Читать книгу How to Seduce a Sinner - Adrienne Basso - Страница 8

“Atwood.”

“Dardington.”

The two men stood toe to toe, first staring, then glowering at each other, neither giving an inch. The scent of impending disaster swirled around them, permeating the air. Dorothea’s breath hitched with panic. The last thing she needed was to be at the center of a very public disagreement between these two gentlemen.

Especially after she had faithfully promised her sister, Gwendolyn, that she would behave with the utmost propriety and decorum while in London. Instead, she appeared poised to become the unwitting star in a drama of Shakespearean proportions.

So, for the sake of all those guests who were regarding them with great curiosity, Dorothea kept a congenial smile plastered on her face. A smile she suspected fooled no one, yet hid some of the worry churning in her mind.

“Ah, so you gentlemen are acquainted with each other,” she muttered. “How lovely.”

She widened her smile, aware that their audience had grown in numbers. Good heavens, they must all think I’m a simpleton. Yet better to be thought a half-witted female than a scandalous one.

For an instant, the two men turned in her direction, each appearing slightly puzzled that she had spoken. She realized that their focus had been so exclusively on each other, both had temporarily forgotten she was standing there with them.

“I shall deal with this, Dorothea,” Lord Dardington declared with quiet authority. “No need to trouble yourself.”

“There really is nothing to deal with, my lord,” she replied, striving to keep her tone neutral. “’Twas a simple misunderstanding.”

“Hmm, perhaps. Or perhaps not, at least not on Atwood’s part,” the Marquess of Dardington said in a frigid, calm voice as his angry gaze returned to her dancing partner.

Reflexively, Dorothea took a step back. The growing alarm that had taken up residence in her chest heightened, even as she admired the steely nerve exhibited by Lord Atwood.

The Marquess of Dardington was a formidable man, in physical stature and in temperament. There were few who possessed the nerve to meet him so directly. Apparently the Marquess of Atwood was one of those few.

Easily half the ton feared Lord Dardington’s volatile outbursts while the other half thrived on his antics and the endless gossip they produced. His wife, Lady Meredith, had assured Dorothea that Lord Dardington had mellowed with age, but she saw no evidence of that now. In truth, the most unsettling of all was the apparent calm Lord Dardington was currently demonstrating, despite his obvious displeasure.

The calm before the storm? Dorothea shivered, suddenly feeling alarmingly light-headed. Topping the evening off by having her guardian make a public spectacle truly would make this the worst night of her life.

“Miss Ellingham had promised me that dance, Atwood. But you spirited her away,” the Marquess of Dardington proclaimed. “Whatever were you thinking, man? Or rather, not thinking?”

The deep timbre of the Marquess of Dardington’s voice vibrated along Dorothea’s spine. She risked a small glance at the Marquess of Atwood. His face paled slightly; his jaw flexed. Her fear of an unpleasant scene increased.

“I was unaware of the circumstances, sir,” Lord Atwood replied. There was a pause, a long silence, and then finally, “my apologies.”

Lord Atwood rigidly inclined his head as he offered his apology. His voice held the proper amount of regret, his contrition appeared genuine. On the surface. Yet something in Lord Atwood’s tone caught Dorothea’s attention.

She would bet every shilling of her weekly allowance that the young nobleman would have done precisely the same thing even if he had known the entire circumstances.

Lord Dardington darkened his glare. Apparently he shared her view. The tension in the air escalated. The two men now locked eyes, much as two rams would lock horns. Dorothea supposed it was better than knocking heads, though that might come later, depending on how this conversation concluded. Wide-eyed, she licked her lips.

Fearful of her own safety if she dared to step between them, Dorothea tried to manage a disarming smile. But she need not have bothered. Both men were once again ignoring her, too intent on each other to be aware of much else.

She remembered suddenly the first time she had met the Marquess of Dardington. He had been cordial, pleasant, even charming. But then her temporary guardian had succinctly outlined his expectations of her conduct and the rules he expected to be obeyed without questions while she was a member of his London household.

