The Fairest of Them All (12 page)

She was asked to dance by several gentlemen. Well, they asked her but they looked to the duke for approval. Char found that annoying. She ­wondered what they would do if she grabbed them by both ears and made them face her—­

Her thoughts came to a halt.

The small hairs on her neck tingled with awareness. The false her that smiled politely and didn't grab ears joined with her real personality and she became
present
.
Aware.

She knew he was here.

Glancing over her shoulder to the main doorway, she discovered her senses had not lied.

Whitridge appeared as handsome as his ducal brother in the black evening dress. His hair was still overlong. Considering how impeccably presented the duke was, Char could speculate that there must have been some mention during one of their conversations that Whitridge needed his hair cut.

She could also easily imagine him telling his twin he'd not submit to barber's shears. He was that sort of man. He did as he wished, and she was jealous.

Someone was talking to her. A gentlewoman ­complimented her on the lovely braiding design on her dress. Char brought her mind to where it ­belonged. “Thank you,” she said, and smiled ­because that was all anyone really wanted her to do.

And then Whitridge was at the edge of the group surrounding them.

The duke saw him. “Jack, here are some people I wish you to meet.”

Jack
. Jack Whitridge. Char liked the sound of his name. It was bold and self-­assured, just as he was.

Whitridge worked his way through the knot of people around the duke. He took a moment to kiss his mother's hand and to comment to Mr. Morris. He turned to his brother.

Baynton said, “The first person I wish you to meet is Lady Charlene Blanchard. My lady, this is my unredeemable twin.”

Everyone around them laughed at the duke's jest. Whitridge smiled but it was quick, polite, as pat as her own responses were to their gossip and quips.

“It is a pleasure, my lord,” she said.

“My honor, my lady,” he answered. They could have been perfect strangers.

The conversation took up around them again.

Baynton leaned to speak in his twin's ear. Whitridge nodded. The duke turned to her. “My lady, I must excuse myself for a moment. There is a group of gentlemen here who wish to discuss a matter of some importance. I will return to you as swiftly as possible. In the meantime, my brother will see to your needs.”

He was handing her over to Whitridge?

Part of Char was elated; another part was somewhat offended.

“I hope you do not mind?” the duke said, ­reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. “I will return in time to escort you to the supper room.”

“I don't mind,” Char mumbled, and that was all she needed to say. Baynton clapped his brother on the shoulder as he started moving toward the door. Five or so of the other gentlemen in their group went with him.

The wives pouted. So did the dowager, since Mr. Morris had also left for their private discussion. She made an annoyed sound and then began talking to her friends around her.

Whitridge and Char were side by side.

He appeared to be a bit irked with the task his brother had assigned him, but she was pleased. Very pleased.

At last, someone she could talk to.

“You don't have to be my minder,” she told him. “I can join Lady Baldwin.”

He knew exactly why she had said what she did. “Please do not think I am annoyed with you. I told my brother that if he was wise he needed to stay by your side. Apparently, he has decided I'm his placeholder.”

“You don't need to be.”

Whitridge looked down at her, studying her for a moment. He and the duke had the same eyes, or were Whitridge's sharper? More intelligent?

“Skirts become you.” His voice was low, for her ears only.

“But there is little freedom in a dress,” she countered.

“There is enough to dance, is there not?”

He was asking her to dance
.

Char's heart slammed against her chest. She swallowed, a bit unnerved.

He offered his hand. “Will you join me? If I am going to be standing in for my twin, we should at least enjoy ourselves.”

Oh yes
, she thought, and she was very aware and very present in this moment. The sounds around her became clearer, the lights overhead brighter.

“I would like that,” she managed, her voice calm, slightly detached.

He smiled, the expression rueful, as if he had a sense of regret. His gaze did not meet hers but focused on where he offered his hand. She placed hers in his.

His gloved fingers started to close over her ­fingers and then paused, loosened. She understood. He was being carefully correct.

