Читать книгу Regency Marriages: A Compromised Lady / Lord Braybrook's Penniless Bride - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 9

Thea stared at the rose-pink gauze evening gown in the arms of the modiste’s assistant. She loved pink and this was, without a doubt, at the very forefront of fashion, but … She gulped—it appeared to be missing its bodice … and the sleeves consisted of the tiniest scraps of gauze … but the way the light shifted on it … as though it were alive. Delicate embroidered flowers decorated the rouleau at the hem. Temptation flickered; involuntarily her fingertips brushed over it. So soft, so fine—there was nothing of it at all … She drew back.

‘N … no. No, I couldn’t possibly wear that,’ she said cravenly.

‘Mais, mademoiselle,’ wailed the modiste, ‘it is of the finest, ze mos’ beautiful—madame!’ She appealed to Lady Arnsworth who had stepped away to examine a dress length in softest blue merino draped over a chair.

Lady Arnsworth looked up. ‘Excellent, Monique. Precisely what she should wear! With proper stays, of course.’

‘But, Lady Arnsworth!’ protested Thea, ignoring the reference to stays. She hadn’t worn long stays in years. They were impossible without a maid. ‘The bodice!’

‘Bodice? What about the bodice?’

‘It doesn’t have one!’ said Thea. The thought of appearing in such a gown, exposed to the gaze of all—her skin crawled at the thought of people, men, staring at her, leering. Touching her. No. It would be unbearable. But the gown really was very pretty …

Lady Arnsworth examined the gown. ‘Dreadful the way some females flaunt their charms,’ she said, subjecting the non-existent bodice to keen scrutiny. ‘If charms one can call them when they are exposed to every vulgar gaze!’

Thea nodded.

‘It is of the first importance that you should not draw attention to yourself,’ continued Lady Arnsworth. ‘But …’ She hesitated. ‘As an heiress, there will of course be those only too swift to be spiteful, whatever you do! It is a very lovely gown, Dorothea, but if you do not like it …’

Thea remained silent. That was the problem; she did like it. Very much.

The modiste, her mouth primmed in distaste, cast an affronted glance at Thea’s grey dress, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like sackcloth! and issued a stream of voluble instructions to her assistant, along with the pink gown, which was borne away.

Sackcloth? Thea considered her current wardrobe. Her gowns were all grey … or brown. Discreet, modest, and … dull. No doubt any gowns provided by Madame Monique would be beautifully cut, and the material exquisite … but, did she really want them to be grey?

Sackcloth? She swallowed. That was the word that came to mind when she thought of her wardrobe. And there were probably some ashes about somewhere as well.

The old, rebellious spark, dimmed for years, flared. After all, she had never meant to dress in grey for the rest of her life. It was just the way it had turned out after … after Lallerton’s death. There had been no money with which to purchase other clothes after her period of official mourning … decreed by her father, and enforced by Aunt Maria … even a pink riband for her hair had been burnt.

The spark ignited. How was shrouding herself in more grey helping her to enjoy herself? She took a very deep breath.

‘If you please, madame—’ she directed what she hoped was a friendly smile at the modiste ‘—that pretty pink gown—I should like to try it on after all.’

Madame’s eyes brightened. ‘Mais oui! But of course.’ Now beaming, the modiste continued, ‘The colour will be ravissement, of course. It will bring out the pretty colour in mademoiselle’s cheeks. We will put away ces robes tristes. One does not wish to cover oneself in sadness. The pink. Oui—the pink. And there are others, mademoiselle!’ She rushed away.

Others? Thea gulped. What had she let loose?

No. She pushed the doubts away. She might feel alive again in the pink gown. A dangerous thing being alive, but the pink gown beckoned. She would enjoy the pink gown. As for the non-existent sleeves—well, she would be wearing long gloves. It would be concealing enough.

Madame came back, bearing the pink evening gown as tenderly as a babe. An assistant trailed behind, a rainbow of silks and satins cascading from her arms. Thea viewed it all with intense satisfaction.

Her gowns. Her choices.

Her life. To enjoy.

