A Lady Most Lovely (2 page)

“Forget about Carter,” James said. “As far as I’m concerned, you acted admirably. I’m sure everyone else thinks so, too.”

Startled, Tom looked around and realized what James was referring to. The gentlemen and ladies who had been standing nearby had apparently noticed his little run-in with Carter. Many were still staring at Tom, their expressions ranging from alarm to undisguised amusement. He had made a spectacle of himself.

Had
she
seen it? What would she think of him?

Tom looked quickly over to her. She may have been watching him, but it was impossible to tell. Her attention seemed to be focused on an old man with enormous whiskers who was kissing her hand. “James,” he said, though his eyes never left the woman, “who is she?”

“I see you are determined to meet her,” James said with an exaggerated sigh of resignation. “Well, come on then.” He dove into the crowd, and Tom quickly fell in step with him. All around them, people moved aside and pretended to go back to their own conversations, although Tom still sensed that they were watching him.

“I’m surprised you should be interested in her,” James remarked as they went.

“Really? Why shouldn’t I?”

“Well, don’t misunderstand me… Miss Cardington is a very respectable young lady to be sure, but she’s a bit… bland. Sad to say, she’s probably on a direct route to spinsterhood.”

“Are you daft?” Tom exclaimed. “She’s the most beautiful woman in the room!”

James paused, looked at Tom, and then followed his gaze back to the two women. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Were you referring to the lady in green?”

“Of course!” Tom replied, amazed that someone as astute as James could have misunderstood.

“Ah,” said James. “Of course.” He shook his head and gave an odd little smile, as though amused by some private joke. He started forward once more. “I told you about her before we arrived,” James said as they skirted a small group of boisterous men who were on their way to the card room. “Miss Margaret Vaughn is the reason we’re at this gathering. Well, half the reason. She’s engaged to Paul Denault. Our host, the Duke of Edgerton, is Denault’s uncle. He’s throwing this party in their honor.”

“Engaged?”
Tom repeated.

The word came out as a gasp, and James gave him a curious glance. “She’s quite beautiful, as you have noticed. She’s also the wealthiest heiress in London. Inherited mountains of money when her father died two years ago. Denault is one happy man.”

“Who is this Denault?” Tom demanded. “Surely not that old man!” he added in dismay, pointing to the old man with the prodigious whiskers who was still speaking with her.

“Oh, dear Lord, no,” James said with a laugh. “Although
he wishes he
was
her fiancé, I’m sure. That’s Mr. Plimpton—a pillar of London society, and he’ll be the first to tell you so.”

“Where is Denault, then?” Tom said impatiently. During the past hour, he’d seen Miss Vaughn chat with scores of people, including those he pegged as would-be suitors. But he could have sworn she had not bestowed particular attention on any one man.

“Let me see…” James scanned the room. “He’s usually in the smoking rooms chatting up the barons of industry, unless he’s entertaining the—ah! There he is.” He pointed to a tall, sandy-haired man, impeccably dressed, who had a cohort of young ladies clustered around him.

“He has many admirers,” Tom said drily.

“Oh, yes,” James agreed. “Both Denault and the ladies agree that he is a very handsome man indeed.”

But why wasn’t he with Miss Vaughn? How could he possibly find other ladies more appealing? Remembering James’s remark that she was an heiress he said, “Denault’s marrying her for her money, then.”

James shrugged. “I doubt it. He has plenty of his own.”

“Inherited?” Tom figured that as the nephew of a duke, Denault was in that privileged class whose money was handed to them at birth. Tom was beginning to loathe that sort of man, for the simple fact that they all now loathed him.

“Not at all,” James said, surprising him. “Denault’s branch of the family is well connected, but not as wealthy as it once was. He made his fortune on investments in America. He is, as the Americans would say, ‘a
self-made man.’ I suppose that’s something you two have in common.”

At that moment, Denault finally deigned to send a glance in Miss Vaughn’s direction. As their eyes met, Denault gave her a smile and a look that seemed to say,
All the world knows that I am yours—and you are mine
. When Miss Vaughn serenely returned her fiancé’s smile, an irrational jealousy wrapped itself around Tom’s heart. He and Denault shared something much greater than business sense, that was certain.