But as he led her to the dance floor, every fiber of her body was singing.

Chapter Twelve

A
sking Lady Charlene to dance was not prudent, and yet what other choice did Jack have? His brother had figuratively thrust her into his arms. He must do what was polite . . . shouldn't he?

He shouldn't.

If he were wise, if he kept in mind his purpose for being in London, he would give a wide berth to her. He was far too attracted to the lady than was prudent, especially with his twin's trust in the balance.

And yet, he could not help himself. He'd watched her dance with one partner after another and he'd been jealous.

His desire had become a primal thing, and he realized it had started building inside him from the moment he'd caught her in that alley and her hat had tumbled off her head. He'd understood all too well what Gavin had meant when he'd ­declared he “wanted” her.

Yes, she was lovely, undeniably the most ­beautiful woman in the room. Her youth, her coloring, the evenness of her features, combined with a hint of naiveté, would have stood her in good stead anywhere.

But he knew something else about her, ­something no one else knew—­she was a survivor. It was a rare and valuable trait and explained her resilience, her resourcefulness, her willingness to carry her own weight. Perhaps the quality was not valued in the smoothly civilized society of London but from where Jack had just come, such a woman was worth more than gold.

Jack had never been on a London dance floor, but he hadn't imagined it would be too difficult. He danced. His mother had insisted that all her sons receive lessons from an early age. He had ­enjoyed the raucous jigs and quadrilles of frontier society.

However, as he took his place in line across from Lady Charlene, he had his first inkling that this might not have been the wisest idea. First, he had no idea what dance they were about to do, and there was no caller.

Second, it put him in the position of being given a cut direct. The men on either side of him made a point of offering him their backs. The one on his left, ostensibly to speak to others. But the man on his right was very pointed in his actions.

Jack had suffered this particular cut several times this evening. He'd overheard whispers and words like “turncoat”—­which he preferred over the more common “fool.”

Now he smiled at Lady Charlene, wishing to ­pretend all was fine and sincerely hoping the ­hostility of small minds did not influence or impact her.

She smiled back, squaring her shoulders, her arms held gracefully as all the other women held them. Her eyes were vibrant with anticipation and, looking in them, Jack could forget where he was . . . to the point that when the music started, he not only had
still
not gleaned what dance they were ­doing—­a minuet—­but he started on the wrong foot.

One foot tripped over the other in his haste to right a wrong. Jack stumbled, his clumsiness ­disrupting the line of dancers. Eyebrows lifted in disapproval or confusion. The hand he'd used for balance ­accidentally hit the man in front of him, the man who had been the rudest, no less, and sent him off balance and into the man ahead of him in the line.

Quick as a deer, Lady Charlene leaped forward, hooked her arm in his, and circled, effortlessly ­directing him to where he should be. She laughed at her success, the sound so infectious that, for a moment, it seemed to him that even the musicians stopped to listen.

Other couples around them laughed as well and, to Jack's surprise copied the movement. Up and down the line of the dancers, couples broke ranks and circled each other. Yes, there were those watching who censored them with their gazes, but these couples on the dance floor didn't care. They were young and full of Lord Vetter's punch. Jack had a moment to reclaim his equilibrium.

The musicians caught the spirit of the thing and the slow, sedate minuet was quickly whipped into a quadrille. The dance took on a life of its own. Even the gentleman on Jack's right began stomping his feet. When the steps called for him and Jack to pass each other in order to regain their partners, the man actually looked him in the eye and smiled.

And in that moment, Jack experienced a ­miracle. For the span of the dance, he was part of the people in this room. He was not a stranger. Her gift had been to see him included and he was humbled to realize that he wanted that.

He needed it.

In a moment of self-­realization, Jack understood that, yes, there were those who ­considered him a traitor of sorts for adopting another ­country. ­However, he had been wearing his decision a bit like an armored breastplate. He had come to London to tell them a thing or two, and they, quite wisely, resented it.