Lady Arnsworth gave an approving little nod. ‘Excellent. Very sensible, my dear.’

By the time Thea left the modiste she had ordered an entire new wardrobe from the skin out, and was garbed in a new walking dress and a pelisse of turkey red. She still couldn’t quite believe that she had spent so much money. And she felt completely different—just as Lady Arnsworth had predicted.

‘That bonnet,’ announced the other woman as she settled herself in the barouche, ‘is an abomination. It always was, I dare say, but it is far more noticeable with your new clothes. We shall have to buy you a new one. Several new ones. Now.’ She leaned forward to give directions to the coachman. ‘And afterwards,’ she said, ‘we shall drive in the park.’

Her old bonnet consigned to a dust heap, Thea found herself being driven at a snail’s pace through the leafy green of the park. Fashionable London had returned to life after the festivities of the previous evening and their progress was impeded by the number of times the coachman was obliged to stop so that Lady Arnsworth might exchange greetings with her acquaintances.

Just as Thea had expected, no one seemed terribly surprised to learn the identity of Lady Arnsworth’s companion; most remembered her from her first Season.

The carriageway was crowded, horses ridden by nattily turned-out gentleman and elegant women, weaving between the carriages, chatter and laughter filling the air as society preened itself. A show, she reminded herself. Like a peacock’s tail. Nothing more. And she wasn’t frightened of peacocks after all.

‘Oh!’ Lady Arnsworth’s exclamation pulled her back. ‘Goodness me—’tis Laetitia Chasewater. I dare say given your connection, Dorothea, that she will call. Nothing could be more fortunate.’

Thea’s breath jerked in. The lady in question was seated in her own barouche on the opposite side of the carriageway a little further along. Elegantly gowned in soft grey, tastefully trimmed with black, the lady smiled and inclined her head.

‘There … there is no connection, ma’am,’ said Thea, her stomach churning. ‘I should not like her ladyship to feel obliged—’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lady Arnsworth. ‘Why, ‘tis common knowledge that poor Nigel was by far her favourite child, and that she was very happy about the match between you. There! She is beckoning to you! Of course you must step over to greet her. Edmund …’ she indicated the footman perched up behind them ‘ … will attend you.’

Immediately the footman leapt down from his perch and opened the door. Thea dragged in a breath as she stepped out, bracing herself to greet the woman who would have been her mother-in-law. It would have been quite distressing enough without the awareness that a large portion of fashionable London had stopped in its tracks to view the exchange of greetings. Peafowl, she reminded herself, were harmless.

‘My dear Miss Winslow,’ said Lady Chasewater, with a sad smile, holding out her hand. Hesitantly Thea laid hers in it, and thin gloved fingers tightened like claws. ‘How delightful to see you again,’ said her ladyship. ‘I think I have not seen you since, well …’ The grey eyes became distant for a moment, before she went on. ‘’Tis all a very long time ago. I am glad you have come up to town again.’ She patted Thea’s hand. ‘One cannot mourn for ever, my dear.’

No. One couldn’t. Nor could one jerk one’s hand away from an elderly lady.

Cold and clammy, Thea managed a polite response, her stomach tying itself in knots.

‘And how does Aberfield go on? I understand him to be suffering dreadfully from the gout at the moment.’ She did not pause for a response, but continued, ‘I found some letters from him to Chasewater some time ago.’ Her smile became reminiscent. ‘After Chasewater died. Such memories as they brought back! All our hopes!’

Nothing in Lady Chasewater’s languid voice betokened more than polite interest, but Thea’s heart raced.

‘Did you, ma’am?’ she said with forced calm. ‘I am sorry if it was distressing for you.’ Of course Aberfield had corresponded with Lord Chasewater … it would have been unavoidable.

Lady Chasewater patted her hand again. ‘Oh, no. Why should you regret what is past? I shall do myself the pleasure of calling on Almeria very soon. Now, I must not keep you.’ And she gave Thea’s hand another gentle pat as she released it.

‘Good day, ma’am,’ said Thea, relaxing slightly as she stepped back from the carriageway.

