Barbara Metzger (8 page)

Audrina straightened her back. “Carrie has invited me to London when they get there.”

“What, you’d play dogsberry to a pair of newly-weds?” he goaded.

“And they do intend to settle at Podell Hall,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken, or hadn’t said anything she hadn’t thought of for herself.

“After the place is renovated. My wedding present, don’t you know. But aye, I suppose they’ll be needing you when they start filling the nursery. Someone has to look after the brats, I suppose. Can’t expect my daughter, the baroness, to change nappies. She’ll be too busy entertaining the nobs at house parties and such. You still pleased with the match?”

“Carrie’s happiness is the only thing that matters.”

He snorted. “That and getting a grandson who’ll be a baron. I hope that deuced caper-merchant Podell don’t take as long about begetting me an heir as he does tying his neckcloths.”

Chapter Eight

She could be a governess, Dree thought as she trudged back from the vicarage after giving her father ten of Uncle Augustus’s pounds. Or a companion. Either would be preferable to being the perpetual poor relation. Dear Carrie would never make her feel like a drudge, but Audrina was well aware that Lord Podell was already wishing her to the devil. Of course, he wanted privacy with his new betrothed; of course, Uncle Augustus ordered her to cling to them like sticking plaster. The only time Dree felt comfortable these days was when Lord Blanford was around. The earl was good company when he came down off his high horse.

Dree kicked a rock in her path. Who was she fooling? The earl wasn’t a pleasant companion in her chaperoning duties. He was the most fascinating man she’d ever met, or was ever likely to. And he’d be leaving right after the Valentine’s Day ball. He’d most likely come back for the wedding, but for his friend’s sake, not hers. Then Carrie would ride off with her fair Lochinvar—and Dree would have to make some kind of life for herself.

Her future looked as bleak as this midwinter day. She supposed she could take Uncle Augustus’s advice and
find a husband. The Widower Allison needed a mother for his three young children. Tom Rush needed help in his butcher shop. Buck Sharfe needed strong sons to help work his farm. Without a dowry, without a Season in London or even Bath, that was the best she could hope for. But Papa needed the money her employment would bring, and Dree had needs of her own. She saw the stars in Carrie’s eyes and wished for a love match, too. Besides, after knowing the Earl of Blanford, a lesser man just wouldn’t do. And they were all lesser men, she feared, every male in the kingdom.

Audrina pulled her red cape closer, trying to warm the chill in her heart. How foolish, she chided herself, wishing for what she didn’t have. What she did have, the saints be praised, was ten pounds, and the chance to attend her very first fancy ball. She turned her steps toward the little dry goods shop in the village. For once in her life Audrina Rowe was going to look like a lady.

There were bound to be strangers at Lady Halbersham’s do, perhaps a gentleman so strange he wouldn’t notice he was partnering an impoverished vicar’s daughter with flyaway red hair and managing ways. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind that Papa’s learning was her only dowry, and that her highborn relatives didn’t acknowledge her. And perhaps, just perhaps, he wouldn’t be a stranger after all.

Velvet as soft as kitten fur, the palest pink of sunset’s reflection, that’s what Audrina chose, and green ribbons for trim, to match her eyes. With the help of Carinne and her maid, she fashioned a simple gown with tiny puffed sleeves and a skirt that fell straight from the high waist just under her bosom. There were no flounces or lace overskirts or intricate embroidery—there was no time. There were brand-new white gloves, though, and silk stockings. And powder covering most of her freckles, and her hair done up in an intricate braid coiled atop her head, with just a few curls allowed to trail down her shoulder. The maid had pulled Dree’s hair so
tight, and set in so many hairpins, the arrangement wouldn’t dare come undone.

Dree felt almost pretty, until she saw her cousin. Carinne looked like a princess in her silver sarcenet, with the diamond tiara her father presented her as an engagement present. She seemed even happier with the bouquet of flowers Lord Podell had delivered, and instantly demanded the maid weave them through the headpiece. Dree cut some ferns from the potted plant in the hallway and wove them into a wreath for her own hair, so it might look like someone sent her a posy, too.

