And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (6 page)

They ambled along the Strand, back toward Mayfair. They’d been friends for so long that they didn’t need to talk constantly; their silences felt comfortable to them.

Sauntering along shoulder to shoulder with Simon, James let his gaze roam while inwardly weighing his options. He understood, or at least he thought he did, what Henrietta’s view of him currently must be. Was there any way he could rescript that view and get her to see him in a better light?

A light sufficiently flattering that she might entertain an offer from him to fill the position he had vacant?

At least she already knew all the details, and as she was a Cynster, he could trust that she would be reasonable and amenable to rational persuasion, but . . . the not-so-small hurdle of falling in love remained.

No more than the next man did he have any idea how one accomplished that—how one fell in love—but given it was Henrietta who, even among the competing claims of the hordes of young ladies along the Avenue, had remained the unwavering focus of his attention, he was increasingly inclined, admittedly recklessly, to give love a try.

Who knew? It might suit him.

It might get him where he wanted to go, might gain him what he most truly wanted of life but had thought—given his grandaunt’s will—that he no longer had any hope of attaining.

For all he knew, the possibility might be there.

If only he could fathom how to make her look at him—truly look at him and see him for what he was—and then fall in love with him . . .

Who was he deceiving now? She wouldn’t fall in love with him, not spontaneously, not unless he made an obvious push to gain her regard, but in doing that, in making such a push, he would risk losing her help with his quest, his search for his necessary bride.

Simon glanced at him. “So how do you feel about this latest tack?”

“Stymied.” He didn’t meet Simon’s eyes.

Charlie clapped him on the shoulder. “Never mind—it’ll all work out. You’ll see.”

James hoped so, because, regardless of all else, he had the futures of a small army to ensure.

Chapter Three

L
ady Marchmain’s rout was one of the traditional highlights of the Season. That said, it wasn’t an event patronized by the very young ladies only just out, but rather by those no longer caught up in the first flush of the Marriage Mart. Among the sea of well-coiffed heads gleaming beneath the crystal chandeliers, in between the black-clad shoulders of fashionable gentlemen in evening attire and the stunning gowns in more intense hues worn by dashing matrons and more mature ladies, could be glimpsed the definite-yet-still-pastel-colored creations favored by young ladies with several Seasons under their belts but as yet no offer for their hands.

“Just as I thought.” Clad in blue silk in a shade deeper than her eyes, Henrietta tipped her head toward the melee, then leaned closer to James, standing alongside her, the better to be heard over the din created by hundreds of wagging tongues. “We’re sure to find several good candidates in this crowd.”

James eyed the shifting throng with a jaundiced eye. “The trick will be winkling them out from the herd.”

“Never fear.” Eyes sparkling, Henrietta grinned, transparently in her element. “Trust me—it won’t be that difficult.”

They were standing by one side of the massive ballroom, with a wall of long windows at their backs. Beyond the windows lay a wide lawn rolling down to a stream; the darkening shadows of extensive gardens stretched into the distance beyond.

Marchmain House stood outside London proper, at a bend along the river near Chiswick. James had arrived reasonably early, wanting to be there when Henrietta walked in. He’d assumed she would be attending with her mother and sister, but instead she’d appeared at the top of the steps leading down into the ballroom alone; a slender figure in the blue silk gown that echoed the soft shade of her eyes, a gold-spangled shawl draped over her elbows, she’d instantly commanded his attention. He’d watched her greet Lady Marchmain, a motherly lady of the grande dame variety, with open affection, then move on to peck Lord Marchmain’s cheek before, with a laugh, descending to the ballroom.

James had been waiting for her by the bottom step.

The smile she’d bestowed on him when her gaze had alighted on him—the quick glance she’d sent skating over him and the approval that had flared in her eyes—had left him feeling a tad off-balance. Knocked askew. How he was supposed to command his unruly senses to focus on any other young lady was beyond his comprehension.

But . . . “There’s Miss Alcock.” Henrietta shifted closer still to point out a young lady in an apple green gown. “We should definitely consider her. And . . .” She wove away, then back, peering past the shoulders, simultaneously playing havoc with James’s distracted senses; her perfume, a subtle blend of citrus and rose, wreathed his brain and trapped his wits. “Yes, that’s Miss Ellingham over there—I had hoped she would be here.”