Too soon the dance was over.

The gentlemen bowed to their partners and the ladies curtsied. Jack had only held Lady Charlene's hand a time or two during the dance.

He wanted more.

She raised blue eyes up to him and he sensed the connection, the desire, the kindred thought to his own.

Neither moved. They stood as if rooted to the floor, Jack almost afraid to breathe lest he destroy the moment—­

His brother's hand clapping his shoulder brought Jack back to where he was.

Gavin smiled. “The two of you were the most remarkable couple on the floor.”

Lady Charlene's gaze swept down away from Jack as if she, too, had been startled back to reality. “You were watching us, Your Grace?”

“I could not tear my eyes away from you,” Gavin answered, looking intently at her.

She blushed and the rush of molten jealousy that poured into Jack's being was dangerous. He had no right to feel this way. Women were not his purpose for being in London.

Gavin looked to Jack. “Thank you for taking such good care of my lady while I was called away, my brother, my twin.”

The double name. Was Gavin attuned to Jack's attraction to Lady Charlene?

Certainly his smile appeared without guile. Jealousy made a man a miserable person, and Jack did not quite know how to cope since he'd rarely experienced it.

Gavin leaned close. “While you have been enjoying yourself on the dance floor, I have been busy on your behalf.”

“Yes?”

“Vetter's library is down the far hall on the left. Charles Mouton—­do you remember him? The Earl of Wellsden? We were in school with him—­is waiting for you. He is anxious to discuss the American concerns. He would be instrumental in setting a meeting.”

Now Jack felt like a damn fool. “Thank you,” he said, meaning the words, and silently vowing he would keep his distance from Lady Charlene.

“You still have to sell him but I've opened a door. Go on, man. Be the diplomat.” Gavin turned from him and offered his arm to Lady Charlene. “I believe the supper room is open. May I escort you in?”

“Yes, of course,” she said.

Jack watched as his brother and Lady Charlene walked away.
Think with your big head
, he ordered himself, and went in search of Wellsden.

He remembered Charles the moment he opened the library room door. Wellsden was a short, sandy-­haired man whose nose and cheeks had always been ruddy red and were still so today.

Wellsden was sitting before the fire, his feet on a footstool, a glass of brandy in his hand. He waved Jack in. “Lawd, Whitridge, you've actually grown bigger. I remember you as a giant back in Eton. I say, don't they have barbers in America?”

“They do, but I manage to avoid them.”

The earl laughed. “Come in, come in. It is quiet in here and the ladies don't pester you to dance. Pour yourself a drink and then talk about why Americans shouldn't be willing to allow our sea captains to search for deserters on your ships? Of course, I will put forth that your captains should willingly turn the buggers over to us. However, Baynton says I should listen to you explain and so I shall.”

This was not the most promising beginning, but Jack believed in the strength of his cause. He did not bother with the drink but sat beside Wellsden and stated his case.

T
he duke was a considerate escort. He seated Char at a table, offering to prepare a plate for her.

“That would be nice,” she said, uncertain. But then she noticed that other gentlemen were also serving their ladies. Apparently it was the thing to do.

She could feel people watching. She tried to pretend she didn't notice.

His Grace returned to the table with a glass of iced wine, silverware, and a plate with several different selections from the sideboard. He sat across from her. The table was so petite, their knees could touch.

“What of you?” she asked. “Are you not going to eat?”

“I prefer watching you,” he said, picking up the fork and offering it to her.

“I can't eat with you watching. Here, let us share.”

“A good compromise.” He motioned for a ­servant to fetch another fork and glass of wine.

Char moved the plate toward him. “What is this?” she asked, pointing to a white meat.

“Lobster. You have never tried it?”

She shook her head. “My aunt and I set a simple table,” she told him.

“Try the lobster. Let me know what you think. I drizzled some melted butter over it. That is the way I like it served.”

She tasted. It was rich, sweet. “I might grow fond of this.”

