Candice Hern (20 page)

"No, I cannot say that I have noticed," Emily said. What a silly girl, to think that men would be attracted to a woman her aunt's age.

"Didn't you notice, Georgie? Today, I mean, when all those gentlemen were here."

"I don't know, Charlotte. I was too nervous around so many people to notice much. The Duchess of Doncaster, for heaven's sake. She's practically royal."

"Well,
I
noticed," Charlotte said. "And if you had been paying attention, Cousin, you might have figured out why Lord Thayne is not interested in
you
."

Emily gave a contemptuous sniff. Not interested in her? What did it matter? She did not care two figs for Lord Thayne. He was practically rude to her today. Not that he'd ever been the least bit warm. He'd been polite, but little more. She had no time for a man who did not appreciate her.

"Since I am not interested in Lord Thayne," she said, "whatever you have figured out is of no consequence to me."

"That's a good thing, then," Charlotte said, "since he is completely besotted with Mama."

What?
Emily's mouth dropped open and she glared at her cousin.

"Don't be a goose, Charlotte," Georgie said. "That's just silly."

"It is
not
silly. It's true."

"It is perfectly silly," Emily said, chuckling softly. "Your mother may be attractive, but she's
old
. A man like Lord Thayne would never in ten million years be besotted with Aunt Beatrice. It's ... ridiculous." She started to laugh, and Georgie joined her. Soon, they had both fallen back on the bed, laughing so hard that tears poured down their cheeks.

Charlotte sat up, leaned against the bedpost, and crossed her arms over her thin chest. She screwed her face into such a frown that it made them laugh even harder.

Aunt Beatrice and Lord Thayne? Truly, it was the funniest thing Emily had ever heard.

He saw her everywhere. Their level of Society was exclusive enough that one tended to see the same people at almost every event. Even if Thayne had wanted to avoid Beatrice, which he did not, it would have been difficult to do so. He was ostensibly looking for a bride, so he attended events where he could meet and spend time with eligible young women. And she was chaperoning a young woman looking for a husband. They were bound to meet each other now and then. As it happened, they met frequently.

And not just at
ton
events. With the help of the Duchess of Hertford, Thayne had orchestrated two more nights in Beatrice's arms. It was a complicated business, though. Besides devising excuses for Beatrice to absent herself from whatever event her niece was scheduled to attend, they had to contrive increasingly complex ways to avoid being seen together. They arrived at the duchess's house separately, and departed at different times.

Despite the hoops they jumped through in order to be together, the time spent making love with her was worth the effort. Beatrice was a superb bed partner, uninhibited and adventurous. He had taught her many of the positions and movements he'd learned from some of the best
ganika
in India, and she had been more than willing to experiment.

He was grateful for his aristocratic upbringing, that steely reserve bred into him from boyhood that allowed him to see her at
ton
events and, with little effort, pretend there was nothing between them. He did his best to ignore her entirely, since to do otherwise also brought him into Emily's orbit, and he wanted to avoid any hint of a possible future there.

Fortunately, Emily seemed to have given up the chase. She was as cool toward Thayne as he was toward her. In fact, she made something of a show of her disdain for him, making it obvious to everyone that she had not the least interest in him. Beatrice had been right about the girl, apparently. She did not wish for anyone to imagine she harbored a partiality that was not returned. It would be too lowering to her vanity.

Even so, Beatrice was even more determined that their affair remain a secret. As a trustee of an important charity, she had a reputation to maintain, and she guarded it fiercely. She kept an impressively cool demeanor around him, even when he knew she must be thinking of the same thing that never left his mind: when would they make love again?

He often wondered, though, if they were both fooling themselves, and their desire for each other was plain to everyone who saw them.

It was sometimes amusing to see Emily and Beatrice at various events, each of them flaunting their indifference for him, but for very different reasons. What would the niece think if she knew the truth about Thayne and her aunt? Which one of them would she want to murder first?

