Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 52
Without the pair blocking his view, Andrew took in the sight of the woman before him. She was gowned in the darkest of blue to match the color of the night sky, her hair piled atop her head, leaving her neck exposed…almost vulnerable.
As he watched, she brought her hands to cover her face, and her shoulders shook ever so slightly as if she sobbed; yet no sound broke the silence of the night.
The urge to step back outside, comfort her when she was clearly upset, was strong—but that was a familiarity he was not comfortable with. If someone happened upon him alone with a young female in the shadows of the front drive, there would be many questions. Questions he was not suited to answer.
Instead, he kept her in view.
The least Andrew could do was ensure that she caught up with her party and entered the ball safely.
After a few moments, her hands fell away from her face and rested at her sides. She squared her shoulders and called, “Do wait for me, Pere.” And with quick feet, she hurried to catch up with the pair who’d left her behind.
As speedily as she’d moved toward the front entrance, Andrew closed the study door and made his way back to the ballroom and his place beside Benji on the fringes of the dance floor.
“Where did you run off to?” his friend asked.
“I was hoping our great host had something a bit stronger than sherry stashed in his study.”
“Ah, very clever of you.” Benji patted him on the back in sport. “And tell me you found an exquisite bourbon or scotch.”
Andrew wouldn’t share what he’d actually come across or his true reason for escaping the merriment around him. “Alas, it seems our hostess has hidden the good stuff.” As he spoke, he kept his gaze trained on the entrance to the ballroom, waiting to see the woman dressed as night descend into the crowd.
“Do not look so despondent,” Benji said. “Your side of the wager is nearly fulfilled and you can depart.”
“I do not look despondent.” Though, if he had to dance with one more simple-minded girl, Andrew was prepared to put himself out of his misery. “Besides, I have already satisfied our wager.”
“The devil you have!”
Andrew looked about as members of the ton turned their looks upon them. “Do keep your obscenities down.”
“Our wager stipulated the first to six dance partners without being approached by their sires after wins ten pounds. You most certainly have not met the number to conclude our wager and take the purse.”
Andrew thought back. “There was the cross-eyed chit, the homely creature solidly on the shelf…” He held up his hand, counting the fingers as he went. “…the young girl with the horridly orange dress, oh, and do not forget the sisters who each demanded their turn.”
“Ah-ha!” Benji said in triumph. “Only five. It so happens I myself am at five, as well.”
It was then that she entered the room—and all thoughts of wagers, coin, and his dear friend fled his mind.
“Enough,” Andrew commanded his partner to silence. If only every person in the room would do the same so he could behold her in peace.
The glow from the candles lining the walls and hanging from the ceiling showed her beauty for what it truly was: stunning. Exquisitely refined. And utterly dissimilar to any and all women he’d met recently, far surpassing them not only in beauty but poise.
She appeared nothing like he’d expected from her silent sobs and hunched shoulders cloaked in the darkness.
Now she stood tall—exuding a firm confidence that he at once admired and envied. The gems hanging from her neck and ears further enhanced the glow her presence cast on the room. Never would he think her capable of such a vulnerable persona as what he’d seen only moments before from his hidden vantage point in the study doorway.
A quick glance around the room told him that he wasn’t the only one enthralled by her sudden appearance, as a few others took in the sight of her.
She spoke to the pair beside her, all serious as they descended the few steps and blended into the crowd. The older couple were likely her guardians, judging from their similar features and complexion—though their outward display of self-assurance aligned, as well.
Would she be as captivating when she spoke as she was by sight alone? He could not help but wonder. On so many occasions, a pretty turn of the lips or a coy glance caught his attention only to be followed by a disappointing one-sided conversation, or worse yet, blank stares without a word uttered.
Andrew kept his eyes firmly on her, urging her to look his way—or better yet, walk in his direction.
His previous need to protect her fled.
The woman radiated poise and composure as she took in the room, as if not a thing in the world could dampen her night, her eyes traveling across the crowd, never lingering too long on any one person or group.
It was then that Andrew realized he wanted her. In his arms—and in his life.
And he would stop at nothing to have her.
Lady Lorelei de La Valette took in the scene around her. Elegantly gowned women danced with smartly dressed gentlemen, young debutantes hid amongst the palms on the fringes of the dance floor, and servants hurried to and fro with trays overflowing with food and drinks.
She loathed their superior attitudes, yet simultaneously envied them their excessive lifestyle.
After many years of travel, it seemed to her that she should feel no sense of unease when entering a room wherein she knew not a soul, but even to this day, she longed for a familiar face.
“You know how important this night is,” her father, the Comte of Epernon, hissed in her ear once again. “These people will compliment your beauty, all while despising your French heritage.”
“We have been over and over this, Pere.” She used the French term and waited for the scolding she knew would follow.
Yet, it came from her mother, which was unexpected. “Lorelei, what have we told you?”