He had also, rather graphically, described what would happen if she broke any of those rules. It had taken until the next morning for Dorothea’s knees to stop shaking.

But the Marquess of Atwood did not appear to be having the same difficulties. Lord Dardington was casting him a stare that would cause any sane, mortal man to quake in his boots. But the Marquess of Atwood barely blinked.

Dorothea could not help but think of Arthur Pengrove. She was certain he would have fainted dead away if he were on the receiving end of such a stare from her guardian.

“I suppose I must accept your apology and thus excuse your deplorable manners,” Lord Dardington grudgingly conceded. “Just see that it never happens again.”

“Thank you for being so enlightened, sir.” Atwood turned toward Dorothea and smiled. “Surely you can understand how I lost my head when I set eyes on the lovely Miss Ellingham earlier. I found her irresistible.”

“Lost your head? Aye, along with any semblance of common sense,” Dardington grumbled.

Lord Atwood grinned ruefully. “I am a gentleman, sir, not a saint.”

Lord Dardington cracked a smile, but then his handsome face contorted into another grimace. “Be warned, Atwood. While she is under my roof, Miss Ellingham is under my protection. I take my responsibilities toward her with the same care and devotion I afford to my daughters, who thank God are still too young to be out in society.”

“I understand.” Lord Atwood’s lips quirked into another thin smile.

“Good. Make certain you don’t forget it.” Lord Dardington shifted his footing and regarded the younger man steadily, his brooding concentration an unnerving scrutiny.

Lord Atwood’s smile faded. Perhaps he was not as unaffected by Lord Dardington’s manner as he tried to appear? Strangely, the notion that he took Lord Dardington seriously caused Dorothea’s opinion of Lord Atwood to rise. Obviously he was intelligent to recognize a formidable opponent when presented to him. Yet he was clever enough, and levelheaded enough, to know when he was outmaneuvered.

“I will most definitely remember our conversation, sir.” Lord Atwood turned and bowed over her gloved hand. “I bid you good evening, Miss Ellingham. Thank you for the delightful dance and the enjoyable company. It was the undisputed highlight of my night.”

To her everlasting annoyance, Dorothea felt herself blushing. He was standing very close, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his solid body. She sternly told herself to calm down.

“I hardly know what to say,” she replied.

His brow quirked. “A first for you, I imagine.”

She smiled. She hadn’t meant to; she wanted to be cool and dignified, even a tad dismissive. But he was simply too handsome, too charming. And Dorothea had always had a weakness for handsome, charming men.

“I am hopeful that when next we meet, you will handle yourself in a more proper manner, my lord,” she said, regretting that he had released her hand. She liked his touch, had enjoyed feeling small and delicate.

“I assure you, when next we meet, you will not be disappointed.” He leaned forward and whispered. “I vow that I shall even remember your name. Dorothea.”

Then, with a conspiratorial smile, Lord Atwood took his leave.

“Woolgathering, Dorothea?”

“What? Oh?” Dorothea pulled her eyes away from the broad retreating shoulders of Lord Atwood and slanted a guilty look at her guardian. “I’m sorry.”

“For ignoring me? Or for dancing with Atwood?”

“Both, I suppose.”

The marquess offered his arm and she slipped her hand into the bend at his elbow. Heads held high, they crossed the ballroom and headed toward the room where the supper buffet was being served. The marquess ignored the curious gazes and the stage whispers of conversation several ladies indulged in behind their open, raised fans. Dorothea pretended to do the same.

“Atwood has always struck me as a somewhat impulsive man,” Lord Dardington said. He glared at a young dandy dressed in the most appalling shade of puce, who was blocking the entrance to the supper room. The poor fellow gulped, reddened, then hastened out of the way. “I assume Atwood gave you no choice when it came to the dance? That is why you stood me up?”

Dorothea nodded. “He was very insistent.”

Lord Dardington’s face darkened. “Improper?”

“No, not exactly.” Dorothea had fended off her share of unwanted advances through the years. This incident had been nothing like the others.

“I suppose you feel flattered that he singled you out for such attention,” the marquess said.

