The Spinster Bride (10 page)

A cold sweat broke out on his body and his arms began to shake.
Don't scream. Don't scream
.

And then, a hand, small and firm, gripped his gloved hand, giving him enough distraction that the scream bubbling in his throat was forgotten.

“Breathe,” she said.

“My dear lady,” he said through gritted teeth, “if I wasn't breathing I'd be on the floor.”

She chuckled and squeezed his hand. “You forgot our dance,” she said. “Now you'll have to make it up to me another night.”

Charles looked at her and smiled grimly. “Your mother just might kill me if I do.” He took a deep breath. “I should not have come this evening. My leg has been hellish all day. I should have known better than to try this. Prajit was very angry with me.”

Another searing pain gripped him and he spat out a curse. It hurt like the devil, but even through it, he still felt her hand on his, gripping even tighter. He still smelled her scent, heard her small gasp, as if she were the one hurting. She shouldn't be there with him. Anyone could see them, standing too close, her hand on his. God, she was warm. He could feel her next to him, and he prayed for something forbidden at that moment. He prayed he had the strength to drag her into the shadows and kiss her, consequences be damned.

Finally, the pain subsided and settled into an incessant ache. He could deal with an ache. He could carry on a conversation, even manage a waltz. She released his hand and stepped back.

“I imagine you've seen doctors?”

“Yes. Three. It was a grievous wound. They all say the same thing—that the leg should have been taken. Perhaps they're right. I wonder sometimes if it would have been better to lose it than to suffer this.”

She let out a little sound. “Surely the pain will subside in time.”

“It has, actually.” He laughed at her expression, as if she could hardly believe he'd been worse.

“I'm glad I didn't see that. It's difficult to see you this way. I don't know how you hide it.”

He wondered the same thing, actually. When he'd been talking to the Italian woman, he'd nearly cried out and she'd been perfectly oblivious, even as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. It occurred to him that Marjorie had known he'd been in agony. “I obviously didn't hide it from you,” he said.

“I knew earlier your leg was bothering you, when you were standing in that group of men. You were clutching your cane so tightly.” She looked about. “Where is your cane?”

“I put it aside. It was drawing too much attention.”

“For goodness' sake, Mr. Norris, women think canes are quite dashing.”

“Do they?”

“Of course.”

“Then I shall have to retrieve it—” He stopped abruptly. She was so damned pretty, so
nice
. Why she had been passed by was a mystery to him, even with her brother. He actually found George an interesting character. Surely that alone could not explain why she wasn't married. Surely someone in the
ton
could appreciate her. He knew he did. He
did
. He . . .

“Have you ever considered what it would be like to kiss me?” Her eyes widened right before her gaze dipped to his mouth.

“Of course,” she said. “I wonder what it's like to kiss every man I meet.”

Now she'd surprised him. “You do?”

“If one cannot picture kissing a man, one certainly cannot picture being
married
to him.”

He smiled. “Ah, but you knew that I was not a man you would marry. So why would you imagine kissing me?”

Her cheeks flushed slightly and she lifted her head haughtily. “Why are you trying to get me to admit I would like to kiss you?”

“Because it's all I can think of. Kissing you, I mean. I'd like to someday.”

She smiled then, and he nearly groaned—not in pain this time, but from a far different sensation. Something about that smile felt like a caress, one that sent a heavy heat to his groin. She tapped one index finger against her chin as she contemplated his words, then slowly said, “I think that would be . . .”

Lovely
, he thought,
please say “lovely
.
”

“. . . a mistake.”

Damn. Wrong word.

“And I think it would be a very good thing indeed,” he said, aware of how husky his voice sounded. For some reason, all this talk of kissing her was making it difficult to speak.

She wrinkled her brow. “Do you?”

He stepped toward her and she gave a nervous look toward the ballroom. “Not now, you ninny. But someday soon. I really don't know how long I can resist it.”

“I think you should try. To resist it, I mean.” She added the last in a rush of words.