There, Dree thought as she gathered her lamentably red cape, she’d done her best. It wouldn’t be good enough for him, of course, who was so proud and proper, elegant and
à la mode,
but not even the Earl of Blanford could accuse her of looking like the parish brat tonight. That would have to be sufficient. She wasn’t fool enough to hope for the sun and the moon.

Downstairs, however, a package waited for her, a nosegay of white rosebuds. The card read:
The supper dance? MB.
If not the sun and the moon, maybe she could hope for a few stars. There were certainly stars in her eyes as she dashed back up the stairs to pin the flowers to the neckline of her gown. Perfect! Except…except there was still something missing in her efforts to appear a mature, alluring woman: a bosom. Quickly Dree rolled up a pair of stockings and tucked them in the narrow bodice.
Now
she was ready.

*

The Earl of Blanford was torn. She was too young, too innocent. He was too old, too battle-scarred by life. But what future did she have without him? Not many men could afford to marry without a dowry; not many would look past the unfashionable clothes to see the charming young woman. The talk was of some menial position, or marriage to some local lout. Marriage to an old, tired rake had to be better.

And what future did he have without her? A cold one. Oh, he’d find a willing bride, a proper female who didn’t like the wind in her hair and who didn’t laugh out loud, or tease. She’d give him sons, but she wouldn’t give him sunshine.

By Satan’s smallclothes, he wasn’t that blasted old!

And Miss Audrina Rowe wasn’t anyone’s little charity-case cousin, not tonight She was dazzling! Max had to remind himself to shut his mouth. Why, in London she’d be called a Pocket Venus. She’d be a Toast, with her lively sparkle and intelligent conversation. He watched as she left Lady Halbersham’s receiving line and entered the pink-draped ballroom through an archway of trailing vines and silk roses designed to look like a heart. For a moment she stood there, the perfect living valentine. She was searching the room—Max could only hope she looked for him—before flocks of men swooped down on her, and not just the neighborhood youngsters. Of course, every libertine in the place would notice her, now that her light wasn’t hidden under a bushel of rags from the dustbin. And now that the local beauty was spoken for, albeit the engagement was not yet announced, Miss Rowe was even more in demand.

The earl considered keeping his distance, letting the young men discover her charms, letting one of them fall top over trees in love with his fairy sprite. Then Max wouldn’t have to worry about her future or if he should have a place in it.

Such noble restraint lasted halfway into the party. Viola had arranged a lottery for the first dance, with various-colored hearts, cupids, and arrows cut in halves with the parts put into a top hat or a straw bonnet. The ladies and gentlemen each chose one, then had to find their partners by matching halves. Max could have rigged it. He thought about it, about having another dance with her, but he decided not, for then Vi would insist he take the floor with every wallflower in the room. So he stayed on the sidelines, watching Audrina
twirl and laugh and charm the pants off every partner she had. In their dreams, at least.

Max was tempted to call out one young buck who never raised his eyes off that bouquet of flowers nestled between her breasts. My flowers, Max growled to himself. One dastard kept plying her with champagne. Most likely the chit had never had any before; she should have had her first taste with him. Her next partner held her hand too long, drooling over her glove. That was it! The earl had had enough.

“My dance, I believe, Miss Rowe.”

Dree stared up at the earl, taking in his elegant black and white formal attire, the ruby that glowed in his neckcloth, the commanding look on his chiseled countenance. She could have stared all night, if one of her beaus hadn’t coughed. She fumbled for the dance card at her wrist. “Oh, but I thought we were to have the supper dance.”

“That, too.”

Dree was confused, but maybe that was the champagne. “But you don’t dance,” she insisted.

He held his gloved hand out. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Everyone dances.”

“Oh.” She took his hand, took two steps forward, then stopped. “They’re playing a waltz.”

“Vi thought it was too daring for a country ball, but I bribed the orchestra.”

A waltz! Dree might have thought she’d died and gone to heaven, except… “I don’t know how, my lord.”

He just smiled. “I do. I’ll show you. Just relax.”