Dorothea slowly shook her head as she ran through the events in her mind. “Actually, I don’t believe he intended to select me. I was merely the closest female within his vicinity.”

“Hmm, he might have been keen on avoiding someone else,” the marquess allowed in such a tone that Dorothea surmised Lord Dardington had once done the very same thing himself. “Nevertheless, I must commend you on how well you conducted yourself, Dorothea. I imagine it wasn’t easy for you to remain so calm and collected while Atwood and I squared off against each other.”

“I believed sheer terror and a healthy dose of dread held me immobile, my lord,” she answered wryly.

The marquess smiled. “I apologize if I upset you.”

“I am just grateful that you each kept your fists by your sides and somehow managed not to say anything overtly insulting.”

Lord Dardington nodded wisely. “Atwood probably would have taken a swing at me if I went too far.”

“Fisticuffs at a formal ball?” Dorothea shuddered.

“No need to look so upset. If we did come to physical violence it would not have lasted very long. ’Tis far too crowded in here to land more than one or two solid punches.”

“How comforting.”

The sarcastic comment slipped beyond her lips before she could censure herself, but the marquess seemed unaffected by the tone of her remark. They entered the supper room where an army of their host’s servants were scurrying about.

Dorothea paused a moment to take it all in, trying to commit each detail to memory so she could write to her younger sister, Emma, with descriptive accuracy.

The room was ablaze with candles that shimmered reflectively off the satin gowns and sparkling jewels worn by the ladies. The tables were studded with large vases of hothouse flowers; the buffet table groaned under the sheer quantity of so much lavishly prepared foods. Even after spending over two months in Town, Dorothea was still in awe of the spectacle and expenses involved in these parties. It was nothing like the quiet, simple affairs she had attended in Yorkshire.

For a split second she longed for the familiar, safe life that she was accustomed to, but then she ruthlessly threw the thought aside. What was wrong with her tonight? Apparently the proposal from Arthur Pengrove and the unexpected incident with the Marquess of Atwood were making a greater impact on her nerves than she realized.

When her older sister had invited her to come to Town, Dorothea had jumped at the chance, knowing this was the best opportunity she would ever have to make a good match, to establish a comfortable, happy life for herself. Being sponsored by the Marquess and Countess of Dardington had been an unexpected and very welcome boon.

Their social stature had afforded her the opportunity to mingle with the very cream of society, the most influential, aristocratic, and wealthy individuals. Yet somehow this extraordinary blessing was also a curse. The pressure Dorothea felt to find a husband grew with each passing week.

As she glanced at the well-dressed, well-heeled crowd, a weight settled in Dorothea’s gut. What was she doing here? Was she reaching too far, hoping too much? Was it foolish to want to better herself through marriage?

Yet marriage was the only way she could separate herself from a life spent in Yorkshire, in the quiet, rather dull community where she had lived with her aunt and uncle for nearly ten years. To escape that fate, Dorothea was prepared to risk a great deal.

“We shall find my wife and then locate a quiet corner to enjoy our meal,” Lord Dardington decided as he surveyed the supper room. Dorothea nodded rather meekly in agreement.

Her gaze too moved over the room, searching for Lady Meredith, yet idly watching for Lord Atwood also. Conversation and laughter flowed freely as the throng of guests began converging at the numerous banquet tables. Somehow Lord Dardington located his wife, Lady Meredith, among the crush. After securing a secluded table for the three of them, he hailed a footman to bring them a selection of delicacies from the buffet.

“Are you enjoying the ball, Dorothea?” Lady Meredith asked as they waited for the food to be brought. She was a pretty, levelheaded woman, whose face and form gave no hint that she was the mother of three girls, the eldest nearly ten years old.

Dorothea had been shy at their first meeting, but soon warmed to Lady Meredith’s unpretentious spirit and kind demeanor. She admired the older woman’s sophisticated attitude and optimistic outlook. She was also slightly in awe of how Lady Meredith managed her very stormy, volatile husband.

“The ball seems to be a great success,” Dorothea replied, making a great show of interest in the china plate the footman placed before her and deliberately refraining from making any comments about her feelings on the events of the evening.