The barouche moved on and Thea breathed a sigh of relief, trying to quell the shivering that persisted despite the warmth of the sun and her new pelisse.

Upon reaching Arnsworth House again, Thea retired to her chamber to remove her gloves, bonnet and pelisse. Several dress boxes were already piled on her bed, having been delivered from the modiste’s in her absence.

Not bothering to summon a maid, Thea set about unpacking them. These were only a fraction of what she had bought. The rest had required alteration, including the dusky pink evening gown which madame had promised would be delivered that same day, assuring Thea that her minions would not rest until it was done.

Thea could only gulp at her expenditure. In one afternoon she had spent ten times more than she had in the preceding eight years. And that was just at the modiste. She had—she was forced to admit—enjoyed it, once she had let herself go. Not that she wanted to fling her money about all the time. After this spree there would be no need. But, oh, it was lovely to know that when she dressed tomorrow morning there would be something pretty to put on. That—

‘Ah. There you are, Dorothea.’ The door had opened and Lady Arnsworth looked in. ‘Do come down when you are ready. I have asked for tea to be brought to the drawing room.’

She looked critically at the new dresses on the bed and hanging over the back of the chair. ‘Hmm. That will do for a start. Once a few more invitations have arrived, we shall think again. Do be quick, dear.’

Thea gulped as the door closed behind her godmother. A few more invitations sounded as though some had already arrived.

She hurried with the dresses. No doubt Lady Arnsworth had further plans to unveil for the Season. Balls, routs, dinners, soirées, making calls. All the activities of the social whirl. At least she had a day or two before she must plunge into it. Hardly anyone yet knew that she was in town, which meant she was safe for a couple of nights at least …

‘Good God! That’s … it can’t be! Not the Winslow chit!’ Richard, whatever he’d been saying to Braybrook forgotten, stiffened as he heard the middle-aged matron’s amazed tones ring out in the middle of the Fothergills’ very crowded drawing room that evening. Forcibly he resisted the temptation to turn and stare her down. Whoever she was.

Instead he looked around for Thea. He found Almeria almost immediately, regal in purple, and …

The unknown female behind him continued. ‘I had the most interesting letter, my dear! Why, she was barely out when …’ Her voice dropped, and turning his head slightly, Richard could see several be-turbaned matrons, feathers a-quiver, nodding and casting startled looks at Thea as the knowledgeable one disgorged her burden of gossip.

‘And you say there was something more to it? Some indiscretion? I understood that story about her grief to be …’ began one. Damn it all! Could a girl not be absent from society for a few years without the tabbies deciding that there must be ‘something more to it’? Were their own hearts so withered that they could not understand grief?

Another lady leaned forward, murmuring behind her fan. All he heard was, ‘—hurst!’

‘No!’ Eyes popping, the first lady cast another, disbelieving look at Thea. ‘How much? And Almeria actually has him staying with her? In the very house?’

There were times when the mercenary tendencies of society amused Richard. This was not one of them.

Braybrook caught his eye. ‘People are so predictable, are they not, Ricky? And, no, you cannot tell her off for it. Much less demand satisfaction.’

Richard had to unclench his jaw before he could respond. And Julian did it for him anyway.

‘It should be entertaining to watch them all trying to work out precisely how great an indiscretion can be glossed over with fifty thousand pounds.’ There was an odd snap in his voice.

‘What indiscretion?’ growled Richard.

Julian’s brows drew together, and he nodded to another acquaintance. Then he said lightly, ‘The imaginary one they are talking about, of course, Ricky. And do, please, unclench your fists.’

Looking down, Richard was startled to discover that his fists were indeed clenched. Since Julian hadn’t even glanced at his hands … He glared at his friend.

Braybrook raised a dark brow. ‘Your voice, old chap. It always gives you away.’

Behind them the matron continued, ‘Well, I can’t say I should like the connection for Marianne, but—’ a tinge of scornful condescension crept into her voice ‘—I dare say Aberfield can’t afford to be fussy getting this one off his hands; after all, Dunhaven does need an heir.’