“Do you really wish for me to resist kissing you?”

She pressed her lips together and backed up another step. “The galop has ended. I have to go meet my partner for the next dance.” She continued backing up, the oddest sparkle in her lovely eyes. Just before she entered the ballroom, she said, “As to your question—no, I don't wish you to resist.” And then she spun about, her gown swirling around her so that he got an enticing glimpse of her trim ankle. He took a step and felt a sharp twinge in his leg, but he didn't give a damn. He'd suffer just about anything to get that kiss.

 

The ballroom in the Fielding house was bookended by a gallery and library, both of which were filled with ball-goers who moved from room to room looking for friends or trying to avoid speaking with enemies. A wide hall separated those rooms from Lord Fielding's study (this night set up for card playing) and one of the home's parlors.

Charles peeked into the parlor and frowned when he spied a large group of chattering debutantes, who instantly stopped speaking when he looked into the room. “Good evening, ladies,” he said, and nearly winced at the smattering of giggles and instantaneous curtsies that resulted from his greeting. He bowed and continued farther down the hall, hearing the giggles grow louder, accompanied by some fervent hisses for quiet.

After ten years overseas, Charles realized he knew almost no one. His chums were all married, surrounded by growing broods of children, leaving him to wander the halls of balls alone. It was damned depressing. When had everyone become so young?

Or rather, when had he gotten so damn old?

He passed one of the entrances to the ballroom and spied Lady Marjorie dancing with Lord Pemberton, an ancient gentleman who'd outlived three wives already. It might be suspicious had not all of his wives died of natural causes. The old fox was leering at the lady's bosom and she was valiantly trying to ignore him. Charles chuckled, and at that moment she looked up and met his gaze, a smile flashing across her face—one that made his gut feel decidedly strange.

It was one thing to lust after the lady, to flirt and perhaps someday—someday soon—steal a kiss. It was quite another to start feeling all starry-eyed when he looked at her. Lust could be turned off. Love, on the other hand, could leave him reeling for months, he'd learned. He turned abruptly away and started to search for some pretty young thing to distract him from the lovely Marjorie and her brilliant smile.

After an old-fashioned country dance, it was time for his waltz with Lady Marjorie, and he'd be damned if his leg would keep him off the dance floor this time. The throbbing ache would normally stop him from attempting such a thing, but he wanted to hold her in his arms, even if it was quite proper and in front of dozens of other people. He shook his head, amused where his thoughts were leading. He was every kind of fool, but for tonight he decided to throw caution to the wind and pretend he had a chance with her.

“This is our dance, I believe, my lady,” he said, bowing to Marjorie as she stood next to her frowning mother. Marjorie smiled at him prettily as the older woman glared at him. Charles gave Dorothea his most polite and pleasant smile, secretly hoping it was causing the woman's blood to boil. It wasn't as if he were the son of a banker, for goodness' sake. His father was a viscount. He didn't much care for her opinion and enjoyed watching her thin lips press together in distaste.

“I think your mother loathes me,” he said with a laugh when they were on the dance floor.

“Oh, it's a certainty,” she said cheerfully.

“She does know who my father is, does she not?”

“Of course, sir. I think she objects to your wild ways. Your hair, for instance, is a bit too long. And you seem to laugh rather loudly. It is quite not the thing to enjoy oneself in public. Or rather, to allow others to know you are enjoying yourself. And the title.” She sighed dramatically. “Despite your lofty sire, you, sir, have no title. And that is your fatal flaw.”

He grinned down at her, watching her expression change, the way her mouth formed the words, her lips pouting as she said the word “flaw.” A surge of heat flooded him unexpectedly and his grip on her slender waist tightened just slightly, bringing to the edge of impropriety the closeness with which he held her. She was not a petite girl, so he didn't have to strain his neck or his ears to hear her. Her forehead was aligned with his mouth, so that if he wanted to, he could lean forward and kiss that little frown line that sometimes appeared.