She swallowed her first bite of a delicate veal pastry, and had just filled her fork with another when she felt the marquess’s gaze measuring her.

“Do you want to tell Meredith what happened or shall I?” Lord Dardington asked. “’Tis your decision.”

“It was merely a dance,” Dorothea answered slowly, lowering her fork to her plate. “And a misunderstanding on Lord Atwood’s part that the set had been promised to you.”

“You cannot mean the supper dance?” Lady Meredith asked. “But you are here together. Did you not take to the floor as you planned, Trevor?”

Lady Meredith frowned and Dorothea understood her confusion. It was expected that those who partnered for the supper dance then partook of the meal together when the dance ended. Yet here she was with Lord Dardington; Lord Atwood was no where to be found.

“Atwood tried to steal her from me,” Lord Dardington said. “He was successful with the dance, but I prevailed when it came to the meal.”

Lady Meredith carefully examined Dorothea’s face. “At whose request did you intervene? Dorothea’s?” she asked her husband.

The marquess bristled at the question. “I am responsible for Dorothea’s welfare. I would never forgive myself if I let any harm befall her while she was under my care.”

Lady Meredith shot him a sharp glance. “Were you distressed, Dorothea? Did you need Lord Dardington to intervene?”

Dorothea slowly chewed on her veal, making certain to take a small bite so she wouldn’t choke. Lady Meredith possessed an uncanny ability to see a situation more clearly than one might wish. It was a habit Dorothea found worrisome when it was directed at her.

“Lord Atwood took me by surprise, but there was no harm done by him.” Dorothea knew what else she needed to say and she couldn’t quite meet Lady Meredith’s eyes as she strove to be tactful. “Though strictly speaking it might not have been necessary, I did appreciate Lord Dardington’s assistance.”

“As I said,” the marquess crowed to his wife.

“It was actually the second time I danced with Lord Atwood,” Dorothea interjected. “He partnered me at the Willingford ball several weeks ago.” Though clearly he did not remember me, she thought wryly.

“Two dances? I was not aware.” The marquess frowned as he poured them each some wine from the bottle the footman had left on the table. “’Tis no secret that his father wishes him to wed, but Atwood seems ill inclined to follow the duke’s dictates. Plus his reputation hardly recommends him as a man I would consider a suitable husband, despite his wealth and title.”

“Gentlemen with far worse reputations and reckless youthful behavior have managed to make solid matches and proven themselves to be good husbands,” Lady Meredith said affectionately. “You included, my love.”

The remark seemed to have a mellowing effect on Lord Dardington. “To be fair, I suppose Atwood isn’t all that bad. Yet I still contend it won’t be easy for any woman he takes as a wife. His father is a horror. Makes my own dear, autocratic sire seem like a tamed house cat in comparison.”

“Heaven save us all from self-important aristocrats.” Lady Meredith hoisted her wineglass and took a long sip. “Honestly, dukes can be the most dreadful snobs. Except for my father-in-law. He is a delightful man.”

Lord Dardington regarded his wife with an easy grin. “I am certain you are the only woman on this earth who refers to my father as delightful.”

She returned the smile. “It’s true.”

“Ah, how quickly you have forgotten the great struggle it took to make him your champion.”

Lady Meredith waved her hand dismissively. “That was ages ago. Besides, it was a challenge to bring him around. I like a challenge.”

“I like a challenge, too,” Dorothea said, internally scoffing at the notion that the handsome marquess was genuinely interested in her. She was a country lass, with an unimpressive dowry and very little family connections. “But I fear the Marquess of Atwood is a trifle too high in the instep to have any true interest in me. And I cannot even contemplate trying to impress his father, the Duke of Hansborough.”

“Still, this was your second dance,” Lady Meredith mused.

Dorothea shrugged. “Perhaps he was showing an interest in me merely to vex his father.”

“Stranger things have been known to happen. We shall assess his sincerity when he comes to call,” Lady Meredith decided.

Dorothea’s eyes widened. “I do believe we are getting ahead of ourselves. Lord Atwood did not indicate that he would be calling upon me.”

