Читать книгу Beguiled - Susan Paul Spencer - Страница 16

Something was wrong, Graydon thought as he watched Lady Lillian Walford from across Lord and Lady Pebworth’s ballroom floor. Very, wretchedly wrong.

She was ethereally beautiful in her airy pink gown, which was indeed similar in color to the roses that she had so charmingly compared it to earlier in the day. He remembered perfectly the moment when her gloved hand had fingered the tiny petals—it was the last time she had smiled at him, the last moment she had gazed at him with the open friendliness he had found so refreshing. It seemed like an eternity ago.

She’d been misleading about the dress, however. It wasn’t simply a pink ball gown; it was a creation that had clearly been fashioned to suggest the dawn of a perfect new day. The net overskirt was fixed with what must have been hundreds of—what?—diamonds?—so that every movement set off a sparkling that looked like early stars fading against the blush of a clear morning’s light. The effect was eyecatching, and enchanting. Not that Lady Lillian needed such a gown to gather attention. She could have been dressed in a grain sack and every man in the room still would have been eyeing her with admiration. The trouble was that admiration, at this point, was the only sort of attention she was getting. The ball had been in progress for more than two hours, and she’d not once danced, not even with him.

Somewhere between the delightful afternoon they’d spent together and tonight, Lady Lillian had ceased to be an angel and had turned into a frigidly unapproachable ice maiden. He’d stood before her, having gone to claim his waltz, with his hand outstretched and his most charming smile frozen upon his face, both looking and feeling a fool, not knowing quite what to do. He had never before been turned away when he had requested a dance, and she—she had done nothing but stare at him as if he were something disgusting. She hadn’t even written him a note from her little golden note case, as she had done so often during the day, but had disdainfully communicated through Lady Isabel, who had clearly been highly embarrassed, relating that Lady Lillian had said it was not necessary for him to dance with her.

Not necessary, he thought angrily, watching her across the floor. What in the name of heaven was that supposed to mean? He’d gone to a great deal of trouble on her behalf, and now, for no good reason, she threw it all back in his face. Just thinking of what he’d had to do to assure her a few dances made him clench his fists. Seaborne Margate had even had the gall to insist that he would only dance with the silent Lady Lillian if Graydon would sell him the black hunter he’d purchased last year. Now he’d lose the hunter for nothing; she’d turned Sea away just as coldly as she had the rest of them. Not that it hadn’t been amusing to see the handsome, lofty Sir Margate refused for once in his charmed life—the man had looked positively thunderstruck, a circumstance that Graydon knew Daltry wouldn’t stop taunting the man over for days to come—but Graydon still felt like wringing Lady Lillian’s ungrateful little neck.

She was standing near her sister-in-law and Lady Isabel, much as she had been at Almack’s a few days before. At Almack’s, however, she had at least looked approachable. Now, Lady Lillian looked like nothing better than an impenetrable fortress. Even Frances, who had been so generous in her friendship that afternoon, had been coolly rebuffed, and Lady Jersey had been sent scurrying away with little more than a chilly glance.

Both Lady Margaret and Lady Isabel looked as if they were lost, exasperated but completely unable to reason with their beautiful relative. Lady Isabel had tried to refuse to dance as well, clearly waiting for Lady Lillian to join the gaiety before she did, until Lord Daltry had finally refused to be put aside and had forced that formidable young woman into a waltz by practically carrying her onto the dance floor. When it was finished he carried her back to her mother and strode purposefully to Graydon’s side.

“She’s unhappy,” he said in a low voice. “Lady Isabel, that is. Seems as if Lady Lillian spent the rest of the day locked away in her bedchamber after we took them home. Cardemore went in and spoke with her after an hour or so, and when he came back out he didn’t look very pleased.”

“Damn,” Graydon muttered under his breath. “Something’s gone wrong, somehow, although I can’t imagine what it is. She was perfectly content this afternoon.”

Daltry accepted a cup of burgundy from a passing footman.

“She was silent on the way back to Wilborn Place,” he commented. “Not that she isn’t always silent, I suppose, but…you know what I mean.”

“I’m beginning to think that I don’t know anything,” Graydon told him. “Save that I spent all of this morning making visits that have clearly been a waste of time, and that I won’t lose St. Cathyrs because a pretty female has suddenly taken leave of her senses.”

With that, he began to make his way across the dance floor.

A momentary surprise possessed her features when she saw him stalking toward her, to be covered almost at once by the chilly expression she’d worn for most of the evening.

He made his second greetings of the evening to both Lady Margaret and Lady Isabel before turning to the object of his wrath.

“The supper dance is about to be played, I believe, Lady Lillian. I should be honored if you would allow me to be your partner.”

She lifted one white-gloved hand and made a sharp, negative gesture. Behind him, he heard Lady Isabel say unhappily, “She said ‘Thank you very much, my lord, but I’m afraid that I don’t feel quite up to dancing at the moment.’”

Proficient in sign language he was not, but Graydon knew very well that Lady Lillian hadn’t said anything quite so nice.

“Then perhaps you might enjoy a walk in the gardens? The evening air is comfortable and I understand that Lady Pebworth has decorated the walkways with Chinese lanterns.”

Her clear blue eyes glittered with what Graydon recognized as a fury that matched his own, and her hand came up again. Before she could consign him in her silent language to the place to which her expression had already condemned him, Graydon took her hand and held it very firmly.

“Thank you most kindly, my lady,” he said, forcibly placing her hand upon his arm. To Lady Margaret, who was somewhat distracted by the spectacle of Lord Daltry carrying her daughter off onto the dance floor again, he said, “I shall make certain to return your niece in time for supper, ma’am.”