And there was the dratted bridal quest hanging over him like a dark cloud. His mother had got a bee in her bonnet that he should be ready to announce his betrothal at the Widows Fund masquerade ball to be held at Doncaster House at the end of June. She thought it a very cunning notion to unveil such an announcement just at the moment when the masks were removed at midnight.

Thayne was willing to cooperate, if only he could manage to narrow the field and fix his interest on one particular young woman. But his heart was not in the quest. He almost did not care whom he married, so long as she was suitable, reasonably biddable, and not painful to look at. But so far he had been unable, or unwilling, to single out a candidate or two, though his mother was relentless in her questioning and prodding. He could not disabuse her of the idea of a masquerade announcement, and so she persisted in pressing him to make a decision. She had even gone so far as to show up at several balls, something she rarely did since his sisters had all been fired off.

"I do not want to see you disappearing into the cardroom with the duke," she had told him the first time she had unexpectedly appeared at a ball. Thayne's father, who suffered such events only because he could count on a spot of cards to make the evening pass, had already gone in search of the games. "You can gamble at your club," his mother had said, "but a ball is for meeting young women and getting to know them better. Dancing allows you to see how gracefully a girl moves, how comfortable she is with other people, even how good her conversation is." She poked him, actually poked him in the chest with a finger, and said, "That is why I keep thrusting all these ball invitations at you, my boy. There is no better place to meet your future bride, and since you will not have Miss Thirkill, you must find someone else. And soon. Now, stop this idiotic standing about and dance with someone."

On that occasion, Thayne had put a spoke in her wheel by taking her hand from his chest and leading
her
onto the dance floor. She retaliated afterward by dragging one poor girl after another to him and forcing him to reserve a dance with each of them.

Since then, he had preempted any further motherly interference by choosing his own partners. Though he had settled on no one yet, he danced with several young women at each ball, but never more than once. Lady Emmeline Standish continued to impress him, as did Yarmouth's eldest daughter, Lady Sarah Addison, and Viscount Wedmore's daughter, Miss Elizabeth Fancourt.

The problem was that he simply could not muster up real enthusiasm for any one of them. It had no doubt been a bad idea to embark on a passionate love affair at such a time. His thoughts were consumed by a certain red-haired countess. Compared with her, every other young woman seemed incomplete — less vivid, less self-assured, less genuine. But that was not a fair comparison. Beatrice was a mature woman with more experience of life. She'd been married and had children. He should not compare her with young, innocent girls who hadn't yet lived.

Besides, the whole point of picking a young bride was that she
was
unformed, so that she could be molded into the perfect marchioness, the perfect wife and mother. It was something he ought to anticipate with pleasure, to have the chance to help bring a young woman into her full and complete self. He really ought to make more of an effort to find the right girl, but he found little joy in the prospect and was simply impatient to get on with it.

Tonight, having just arrived at yet another ball in a seemingly endless round of them, he spotted Miss Fancourt standing with her mother at the other end of the room, and decided he would pay his respects and request a dance. But, as so often happened, his gaze found Beatrice in the crowd and all thoughts of Miss Fancourt were swept from his mind at the sight of her.

He maintained his customary detachment, a haughty aloofness, but still could not keep his eyes off her. The thing was, he never tired of looking at her — the way she moved, the elegant line of her neck and throat, the deep red of her glorious hair, which he could not wait to loosen once again. And oddly enough, since he seldom noticed such things, he liked the way she dressed. She had a certain style about her, a flair that was uniquely hers. She had often complained about the burden of red hair, but Thayne suspected that it was her attempts to flatter her coloring that had allowed her to develop a style of her own over the years. Dark colors suited her, as did bright jewel-like tones of green and blue. She looked especially striking tonight in a deep russet-colored gown that almost exactly matched the color of her hair. That was one thing he liked about her. She did not fight her red hair, which she must surely know was one of her best features, but embraced it and even emphasized it with the right colors. The russet silk was a bold declaration. She looked magnificent.

