Wicked Wyckerly (15 page)

“My daughter isn’t.” Dusting off a chair with his handkerchief, Fitz took a seat, crossed his boots, and began tapping them with his stick. “She needs a guardian should anything happen to me.”

“If you marry, your wife would be the logical choice,” the dusty man of business argued.

“But as things stand, I may die before I marry. I want an executor who won’t argue about a woman’s suitability to raise a child, and I would like to ask Miss Abigail Merriweather to be Penelope’s guardian. She’s the only one I’d trust to look after my daughter, no matter what condition my estate is in.”

Satisfied that he’d finally got something right, Fitz sat back and waited for the solicitor to take his orders. It was time he stepped over the glaring disadvantages of his accursed title and learned to exploit the benefits it provided.

17

“I believe Lord Robert Smythe was taken with you last evening.” The marchioness swept up and down her bedchamber, patting perfume behind her ears and dodging the maid who was attempting to adjust the bow above her train. “And Sir Barton would be an excellent match. He has his own land, even if it is in the Lake Country.”

“I have my own land,” Abby murmured, sitting at the lady’s dressing table and allowing still another maid to powder her nose and fret over the elaborate headdress of dangling ribbons and pearls arranged over her cropped hair. “And Sir Barton is too easygoing. The children would run rampant over him.”

Rich chestnut hair upswept and adorned with a string of shimmering gems, Lady Belden straightened her slender figure into an aristocratic pose and glared. “You’ll have no children to run rampant if you insist on being particular.”

Even though she knew the dowager was right, Abigail refused to be intimidated. “Surely there are men out there who speak firmly.” Men like the earl, although she preferred it when he teased Penelope into behaving. If one such man existed, there had to be others.

“Of course there are, but the more specific the qualities you seek, the more difficult the competition. Most men prefer young misses fresh out of the nursery. You cannot be too choosy if you insist on pursuing the return of your siblings.” Her voice softened as she observed Abigail stand up and shake out her new ball gown. “Well, perhaps you can be a
little
choosy. You are a veritable Cinderella.”

Abigail
felt
like a Cinderella. Instead of her usual lumpy woolens, she wore whisper-soft amber silk that floated over a scandalously translucent chemise. A froth of gauzy sarcenet trailed over the skirt and into floor-length ruffles around her feet, which were encased in delicately embroidered silk slippers—not glass, but close enough.

Her bodice—Abigail gulped and tried not to peer too long in the marchioness’s rather terrifying cheval glass. Imported from France, the mirror tilted to reveal Abigail from head to toe. Since she’d never owned more than a wall mirror, she’d never given her full figure much notice. Now—she could see that the thin silk band of her bodice was scarcely wider than her hand, revealing far more of her bosom than she’d ever exposed. And the silk scandalously draped over curves that she hadn’t known she possessed.

She almost looked as if she
belonged
in London.

Rather than acknowledge her embarrassment at the ripe figure she saw in the glass, Abigail watched the ribbons dance from her curls as she shook her head. Her throat felt exposed without a chemisette to conceal it. “My seed pearls?” she suggested, touching the hollow at the base.

“Nonsense. We are presenting you as an heiress. Lily, the amber and rubies, please.” Garbed in dove gray shot with blue, the marchioness had added a stunning set of diamonds to her ears, throat, and wrist. She shimmered like an evening goddess.

With her petite size and sheared curls, Abby could never aspire to her hostess’s dramatic elegance or sophistication, but the necklace the maid drew from the jewel box made her gasp.

“Excellent,” the lady said in satisfaction, admiring the result as the maid fastened the five-strand bib necklace around Abby’s throat. “You will be no insipid miss, blending in with all the other ingenues. You will stand out as a lady in your own right. Never let a man think you are any less than his equal. You must command respect.”

Command respect? She would be fortunate enough to find the strength to swallow.

Suffering seven degrees of trepidation, Abigail trailed after the marchioness to the waiting carriage. As the vehicle traversed busy streets and waited in line for footmen to help them disembark, she listened dutifully to the lady’s list of instructions, people she must meet, dances she mustn’t dance, men she must avoid.

She wasn’t entirely certain city dances were the same as country ones. And she had most certainly mixed up the names of the desirable men with the undesirable ones. Names were meaningless without faces. Faces were meaningless unless she saw them with the children. She really did not have a mind trained for society.

Still, even with her head whirling with instructions, Abby did her best to smile pleasantly and not gape as they climbed stairs crowded with laughing ladies flirting with elegant gentlemen. The mob pushed them up, past a glittering chandelier, until they came to stand in the entrance of the third-story ballroom, waiting to be announced by a servant in livery that put her father’s best Sunday suit to shame.

