not hearing your name?”

“Terribly,” he assured me as he led me into a sedate turn. His feet stepped among my many skirts with ease, but his muddy-brown-and-green eyes twinkled. “I think I shall leave you guessing.”

He did, but I was certain I’d met him before. Somewhere. Perhaps on another ballroom floor, another night past? I couldn’t possibly keep track of them all. A quick scan of my dance card told me I’d long since lost track of who I’d danced with.

But whatever his name, or his intent, my mysterious yet familiar partner left me with a moment’s peace. I found a wall and braced my shoulder against it as if it, and not I, was the one needing support. Once more, I frowned at my dance card. The Honorable Fairbanks Fitzgibbons? No, I had an impression of a dark-haired man with an enormously bulbous nose.

I remember feeling his name a most unfortunate jest.

Teddy’s name was clear, as was Lord Compton’s. A bevy of gentlemen whose names I only vaguely recognized.

And then my eye hitched on one in particular. I stared.

“Was that young Lord Piers?”

I bit back a startled sound as Fanny’s voice drifted over my shoulder. My fingers clenched over the card, guilty gaze rising to meet my chaperone’s cheerful smile. “Er,” I managed. “I believe it was.” Lord Piers Everard Compton, the Earl’s youngest brother.

No wonder he’d seemed so familiar.

What
was
it with the Compton men and their deuced love of anonymity?

“Dancing with both Compton gentlemen, are you?” She slanted me a raised eyebrow. “Daring the marchioness doesn’t seem quite the thing, my dove.”

Except I was positive I’d seen those elegantly barbered chops before. I sighed. “I’m not daring anyone,” I told her.

Her mouth pursed. And then, as if flicking away the conversation, she said brightly, “Never you mind.” She curled gloved fingers around my arm. “Come along.”

“Fanny, where—”

“Smile, my dove.” She pulled me into a group of other matrons. Her face was all but alight with excitement. Without so much as a by-your-leave, I was bustled off, introduced to Lady Rutledge—a massive woman with an impressive bosom and hair too dark to be naturally free of gray. Her gown was stunning silver, accented with a large cameo depicting three Greek maidens at play.

The lady inspected me through a single gold-rimmed monocle, raised her eyebrow and said baldly, “So you’re the madman’s daughter.”