“That does not mean he won’t present himself on my doorstep,” the marquess grumbled. “Hat in one hand, flowers in the other. If he invites you on a carriage ride, I insist that you bring Meredith along as a chaperone.”

“Dashing young men his age drive those sporty phaetons, Trevor,” Lady Meredith said mildly. “There is only room for two. Where exactly am I to sit? On Lord Atwood’s lap?”

“If you did, I would be forced to challenge him to a duel. ’Twould be a pity to end the life of one so young.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lady Meredith reached across the table and placed her hand over her husband’s. He immediately turned his palm up and gripped Lady Meredith’s hand tightly. “There will be no duels, Trevor,” she said in a soft, yet insistent tone.

“I protect my own,” the marquess said with exasperation, “and that includes Dorothea.”

“Thank you,” Dorothea hastily replied. Though it was rather appalling to think of the marquess fighting a duel for her, it also heartened her to know there was someone who would stand by and make sure she was safe, guarded from any man who would abuse her.

Her uncle Fletcher had not shown anything near the same level of concern for any of his three nieces, though he vowed to reform just before Dorothea came to London.

“Of course you must protect her,” Lady Meredith said. “Using your intelligence and influence, not your sword or pistol.” Lady Meredith pulled her hand away and brushed a stray wisp of hair off her cheek. “Now, there shall be no more talk of violence. The very idea utterly ruins my appetite.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the marquess nodded. He speared a delicate scallop with the tines of his fork and held it toward his wife. With an impish grin, she accepted the peace offering, her lips closing suggestively over the tasty morsel.

Good. That was very nicely settled. Though she was far too often the cause of it, family discord always made Dorothea nervous. She was pleased that Lady Meredith and the marquess had so amicably settled their difference.

Only one hurdle remained. Dorothea took a deep breath. “Arthur Pengrove proposed to me earlier this evening,” she announced in a breathless rush.

Lord and Lady Dardington shared a cryptic glance before Lady Meredith’s delicately arched brow lifted. “Really?”

“There is no cause for you to look so worried,” Dorothea said with deliberate lightness. “I turned him down. Or rather, I convinced him he was far too young to take on the responsibility of a wife.”

“Thank you,” the marquess said sincerely. “Enduring a meeting with Pengrove would have been torture for me. I’m certain I would have felt as though I was kicking a rabbit when I forbade him to propose.”

Dorothea’s head swiveled in the marquess’s direction. “You would have turned him away?”

“Of course.”

The marquess nodded and returned to his meal, spearing a large piece of rare roast beef on his fork. Dorothea regarded him warily as he chewed his food with obvious relish.

“But what if I wanted to marry Mr. Pengrove?”

Lord Dardington paused, his fork halfway between his mouth and his plate. “Why in the world would you want to spend your life with Arthur Pengrove?”

“I don’t. But if I did, would you prevent it? Can you prevent it?”

“My dear girl, I can do just about anything I please,” the marquess answered in a firm tone. “And I want every gentleman within a ten-mile radius of London to be very aware of that fact.”

Dorothea swallowed her panic. It was daunting to be faced with the reality of how much power the marquess had over her, even though this was only a temporary arrangement. The prospect of having to find a man that met with his approval was unsettling. Most unsettling, indeed.

Lady Meredith must have sensed Dorothea’s distress, for she gave her husband a troubled look. “What Trevor means to say is that we have taken the responsibility for your future happiness very much to heart. We agreed to be your sponsor this Season so you would have the opportunity to meet and mingle with a variety of eligible men.

“Ultimately, however, it is your uncle Fletcher who will make the decision regarding the suitability of your future husband, since he is your blood relative. We only hope that you will at least listen to our advice before making your choice, since we are acquainted with most of these gentlemen and their families.”

“Men can be idiots when it comes to finding a bride,” the marquess said cheerfully. “In my case, it was sheer luck that brought Meredith into my life. I was too blind and pigheaded to at first see she was the very best thing that could have happened to me.”

“Oh, Trevor.”

