A Scandalous Connection, page 6
Now the expression was teasing, she was sure of it, though her lashes had dropped and she would not allow herself a peek. Oh, only the smallest, tiniest, most ladylike one . . . yes, she was right. Definitely teasing, though there was something more. . . .
“My good man, are your wits wandering? Call a manservant if you haven’t the capability to usher us in!” This was Mrs. Corey at her most imperious. Even Mrs. Murgatroyd shot her an admiring glance, though Amy’s eyes closed in sudden distress. Good Lord, they were behaving like a parcel of washwomen. It was a mark of the man’s extreme good breeding that he didn’t send them all packing via the servants’ entrance. Is it no wonder he hesitated to invite them in at all? What with Mrs. Corey and Mrs. Murgatroyd dripping with diamonds . . . oh, the vulgarity of it quite sank Miss Mayhew. Indeed, she had never wanted to cringe so much in her life.
She stepped forward, past Miss Oliver and Miss Kirby, Miss Corey and the two chaperons. She stepped forward until her eyes were level with the intricate folds of a pearl-white cravat. The style of it confounded her. It was the mathematique, not something a common butler would effect. For an instant, she stood poised on the truth, then her perceptive eye alighted on a very cleverly wrought darn in the man’s excellent cream shirt. She breathed a little easier, though her heart was still strangely hammering.
“I believe there is some error, Mr. . . .” She waited for the butler to supply her with a name. Strange, how there was just the smallest pause before he answered, and how her cheeks burned from the appraising glance he cast her! Yet she could not detach herself from the notion that it was patently approving, so she did not depress his pretension. Rather, she allowed her sultry lips to curve into a good-natured smile that lit her eyes in a manner that caused the butler to somehow draw in his breath, before, very properly, supplying her with a name.
“Pemberton, miss. And may I be the first to welcome you to Darris Castle?”
Seven ladies behind her accepted this as their due and marched in, chattering, of a sudden, now that they were out of the immediate cold. None seemed to notice, for the moment, that the great hall offered little additional warmth, so intrigued were they with its obvious splendors. The marble busts in the Roman style, and the elegant crystal chandeliers all seemed to please exceedingly. The duke, it must be said, appeared unheeding to the hive of busy activity behind him. He was staring, now, quite directly, at Miss Amy Mayhew.
Equally, she was staring back, with honest, forthright eyes that seemed in perfect keeping with her willowy figure. Straight and true as an arrow. Then the spell was broken.
“How many make up the party, miss?”
The subservient tone seemed at odds with the imperious stance. Try as she could, Amy could not help the impression that here was a man used, at all times, to being obeyed. He had an air of authority about him that he wore lightly, but which was nonetheless evident to the discerning eye. It puzzled her extremely, put her quite out of countenance, in fact, so that she cocked her head to one side and smiled engagingly. This was not, properly speaking, correct etiquette to employ when dealing with a butler, but Amy always worked on instinct, a fact that had caused her many a stern lecture at Miss Simpson’s Academy.
“I believe eight; fifteen with the house servants. And then there are several others employed for the stables. I hope we do not inconvenience the household too much? It is my dearest wish that we repair at once to the posting inn—”
“Miss Mayhew! Surely you cannot be prattling with the servants? We will speak to Lady Caroline about the arrangements.”
The butler cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Lady Caroline. I beg leave to inform you, madam, that Lady Caroline is . . . indisposed. I shall speak directly with her lady’s maid and see if she is able to receive you. In the meanwhile, I shall take the liberty of ordering a hot collation to be prepared. If you will follow me . . . ?”