Henrietta turned to him. “Come along. I’ll introduce you, and then, unless I miss my guess, and I rarely do, the musicians will start playing and the dancing will begin, and there’s no better opportunity to assess a young lady than while you’re waltzing with her.”

Inwardly grim, he nodded. Wondering just what she meant by “assess”—what criteria did she think he might explore?—he manfully accompanied her into the crush.

Within ten feet, he’d been forcibly reminded just why he normally avoided such events. It was heavy going, tacking this way and that through the shifting mass, trying to keep alongside Henrietta while simultaneously not taking her arm. Time and again, when they paused to exchange greetings, occasionally stopping to chat, he was forced to clasp his hands behind his back simply to stop himself from reaching for her arm and drawing her protectively nearer.

Many young ladies would have shrunk toward him, would have relied on him to steer them through the throng, but Henrietta was entirely at home amid the surging bodies and forged ahead unperturbed; in this arena, she needed no protection. If anything, the shoe was on the other foot, and he needed hers.

That was a reality played out again and again, one that subtly grated on some heretofore unregistered instinct.

Yet she was as good as her word, and he found himself standing beside her in the circle in which pretty Miss Alcock stood animatedly chatting. When the first strains of the violins floated out above the heads, it was a simple matter to request Miss Alcock’s hand. With a sweet smile, Miss Alcock accepted, and he led her to the dance floor—all too conscious of Henrietta’s encouraging smile following him into and through the resulting waltz.

From there, the evening progressed with Henrietta steering him into circle after circle, guiding him to one potential candidate after another. He danced with Miss Chisolm, whom he’d met in the park that morning, and also with Miss Downtree and Miss Ellingham.

By the time he drew Miss Swinson into his arms and started them revolving, his conversational gambits had grown somewhat tired. At least to him. Luckily, Miss Swinson found his deliberately charming smile and his pleasant inquiry as to how she was enjoying the evening entirely appropriate.

“It’s the devil of a crush, isn’t it? Oh!” Her eyes rounded, then filled with rueful laughter. “Pray excuse me! I know I shouldn’t say that—devil, I mean—but with so many brothers, it just slips out.”

James grinned quite sincerely. “Pray don’t censor your words on my account.”

She tipped her head, regarding him, then asked, the laughter still in her eyes, “In that case—are
you
enjoying the evening? It seems an unlikely event to attract one such as you.”

“You are clearly perspicacious. I have to admit that I’m finding the crush rather draining.”

“Yes, well, it is one of the main events of the Season, at least for all those not immersed in the Marriage Mart.” As they whirled, a ripple of reaction among the other dancers distracted Miss Swinson; she looked across, then returned her gaze to James’s face. “A case in point—that was Sir Peter Affry and the lovely Dulcimea Thorne waltzing by. Word is that he’s dangling after Cassandra Carmichael, but Dulcimea isn’t one to let any other steal a march on her.”

The revolutions of the waltz brought the couple in question into James’s sight. He recognized the gentleman Henrietta had pointed out that morning, and took due note of the predatory way Miss Thorne had all but draped herself over Sir Peter, the niceties of proper waltzing etiquette notwithstanding. “Miss Thorne certainly appears to be making a strong argument for Sir Peter’s attention.”

As they whirled again, Miss Swinson craned her neck to see. “It’ll be all over the at-homes tomorrow morning, no doubt.”

James could almost find it in him to be grateful to Sir Peter and his pursuit of the beauteous Miss Carmichael; with all eyes, however discreetly, watching the developments between Sir Peter and Miss Thorne, no one was inclined to pay all that much attention to the strange circumstance of one of the ton’s acknowledged wolves running on The Matchbreaker’s leash.

Henrietta watched from the sidelines. Although she maintained her part in a steady stream of conversations, she was aware that James remained the true cynosure of her senses, even while he was circling the dance floor with another lady. She wasn’t sure she approved of her senses’ apparent fixation, but she wasn’t particularly adept at lying to herself; that moment when she’d seen him as she’d walked down the stairs . . . if she’d been carrying a fan, she would have used it.