Her companion tittered in agreement.

All consideration of discretion crashed to splinters as Richard spun and skewered the startled women with a glare that could have felled a gorgon. He didn’t waste time on words, merely stared at them coldly as they flounced and muttered, before hurrying off through the crowd. Dragging in a deep breath, he turned and looked again … this time he found her.

Every nerve taut in shock, tension rippled through him. What the hell did she think she was doing? No longer the grey mouse who had snapped his head off at breakfast, but a vision in shimmering rose-pink gauze. A soft, dusky shade—exactly like … like something waiting to be plucked. He backed right away from that analogy. The light brown curls were piled high, a pink bandeau holding them in place, gold lights glinting in the blaze of candlelight … but it wasn’t the change in her appearance that had fury simmering through every vein.

Aberfield had lost no time at all in offering his daughter up on the altar of political expedience—Lord Dunhaven hovered beside her like a dog guarding a juicy bone.

‘Ah.’ Braybrook nudged him. ‘That is Miss Winslow over there, is it not? In rose pink?’ A brief pause and then Braybrook added, ‘With Dunhaven.’

‘Yes,’ Richard grated. Inside him something growled, and Braybrook’s less-than-parliamentary remark about old goats went unanswered—Richard was already forging a path through the crowd.

Braybrook blinked. Then his gaze narrowed. How very unlike Ricky not to think a strategy through first. And while a full-frontal assault might be sufficient, a little flanking manoeuvre would not go astray.

Thea had completely underestimated the speed with which news could travel through fashionable society. Any number of people had seen her in the park and realised her identity. And of course all the people to whom Lady Arnsworth had presented her had been only too happy to mention their acquaintance with the latest heiress. Mrs Dallimore had been swift to bear the tidings to her sister, Lady Fothergill, who had dashed off a charming note assuring Lady Arnsworth that of course she would be delighted to welcome dear Lady Arnsworth’s protégée to her little party that very evening.

In Thea’s book, Lady Fothergill’s assembly did not qualify as a little party.

She had forgotten what it felt like to be one of three hundred people squashed into one house. The roar of conversation, mingled with the half-heard strains of the small orchestra made it almost impossible to hear what was said to one. And the heat of all those bodies, the mingled aromas of perfume, cologne and overheated humanity, rose in an almost overpowering wave. Chandeliers and wall sconces blazed with wax candles, adding to the heat. At least this was only an assembly. There would be no dancing tonight.

Once that would not have pleased her at all. She had loved dancing. Loved the music, melody and rhythm sweeping her along in delight. Now she fought to keep a polite smile plastered on her face. And the knowledge that the following evening she was expected to attend a ball feathered chills down her spine.

People kept touching her, brushing by her. They couldn’t help it, of course, in the press, but nevertheless her skin crawled and her stomach clenched, a solid lump of panic churning within. Each time she kicked her chin a notch higher and breathed with fierce determination. It was foolish, irrational—she wouldn’t give in to it!

As various people greeted them, Thea’s nerves began to steady, and she realised with an odd shock that, although she disliked the crowd, the fear of exposing herself was ebbing. She might be uncomfortable, but she wasn’t going to faint or panic, even when one dowager went so far as to prod her with a fan, commenting that it was time and more that she did her duty. She shot a gimlet-eyed stare at Lady Arnsworth. ‘And I hear you have that nephew of yours with you. Well, it might be worse!’ and stumped off, leaning on a cane.

‘Such a dreadful crush!’ pronounced Lady Arnsworth in scathing tones, as the dowager retreated. ‘Really, I wonder that Louisa cares to invite so many. I have not seen a single person I wished to see.’ She smiled graciously, inclining her head at another lady. ‘Lady Broome! How nice … yes. A frightful crush. I shall look forward to a comfortable cose later!’

Lady Broome sailed away into the seething silks and satins.

Lady Arnsworth shuddered. ‘Vulgar creature! Her father was a merchant. I vow she smells of the shop!’

