A Scandalous Connection, page 4
“Aye, stare wot yer will, Yer Grace, I told you there be strange goin’ ons! And if that addle wit Betty don’t swear it was on ’er ladyship’s orders, then you may coddle me liver!” Carlew’s words were dark with disapproval. Demian did not linger to hear more of the mutterings, but merely uttered a small pleasantry and rode on, stopping only to unhook a large trout dangling from a tangled line.
“There! I believe you were sitting too close. The lines were bound to get tangled. Planning on a good dinner?”
Two pairs of eyes nearly popped out of their heads.
“Pleasin’ Yer Grace, it ain’t for our dinner! Da would ’ave our hides if we stole out of yer pond!”
“Ah, uh, excellent. Who, then, is going to be the recipient of this fine specimen?”
Two pairs of lips quirked into awed giggles. “Beggars us, Yer Grace! But whoever it is goin’ to be fair an’ fine stuffed, for there be ten quails, too, and Williams caught a grouse, and them Christmas turkeys. . . ”
“Yes?”
“Well, reckon as wot they won’t see no hide or hair of no Christmas!” Despite their awe at the duke’s noble rank, the pair could not help chortling. Demian felt an answering smile twitch at the edges of his lips, but controlled himself. No need to encourage the little blighters in their high spirits! He nodded shortly, and murmured something encouraging in the stallion’s ear. Moments later, quite unregarded by what skeleton household he now retained, he stabled Season’s Glory, rubbed him down energetically, then entered his ducal domain through a side entrance.
Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton’s voice tinkled with airy laughter. She raised her crystal goblet to her lips and silently acknowledged the worshipful gaze of Mr. Thomas Endicott. After all, it was no more than her due, though she did wish her heart would not flutter so when his penetrating gaze rested upon her. Really, she thought crossly, it almost borders on rudeness.
As a consequence, therefore, she turned her ivory-white shoulders deliberately in his direction and gave Lady Sophria Godlington her full attention. That lady was engaged in whispering all manner of confidences into any eager ear that might care to listen. Lady Raquel did not approve of gossip, but nevertheless, the eyes upon her were disturbing, so she endeavored to smile and answer something suitable in kind. But when the gossip turned to playful little hints that she might herself have interesting news, she excused herself coldly and looked about her for a seat in the stifling crush of people. She was neither so bold nor so stupid as to announce her betrothal with Darris until her father’s permission had been obtained in form.
True, the whole matter was a mere formality, but Lady Raquel was ever a high stickler for such things. Pride—in large quantities—was one of the talismen of the Fortesque-Bentons. It had stood her in good stead in the past, and it stood her in good stead now. Doubtless, as duchess, it would be indispensable in the future.
Now, Lady Sophria was baulked of her prey, and Lady Raquel, much to her annoyance, was baulked of her seat. That dratted man Endicott had just taken the last one. If she knew no better, she would guess he had done so deliberately to provoke her. Not content with a view of her shoulders, he had glided forward with the grace of a panther, pushed his way ingratiatingly amid several dowagers and was now viewing her with unashamed appreciation from the comfort of the last seat in the whole confounded ballroom. He looked like the cat which had got the cream, for the seats were all upon slightly raised platforms, so his gaze now rested upon her elegant neckline, which was accented becomingly with a sheath of pearls and precious little else, for prevailing fashion called for the remarkably stark and low-cut.
Lady Raquel had to school herself not to allow her slender wrists to float upward to block his view. She was not a callow miss from the schoolroom! And if Mr. Endicott had the impertinence to ogle, he would soon get his comeuppance when they finally got a chance to be introduced. For introduced they surely would be, what with His Grace such bosom bows with the rogue. And he, Lady Raquel noted with faint distaste, not even a peer! Certainly, when she and the duke were wed, it would be her duty to discourage so strange a friendship. Even as she thought this, her body tingled in the most recalcitrant of ways, and she felt the most peculiar urge to set her tongue around her beautiful pink lips, for they were dry. She did not, of course, for she was perfectly certain Mr. Endicott’s penetratingly blue eyes were still upon her. Her own, equally blue eyes, ignored him completely.
