The Rake's Rainbow (19 page)

“Caroline!” exclaimed Cissy as the Marchgate party descended the stairs. “Who is the handsome gentleman?”

“My husband.”  She would have introduced them, but Thomas was already striding away. “He only arrived this afternoon, and I fear the journey has tired him.”

“Aren’t you the lucky one, though.”

“So it would seem,” she murmured before deliberately turning the subject. “But you are beautiful tonight, Cissy. And you match the decor so perfectly.”

Indeed, Cissy’s gown of pink gauze over a silver slip could have been designed for this setting. Lady Cofferton had done up her ballroom in pink silk drawn into sweeping cascades by silver ribbons. Pink and white flowers massed in corners and around pink marble cherubs arrayed on silver pedestals.

“You are incredibly elegant yourself,” responded Cissy, admiring the rose sarcenet gown caressing her friend’s fine figure.

“Fustian!  Have you seen Helena?”  She lowered her voice. “I found a new book she will want to read on the necessity of educating the lower classes.”

“I would also like to read that. She is somewhere about, but I have not seen her to speak to as yet. This must be the worst crush of the Season.”  She was interrupted as Sir Nigel arrived to lead her into the set that was forming.

Caroline’s own hand was solicited a moment later and she pushed serious topics aside, responding to her partner’s chatter with lighthearted quips.

“I see Mannering is back in town,” commented Drew as he led her out for the next set.

“Yes, he finally found a decent trainer.”  This dance was a waltz, her favorite when with her cousin.

“Does this mean I cannot accompany you again?”  He pouted, his eyes a laughing contrast to his pursed mouth.

“You are ridiculous, cousin.”  She laughed.

He tried to pull her closer.

“Naughty, naughty,” she chided. “You know the rules.”

“I know the unwritten ones, as well,” he murmured seductively.

“I suspect you created some of them, but not with me.”

“Oh, well,” his voice returned to normal. “You cannot blame me for trying.”

“I suppose your reputation would shatter if you did not,” she rejoined. “But neither can you blame me for refusing.”

“How well you know me. How could the Morris clan produce anyone quite so proper?”  He spun her in a dizzying series of turns.

“You forget that I grew up in a vicarage.”

“That hasn’t stopped many another.”

“As you know from experience, I suppose. Wicked, wicked man.”  She shook her head in despair. “You are hopeless.”

He laughed. “My besetting sin.”

“Flirting is fun, but no more, Drew.”

He heaved a deep sigh of dramatic frustration, but the twinkle in his eye gave him away. She giggled and they lapsed into correct social chatter for the remainder of the dance. When he finally returned her to Lady Marchgate’s alcove, George already waited to lead her out.

“I hope Thomas is properly ashamed of himself for dumping you in town on your own,” he commented.

“If so, he will never admit it and undoubtedly can twist any guilt into anger that I have managed without him,” she conceded.

George started in surprise. “How well you know him!  For all we are friends, I have never approved of that side of him.”

“What prompts such behavior?”  The dance separated them for several measures.

“I suspect his upbringing,” said George thoughtfully when they moved together again. “I have known him since we were eight and often spent holidays at March Abbey. The countess is the most rigid of the high-sticklers, condemning any deviation from society’s rules. She instilled a compelling need for convention and public acclaim, and a horror of offending others. The earl, on the other hand, believes fiercely in honor and achievement. Early on, he recognized Thomas’s abilities. But in encouraging his development, he set standards that were nearly impossible to attain. Anything less was unacceptable. And he blamed Thomas for every problem connected to his behavior, even those things over which he had no real control. As a result, Thomas longs to be accepted, to conform, and to never make a mistake. So when things go wrong, he is the last to admit fault, instead using that facile brain to pin the blame on something else. For example, he spent Christmas with us one year and enjoyed showing off his skating ability – he’s far more athletic than I. The acclaim he received went to his head, and he started jumping over things – two chairs, a log, the warning sign marking the limits of safe ice…”

“He fell in?”

“Exactly. He spent the rest of the visit grumbling that the sign had been placed too close to the thin ice, endangering the skaters.”