Thea remembered Lady Broome as a very good-natured, unaffected woman—not at all vulgar. And her own fortune, now respectably invested in the Funds, derived from her uncle’s involvement with the East India Company. Perhaps Lady Arnsworth’s sense of smell was selective … like her tolerance for other failings.

The gentlemen were no less assiduous in their attentions, several claiming to remember her from her brief Season.

She smiled and replied politely to their compliments, vaguely remembering names and faces from eight years ago. The smile was the important thing: vague, gracious, never direct. Let them think her cold, uninviting …

‘Oh, goodness me!’ muttered Lady Arnsworth, nipping at Thea’s arm in warning with gloved fingers.

Thea recognised Lord Dunhaven at once. Slightly above average height, his powerful frame drew attention as he strolled towards them, his expression intent.

‘Really! I did not think he could possibly be serious!’ muttered Lady Arnsworth to Thea. Then, in far more gracious tones, ‘Lord Dunhaven! How do you do?’

Instantly Thea was aware that although his lordship exchanged polite greetings with Lady Arnsworth, all his attention was on her. Intent, knowing eyes looked her up and down. She stiffened her spine against the tremor that went through her as Lady Arnsworth presented her. ‘You recall Lord Aberfield’s daughter? Miss Winslow, this is Lord Dunhaven.’

Thin lips curved in acknowledgement. ‘Certainly, ma’am. I called on Aberfield earlier and he mentioned that she had arrived.’ His gaze returned to Thea. ‘Good evening, Miss Winslow.’ He extended his hand with all the air of one conferring a signal honour upon the recipient.

Thea repressed a shudder, violently aware of her scanty bodice, as she placed her hand in his. She remembered Lord Dunhaven well; she had never liked him. Lady Dunhaven had always been casting nervous glances at him, agreeing with everything he said.

‘How do you do, my lord?’ She curtsied slightly as he bowed over her hand, and the odour of his pomaded hair sank into her. Her stomach roiled, but she lifted her chin. His lordship seemed inclined to retain possession of her hand and place it on his arm, but she withdrew it firmly. Something about Lord Dunhaven made her skin crawl, even through her white kid gloves. She quelled the urge to rub her glove as though it might be soiled. There was something about the way he looked at her—assessing, judging, as though she were a filly he contemplated buying.

‘It is some years since you were in town, Miss Winslow,’ he said. ‘I will be happy to act as your guide in some measure. Aberfield was most anxious that your time in London should be spent profitably.’

Thea barely suppressed a snort. ‘Really, sir? I am sure we can depend on Lady Arnsworth to ensure that my time is not wasted.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said her ladyship. ‘I have no doubt that—’

‘Almeria! How lovely to see you! And Miss Winslow! How delightful!’

Whatever Lady Arnsworth had meant to say was lost as Lady Chasewater came up to greet them.

‘My dear—I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you again so soon—how much it gladdens my mother’s heart.’

Dragging in a breath, Thea pinned a smile in place. ‘Lady Chasewater,’ she said with a smile. ‘How kind of you.’

Something lit in Lady Chasewater’s eyes, a spark deep within. ‘My dear, you must not feel obliged to me. My poor Nigel—there! his name is spoken between us—let me assure you, he would not have expected you to mourn—now, would he?’

Thea shook her head. God help her, it was the truth.

‘Of course not,’ said Lady Chasewater. ‘And I am so glad you have returned,’ she continued, patting Thea’s hand. ‘People do say such foolish things, you know. But you may count on me to do everything I can. Perhaps if you were to drive with me in the park one day …’

Somehow Thea’s heart kept pumping gelid blood around her body. Somehow she held herself still, mastered the frantic need to pull her hands away, and kept a smile frozen to her face as her voice fought its way past the choking blockage in her throat.

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

Lady Arnsworth chimed in, ‘Yes, indeed, Dorothea will be honoured. An excellent notion and so kind of you, Laetitia. It will do her a great deal of good to be seen with you.’