“Do you still wish to meet her?” James asked.

“Yes,” Tom said resolutely. Even knowing she was engaged could not curb his desire to speak to her.

She had taken note of their approach. Tom was sure of it. He could tell by a subtle shift in her posture, an extra alertness in his direction, even as she kept her eyes fixed on Plimpton. He felt a surge of excitement at this realization. Suddenly he was far too conscious of his tight collar, his heavily starched shirt, and his overpolished boots. In fact, everything he had on was foreign to him. He told himself this must be the reason why he felt as though he were moving through heavy sand.

They were stopped by Denault, who broke away from his little group of admirers and strode over to intercept them. “Simpson!” he said warmly, holding out his hand.

While James returned the greeting, Tom watched as Miss Vaughn excused herself from Miss Cardington and Mr. Plimpton and came to join her fiancé. Now that she was so close, Tom found he could hardly breathe. He marveled at her flawless features. Her eyes were deep green—nearly the same shade as her gown—and
rimmed in the center with yellow gold. They studied him with cool interest.

“I’d like to introduce you to my cousin,” James said. “This is Mr. Thomas Poole.”

“Tom,” he corrected. “Just Tom.”

One of Miss Vaughn’s delicate eyebrows lifted a fraction, but she said nothing.

“Tom Poole?” Denault repeated. “The man who made a fortune in the gold mines?”

News traveled fast among London’s elite. Faster than the wildfires in Victoria. “You’ve heard of me.”

“Heard?” Denault echoed. “You might buy and sell the Crown now; that’s what I’ve heard. You’re a lucky man.”

There was admiration in his eyes—and avarice as well. Tom had seen it in plenty of people, from the poor ex-convict gold miners in Australia to the highborn folk in England. That look always put Tom on his guard. He’d seen how dangerous men could be when driven by greed. He also knew what hypocrisy it bred. The upper classes might abuse him behind his back for his lowly origins, but to his face they could only compliment him for having so much money. “It was a lot of work,” Tom pointed out. “The gold don’t mine itself.”

“Of course,” Denault said, waving off Tom’s remarks. He turned to his fiancée. “Miss Margaret Vaughn, may I present—”

She cut him off as she extended her hand and said, “How do you do,
just
Tom?”

Tom didn’t miss the hint of derision in her words. Most everyone he’d met tonight had approached him either with awe or as some kind of phenomenon to be
marveled at. Yet the woman he’d been admiring all evening was actually speaking to him with condescension! It was a challenge he could not ignore. Calling him as she did by his Christian name, even in jest, she might have been speaking to an errand boy or a servant. This thought, ironically, cued something his sister had taught him to say during introductions. He grasped her hand and said with gentlemanly dignity, “Your servant, madam.”

Her hand was cool but it sent a curious warmth through him. Her stunning eyes widened, as though she, too, were startled at the sensation. Tom’s lessons in etiquette completely left him and he forgot what he was supposed to do with her hand. So he continued to hold it, savoring the opportunity it gave him to be close to this woman. He was fascinated by the strength and fire in her gaze.

“Will you be in London long, Just Tom?” She sounded a bit breathless.

“I…” he faltered like an idiot. Suddenly he felt as unsteady as if he were back on the stormy seas.
Keep your wits about you, man,
he told himself, and released her hand. “I will be in England for the indefinite future.”

“How wonderful.” Her gaze held his. “We shall be glad to get to know you better.”

“Indeed we shall,” Denault broke in briskly. “Mr. Poole, perhaps you would like to be my guest for lunch tomorrow at my club? I’ve a business proposition for you.”

Denault’s offer jerked Tom back to his senses. He should have expected this, even from a man as rich as Denault. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to discuss business ventures with him. So far, he’d deflected or turned down all such proposals. He could have found some reason to
avoid Denault, too, but he found himself agreeing to the appointment instead. He had an unreasonable urge to find out what kind of man Miss Vaughn had agreed to marry. “Will Miss Vaughn be joining us as well?” he asked.

Denault threw a condescending look at his bride-to-be. “Heavens, no,” he said with a laugh. “Women aren’t allowed at the club. And in any case, she has no head for business, poor thing.”