In his arms? Mere inches from the masculine scent of him, spices and lemons and… Dree shut her eyes, but the whole room started spinning. She giggled.

“You’re foxed, minx. No more champagne for you. Now, listen to the count and let me guide your steps.”

She did, and soon found herself floating on the strains of the music, in his embrace. Truly this was the
most glorious night of her life, she thought. It was going to be over all too soon, of course, but at least she would have this memory.

At the end of the music, she curtsied, he bowed, and they separated without saying a word.

Letting Audrina go off with her next partner was the hardest thing Max had ever done. Avoiding Viola and her platter-faced misses for the next half hour was almost as difficult.

Then came the supper dance. And it was a rollicking country air, because Vi had threatened to dismiss the orchestra if they played another waltz. Max had always intended to ask Audrina to sit out with him, to take a stroll away from the stifling ballroom toward the hallway and the empty room whose key he held. Unfortunately he’d shown he could dance, without a hint of a limp.

“But it’s Valentine’s Day,” she reminded him. “Everyone dances. Please?”

Oh Lud. He knew she loved to dance. He did, too, for that matter. And he desperately wanted to hold her again, even if merely to twirl her lithe young body in the figures of the dance. He reached up and patted his pate. No slippage. If he was ready to put his fate to the test, he may as well go all the way. Hell, if he was too old to dance with her, he was surely too old to wed with her!

Everyone in their set was laughing and hopping about, dancing with joyous abandon, even the Earl of Blandford. In the face of Audrina’s pleasure, he was able to forget his own worries. Then disaster struck.

It was a calamity so unexpected, so catastrophic, that for a moment all of Max’s battle-hardened responses fled. He stood stock-still, staring, as a stocking popped out of his partner’s bodice, sailed through the air, and unrolled itself at his feet. He shouldn’t laugh. Oh Lud, he couldn’t laugh, not once Max saw the stricken look on Audrina’s face. He’d seen less pitiable expressions
on trapped hares. Gathering his wits, he scooped the silk garment into his fist, having pretended to stumble in the dance steps. He whisked the stocking into his pocket and gave Audrina a wink.

She was still standing rigidly, though, color by turns flooding her cheeks and draining away to leave a few freckles in stark relief. Max had seen enough panicked raw recruits to know she wasn’t going to budge, not in her mortification. The other couples in their set were already starting to lose their places in the figures, bumping into each other. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed that Miss Rowe wasn’t moving, that she was, in fact, listing to starboard as it were. The poor puss couldn’t replace the stocking here, nor could she remove the other one with all eyes turning in her direction.

With cries of “For the honor of the regiment” echoing in his mind, Max did the only thing possible. He snatched off his hairpiece, tossed it toward a row of dozing dowagers, and yelled, “Rat! Rat!”

Chapter Nine

Viola Halbersham was never going to forgive him. She might even urge Gordie to call him out for ruining her party—if Gordie stopped laughing long enough to issue a challenge. No matter, Max thought, it was worth it. In the ensuing pandemonium, he’d been able to tug Audrina out of the ballroom with no one giving her a second glance. Everyone was too busy rushing for the exits or tending to swooning ladies.

Max bustled Dree into a small room and locked the door behind him, blocking out the screams and shouts in the hallway. Dree turned her back to him, her shoulders shaking.

“Ah, sweetheart, it’s not worth crying about. No one saw.”

But she wasn’t crying, he saw as she turned to him, the second stocking in her hand. She was laughing and pointing at his bald head!

“I should have left you out there, brat!” But he looked down at the stocking, and had to laugh, too. “The look on your face…”

“And yours!” She gasped and wiped tears out of her eyes. “You did
that,
for me?”

Max stopped laughing. “I’d do anything for you, Miss Audrina Rowe.”

Then she was in his arms. No, Max told himself, it was only gratitude. Besides, she was too small. He’d get a crick in his neck. But Miss Rowe must have stood on tiptoe, and raised her face along with her arms, pulling his mouth down to hers, for now she felt just right. He was tasting the champagne on her soft, willing lips, and feeling her sweet body pressed against his. And that felt just right, too.