Poor judgment and arrogance. Caroline was silent as her feet automatically moved through the figures. George’s analysis raised disturbing questions about her future. If Thomas could never admit a mistake, could he ever relinquish Alicia?  Would he adore her forever, ignoring even blatant evidence of her unworthiness?  And how did this affect her own prospects?  He had compared her with obvious disfavor to his love. Could he ever alter his opinion? 

But a ballroom was not the place for deep thinking. Recalling her surroundings, she thrust the questions into the back of her mind and set out to enjoy the evening. Reflection was more profitably accomplished in the quiet of her room.

“I swear you grow more beautiful each time we meet, Caroline,” claimed Jeremy as he led her into a spirited reel several sets later.

“More Spanish coin?”  She laughed, trying to hide her elation at the compliment. “You will turn my head with such blatant clankers. But who was that charming girl you were dancing with just now?  I do not believe we have met.”

“Hardly a girl anymore,” he mourned. “My sister – another Caroline, by the way – now Lady Wormsley. She just arrived in town.”

“Alas that so many of us share the name. It could become quite confusing.”

He laughed, traded witticisms for the remainder of the set, then introduced her to his sister and brother-in-law. Jeremy and Lord Wormsley fell into a deep discussion. The viscount was a long-faced man with a chronically dour expression, yet everyone in his vicinity spent an inordinate amount of time laughing.

“Caroline, that gown is even more fetching than I expected. Lady Wormsley, how nice to see you again.” Emily’s voice startled Caroline, who had not seen her approach.

“And you, Lady Wembley,” Jeremy’s sister countered.

“Is Thomas here?” Emily asked eagerly. “I can scarcely believe he finally made it to town.”

“You might try that cherub by the card room. He and George were chatting there not long ago.” 

Emily bustled off and Caroline turned her attention to Lady Wormsley.

“So you are Thomas’s wife,” said that lady, continuing their interrupted introduction. “I am thrilled to meet you and so very glad he settled down at last. I’ve known him all my life, you understand. He, George, and Jeremy were inseparable. I wanted to scream at him last year—”  She abruptly stopped.

“Never mind. I know all about last year,” Caroline soothed.

“Then you will understand the frustration those who cared for him felt watching that cat lead him around by the nose. Thank heavens he seems to have come to his senses.”

“Yes,” agreed Caroline thinly. If only he had.

“Hello, Caroline, Caroline.”  Helena broke into giggles at her greeting. “This is absurd,” she choked. “When did you get back?”  She stared pointedly at Lady Wormsley.

“Last night. How goes your school, Helena?  You have not written in some time.”

“Still only a hopeful future project. James is being a beast about lowering our consequence. Caroline” – here she turned her gaze on Mrs. Mannering – “has been collecting rebuttals to his objections.”

“You also believe in educating the lower classes?”

“Yes. I started a village school at Crawley, having previously done the same at Sheldridge Corners. Fortunately Thomas approves.”  Or at least he did not actively oppose her, she thought wryly. She turned her eyes to Helena. “I found an excellent book containing compelling arguments in favor of education,” she reported. Several minutes passed in discussion before Thomas appeared to lead her into the supper dance, and the group broke up.

Thomas was riding an emotional whirlwind. Caroline was clearly relaxed, accepted by everyone, her behavior unexceptionable. The waltz with Wroxleigh was despicably indiscreet, of course, but he dared not make a scene. And aside from flirting outrageously with the man, she did nothing with which he could take exception. Nor did his mother seem concerned by the matter.

Far worse was the attention of his friends. They inundated him with congratulations, praise, and envy.

“Charming wife,” declared Sharpton enthusiastically. “I don’t blame you a bit for shabbing off early from Graystone. And she carries Waite’s blood on top of everything else.”  The knowing leer that accompanied this last observation sent icy anger surging through his breast. What had she done to confirm that particular bit of breeding? 

“You’re a lucky devil, Mannering,” another congratulated him. “Wish I’d seen her first. Always has a sensible suggestion for any problem but never makes a fellow feel foolish for not thinking of it himself.” 