The ballroom sparkled with what had to be a thousand wax tapers. Smoke curled around a ceiling painted to look like a midnight sky. Fragile white silk fluttered over open French doors on a distant balcony. Matching white silk festooned the blue walls, draped and caught up in ribbons and red roses. The perfume of a stifling crowd in an enclosed space overpowered any scent from the roses.

Abigail’s stomach churned, and she considered fleeing, but the mob behind her was too thick and shoved her forward. She didn’t know anyone. She didn’t have a thing to say.

Only gradually did she emerge from her own selfish fears to realize that, unlike Lady Belden, most of the ladies here had escorts. Perhaps . . . could the lady need Abigail as an excuse to appear in public for the first time since her husband’s death?

The possibility that she might be useful to her hostess in some small way gave her the courage to move forward, but she still thought Cinderella had been smart to arrive late, after the crowd had thinned out.

She wished she could hope for a handsome prince somewhere in this vast ballroom, but if the gentlemen she’d met last night at the theater were any indication, they were no different from Billy or Harry at home, just better dressed and inclined toward giving themselves airs.

Using his size to advantage, Lord Quentin shoved through the crush to appear at Lady Belden’s side. “You should have told me you were coming,” he said with disapproval. “If I am the only family you have here, it is my duty to escort you.”

“Family!” The lady trilled with laughter and tapped him with her fan. “You can scarcely consider yourself
my
family. You are two removes from Edward’s!”

Determined to learn from her hostess, Abigail observed the byplay with curiosity. She didn’t think Lord Quentin liked being laughed at, but if he was the insufferable sort who preferred to have things his way, he deserved taking down a notch, as Lady Anne had said.

“Nevertheless, you are a Hoyt,” he insisted. “Never let it be said that my family treats you in any way less than is proper.”

“I still intend to spend my fortune before I die,” Lady Belden said merrily as the servant announced their names. “There is no need for you to do me up brown.”

Abby had thought Lord Quentin had been kind and considerate in his generous offer, not managing or insufferable, but from the lady’s response, she thought otherwise. Abby thought she’d never grasp the nuances.

“Truthfully, you did not think I would attend, did you?” he asked.

Lady Bell flicked her fan and glanced around the ballroom. “That’s hardly my concern. You are the son of a marquess now. No matter where you attained your wealth, society can scarcely ignore you any longer. Where are your sisters?”

Ah, now she understood some of the stiffness between these two. Society did not deem Lord Quentin a gentleman because he was in trade. Abby didn’t understand why that must be so, but she knew that’s how it worked.

“Sally is with my aunt. Margaret isn’t properly out yet, but Sally has danced once with Fitz.” He turned and belatedly acknowledged Abigail. “Miss Merriweather, if you will allow me the pleasure of the cotillion, I would be most honored.”

She offered her dance card and allowed Lord Quentin to scrawl his name for one of the first dances. She understood he had no need of her dowry, and his attention was only a maneuver to attract notice for her so she might find a husband. She, at least, was grateful for his consideration.

“Most of Danecroft’s friends are here,” Lady Belden murmured in Abby’s ear as a footman announced their entrance. “They all have pockets to let, but unlike Fitz’s, their families are influential. I’ll introduce you to Lady Atherton, our hostess. Her youngest son, Nicholas, is a worse fribble than Danecroft, but his mother will do anything to see him settled. His father has the wealth to hire all the solicitors and barristers your little heart can desire.”

Abby was pretty certain she didn’t want an idle fribble. She’d hoped to find someone with a little work ethic. But she had to admit—glancing around at the awe-inspiring decor—a family with this much wealth and prestige could command kings.

Lord Quentin broke through the throng to reach their hostess, who nodded approvingly at Abby as the introductions were made. “I heard you meant to look after some of Edward’s relations, Isabell,” said Lady Atherton. “That is most generous of you. I hope you will enjoy your evening, Miss Merriweather.”

Enjoy? She supposed she might if she didn’t think her entire future and that of the children rested upon this frivolous fantasy. She would prefer to spend the evening admiring the beautiful gowns swirling past her, or observing the fascinating mating dance of the
ton
. If the hubbub of voices didn’t nearly drown it out, she’d love to sit on the sidelines and simply enjoy the music. But her lot tonight was to enter the jungle and hope she didn’t become prey for the animals.