“I am to appear as nothing less than a lady born and raised amongst London’s upper crust. I am to blend in with other debutantes and not give reason for anyone to remember me.” She only hoped her moment of weakness before entering the ball did not show on her face. The tears had receded before they’d fully started, and she’d hurried to catch up, the night covering her seconds of doubt.
“Very good, my daughter,” her father said. Though many would see his words as harmless, Lorelei knew them for what they truly were—a threat. The consequences if she failed would not only impact her, but also her parents.
She was tired of running. If she complied with what was asked of her then it was possible her sires, as well as herself, would come into favor and a new fortune. They were here for a specific task, which could be accomplished in little time, and then they would spirit her off back to France. Her mother’s hope was that none would remember her presence.
“Smile, ma petite,” her mother whispered as she stepped back and the trio moved farther into the grand ballroom.
Lorelei wanted to ask why they trusted De Pez and Bonaparte—and wanted particularly to know how being in his favor would benefit any of them. Instead, she lifted her chin in defiance and pasted a smile on her face, hoping no one could tell it didn’t reach her eyes.
Her entrance into the room had also been carefully staged to maximize her exposure. They’d arrived late—after the receiving line had disappeared—but before the gentlemen had retired to the card room off the main ballroom. Her hair was swept and gathered high upon her head to reveal her slender neck and highlight her dark, exotic coloring. Her eyes, the color of moss, were outlined by a thin line of coal. Her lips held a hint of color, though not enough to start gossip. And her dress, conservative and outdated by French standards, favored a high neckline in the front but plunged in the back to show off her gracefully arched back. The midnight-blue satin clung to her tall frame, smoothly gliding to the floor and pooling about her slippered feet.
A delicate strand of cultured pearls hung around her neck, and teardrops dangled from each ear. They were the preferred stone of the English, and that suited Lorelei.
Taking the final slow step into the crowded ballroom, her parents blended into the background and Lorelei took a champagne flute from a passing servant to steady her shaking hand. Peeking over her shoulder, Lorelei confirmed that the comte and comtesse had indeed given her a bit of space, yet they still kept pace with her. It would not help her to have them shadowing her all eve.
It was known that Benjamin Davis, Lord Chastain, held a fondness for women, and Lorelei had no reservations about preying on that weakness.
Lorelei moved through a part in the crowd quickly, hoping her parents lost sight of her. The group of ladies stepped close, effectively covering her movements, and Lorelei switched directions, traveling parallel to the comte, successfully assuring she had a few moments to herself.
She knew not a soul in the room—nor all of London.
And that terrified her.
For a brief moment, she contemplated whether she’d be able to follow through on the task given to her. The stark reality was, she hadn’t a choice.
She tilted her glass to her mouth in hopes it would cover what she was actually doing—searching the crowd.
The British stood on pomp and ceremony, which meant no man would approach her without a proper introduction. The comte had insisted she leave the introductions to him, as he was convinced many lords would flock to his side to discuss the ever-changing governmental systems and the key players in their home country. The political situation in France was strained, particularly in their interactions with England, for the War of the Second Coalition still raged on.
Though who these men and women thought the comte loyal to, she cared naught.
She would not pass on the opportunity to sample life in London society; it was a place she could belong. Amongst the finery, she could find the home she had been lacking, even if only for a short time, though she also understood the dangers of falling in with the wrong people. A group of established wallflowers adorned in every shade of pastel imaginable lined one wall. Lorelei knew to steer clear of the group, or she’d likely end up amongst the palms with them. Nor should she attract the attention of the wealthy, elderly gentlemen currently escorting the most well-to-do debutantes and elite courtesans about the dance floor.
No, she sought the notice of only one man.
She’d studied his portrait thoroughly on their journey to England.
His every feature was imprinted on her mind: the roundness of his cheeks, his fashionable sandy brown hair, and his penetrating stare. She wondered if, when they eventually met, she would feel any tenderness for him, or if he would take a genuine liking to her.
Her research told her he was an avid horseman who craved excitement, but also lavished himself with the finer things in life.
She searched the crowd once more.
Lord Chastain—Benji, as he was commonly referred to by his consorts—stood with another man just outside the room that would hold the evening’s card game. He gave off the exact impression she’d expected: an entitled rakehell who stood on the fringe of society by choice. Both he and his friend stood tall and wore tailored suits that would rival the fashions in Paris. He was as handsome as his miniatures portrayed, but she found her gaze drawn to the man beside Chastain, who appeared equally at ease at the center of the crowd. She noted how other partygoers gave the men a wide berth.
Benji had the reputation of a womanizer and gambler, though there was nothing particularly extraordinary about his appearance to suggest either designation. Lorelei had expected a jovial man, but he laughed only at his companion’s remarks and barely acknowledged anyone else who walked past.
However was she to attract his attention if he never took his eyes from his friend, she wondered? Truly, he looked nothing like a man she would ever call ‘Benji,’ which had always struck her as a child’s name.