James Glossup in evening attire, looking up at her, his lovely brown eyes, their soulfulness tonight entirely unmarred by temper, fixed on her, was a sight designed to make her heart leap, then speed into a ridiculous cadence, to make her lungs seize and her wits grow giddy . . . luckily he couldn’t know the effect he had on her. She was perfectly sure no good would come of him gaining such revealing knowledge.

Indeed, when it came to that, she wasn’t at all sure
she
wanted to know—in fact, she wasn’t at all certain what her strange reaction implied.

The waltz currently in progress ended. James bowed to Miss Swinson, raised her from her curtsy, and escorted her back to the group where Henrietta, still chatting easily, waited. As he released Miss Swinson and took up his previous position by Henrietta’s side, she surreptitiously arched a brow at him. He saw it, but other than briefly meeting her eyes, he didn’t respond.

Once the group had re-formed, at her instigation they excused themselves and moved on into the, if anything even denser, crowd. “Now . . .” She looked about her with what was fast becoming feigned interest. “Who can we assess next?”

She felt James glance at her, then he murmured, leaning close so she could hear, so the waft of his breath swept the shell of her ear and sent shivery tingles coursing down her spine, “Perhaps we should take a moment to compare notes—before I forget which of my observations refer to whom.”

“Yes, of course. An excellent thought.” Her voice was weak, nearly breathless. She cleared her throat and dragged in a breath. “I could do with a break from the relentless conversations. Can you see a spot where we might talk without being overheard?”

The next instant, his fingers closed about her elbow. She very nearly startled, shocked by her instant response to his touch, totally innocent though it was. Heat and a sensation that strung her nerves tight streaked up her arm, then spread in a slow wave through her, dissipating, yet in its wake leaving her aware as she’d never been before. Aware of the heat and solidity of his body close beside her in the crush. Aware of the strength in his hand, his fingers, even though he was barely touching her gloved arm.

She glanced at him. He’d straightened and was looking over the heads, searching for a solution to her request. She could only hope he’d missed her odd reaction entirely; she didn’t think she’d actually jumped.

Once again, she rued the fact she’d long ago given up carrying a fan.

“There’s an alcove over there. Not large, and no potted palm to hide behind, but at least it should get us out of this accursed crush.”

She summoned enough strength to say with passable normality, “Lead on.”

He didn’t, of course—he steered her on—but he knew what he was doing, and in short order they’d laid claim to the shallow alcove at the end of the room, and could breathe more freely. Even though the long windows had been propped open to the night, with so many now crammed into the ballroom, fresh air was in short supply.

“I’d forgotten how the perfumes rise with the heat, then coalesce into a miasma.” James glanced at her, straight-faced. “You’re not feeling faint, are you?”

She almost bridled. “Good heavens, no! It’s only a ball.”

She saw his lips twitch and realized he’d been teasing her.

But all he said was, “Good to know that you’re not the fainting sort. Miss Alcock, however, apparently is, so I think we can leave her name off our short list. Swooning females can be distinctly wearying.”

“Indeed. But what about Miss Chisolm, now you’ve danced with her?”

“She . . . can remain on the list, at least for the nonce.”

They went through the other young ladies with whom he’d spent time, but other than Miss Downtree, none had passed muster with him. Henrietta frowned. “I had hoped we’d find more candidates here, but at least we still have two.”

“Hmm.”

She glanced sharply at him; he was looking out over the crowd and didn’t seem overly concerned with what she considered their still too short short list. She wondered what was distracting him; he certainly seemed to be thinking about something else.

As if he’d read her mind, he murmured, “Actually, I’m rather amazed the pair of us, given the unlikeliness of my appearance here, let alone what by now must have been noted as your assistance, haven’t raised more eyebrows.”

“Ah—that’s because I took care to plant the right seeds at luncheon and at the three teas I attended this afternoon.”

He glanced down at her. “
Three
teas?”

She shrugged. “I wanted to spread the word widely enough.”