“I wish that you would,” he said, taking a bite for himself. “It is one of my favorites. I always enjoy Vetter's table. His cook is one of the best in the city.”

“We cook our own food,” she had to say, ­sampling the thinly sliced roast beef. “Oh, this is good.”

He cut a bit and tasted it to see if she was right. “So if I was coming to your house for dinner, what would you prepare for me?”

Char laughed. “I like that question, although I don't know if you will like the answer.”

“I'm waiting.”

“Very well, I make chicken stew and Sarah and Lady Baldwin both agree that I have a knack for it, or else they just want me to make dinner.”

“Who is Sarah?” he asked, spearing a boiled baby potato and popping it in his mouth.

Too late, Char realized what she'd done, and then she decided to tell the truth. “Sarah is my aunt, on my mother's side.”

“And Lady Baldwin is related to which side of your family?”

What did they say about liars being caught in their own snares?
Char tried to remain calm. “She is a good family friend.” That was the truth.

“And you live with her? But not your aunt?”

Char smiled brightly, while her mind ­scrambled for an answer. “No, Lady Baldwin lives with her daughter although she stays with me—­when my aunt is out of town.” Now a lie.

“Why is she out of town?”

This was painful. Char could not meet his eye. She looked down at the plate and moved a pickle around with her fork as if it was of intense ­interest. “She . . . has a friend who is not feeling well and she has gone to stay with her.”

“How kind of her.”

“She is a very kind person,” Char agreed. She smiled at him.

He smiled back. “Where does her friend live?”

Char was beginning to hate this conversation. She reached for her wine. “Manchester. Her friend is in Manchester.”

“That is a good distance away. I'm surprised that when your aunt is out of town you don't stay with your uncle, Lord Dearne.”

“
That
will never happen,” Char answered. Here, she could be honest.

“I don't know him well.”

“You are wise.”

He sat back as if stunned by her bluntness. She feared she had broken one of those unwritten rules of Society Lady Baldwin nattered on about, that he was offended. If he was, that would be too bad. She would not apologize for disliking her selfish uncle.

And then the duke surprised her by laughing. It was a full, rich sound. Masculine and strong, and it filled the air. The others dining in the room with them all stared in their direction as if they had never heard him laugh before. Knowing smiles came to their faces.

Oblivious to the attention around him, Baynton leaned toward her. “I enjoy candor. Please, always speak your mind to me. I respect honesty. That and loyalty are the two virtues I demand from those around me.”

Oh dear.

“Tell me, Your Grace, how are your horses?” She'd grabbed that subject that Sarah had ­advised. The one it seemed all men were happy to discuss. And even though they had talked horses the other day, His Grace seemed to take delight in talking more about them. He spoke of the stables at his country estate, promising to invite her there.

“I would like that,” she said, because it was ­expected, and his smile said he was pleased.

She wasn't. Their conversation in the supper room was stretching her nerves. He valued honesty.

If he continued pursuing her, well, sooner or later he might learn some truths that he would not appreciate, even without confessing the pickpocketing.

The duke was now talking about his family. She pretended to listen, her mind racked with guilt until he mentioned his twin.

Char looked up, unaware until that moment that she had been studying the pattern in the table­cloth. “Are you enjoying having him back in London?” she asked.

He tilted his empty wineglass. “Of course.” He didn't sound happy. There was a pause. He set the glass aside, pinned her with his eyes. “My twin and I are very different men.”

“In what way?” Char had to ask.

“Almost every. His life had been the opposite of mine. He has even married.”

Whatever he said after that, and he did continue talking, Char did not hear.
Whitridge was married
.

She should not be upset by that information, but she was.

He'd not mentioned it to her. Then again, why should he?
I caught you picking pockets and, by the way, I'm married
.

No, that conversation would not have taken place, although she did believe that at some point Whitridge should have mentioned a wife. It was the decent thing to do . . . unless he was not and had never been interested in her.