This did not seem, unfortunately, to be a suitable deterrent. She could swear he was still staring, for the tips of her . . . oh, it was unthinkable—she blushed at the very thought . . . suffice it to say she felt decidedly hot and the heat had little to do with the ballroom, for despite the candelabrum and the great throngs of people, it was winter and therefore chilly enough.
For an instant, Lady Raquel nearly rescinded her haughty edict not to dance. She had declined in consideration of Darris, who had unexpectedly been called back to his estates. It would be unseemly, she thought, for the next duchess of Darris to be dancing the night away without a suitable escort in attendance. She had therefore declined all dances except the supper dance, this being kept vacant, of course, of necessity. Now she regretted her swift decision, for whilst ladies of rank far inferior to hers drifted across the shining, polished marble floors, she was condemned to stand, watching, sipping vile champagne and concentrating on keeping her back straight. All these privations would have been bad enough, but they were rendered quite intolerable when some untitled upstart of a person insisted on searing one’s décolletage with smoldering, impertinent eyes.
Lady Raquel would not admit—even to herself—that those self same stares were wreaking havoc with her normally quite sane senses. Such a suggestion—even a timid one in her own head—would have been met with a brimful of scorn. Further, she would definitely not concede that it caused her to remain rooted to the spot even when she spied Lord Wrathbone vacate his own seat on the east side. No, Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton had many fine virtues, but strict truthfulness—even with herself—was not one of them.
As the clock struck the hour, she chided herself for declining a dance card. There had been so many protests from her bevy of suitors, one would think that at least one would be chivalrous enough to notice that she was now wilting like a wallflower and beg her to change her mind. Then, after some small argument, she might graciously incline her head and afford him the honor.
But no! Not one among them was so considerate. Lady Raquel did not stop to think that even the most ardent of her suitors would not dare to press her for fear of having a glacial stare cast upon his person, or that as news of Darris’s suit swept across the room—for such matters were impossible to keep secret—her bevy of gazetted fortune hunters were looking about for greener pastures than she could now provide. So, she was stuck holding her glass and listening for the quarter hour chime of the great hall clock. She had never been more mortified in her life, especially as she had a most particular desire to appear comme il faut before the man seated so infelicitously in front of her.
She cursed him for a mannerless beast, for any feeling gentleman of the smallest civility would have ceded his seat upon the instant. But not him, oh, no! And what the blazes did he mean, wearing ruffles when everyone else was in high points and elegantly starched cravats? True, he did have a certain inspiring air about him, but it was piratical rather than proper, and the proper, as Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton knew only too well, was to be revered. Why, then, could she not help stealing a sideways glance at the fellow? She would like to have said, “ridiculous fellow,” but somehow, the stupid man was too imposing for that. She would have to be content with irksome, and annoying, and downright smug—not to mention impudent—impertinent, and, oh, if only he were not so damnably attractive!
Satin gloves of the first stare clenched tightly in her hands before a strange, benighted faintness overcame her. Someone was tapping her, teasingly, on the very shoulder she had offered earlier in the night for his appraisal. Lady Raquel swallowed hard and looked up. Her eyes were blazing, and there was no sign of her normal stinging calm. If she could have slapped him she would have, but Mr. Thomas Endicott was awake to such tricks. His hands moved down to her arms, pinning them, lightly, to the modish overdress of blonde lace.
“I wouldn’t if I were you, madame! I might feel compelled to answer in kind.” His tone was pleasant, conversational, admiring, even, but Lady Raquel could feel the force rippling from his arms and she could see the determined set of his jaw as, very sure of himself, he released her and rather whimsically offered her his seat. Lady Raquel was pleased to decline, though her feet ached terribly in their delicately ribboned bonds. If she hoped to annoy the man, though, she was doomed to disappointment. A decided gleam of appreciation appeared in his sapphire-blue eyes.
He regarded her, for a moment, as if he was rather inclined to do something perfectly outrageous—some—thing that would undoubtedly have tested Lady Fortesque-Benton’s resolve not to slap him fully on his audaciously handsome left cheek—then, as suddenly, he seemed to lose interest.
