A Perfect Gentleman (26 page)

Of course not. He'd given his word. Lord Wellstone was a gazetted charmer, that was all. He could not help flirting with every woman he met. He'd even tried turning the duchess up sweet. Maybe he could not help desiring every new female who came his way, like some women craved every new bonnet they saw.

More likely, Ellianne thought, he did not truly want her but was just trying to bolster her confidence. Gwen must have told him about Ellianne's anxieties before the dinner, and he was trying to give her the strength that Gwen said came with knowing one looked one's best. That was it, and just like Wellstone, to be concerned with her emotions. She laughed off Her Grace's warnings. The viscount's warm regard meant nothing.
So what did her own warm feelings for him mean? Warm? She was practically fevered, thinking about the lingering kiss he had placed on her gloved hand as he handed her into the duchess's coach. Her blood was heated, if not to boiling then at least to simmering, stirring in secret, unexplored places. His scent lingered in her memory, and an image of his one ready dimple was indelibly imprinted on her mind. He was calling for her in the morning, and Ellianne was already planning what to wear and how to leave her maid behind. She might as well be planning, for she'd never sleep in anticipation.

Why? Nothing could come of this nonsense. She was not a light-skirt, and he was a gentleman. They were not adolescents who did not understand the pull of passion and its disastrous results. They were mature adults, with responsibilities and with respect for their good names.

So what did her growing attraction to Lord Wellstone mean? That she was a fool, that was what.

*

She was a success. Stony had known she would be, by the depth of her fortune, if nothing else, but this was beyond even his expectations. By the afternoon after Gwen's dinner, the Sloane Street house was under siege. Invitations arrived by the bushel, and old Timms was rebuilding his pension, accepting calling cards and coins from would-be gentlemen visitors. He gave them each a blessing and sent them on their way. Ellianne did meet with a few of the women who called, in hope they might mention Isabelle, but the ladies were merely hoping to snare the newest comet on the social horizon for their next affair.

They all claimed acquaintance with Lady Augusta or Ellianne's mother, to justify calling without an introduction. They all lied, according to Timms. Aunt Lally labeled them three-nippled ninnies and refused to sit in the parlor with the gossiping, gushing, gawking matrons. Ellianne was so grateful to Stony for his invitation to drive in the park that she almost hugged him, despite her firm resolve to ignore his all-too-masculine physicality. She might have ignored the ground under her feet more easily.

The park was not a good idea. Every horseman, every whip, every town beau out on the strut hailed their good friend Stony. If courtesy hadn't demanded he stop to make introductions, the clogged traffic paths did. He could not drive on, not through two half-pay officers, a threadbare third son on a second-rate hack, four confessed fortune-hunters, and one widower with five hopeful progeny. News of an unwed heiress spread faster than fleas on a dog, it seemed, and was just as uncomfortable to Ellianne.

None of the gentlemen spoke of meeting her sister. They only wanted to know where they could meet Miss Kane again. Did she attend this party or that one? Would she honor them with a dance? If she did not dance, perhaps she would prefer cards, or a trip to the Tower Menagerie or Vauxhall, a drive to Richmond…or to Scotland. No one spoke the last aloud, of course, but she could almost hear the gentlemen's minds calculating their chances of winning her consent, and her fortune. She did not need any grande dame's warnings about what else these London bucks were estimating, not when their eyes strayed below her collarbone and they licked their lips.

Ellianne's only consolation was that Lord Wellstone appeared as miserable as she felt.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” he finally said, after trying to dislodge another contingent of rakes who'd rather be rich, “but my horses are growing restless, and Miss Kane's aunt made me promise that I would have her back in an hour.”

The aunt had not said a word, of course, but he thought the parrot had screeched out something as they were leaving. It sounded like, “Keep your mind on the road, sonny, and not on your rod.” He shook his head. He couldn't have heard that right.

He did have Ellianne back within the hour, though, angry, frustrated, with energy to burn—and those were the horses' complaints. Stony's were a lot worse.