Something like annoyance or anger flashed across Miss Vaughn’s face. It was brief, and she quickly suppressed it, but it did not escape Tom. As an heiress in her own right, surely she was capable of handling business affairs. Why didn’t she correct him? Tom was aware of the adage that when a man and woman were married they became
“one person, and that person is the husband.”
Even so, he could not imagine Miss Vaughn in the role of a meek wife.

“I could not possibly join you in any case,” she said lightly. “I am far too busy. The wedding is days away, and there are a thousand details to arrange.”

At the mention of their wedding, Miss Vaughn and Denault exchanged a look so amorous that Tom wondered if he’d been mistaken about her apparent irritation. She must love Denault. Once more Tom felt himself awash in jealousy, even though he had not the slightest right to be. Miss Vaughn was betrothed to another man, and it was evidently a propitious match. Certainly there was nothing he could do about it.

She turned her attention back to Tom. “Will you also marry soon, Mr. Poole?”

Steeped as he was in thoughts of Miss Vaughn, this
question took Tom utterly by surprise. He could only look at her blankly.

“I thought perhaps you were searching for a wife,” she said. “I saw how intently you were studying each lady in the room.”

So she
had
been watching him, just as he had been watching her. Tom found this knowledge incredibly intoxicating. He would gladly have explored this mutual attraction, if not for the unwelcome fact that she was already taken.

No, he was not considering marriage to any of the other ladies he’d met tonight. They seemed too vacant, too pliable. Tom wanted a woman who was spirited and strong. He wanted what the Bible called a
helpmeet
—a true companion, not a mere accessory. He’d thought Miss Vaughn might possess those qualities, but now that he’d seen her with Denault he wasn’t so sure. He shook his head in answer to her question. “I might have to return to Australia for that. The ladies there have more backbone.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do they?” She rose up a little taller, and her gaze swept over him from head to foot. He gladly withstood her scrutiny, pleased to have drawn a spark from her again. “Everyone in Australia seems quite… resourceful,” she said. “Including you. I should like to hear more about your famous shipwreck. It seems a fantastical tale.”

For the first time this evening, the mention of the shipwreck did not annoy Tom. He did not try to analyze why. “I’d be more than happy to tell you about it. At times I have trouble believing it myself.”

“Paul, dear,” Miss Vaughn said without even looking
at her fiancé, “I am dying of thirst.” She thrust her empty champagne glass in Denault’s direction.

Denault looked at it in surprise, clearly taken off guard.

“That’s an excellent idea,” James interposed. “Don’t worry, Denault. We’ll entertain Miss Vaughn while you’re gone.”

Denault looked mistrustfully from his fiancée to Tom. Could he possibly feel threatened by him? The thought was more than a little appealing.

“I have a better idea,” Denault said. “I am sure you are famished, Margaret. Why don’t we both go to the supper room?” He took hold of her elbow, as if to lead her away. With a nod to Tom and James he added, “If you gentlemen will excuse us.”

Miss Vaughn gently extricated herself from his grip. “I only asked for something to drink,” she said, her voice edged with irritation.

“Yes, my darling, but you’ve eaten nothing this evening. We cannot have you fainting away from lack of food.” His annoyed tone left no doubt this was an order rather than an expression of concern. She answered him with a frosty look.

Yes, there was trouble beneath those apparently smooth waters. Miss Vaughn and Denault were not as madly in love as they wished to portray. Of course, being
in love
was no requirement for marriage, certainly not among the upper classes. Even a commoner like Tom knew that. Why, then, should they pretend?

He could see her wavering, undecided. If he were a betting man, Tom would have wagered half his gold that Miss Vaughn did not have it in her nature to be docile.
He’d just as gladly give away the other half just to find out what was going on in that head of hers. He was hoping for a good display of fireworks.

To his disappointment, Miss Vaughn relented. She gave Denault a crisp nod of assent before turning back to Tom. “I do hope we shall meet again, Just Tom.”

Something flickered in her eyes that gave Tom the wild hope that her words were more than mere formality. Tom kept his gaze fastened on hers. “I should like that very, very much.”

Her lips parted in surprise, and he knew his meaning had reached her. She swallowed and looked away. Denault took her elbow again, and this time she did not demur.