The young lady before him hardly knew whether to feel relieved, furious, or strangely disappointed. She settled on fury since relief would only have tacitly acknowledged he’d had the upper hand in the small skirmish between them. As for disappointment . . . well, whatever could she have been thinking? It was a nonsensical notion . . . she’d never harbored the faintest wish to be kissed by such an unmitigated scoundrel.
“You begin to annoy me, sir. I should not wish to have to call for a manservant.”
He deliberately misunderstood her. “A footman? So that you might leave?”
She hissed at him, “No, sir, so that you may do so! I doubt our hostess would be pleased to find I had been unduly harassed by . . . by . . .”
She stopped in confusion. He was regarding her with such obviously piquant amusement that anger overcame her habitual coolness. Instead of saying what she had intended, which was “my fiancé’s dearest friend,” she ended up saying “scaff and raff!” in an utterly venomous tone. The amusement vanished from Mr. Endicott’s face.
“Would you care to repeat that?” His tone was dangerously quiet, but Lady Raquel was not deceived. Half of her was exhilarated at scoring an obvious point, the other half was feverishly fearful. That was not the sum though, of what she was feeling. It was almost as though time had stood still and a curious force was compelling her to look up and stare into those magnificent eyes. They were no longer indulgent, or lazily amused, or any other of the singularly annoying expressions she’d had to endure over the evening. No, now they were hard and the deep blue was colder than the wintry seas. Lady Raquel wished more than anything for a wrap to drape over her shoulders, for she was suddenly chilly and her striking gown was far too revealing for comfort. Since that wish was not likely to come true—Madame Florentine did not, whilst designing the most exquisite of evening wear, approve of wraps—Lady Raquel contented herself with turning her back, once more, and walking away.
She was arrested by the whisper of a touch upon her person. It was not so obvious as to draw attention to itself, but it was firm enough, nonetheless. She turned around with a sigh.
“Am I never to be rid of you?”
Her tone was plaintive, like a child’s. Nothing like the haughty Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton the ton had come to know. Perhaps it was that which brought the mocking curve back to Mr. Thomas Endicott’s otherwise grim lips.
“Apparently not. You might as well resign yourself, my dear. We are booked for the supper dance.”
“What absurdity is this? I do not dance.”
“No, but Lady Elversham is not to be held to account for your childish vaporings. If you do not wish to overset her numbers, and I am sure that you, a lady who is well bred, if not well mannered, do not, then you shall take my hand like an excellent child and allow me to escort you in.”
“I will take Dallow, instead.”
“Too late. I believe he is escorting Lady Sophria in. You are the only lady currently unpartnered, and I believe I am the only gentleman so placed.” His tone indicated that if there were any other lady to whom he could offer escort, he might very much wish to do so. Lady Fortesque-Benton felt herself flush. The amusement deepened on Mr. Endicott’s countenance.
“Yes, very annoying, is it not?” His voice sounded bewitchingly sympathetic. Lady Raquel cast him a look of vile suspicion, but he continued on blithely.
“I am afraid we shall have to accustom ourselves. And no, Lady Raquel, this is not a suitable moment for hysterics. Whilst I am not myself averse to high drama, I believe such behavior on your part might draw interested comment.”
He smiled at her so politely that any interested onlooker might be mistaken in thinking them a handsome pair. Lady Raquel’s fine, dark brows drew together in a fleeting scowl. Then she corrected herself, smiled elegantly and murmured, “Not hysterics, perhaps, but the headache. I believe I shall have to make my excuses to dear Lady Elversham at once.”
“What, a coward? I could credit you with many vices, I believe, but not cowardice. You always look so peculiarly forthright.”
“Dear Mr. Endicott, I believe I could spit in your eye. As for cowardice, there is not a cowardly bone in my body. I will remain.”