Ellianne was close to packing her bags and going home. She was no closer to finding her sister, and too close to the slavering jackals she feared and despised. Stony promised that evening would be better, and it was, at first.

They were attending the theater. Whether they went because Stony had claimed the prior engagement to Sir John, or because he thought she might enjoy it, made no difference. Ellianne was looking forward to a performance far beyond what she was used to in the shires. It was the audience here that put on the show, however.

No one watched the actors, it seemed, nor bothered to listen. Those in the pit constantly moved around, making assignations with the pretty orange sellers, tossing fruit to each other, or onto the stage. The box holders spent all their time gazing at each other, chattering like squirrels over who was with which widow, and which husband was in which courtesan's box.

Half the opera glasses, quizzing glasses, and lorgnettes were trained on the Wellstone box, it felt to Ellianne, weighing the carats in her diamonds, counting the black feathers in her hair. She edged a fraction of an inch closer to Stony's seat. Gwen was there too, with Lord Strickland, of all the escorts she could have selected, and Aunt Lally was sitting in the far rear corner. She did not say anything, thank goodness, but her gnarling disapproval of the audience's behavior resembled the bulldog Atlas more than any well-mannered lady. Ellianne could only hope the raucous crowd drowned out the noise.

She also hoped her ensemble did not offend Stony, for he was growling nearly as loudly. She was not flaunting her wealth with the diamonds, she told herself. She was wearing her mother's jewels tonight because that lady would have been proud of her daughter, taking her place in the beau monde.

As for Stony, his appearance tonight quite took Ellianne's breath away. He was wearing formal black satin knee breeches and black silk stockings that proved he had no need to pad his calves. The breeches clung to his muscular thighs like paint, so close to her that she could have reached out to see if the paint was dry. Her palms were not, under her gloves.

The noise—and Ellianne's quickened heartbeat subsided as the play progressed and the audience finally became rapt in the drama. Now she could relax and enjoy someone else's tragedy.

The first intermission brought every needy gentleman who had not yet winkled out an introduction. Stony's mutterings grew louder, or were those Aunt Lally's? Ellianne tried to see past the dark coats that filled the box, wishing she had not insisted that her aunt join them for some innocent entertainment. She could not be certain if it was innocent, but one of the callers at the rear, suspiciously close to Aunt Lally and her cane, tripped and fell. His flailing legs kicked the gentleman in front of him, who lost his footing and collided with a third, who also fell, toppling two more. One of the men came up swinging.

Strickland gallantly stepped in front of Gwen to protect her, but then he started calling out odds on the match.

“Enough!” Stony shouted above the melee. “You are in the presence of ladies, blast your hides. Now act like gentlemen, bow, and get out. Whoever is still in my box when I count to ten had better be prepared to meet me at Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Parlor in the morning.”

“I thought you don't really fight?” Ellianne whispered to him, from her secure place beyond his left shoulder.

He turned and winked at her. “But they don't know that, do they?”

Gwen wept through the next act, for the deaths onstage or the melee in her box, no one was certain. Aunt Lally chuckled.

Stony took no chances at the next intermission. He bustled Ellianne out and over to the Duchess of Williston's nearby box. No one would dare to misbehave in Her Grace's presence.

“In over your head, are you, my boy?” the duchess asked after seeing Ellianne seated, but not unkindly. “You go back to that watering pot Gwen before she scares Strickland off. He's not much, but she could do worse.”

Worse? Stony wondered. How, by taking up with a coal heaver? Lud, he couldn't leave the peagoose alone with the old reprobate, but he belonged beside Ellianne.

“Go on,” the duchess ordered. “I'll look after your heiress.”

*

Lady Aldershott's ball was no better.

Ellianne spent as much time as she could in the room set aside for the ladies to refresh themselves. First, she wanted to ask if anyone knew her sister's friends, using that surprise party as pretense. Second, she wished to avoid the crush that surrounded her whenever she ventured into the ballroom or the supper room.