She was too short to see past the gentlemen crowding around the marchioness. Wealthy and beautiful, the lady was the honey who drew every eligible bachelor in the room. Abby wished she could see Lord Danecroft, just so she knew one person who liked her for herself, but she smiled politely and extended her hand and accepted introductions to men whose eyes were only on her benefactor.

When it became apparent that Lady Belden would not dance and that the only way the gentlemen could please her was to dance with her protégée, Abby began her test of endurance.

“What a wuvahly pin, my lord!” the charming chit in white simpered, staring at Fitz’s chest even though she loomed an inch over his head.

How daunting to have an eighteen-year-old top him, although he must admit, her height would have given him a much better glimpse of her bosom had she possessed one. With a sigh, Fitz added another qualification to his list of necessary wifely virtues—short and round. He hadn’t decided about the lisp yet. For ten thousand pounds a year, he might endure a lisp.

He led the child back to her mother and moved on to the next name on his card, striving hard to remember who she was and why he’d asked for a dance. His usually good memory must be afflicted by his concern over leaving Penelope alone with only a nanny for protection. He’d used more of his loan money to have new bolts and locks installed. He’d ordered the nanny to keep Penny away from windows. But it grated that he couldn’t provide a household of bullies to discourage a repetition of last night’s brick throwing.

He spotted Quentin leading a lady with short red gold hair off the dance floor and approved of Miss Merriweather’s choice of partner, even though the pain of envy stabbed him. They would make an excellent couple. He would have realized that Quent was ideal for Miss Merry’s purposes had he not been so wrapped up in his own selfish concerns.

When he saw Quentin leading the lady toward the balcony door, Fitz growled and started after them. He caught himself just as the pair reached Nick, and it became apparent that Quentin was merely making introductions.

Matchmaking.

Golden Nick wouldn’t suit Rhubarb Girl at all. Nick didn’t have a sensible thought in his head beyond which beautiful courtesan he’d bed next. The idea of Nick even falling out of bed in time to
see
Abby’s strawberry field in daylight was too absurd to consider. Hoyt needed to be smacked for matchmaking without an inkling of common sense.

“Lord Danecroft?” A lofty—peeved—male voice intruded on his reverie.

He glanced around and saw Viscount Pemberley bearing down on him. Fitz winced.
Right.
He was supposed to be escorting the darling of the family onto the floor right now.

“Pemberley!” he said happily, extending his hand. “Where have you hidden that beautiful daughter of yours? I believe I’ve been promised this dance.”

The viscount’s thunderous look eased. “Thought you’d forgotten. She’s been looking forward to it all evening.”

Now Fitz remembered who she was. Sir Barton had been trapped by Pemberley’s arm-twisting into agreeing to dance with the wallflower daughter. Barton had turned around and bribed Fitz to dance with the reticent miss in exchange for ripping up some of the debts the estate owed him. When approached, Pemberley had been delighted to substitute an earl for a mere baronet on his daughter’s card.

The wallflower’s dowry wasn’t as large as that of the towering chit without breasts, but once Fitz had Miss Pemberley on the dance floor, she didn’t twitter, at least. And she was a nice height. And there seemed to be some indication of breasts, although one could never be certain, since her bodice was poufed out in ruffles and was too high to reveal anything interesting. Since she blotchily blushed at his downward glance, he returned to smiling into her eyes.

She had a blemish on her nose. A large, almost purplish one, which warned him that his thirty years were no doubt nearly twice her age, which would make him a cradle robber as well as a scoundrel and an insect. In another ten years, this could be Penelope dancing with a worm like him. And Pemberley had pushed the poor puss in his jaded direction? The man should be horsewhipped.

Despite all Fitz’s smiling attempts to beguile, the girl appeared to be looking anywhere except at him. Hell, if he couldn’t sweep a nursery miss off her feet, he was in more trouble than he’d thought. He’d hoped to pick a wealthy female tonight, propose tomorrow, and have the special license in hand before the end of next week. He couldn’t neglect the estate much longer than that.

He followed the direction of the child’s wistful glance and saw Miss Merry bobbing a lively curtsy and swinging on the arm of her dance partner. Fitz’s eyeballs nearly rolled from his head at the entrancing image. The elegant redhead sparkling in jewels and sweeping down the dance formation wasn’t a rhubarb of any sort. There was nothing remotely rural about the manner in which Miss Merry tilted her head and smiled flirtatiously, as if she pranced in aristocratic company every day. The ribbons dangling from her crown drew his gaze to the slender turn of her neck, and the glitter of gold at her throat. . . . What the devil had Isabell dressed her in? A
night shift
? He would have to strangle the man drinking in the luscious view of firm curves. . . .