“Welcome back,” Jeremy said later in the evening. “Caroline’s a gem. Why are all the beautiful, intelligent ladies snapped up by others?  Elizabeth last year, Caroline this. Surely there is one out there for me.”

Thomas was taken aback by such a description, but immediately discounted it. Anyone who preferred the redheaded Elizabeth Markham to Alicia demonstrated questionable judgment, for all he and Jeremy were close friends.

“Never thought I’d like a bluestocking,” admitted George when they met at the punch bowl. “But Caroline is special. Don’t get me wrong,” he added, noting the martial light in Thomas’s eye with interest. “There is nothing untoward between us and never could be, but I count her among my dearest friends. You are a far luckier man than you deserve to be, Thomas.”

These and other comments rained on his head until he was ready to throttle her for cutting such a swath through the
ton
. Respectable females did not engender so many accolades. Especially among the bucks and beaux. Yet he could discover no evidence of misbehavior.

The Earl of Waite led her into a cotillion, and enlightenment struck. No wonder so many had mentioned her connection. He must have publicly acknowledged their relationship. Thomas ground his teeth. If Waite had sponsored her, he need not have worried about her acceptance. The present earl wielded tremendous clout. His cachet alone guaranteed access to the highest circles and placed her on a par with his own social status. The worry he had expended on her behalf was wasted effort, brought on, he now realized, by her own disclaimer of a lady’s graces. Yet she appeared as adept as any other in the room. An unaccustomed spurt of pride surfaced as he realized that he owned something other men found desirable.

But all was forgotten when Alicia arrived. He had steeled himself for this meeting, so was able to continue his conversation even as he became aware of her presence, though his throat caught for a moment and his heart pounded until he was afraid Ashton would notice. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

He had thought long and hard about their situation since his return from Graystone. She might be his goddess, but honor was his god. And away from her disturbing presence, honor held sway. Never again would he repeat his disgraceful lapse. Nothing could alter the immutable fact that he loved her, but he would no longer wear his heart on his sleeve. Such conduct demeaned his honor. And there was Eleanor to consider. He could not ignore Alicia, of course. Aside from his own needs, any kind of cut would engender gossip and speculation. Only one course existed, though following the rules would stretch his will power to the limit. He would stay out of her orbit whenever possible, remain coolly polite whenever they met, never dance with her more than once, and make certain they were never alone together. Only thus could he hope to prevent unwanted
on-dits
and protect his heart from further abuse.

Thus, when she entered the ballroom, he continued chatting with friends, dancing with other ladies, and seeming, on the surface, to be as frivolously contented as any in the room. Yet he was constantly aware of Alicia’s actions. He knew every smile and on whom it was bestowed, every partner, every laugh. Although it was a necessary part of socializing, he inwardly cringed to see her flirting with others, wanting only to spirit her away so they could be alone.

But his social mask never slipped.

He shared the supper dance with Caroline, not criticizing any of her previous partners – only one of whom deserved it – and demonstrating pride in his marriage. His smile never wavered.

“You look quite lovely this evening,” he murmured, pursuing his role of satisfied husband.

“I have been pleasantly surprised with Madame Suzette’s artistry,” admitted Caroline lightly, somehow aware of his purpose. No warmth penetrated her heart at his words. “But there are many prettier ladies here tonight. And, of course, Lady Darnley is the most stunningly beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” 
At least on the outside.

“I understood Waite had cut your family off.”

“The seventh earl did. Uncle William disagreed, though he had no idea where we were by the time he acceded to the title. He has been quite helpful.”

The brief set ended and he led her to supper. Conversation lagged as he mentally prepared for his upcoming country dance with Alicia. For once, he tasted none of the lobster patties, lemon ices, or other delicacies served at this well-catered ball. Nor did he note Caroline’s silence. Or her strain.

His rigid control continued through the dance with Alicia. Thank God he had contracted for this set rather than a more intimate waltz. One more lesson to take to heart for future encounters. Each touch of her fingertips as he led her through the figures burned through his gloves. Her sensual movements offered enticing views of her neckline. His lips tingled with the memory of that soft flesh, his tongue craved again the sweet nectar of her mouth. Yet his countenance revealed nothing, his conversation bordering on stilted
ennui
.