Lord Dardington ran the tip of his finger lightly over his wife’s bare hand. Dorothea glanced away. There was so much affection and regard in that simple gesture; it made her feel like a voyeur to witness it.

Was this what she wanted for herself? A husband who treated her as an equal, who considered her opinions, who on occasion deferred to her wishes, who obviously adored her?

Or did she want a husband who basically left her on her own? One who was an amiable companion, an elegant escort, a solid provider? It was a question she pondered daily, yet she had not reached a definitive conclusion.

The one thing she did know with certainty was that she would not marry a man whom she did not enjoy kissing. Hence any man she considered a reasonable candidate earned himself an uninhibited kiss from her. It was her final test. Alas, thus far no gentlemen had passed it.

Lord Dardington pulled his attention away from his wife and once again regarded Dorothea. “It hardly takes a genius to see that Arthur Pengrove was not the man for you.”

“He is a man of good character,” Dorothea protested, feeling slightly annoyed that the marquess so clearly saw what she had not—that Arthur was very much the wrong man to be her husband.

“Yes, Pengrove is a fine man,” Lord Dardington agreed. “A kind, affable fellow who would bore you to tears within a month of marriage. And then who knows what could happen? In my experience, an unhappy wife can make for all sorts of mischief.”

Dorothea blushed to the roots of her hair. “Are you calling my honor into question, my lord?”

“No.” He gave a great sigh. “Allow me to share with you the benefits of my age and experience, Dorothea. You are far too naïve and pretty for your own good. As a discontented wife, you would be easy prey for every rake and rogue in society. And believe me, we are in no short supply of them.”

The marquess excused himself and went in search of some dessert for the three of them. Dorothea sat quietly, pondering his words.

“I hope Trevor has not caused you undue anguish,” Lady Meredith said. “This whole marriage business can be rather nerve-racking for a female.”

Dorothea nodded, her spirits lifting at Lady Meredith’s kindness and sympathy. “I had no idea it would be so complicated, so confusing.” She paused, then rushed ahead with her next question before she lost her nerve. “May I ask, were you in love with Lord Dardington when you married?”

Lady Meredith frowned. “Not at first.” She thanked the eager young footman who removed their dirty dinner plates and then turned back to Dorothea. “Is that what you want? To fall in love and then marry?”

Was it what she wanted? Dorothea felt a small shiver move through her. Slowly, she shook her head. “I suppose what I want most from the man I marry is the possibility of falling in love.”

“Well, there are all sorts of marriages that are deemed very successful by society’s standards,” Lady Meredith said. “For the most part, being in love with one’s spouse is considered rather bad form by many of the ton. Either before or during the marriage.”

“Yet both you and your two brothers married for love.”

Lady Meredith laughed. “Yes, the Barrington family is well known for its eccentricities. And I for one am very glad of it.” The older woman’s expression sobered. “I shall give you one piece of advice and ask you to consider it most carefully. Don’t rush yourself, Dorothea. I can bear witness that the old adage, marry in haste, repent at leisure, is unfortunately true.”

“Ladies, I come bearing gifts.” The marquess’s deep voice cut into the conversation. Lord Dardington appeared at their table with two footmen carrying large silver trays in tow. “’Twas too difficult to decide upon a single sweet, so I brought one of everything.”

Both Dorothea and Lady Meredith let out a squeal of delight. With broad smiles they hastily made space on the small table for all the plates. The marquess resumed his seat and within minutes they were all busy tasting and then passing around the dishes, each exclaiming over their favorites and encouraging the others to have a sample.

As Dorothea chewed on a sinfully rich piece of cake, her thoughts turned to Lord Atwood. He had pulled her into a dance this evening without knowing her name. He had called her the future Mrs. Arthur Pengrove. How on earth did he know that Arthur had proposed? Dorothea believed she could say with a fair degree of certainty that the two men were not friends, making it impossible that Arthur would have confided his plans to the marquess.

Dorothea spooned a generous portion of raspberry trifle into her mouth. As the sweetness of the berries burst upon her tongue, she paused for a few seconds to relish the flavor. She took a second bite and decided this was most likely a puzzle that might never have a proper resolution.