Obviously, Mrs. Honoria Murgatroyd and Mrs. Hyacinth Corey thought that they could. With eyes widening in satisfaction at the thought of a noble repast, they suppressed their annoyance at their cold reception, murmured that they hoped dear Lady Caroline would recover, then followed Pemberton into the dark corridor leading, after several long minutes of sapphire carpeting, to the breakfast room. His Grace deposited them there, for it was the only room he knew for certain was currently habitable. It had a fire lit—for Hedgewig had had sense enough to order that, at least—and the chestnut table was covered in a respectable ice-white damask cloth that extended over its full length, fortunately obscuring some of the ravages of time. His Grace had no funds to order in a cabinetmaker, so the damask sufficed. With a faint tilt to his lips, he noted how all the silver was gleaming, and how the brass plate had somehow crept down from storage and now adorned several of the walls and empty mantels. Well! Caroline had been busy! With a slight frown, he noticed his Sevres china laid out at each of the nine settings. Damn Caroline’s impudence! He wouldn’t trust the Murgatroyd woman with his silver spoons, never mind his Sevres china! Still, two hands were trembling in their sensible kid gloves, and short of kissing them insensible, there was nothing for it, he knew, but to let the charade continue.
What mad impulse had driven him to this crazy start, he could not attest to. Unless . . . yes. He could not fool himself. Damn Caroline, damn Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton, fiends seize it, damn himself, and most of all, damn, damn, damn that excellent creature in her soft, warm merino. If it were not for her, he would even now be partaking of some of his very fine madeira and consigning the lot of them to the devil.
Instead, he bowed elegantly from the waist, and excused himself coldly.
He did not wait to hear Mrs. Murgatroyd simper and comment, what “a very superior sort of servant,” he appeared to be, or Mrs. Corey commenting waspishly that “superior is as superior does, but it would be well if he remembered his manners,” for he had stopped suddenly at a side entrance, closed the crested oak door silently behind him, then run like the wind up several flights of stairs.
He arrived breathless, moments later, in the west wing.
“Caro!”
“I know, I witnessed it all from the window! This is famous sport!”
“Infamous, you mean. God, Caro, I don’t know what possessed me!”
“Don’t you, now?” Caroline’s eyes twinkled mischievously.
“What can you mean by that, baggage?”
“Oh, climb off your high ropes, Demian! If it was not the lady in the green merino that swayed you, I will eat my finest overdress of Venetian satin.”
“And good riddance, too. It is hardly up to snuff. I wish you would pay more attention to your wardrobe, Caro.” His Grace then toyed with the idea of throttling his beloved sibling, but settled on a mere smile, somewhat more foolish than was his custom.
Lady Caroline Darris could not restrain herself from chuckling. “Perhaps this plan was more masterful than I thought!”
There was a moment of pregnant silence before the duke advanced upon her menacingly. She bobbed in the very nick of time.
“No, don’t injure me, you will need me conscious if we are to pull this thing off. Now, you will excuse me. If I am going to enter regally via the east wing, I’d better don some finery first.”
“You look . . . ”
“. . . like I have just been baking sweet biscuits in the kitchen. Which, in point of fact, I have. Now, do be a good boy and tell Cook to hurry up. What are you, by the way? First footman?”
His Grace’s lips twitched. “Don’t be so absurd, Caroline! My consequence deserves more than that! I am the butler.”
Lady Darris stifled a giggle as Miss Bancroft reached for her smelling salts. Demian strode over to her at once.
“Do forgive me, Martha, for embroiling you in all of this.” He said it with such charm, and such a contrite smile that Miss Bancroft felt compelled to sit a little straighter on her chair and return the sal volatile to her ubiquitous reticule.
“Not at all, my lord! I am sure it is always my pleasure to do as you desire. What would you have me be? The dowager duchess?”
This sent both young Darrises into hoops, for dear Martha, though she took leave, at times, to scold and cluck severely, was, for all that, a timid, rather retiring person. Not at all like a dowager duchess.
“You shall be my dragon of a lady’s maid. I shall send you on ahead of me to entertain the motley crew. And Martha, dear, when in doubt, take out your lorgnette and survey them all in regal silence. That should make them squirm!”
At this, Martha busied herself in her reticule until she finally found her ancient lorgnette upon a chain of burnished gold. She used it only when she felt compelled to, for she loathed to admit that she was nearsighted and had any need of the instrument. Still, she felt Caroline had a point. A lorgnette cast coldly in any direction had a certain unsettling effect. She clutched it triumphantly, as if it were a weapon as deadly as a dagger. Seeing her, His Grace groaned inwardly. If the parcel of chits below stairs did not immediately smell a rat, he would count himself fortunate, indeed.