“Stop it,” she said, grinning up at him.

He raised a brow in question.

“You're giving me that look again.”

“Ah. The I-want-to-ravish-you look?”

She laughed aloud. “Yes, that's the one. I know my mother is watching and will not be pleased.” But Marjorie sounded enormously pleased, so he gave her a look so searing no one observing the pair could mistake his thoughts.

And Marjorie, silly, wonderful girl, laughed, delighted with his sense of play. It was at that moment, when he should have been guarding his heart, when the music and dancers swirled around them, that he fell just a little bit in love with Lady Marjorie Penwhistle. He cleared his mind so that particular thought wouldn't be as apparent.

“But I do want to ravish you,” he said blandly. “What would you do if I kissed you right now, right here on the dance floor?”

“I'd slap you, very hard,” she said sternly, but there was a delighted light in her eyes.

“And yet I sense you want me to kiss you.”

“That's not at all the point. If I allowed a kiss without a great show of protest, I'd be forced to walk down the aisle with you. And we both know that would be a disaster. So, yes, I would slap you.”

At that moment, another pair of dancers jostled them a bit, causing Charles to misstep. The result was an ungodly shooting pain that all but sent him in agony to the floor.

Marjorie looked stricken, but he smiled grimly, even as his entire body was almost instantly bathed in a cold sweat. He suffered through it, continued dancing, and it was only when the music finally, mercifully stopped and the pain began to subside that he realized, to his horror, he'd been crushing her hand. And she'd been silent, letting him do it, letting him nearly break the fragile bones.

“My God, I do apologize, my lady. You'll be bruised. I'm so very sorry.”

She smiled at him and rubbed one hand with the other. “Please do not worry. It didn't truly hurt.” She held up her hand and flexed it in front of him to prove she was unhurt, but all he saw was the glaring red marks left by his fingers. “My goodness, Mr. Norris, you look as though you just murdered my kitten. I assure you, I am perfectly fine.”

He nodded, but he didn't believe her. Suddenly, this business of finding a wife seemed futile. How could he court a girl if he couldn't even dance with her, if he could hardly carry on a conversation? He wished he could forgo it all and simply pick someone.

He knew, of course, that would never do. He was still just enough of a romantic fool to want to love his wife.

“Who is next on your list?” he asked abruptly, almost angrily, though he wasn't quite sure where that anger came from.

Marjorie drew back, as if the question surprised her, but she answered immediately. “Miss Mary Crandall. Her father, Sir Arthur, was knighted some time ago. It was one of the queen's first acts when she assumed the crown.”

“I know the Crandalls. Their son went to school with us. He was younger, but he was an extraordinary cricket player.” He stopped momentarily when she made a face at his mention of cricket. He ignored her and continued. “Made first team his first year at Cambridge.” He tried to remember what he knew of the family, as he hadn't seen Jonathan Crandall in more than fifteen years. “But since I won't be marrying Jonathan Crandall, tell me about Mary.”

“She's a bit shy, but rather nice. She is a patron of the arts and is deeply involved with the London Asylum for Poor Orphan Girls. She is here if you'd like an introduction.”

His leg gave him a twinge. “Not tonight. I'm not really good company and I'd like to be at my best if I'm about to meet my future bride.”

She scanned the room and he couldn't help letting his eyes drift to the graceful curve of her neck; one dark curl had fallen just behind her ear and he had the sudden image of himself brushing it aside so he could lay his lips there. “Ah, there she is, dancing with Lord Maplewood.”

He dragged his eyes away from her curl and followed her gaze. “The girl in the gray dress? With the mousy brown hair?”

Marjorie playfully tapped him on his arm. “She is a very lovely girl,” she said.

“No. She's too small.” Charles nodded toward a stunning young girl, her golden blond hair swept artistically upon her lovely head. He knew immediately he'd never seen her before. “What of her?” he asked with a nod toward the blonde.