‘Oh, tush, Almeria!’ said Lady Chasewater. ‘Why, she was to be my daughter-in-law!’ Her gaze flashed to Thea. ‘I would have been a grandmama by now. And poor Nigel has been dead these eight years, and no one ever speaks of him to me.’ A sad smile accompanied these words. ‘I know Dorothea will understand! I may call you Dorothea?’ As she spoke, she released Thea’s hands with a little pressure.

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘And you will drive with me?’

A drive in the park. That was all. So why did she feel as though she were being manoeuvred to the gallows?

She lifted her chin. ‘Thank you, ma’am. That will be delightful.’

Lady Chasewater inclined her head. ‘Excellent, my dear. I shall send a little note round. Now, if I am not much mistaken, Lord Dunhaven wishes to stroll with you, Dorothea, and is wishing me elsewhere.’ She cast an arch smile at his lordship, who smirked and disclaimed.

‘Aberfield must be pleased to know that Dorothea is drawing such distinguished attention.’ She rapped his lordship on the arm with her fan. ‘And so pleasant to see you again now that your period of mourning is over. I am sure we all hope to see you happy again very soon.’

Lacing her farewells with another gracious smile, she glided away through the crowd.

‘If you would honour me, Miss Winslow?’ Dunhaven extended his arm, and Lady Arnsworth cleared her throat. He accorded her the briefest of smiles. ‘Your ladyship has no objection?’

‘Of course not,’ said Lady Arnsworth, although Thea had the distinct impression that she would have liked to rattle off several objections.

As they strolled, Lord Dunhaven presenting her to this person and that, Thea could almost feel the whispers eddying in their wake. Faint smiles, half-hidden behind fans, betrayed a cynical acceptance. And as they proceeded she felt colder and colder from the inside out, as though the chill leached from somewhere deep within. She kicked her chin a notch higher, and told herself that a few people sliding away through the crowd at their approach meant nothing, that the speculative sideways glances were mere curiosity, nothing more.

Lord Dunhaven appeared not to notice, as though such things were beneath him. Instead he regaled Thea with an exact account of all the various improvements he had undertaken at his principal country seat, the refurbished stables, the rearrangement of the principal apartments.

‘I should like very much to show it all to you, Miss Winslow,’ he said, after telling her how his new billiard room was laid out.

Before Thea could do more than skim over all the possible ramifications of this, she prickled with sudden awareness as a tall figure came up beside her. She turned sharply and warmth flooded her, dispelling the growing chill.

Richard, immaculately turned out in utterly correct evening garb.

‘Good evening, Miss Winslow. Servant, Dunhaven.’

Thea blinked. Anything less servant-like than Richard’s clipped tones would have been hard to imagine. He sounded as though he’d swallowed a razor blade made of ice. Even his bow held an arrogance that reminded her all at once that he was after all the son of an earl, one of the damn-your-eyes Blakehursts: assured, at home in the ton for all his scholarly nature.

The contrast between the two men was startling. Very few would have described Richard’s evening clothes as stylish, but somehow the comfortably fitted coat over broad, lean shoulders had a greater elegance than Dunhaven’s tightly fitted and, she suspected, padded coat. Dunhaven dripped with expensive fobs, rings and a very large diamond blazed in his cravat. Richard’s jewellery consisted of a pearl nestled quietly in his cravat and a plain gold ring.

Dunhaven looked his disdain. ‘Ah, Mr Blakehurst, is it not? How surprising to see you here.’

A spurt of anger shot through Thea at the sneering tone, but Richard merely looked amused.

‘Is it, Dunhaven? I assure you that I overcome my boredom with this sort of thing quite regularly enough for the hostesses not to completely despair of my attendance.’ He smiled at Thea. ‘Good evening, Miss Winslow. May I take you to find some champagne?’

Thea blinked. As simple as that.

‘Certainly, sir. That would be lovely. I’m sure his lordship will excuse me.’

Dunhaven’s hand came across and settled in hard possession on Thea’s fingers, clamping them to his arm. ‘There is no need, Miss Winslow. I shall be happy to escort you and find you something suitable for a lady to drink. Some ratafia, I think you would prefer.’