Her sires thought to accomplish—with all due haste—exactly what they’d journeyed to London for: unlimited access to Benjamin Davis, Lord Chastain, keeper of the plans to the fortified city of Carcassonne, located on a hilltop between the Atlantic and Mediterranean Sea. It had been long held that when Lord Chastain’s father had fled France, he’d taken the only set of plans to Carcassonne—which also happened to be a detailed map outlining the best possible way to lay siege to the great trading city.
Lorelei, her glass in hand, moved along the side of the dance floor as the men conversed. While the room was filled with marriage-minded matrons and fortune-seeking fathers, she noted that no one approached the pair, and neither man put their name upon any girl’s dance card.
How would her father obtain an introduction if both men kept so much to themselves?
Lorelei had decided even before their carriage arrived that it would be necessary for her to break free of her mother and father and seek her own introduction. Even then, she sensed her father had again spotted her and was currently staring daggers at her across the crowd as she maneuvered herself farther from him and closer to Chastain.
Though he would be angry with her, she’d gladly accept his wrath later, for he would never cause a scene in public.
Chastain’s associate took in the milling crowd. His eyes landed on her briefly, then returned to her for a longer inspection. It felt as if his earnest gaze penetrated to her very soul, uncovered all her secrets, and found her wanting.
She sensed she should turn back and approach Lord Chastain when this man wasn’t close, but something drew her attention back to him.
Lorelei smiled.
To her amazement, he smiled back, turned to Chastain and said a few words…then started in her direction.
The crowd moved out of his path as he walked toward her, his eyes never releasing hers.
It was then that she felt her first hint of trepidation. The man was stunningly handsome—not to mention, a friend of Chastain’s—and he was coming straight for her, a smile still upon his face.
“I can do this,” she mumbled to herself as panic set in. The lady next to her turned a pointed look at her before taking a step away, putting distance between herself and the young lady talking to no one. Lorelei would have done the same had she been in the woman’s position.
Before long, the man stood before her. His eyes, while intense, were the softest hazel she’d ever seen.
“Good evening.” His voice was a rich, deep baritone. “May I have this dance?”
She hadn’t heard music playing, nor the voices of the great number of people surrounding her.
She had only eyes for him.
Shaking her head gently, she snapped from her daze. “Ah, well, it is by chance I have a free space later in the evening.”
He smiled. “That is a shame, for I find myself without a proper dance companion at this very moment. Pity.”
He made to walk away, but she touched his sleeve ever so lightly, pulling her hand back before anyone saw. “I believe a spot may have opened only just now.”
She needed more than a brief moment with this man, though he wasn’t the one she’d originally sought.
“Then allow me to ask once more—but only once more,” he said. “For I do not find myself in the habit of begging for dance partners. May I have this dance?”
“You may.” She smirked. “If it so pleases you, your lordship.”
She wanted to giggle at the pompous tone in her own voice. The English were not known for their candor, and a sense of intrigue settled on her at his forthright nature.
He reached toward her, and Lorelei started to retreat before she realized he only sought her dance card, tied loosely at her wrist. He held the card in his large hands and wrote his name upon the first line.
The Marquis of Drake.
The letters were written in a thick, bold script that seemed an embodiment of his masculinity and borderline arrogance.
“Shall we?” he asked, holding his arm out for her to take.
“I would enjoy nothing more, your lordship.” Lorelei worked hard to suppress her accent. An import, as many were likely to call her, she did not wish to attract attention for her French blood, as many took offense knowing their countries battled and lives were lost every day. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He spun her on to the dance floor, settling one arm around her lower back. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”
As they moved to the light strains of music floating through the room, Lorelei caught sight of her father, only a few feet from Chastain. He should be pleased with her progress, aligning herself with someone close to Chastain, opening up the possibility for an introduction.
“May I inquire as to the name of my beautiful dance partner?” the marquis asked.
She returned her attention to him and her breath caught at the sight. Forcing herself to exhale, she answered, “Lady Lorelei de La Valette.”
“Ah. While your accent is subtle, your skin tone gives away your French heritage, no?”
“Oui.” With her father out of hearing distance, Lorelei let herself fall into her native tongue, fearing naught from the marquis. He did not show himself to be a man entangled in the war between their nations.
“Charmante.” His skillful pronunciation had her smiling. He continued to look upon her. “I have not seen you about town. Are you newly arrived?”
“Correct, your lordship.”
“Please, call me Drake or Andrew, as my amis do.”
“That is not proper, your lordship.”
He chuckled. “But what do you see as propre?” He paused, as if scouring his brain for any other French words hidden there. “A femme is most captivant when they are themselves, non?”
She took her gaze from his, knowing she blushed a deep crimson. No man had called her captivating that she could recall. “You are juste, your lordship.” She hoped the couples swirling close by did not notice her embarrassment.
“Je suis toujours juste, mademoiselle.” He once again paused. “I fear that is the extent of my knowledge of your language.”
“Well, you did very well, indeed.”
“You have a much more solid grasp of English than I French.”