Half the time she could not spot Gwen in the crowd, to join her supposed chaperon. Lady Wellstone was busy on her behalf, she knew, trying to find not Isabelle's friends, but Lady Augusta's. Gwen was telling the dowager set that she wanted to introduce them to Miss Kane, so dear Ellianne could hear about her aunt's last days. So far Aunt Augusta seemed to have had no friends. No one wanted to recall her final hours, only her final bequests.

The one Ellianne really sought was Stony, but he had duty dances to perform, acquaintances to greet. He could not just lounge outside the ladies' retiring room for ages waiting for her, not without adding more gossip to her name.

Other men did not care about her reputation or her comfort. They rushed to her side when she appeared at the ballroom door, pressing too close, like pigs at a trough, she thought, squealing to get her attention. A promenade? A cup of punch? A stroll on the balcony or through the portrait gallery? She could not remember their names, or if she'd been properly introduced. They did not know Isabelle, and they did not know Ellianne, if they thought she would be impressed by their fulsome compliments or their absurdly high shirt collars and intricate neckcloths. They smelled of wine or heat or too much cologne. They talked too much and held her hand too long. They gave her a headache.

She fled back to the ladies' room.

From his superior height, Stony had seen her across the ballroom, but could not leave his dance partner in the middle of the set. He deposited the young lady back with her mother as quickly as decency permitted and hurried to rescue Ellianne from the worst pack of rakes, fortune-hunters, and hangers-on he'd ever seen gathered in one spot since Prinny's last gathering at Carlton House. Lady Aldershott had no daughters, so she did not care what kind of libertines she invited to her ball. The mothers in the ballroom cared, so they were vigilantly guarding the young misses—the way Stony should have been doing.

By the time he reached the spot where she'd been standing, Ellianne was gone. Lud, what if one of the cads had swept her off to a darkened alcove or a deserted room? The silly widgeon thought she could protect herself, telling him she could do better on her own. The young ladies would not look at her when he was present, she'd said with a laugh, much less talk about Isabelle.

But she had never met a determined seducer like any of the blackguards standing by the door telling ribald jokes. Stony recognized them all, half from his days as a gambler, half from his days escorting young women away from their influence. Sadly, not one of them was above coercing an heiress into a compromising position.

“What, did you lose your little red hen, Wellstone?” Godfrey Blanchard called out to him, making cackling sounds.

At least she wasn't with that dirty dish, Stony thought in relief. Blanchard was always on the lookout for a wealthy woman with a father mutton-headed enough to let him near the girl. He'd been shown more doors than a two-toothed tinker.

Sir Poindexter, who barely reached five feet, declared Miss Kane a maypole with red streamers, rather than a chicken.

Lord Durstan, who had already buried two wives, jerked his head toward the ladies' retiring room. “She must be a sickly thing, spending her night in there. You're welcome to the wench.”

Since Durstan had to weigh more than the prince, and Miss Kane barely weighed more than a pullet, the others laughed as he walked away.

Stony ignored all of them. Let them laugh, he thought; they'd had their last chance at Miss Kane. He'd go into the ladies' withdrawing room himself if he had to, to keep a better eye on her.

He did not have to take such drastic measures, for Lady Valentina Pattendale hurried down the hall, holding up a torn flounce. Stony asked her to inform Miss Kane that he was waiting outside the door.

Lady Val saw no reason to hurry with the message. She was more than happy with her betrothal, but a tiny splinter of resentment still festered. Wellstone, who had a higher title than Lord Charles, better looks, and far more skill on the dance floor—the torn flounce being testimony to Charlie's clumsiness—had refused to marry her, Earl Patten's only daughter. Let him wait.

She asked Miss Kane to keep her company while a maid set hurried stitches in her hem. Ellianne was all too happy to see a friendly, familiar face…until the younger girl confessed that she'd almost become betrothed to Lord Wellstone.