Not the usual paralysing fear, but anger surged through her. With a sharp movement, she slid her fingers from under Dunhaven’s grip. Telling her what to do was bad enough, but presuming to tell her what she would like was going entirely too far. Besides, she didn’t like ratafia.

‘Dunhaven! Just the man I was looking for.’

The newcomer was familiar to Thea. Tall, with jet-black hair and brilliant, deep blue eyes—surely … Shock lurched through her—yes, it was David’s friend, Julian Trentham … only he had succeeded now to his father’s title—Viscount Braybrook.

He smiled at her and bowed. ‘Miss Winslow. Braybrook at your service. Friend of your brother’s, if you recall? You won’t mind if I steal Dunhaven, will you? Blakehurst here will look after you.’ He glanced at Richard, ‘Won’t you, old chap?’

Richard’s mouth twitched. ‘I think that could be managed.’

Thea’s gaze narrowed, despite her suddenly pounding heart. There was something wicked in Lord Braybrook’s limpid blue eyes. However, she wasn’t fool enough to reject a lifeline, no matter how it presented itself. ‘Of … of course.’ She seized the opportunity to step away from Dunhaven. Richard caught her hand and set it on his arm, anchoring it there and again that shock of awareness jolted through her at his touch. Dazed, she met Braybrook’s gaze, but the bright eyes told her nothing—what would David have told him? Could he possibly know any of the truth?

‘You’ll excuse us, gentlemen.’ Richard’s clipped voice shook her back to herself, and he drew her away through the crowd.

‘What the devil are you playing at?’ he muttered, and nodded curtly at an acquaintance smiling at him. ‘Dunhaven, of all men! He’s desperate to marry again and sire an heir. He’s looking for a bride! A nice, young, fertile bride to bear his sons!’

‘He’s also a friend of my father’s!’ said Thea, blushing scarlet at Richard’s blunt assessment. ‘I can’t just cut him, or snub him, when—’

‘Then let Almeria do it for you!’ came the riposte. ‘Trust me, she’ll be only too happy to see him off with a flea in his ear!’

She didn’t doubt that for a moment, but—

‘Even Lady Arnsworth can’t do that when my father has practically given his blessing to the match!’ she snapped.

‘What?’They were near an open door, and Richard whirled her through it and along a corridor. He opened another door and she found herself whisked into the library. It was empty, lit by a single lamp. Even in her annoyance she could not repress a spurt of amusement. Trust Richard to know the location of the library.

He faced her in the dim light. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Dunhaven is old enough to be your father! You can’t be serious!’

Furious that he could even think she might accept such a match, Thea glared at him. ‘Perhaps you might care to mention that to Aberfield?’

‘I would if I thought it would have the least effect! For God’s sake, Thea! Dunhaven’s a complete wart. He’s so desperate to cut his brother out of the succession, it’s a wonder he hasn’t found a young enough widow with a couple of brats to her credit!’

The moment the words were out of his mouth he knew he’d said the wrong thing. She flinched, as though he had struck her, and the colour drained from her face.

Something white hot jolted through Richard. He caught her arm, steadying her, feeling her tremble. ‘Thea! Are you all right?’

‘He couldn’t!’ she whispered. ‘Even Aberfield wouldn’t do that to me!’

Richard slipped his arm around her waist to support her, and she shook her head very slightly as if to clear it, tensing. Ignoring her attempt to pull away, he guided her to a sofa and eased her down onto it, seating himself beside her.

‘Just sit,’ he told her.

Her chin came up. ‘I am perfectly well, thank you.’

‘Dammit, Thea—you are not all right!’ he said furiously. ‘You nearly fainted!’

‘I did not!’ she snapped. ‘I was merely a little dizzy. It’s … it’s stuffy in here! Look, I must go back—if we’re caught here together!’

There would be the very devil to pay. He’d be offering for her immediately. Surprisingly the idea didn’t send the usual battle alert along his nerves.

‘I can think of worse fates,’ he told her. ‘For both of us.’

The mere thought of Dunhaven touching her in any way at all had something growling inside him—a clawed beast with a distinctly greenish cast to its eyes.