But it was not simply a matter of color. She knew how to set off her body's best assets. The current high-waisted styles showcased her slender form — it was not, as she so often claimed, thickened with age to any degree that he noticed — while revealing to advantage those curves he knew so well. Ivory breasts mounded above the russet neckline. Soft and round and perfectly fitted to his hand. Not overly voluptuous, but quite full and pushed tantalizingly upward by her stays. She called them matronly. Thayne called them wonderful.

Damn. He could not look at her without becoming aroused.

He ought to wrench his gaze away and make straight for Miss Fancourt or some other young woman. But his feet did not listen to reason and led him instead toward Beatrice. She narrowed her eyes as he approached, as though to warn him off, and he paused, thinking she was probably right.

"Come along, old chap." Burnett had sidled up beside him without Thayne even noticing. "It will not be so obvious if you approach her with me at your side. You can always claim that I dragged you along against your will."

It was an excellent plan, and Beatrice could not fault Thayne for supporting a friend in the throes of infatuation. "Ah, so you are after Miss Thirkill again this evening?" he said. "You are quite the persistent puppy, are you not?"

"Hmm. What is that old saw about the pot and the kettle?"

"Touché. But you know, Burnett, Miss Thirkill has completely thrown me over, so there is really no need for you to keep hanging about her."

"Oh, do shut up, Thayne. It has nothing to do with your damnable plan for me to distract her. I am afraid she has turned the tables and quite distracted me instead."

"You are serious about her, then?"

Burnett shrugged. "I do not know about serious. I do not stand a chance with her in any case, so it is rather blockheaded to try. But besides her extraordinary beauty, I have once or twice caught a glimpse of cleverness, a hint that there is a brain lurking beneath all those blond curls. But I believe she goes to lengths to hide it, and relies too much on her beauty, which will not last forever."

Thayne stared at his friend. "Egad, man. You think to change her?"

"No, that would be foolish. She will learn the truth as she grows older, that beauty is less important than character. I would just like to be there when she realizes it. Ready to catch her if she falls. But I sincerely doubt I will have the opportunity. She flirts outrageously with every man but me. I am not worthy of her flirtation, as a mere mister without a lofty title."

"But like a dog with a bone, you will not give up."

Burnett grinned. "Not yet. It is much too early in the game to quit the field. I may not have a chance of winning, but I shall enjoy the play."

"Then lead on, MacDuff."

"And damn the man who gives up on his woman first and says 'enough.'"

They elbowed their way toward Beatrice and Emily, who had her usual court of admirers dancing attendance. Thayne nodded at Beatrice and tried not to smile.

"Lady Somerfield," he said, and bowed, "and Miss Thirkill."

"My lord," Beatrice said. Her tone was curt and she would not meet his eyes.

Emily gave a theatrical sigh and said, "Lord Thayne. And Mr. Burnett, of course."

"Of course," Burnett said, and flashed his famous smile. "I am here to claim my dance."

"What dance?" Emily glared at him.

"Have you forgotten? You promised last evening that I might have the first reel tonight, and I do believe it is about to begin."

Emily's brow puckered into a frown, but then she immediately schooled her features into a bland smile. She was either very much aware that a frown was not a flattering expression, or she did not wish to encourage wrinkles and lines on her brow.

"I confess I had indeed forgotten," she said. "I am sorry, Lord Ealing, but it seems I have a prior commitment. But I still have the next-to-last set free, if you care to wait."

Once Burnett had led Emily onto the dance floor, the ubiquitous swains disappeared, leaving Thayne standing alone with Beatrice. They both watched the dancers and did not look at each other.

"You are incorrigible, my lord," she said in a soft whisper that he barely heard over the sound of the musicians tuning their instruments. "I ask for discretion, and yet you always seem to make your way to my side at every ball or party."

"I cannot help it," Thayne said, biting back a smile. "You are positively irresistible in that gown. Quite delicious, in fact. I want nothing more than to take a bite of you."