A faint thawing appeared in the blue eyes regarding her. Mr. Endicott, despite his initial appraisal of the chit—not particularly favorable, though this was colored, to some degree, by His Grace’s account of her—found himself admiring the courageous tilt of her chin, and the cool eyes that nevertheless flashed fire from their depths. And it was true what Demian had said—the creature was undoubtedly lovely. He regarded her smooth lines and elegant curves for just a fraction longer than was strictly necessary. No, she may not have a cowardly bone in her body, but certainly she had several rather appealing ones. He set aside the thought harshly. He was here to teach “Madam Uppity” a small lesson, not to filch her from Darris.
“Then shall we proceed? I promise to entertain you with decorum.”
Lady Raquel nodded, not trusting herself to speak. For if she did, she would undoubtedly have shocked all who heard her with the unladylike epithets ringing in her head.
Thomas Tyrone Endicott, rightly guessing at what lay beneath the curt nod, chuckled out loud. “Quite right, my dear. No need to set my ears aquiver, even if I am merely the raff and scaff.”
And with that delightful pleasantry, he offered her his exquisitely masculine arm.
Four
“You did what?”
“I discharged the butler. He was as drunk as a sot, waving about my crystal decanter as though it were not a priceless heirloom, let alone practically the only thing I have left from Father.”
“But Demian . . .”
Caroline’s voice was a wail of despair. She shot a guilty look across the room at Miss Bancroft, who rose from her sturdy Queen Anne chair and composedly greeted the duke.
“Good evening, Your Grace. This is an unexpected surprise.”
Demian smiled at Martha, of whom he was extremely fond, and was disturbed to intercept an equally guilty glance from her. His eyes narrowed. He was a doting brother, but years of experience put him on his guard.
“What mischief is brewing here? Come, come, Martha, spill the beans.”
But for once, Martha was silent. She did not even take leave to scold Demian for his undignified use of cant. The duke’s eyebrows rose at once.
“So silent? Then it is as I feared. You are in the coils of one of Caro’s hideously well-meaning plots. I am glad I returned with such haste.”
“Demian! You are the outside of enough! When I most specifically requested you to keep away! And now you have spoiled everything by turning out poor old Hedgewig, who I am sure was merely sampling your port—and who can blame him when his gout aches so, and when there is a whole bottle, newly opened, for him to try?”
“Interesting, that. I distinctly remember laying the bottles down. Who has been meddling in my cellars, and why?”
Now Caroline’s piquant face looked decidedly guilty. Still, she thrust her head up proudly, tossed away some stray curls, and adjured Demian to stop fussing over a few bottles of prime Madeira.
He groaned. “The Madeira, too?”
“Yes, and I may as well make a clean breast of it and mention the claret. There were only a few bottles left, so I thought . . .”
“Yes?” The duke’s tone was rather more ominous than was his custom. Miss Bancroft’s heart quailed within her, but Caroline was made of sterner stuff.
“I thought Cook could use them in the kitchens.”
There was an indrawn breath where His Noble Grace, the duke of Darris, marquis of Hartford and earl of Shrewsbury counted to a full ten before diving indecorously upon his sister and half pummeling her to death. Of course, being a gentleman, he softened his punches, but Caroline emerged breathless nonetheless and could not help squawking like a plucked pigeon before diving behind a convenient pianoforte and waving her hands about wildly for a truce.
Demian, brought to his senses by the shocked look on poor Miss Bancroft’s face, sighed, tidied himself a little, retrieved his fashionable beaver, which had somehow got itself crumpled underfoot, squashed it out—to the later unspeakable wrath of his valet—and seated himself upon the sole remaining Chippendale.
“Come, enlighten me. I must admit myself to be quite breathless with anticipation to hear what scheme you have devised for my delight.” His sarcasm could not have been more obvious. Brushing down her skirts, Lady Caroline emerged from behind the burnished chestnut instrument and regarded him thoughtfully.
“There is that bonus . . .”
“Caroline, if you so much as mention that bonus, I take leave to inform you of my resignation.” Miss Bancroft’s lips set into a firm line. Her tone was so final that both siblings looked at her in surprise.
“My, my, you must be brewing something nasty to have dear old Martha turn on you so!”