Blue eyes snapped fire at him in the dim light. ‘But you said you don’t want to marry me, so—’

‘The devil I did!’ he growled. And right now, with that pink gown hinting at feminine mysteries, the delicate lace edge at her breasts that tempted a man to slide his finger beneath to tease velvet-soft flesh—he tore his mind free of its imaginings and concentrated on reality.

Reality was glaring at him. ‘Yes, you did. At breakfast!’

‘I never said that,’ he told her bluntly. ‘I told you I wouldn’t marry you for your fortune. First rule of scholarship: don’t tamper with the text!’ Or with those silken glossy curls feathering about her brow—or the one lying against the slender, creamy column of her neck … especially not that one. His own collar itched.

A merry voice interrupted. ‘Thea! I thought it was you! How naughty of you to hide away here with Mr Blakehurst. And how delightful to see you after all these years! Do you know, I quite thought you must have retired to a convent.’ A slender woman stood in the doorway, several feathers nodding in her dark, elaborately coiffed hair. ‘I couldn’t believe it when they said you were here,’ she continued, ‘and then I saw you vanishing out of the door! Am I interrupting?’ She stepped into the room, leaving the door open. ‘Are you about to box his ears?’

Richard recognised the fashionably dressed young matron.

Lady Fox-Heaton’s famous smile beamed as she came across the room, holding out her hands to Thea in unaffected pleasure.

Hesitantly Thea placed her own in them and stood up. ‘Diana—how well you look.’ She smiled. ‘You are married, of course?’

Diana Fox-Heaton flushed slightly. ‘Yes. Had you not heard?’

At Thea’s denial, Lady Fox-Heaton looked troubled. ‘Oh, well, I … I married Francis—Francis Fox-Heaton.’ She sighed. ‘You will remember him, of course—he was friendly with poor Mr Lallerton.’

To Richard it seemed that Thea’s expression froze.

‘You married Sir Francis Fox-Heaton?’ she said carefully.

Lady Fox-Heaton’s smile glimmered. ‘Oh, yes. And I know what you are thinking! How did I come to marry a mere baronet? We were all going to marry earls at the very least, were we not? But Sir Francis is an MP now! Such consequence!’

Richard repressed a snort. It was rumoured that Diana had outraged her family by dismissing a marquis to marry Fox-Heaton. A love match if ever there was one.

‘How lovely for you,’ said Thea. But Richard could not rid himself of the impression that she thought it anything but lovely.

‘Yes,’ said Diana cheerfully. ‘It is. But for now, we had better get you back to the party. If I saw you leave, you may be sure others did, and I must say—there are some very odd stories circulating anyway.’ She gave Richard a severe look. ‘I should have thought, Mr Blakehurst, that you had more sense than this.’

Richard choked.

‘Odd stories?’ Thea’s query sounded casual. Too casual, thought Richard. Were she not wearing gloves, he’d swear her knuckles would be showing white.

‘Very odd,’ said Diana. ‘I’ll explain later.’

Returning to the party, Richard was hailed by a small group headed by the Marquis of Callington, wanting his opinion on the value of the late King’s library, recently presented to the nation by his Majesty. More than happy to promote his belief that the value of the library was immense, he joined them, but discovered to his disgust that part of his mind remained focused on Thea. His gaze kept straying to where she stood with Diana Fox-Heaton and a number of other young matrons, and several men whom usually he considered good enough fellows, but whom right now he would have cheerfully flung through a window. Men who were far too wary to hang around most matrimonially inclined young girls and their mamas—but who might nevertheless be interested in a woman with an independent fortune …

‘Well, the last thing we want is a repeat of the tragedy that you say befell the Cotton manuscripts, Ricky,’ said Callington.

Richard dragged his mind back to agree with Callington’s conclusion that it was of the first importance to ensure that the late King’s library was well protected from fire or any other calamity. He breathed a sigh of relief to see that David Winslow had joined the little group about Thea. If Winslow was ready to carve slices out of his hide, then he was well able to re-educate the thinking of any other overly libidinous suitors.