“Ratafia?” Mr. Endicott asked politely, his elbows resting negligently on the table, his hands cupped appealingly beneath his chin. Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton detected the whisper of a shadow where his manservant had not shaved him closely. She wondered what it would feel like, to remove her gloves and slowly trail her fingers across his arrogant jaw.
“Beg pardon?”
“Ratafia. You refused the lemonade.”
“Oh!” She lifted her eyes and found them focused directly upon Mr. Endicott’s. She hoped he was not a mind reader, for he had an arrogant, rather raffish expression that indicated, quite possibly, that he was. She refused to blush and chided herself for being ridiculous. Of course the man could not know that she had memorized every smooth muscle that proclaimed itself beneath his tight-fitting shirt, or that her pulses raced most irksomely whenever his gloved fingers innocently brushed against hers whilst serving. Now, he was talking some nonsense about ratafia and she was obliged to give some answer. She pushed her goblet forward.
“Thank you.”
The mocking gaze softened. “Not at all, Lady Raquel.” He gestured to the liveried manservant, who set down a decanter. Mr. Endicott took it up at once, and poured. His arm was just a hairbreadth from her reach. Lady Raquel averted her gaze. She had no need to see the muscles of his forearm, clearly outlined against his stark evening coat. It was cut, of course, by Weston. She knew, for it could not have more perfectly molded his form if it tried.
She sipped in silence, hoping it was just imagination that made her feel he was mocking her and enjoying the evening thoroughly as a consequence. But how foolish! He was everything that was solicitous, passing her quail, and little smidgens of Salisbury sauce and melon fritters.
“Mr. Endicott . . .”
“Yes, Lady Raquel?”
“Nothing.” A small silence prevailed, where Lady Raquel tapped at her plate with her fork, and tasted none of the delicious brandy and cherry crepe that had been set on a side dish for her particular delight.
“Nothing? How edifying.”
“Oh, must you be so beastly? It was bad enough I had to dance with you. How fortunate that it was merely a quadrille.”
“Yes, you wouldn’t wish to be waltzing with the lower orders.”
“How perfectly ridiculous! Though we have only just been introduced, I am informed by certain very good sources you are on terms with the regent himself.”
“Prinny? Well, so I am. What of it?”
“Then you are not of the lower orders, sir.”
“I thought you consigned me there earlier. What was your term? Raff and scaff, if I recall.”
“I see you shall hold that against me whatever I say. Very well, sir, you may go your length.”
Blue eyes glittered. “Be careful what you promise, Lady Raquel. I may just be foolish enough to obey.”
Lady Raquel did not understand the meaning behind the words, but they sounded, to her, like a scantily veiled threat. Then why did she shiver with such intoxicating abandon? There was simply no accounting for the matter.
“Mr. Endicott . . .” Sapphire eyes fluttered up to meet brilliant ones of an equal shade.
A dimple played above Mr. Endicott’s mouth.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Why are you taking such pains to annoy me? You have been staring at me all evening, you inveigled the supper dance—and, no, I don’t believe it was purely mischance—and now you tease me.”
“Do I? How perfectly novel. Do have a strawberry.” He proffered her the dish, but she turned her head away in disdain. “I believe I have had my fill, Mr. Endicott.”
“You disappoint me. However, since you are now replete, I feel able to solicit your hand for the waltz. See, they are striking up even as we speak.”
“I thought we were agreed that it was a very good thing we did not engage in so fast an activity.”
“Why, Lady Raquel? Do you not trust yourself in my arms? I, you know, shall be the very soul of decorum.”
“Not trust myself? Mr. Endicott, you are as vain as a coxcomb!”
“Very true, alas! And still, you steer from the topic.”
“I am not afraid of your arms, Mr. Endicott!”
“Good! Then you will stop your willful chattering and take my hand.”
Willful chattering! Lady Raquel positively seethed. Still, his eye was upon her, and locked in such a steely glance that she dared not deny him lest she caused the very scene she so abhorred. So, with a measure of great disdain—which she took no pains to hide—she rose and extended her fingertips to a mere “Mr.” This was a first for Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton.
Sadly, Mr. Endicott appeared not to notice the high honor that was being accorded him. Instead, he took those delicate fingertips and slid his roguish fingers all the way down to her palm, where his hand finally clamped firmly over the full length of her glove. She could feel the strength emanating from him. Also, the firmness of purpose. She eyed him with annoyance. Then, the rush of sensation as firm arms encircled her ribboned bodice was too hard to bear. She bit her lip and hoped that the ridiculous man did not notice her trembling.
Six
Of course, he did notice. That might have accounted for the faint relaxing of his jaw and the secretive smile which he expertly hid behind an air of bored amusement.
Throughout the next few minutes, there was a silence between the pair as each took the other’s measure. More and more dancers took their places, but neither noticed. Mr. Thomas Tyrone Endicott spent a peculiarly large proportion of his time fighting the urge to lessen the very correct distance between his thigh and her waist. He counted to ten; he even counted the steps of the damnable waltz, which he had danced with admirable ease dozens of times before. Being a man of strong will, he would have succeeded in keeping his distance were it not for a beautiful, swanlike neck that practically presented itself to his notice. Lady Raquel, of course, was feverishly looking the other way.
“Damn it, woman, it is the custom to engage your partner in light chatter whilst performing the steps of this foolish dance.”
“Is it? Then engage me.” The imperious tone was back, but there was just a hint of warmth behind the cool eyes. No, he was wrong. There was more than warmth; there was a hot fire burning beyond the ice. He had better tread easily or he would be burned.
So, he laughed. The sound was low, and warm, and peculiarly intimate. Lady Raquel felt herself responding in kind, her pink bow-shaped lips opening slightly in a smile.
“A hit, a palpable hit. Lady Raquel, I concede you the point. I shall offer you a veritable fount of witticisms and in return, I expect to see more of your dewy eyes than your singularly snowy neck.”
The Honorable Lady Fortesque-Benton nearly missed her step. If she didn’t know any better, she would suspect Mr. Endicott of setting up a flirtation. But she did know better. If anyone was more likely to know of her impending betrothal, it was he. For an instant—the whisper of an instant—she wondered whether Demian had divulged the terms. She bit her lip. Mr. Endicott caught a fleeting glance of glittering teeth before they disappeared back behind those perfect bow-shaped lips.
Maybe she had been wildly over the top, specifying lovers, but she liked straight dealing. Marriage, to her, was that—a deal, where the parties mutually acquired either rank, wealth or status. It was what she had been reared to know as a child. Papa would be very pleased with His Grace, the duke of Darris. Indeed, she could not have managed better. If she were to have married a prince—as her noble birth and fortune did not rule out—she would have had to leave England. But she did not hold much with foreign titles. Neither did her father, Lord Frances Fortesque-Benton. No, becoming a duchess would be perfect.
But here was this . . . this nobody eyeing her with mocking eyes and a graceless manner that caused her breath to catch in her very throat. He seemed to be reading her mind, for arrogance played with amusement in those piercing, know-it-all eyes of his. His fingers clasped tighter about her waist, closing the acceptable distance subtly, so that none but she would be any the wiser.
“You play a deep game, Mr. Endicott. I just hope you do not get burned.”
“Do you? I would have thought you would hope the very reverse.” He murmured so softly she had to incline her head upward to catch his words.
“Oh! You are an incorrigible beast, then. You confirm all my suspicions of you.”
“And you confirm all mine of you.” His lips drew together in a tight line, so Lady Raquel did not quite like to ask him what he meant. No doubt the odious man was being hideously uncomplimentary.
She would have been surprised to learn that Thomas was amusing himself with a double entendre. From the moment he had set eyes on Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton, he had looked beyond her obvious beauty and detected, beneath the proud stature, a very lonely and vulnerable woman. It was that quality which had first sparked a mild interest. Demian had said that her lips were like toffee, perpetually clammed shut. Thomas, more versed in such things, thought differently. He wondered how he could prove his theory without having to break his word to Demian. The lady would arrive at Darris Castle pure, if it was the last thing he achieved.
