Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (9 page)

“I see.” Clarissa sighed in relief. It was reassuring to know that her first public outing was the very last place she would encounter the Earl of Ramsbury.

Within an hour of their arrival at Lady Chetham’s, Hadrian’s worst fears were realized. The affair was a shocking squeeze, despite the fact it was a musical evening. It began with several of the least handsome daughters of the
ton
screeching a series of what might have been lovely songs had they been sung by good voices, while equally untalented siblings accompanied them on the harp, violin, or piano. As Lady Jane’s chaperon and escort, he was obliged to remain the entire evening.

Even so, he would have bolted for the cardroom after the first set had Jane not gazed at him periodically with shining eyes. There in her eyes met the delight of Christmas Day, the joyous rapture of a new gown, and the triumph of a perfectly executed curtsy. Such pleasure could not be met with the scowl of boredom he would, on any other occasion, have let show.

It was Jane’s first evening Out. Dressed in a simple white frock with her dark hair piled up to display her slim neck, she was, to his critical opinion, the equal of any other lady in the room. She could sing, too, if Lady Chetham so required. In his judgment, she quite outshone her competitors for Incomparable of the evening, a fact that seemed to be shared by the gentlemen present. Many of them had come forward for presentation, which made him all the more determined to remain by her side. Her first outing bore all the earmarks of the beginning of a successful Season, and one that would require a vigilant chaperon.

As for himself, he was almost resigned to squiring her about. Of course, it meant fending off numerable mamas and guardians who would undoubtedly dangle their “suitable young ladies” before him. He had worn a signet ring bearing his coat of arms to quell the rumors circulating about the likelihood of his losing his earldom. Unfortunately, the certainty of his rank would also increase his desirability as a suitor. The very idea horrified him. He had other things in mind, like replacing Helene, who had revealed herself to be a remarkable scold.

The evening began to show improvement, he decided, when an unexpectedly talented young lady put her fingers to the keys and a credible Mozart minuet emerged. So engrossed did he become with the music that he entirely missed noting the late arrivals who were ushered into velvet chairs at the back of the room.

The first rude shock of the evening came the moment Clarissa entered Lady Chetham’s salon. The surreptitious whispers and outright stares that accompanied her entrance nearly caused her to turn and flee. The amethyst silk shielding the lower half of her face made her a curiosity that not even the most sophisticated could refrain from commenting upon.

The second came when she was shown into the music room and spied the Earl of Ramsbury sitting in the very first row, his dark head cocked in attentiveness toward the lady at the piano.

Silently berating her rotten luck, Clarissa followed her aunt to the last row and perched uneasily on a chair as the piano solo came to an end. Even as she brought her hands together to make polite applause, she could not keep her gaze from straying to the earl.

Even in profile there was no denying his attractiveness. The stark whiteness of his cravat made a striking contrast with his bronzed features. As he turned to the extraordinarily lovely young lady by his side, Clarissa noticed with envy the lady’s delicate features and the blush of youth on her cheek. She bent her head toward his so that their brows nearly touched in the intimacy of their exchange, and Clarissa drew a quick breath of surprise.

The tiny gasp did not escape Heloise’s ear. “Whatever is it, dear?”

“Nothing,” Clarissa answered, annoyed by her own reaction. “I remark only the Earl of Ramsbury’s presence. His fiancée, I presume, accompanies him. Poor dear, she can’t be more than sixteen.”

Heloise lifted her lorgnette and gazed toward the front of the room only to say, “That’s not his fiancée. That’s a Blackburne. I cannot recall her name, but then Lady Ramsbury produced a brood. Three daughters, as well as two sons. I don’t doubt that’s the eldest girl. Rather say, poor Ramsbury. He’ll be an old man ere the last of his sisters sets sail on the sea of matrimony.”

Clarissa felt relief stealing through her. It was short-lived.

“We must make our presence known to them,” Heloise said. “Having met you before, the earl can make the necessary remarks to ease your way.”

“The earl is occupied,” Clarissa replied, for the last thing she wanted was to stand face-to-face with him a second time. “Perhaps another time.”

“Oh, but he will be delighted to see you, just wait,” her aunt answered.

But to Clarissa’s joy, Heloise had not counted on the allure of the cardroom, to which the earl repaired with a rapidity that could not be gainsaid once the recital ended. Disappointed but determined to forward Clarissa’s acceptance among the company, Heloise led the way toward their hostess. “Lady Chetham!” she called gaily when she spied her.

“Lady Arbuthnott. I was pleased to learn that you had returned to the city,” Lady Chetham remarked, but her eyes, round with amazement, were fully on Clarissa. “I don’t believe this young person is known to me.”

“Indeed, she could not be, having only just arrived in the city,” Heloise replied. “May I introduce my ward, Princess Soltana El Djemal.”

At the designation “Princess,” Clarissa’s eyes widened perceptibly above her veil, but her aunt hurried on. “Princess Soltana is the adopted daughter of an Arab sheikh whom Quentin befriended on one of his many travels. Quentin persuaded the sheikh to send her to us so that she might be introduced into society.”

“Indeed?” Lady Chetham said coolly, her gaze at once appraising and calculating. “It is not the custom to present heathens in good society, I believe.”

For an instant Clarissa held her breath. But Heloise greeted this setdown with a smile. “Fie, Emily! You have guessed our secret! But you were acquainted with her father, of course. How clever of you to notice the similarity of feature.”

With this obscure reference to she knew not what personage, Lady Chetham could do no less than say, “Yes, I do believe I see a similarity, a distinct similarity to—to—”

“Oh, but you mustn’t reveal it!” Heloise interrupted and took her hostess quickly by the arm to steer her away from the dozens of people straining to overhear their conversation. “The family disowned the son, you recall, when he married into French nobility in the midst of that horrible slaughter they called a revolution. And to think they escaped the guillotine only to die in the desert, leaving a daughter behind. Oh, but this must remain our secret,” she confided in a whisper. “I know I can count on you.”

“Of course,” Lady Chetham answered, too proud to ask exactly what secret she had been asked to guard. She had not the slightest idea which noble son had married against his family’s wishes a score of years earlier and then died abroad. She would begin inquiries at once. It was enough for the present that others
thought
she knew. “I’m so pleased you chose my soiree as her first public outing.”

Heloise smiled and patted her friend’s arm. “My dear, after all we have been to each other, could I do less?”

Lady Chetham beamed. “By all means allow me to accompany Princess Soltana. There are many who will want to make her acquaintance.”

Clarissa had thought she was aware of how difficult the charade would be; after all, it was now her idea. But the appellation of “Princess” was far more stimulating to the company than even her aunt could have hoped. As they made their rounds of the room, one and all pressed eagerly forward to pay their addresses to the mysterious young lady in the veil.

All the while, Clarissa glanced about, alert for any sign at the corner of her eye that Lord Ramsbury might be about to enter the room. She spoke seldom, and then only in murmured replies, and was pleased to overhear a snatch of conversation that suggested that as a foreigner she had very little English at her command. Unfortunately this did not hinder her aunt, who was as vocal as her niece was reticent.

At the end of the hour, when the supper gong was rung, Clarissa begged off from the press of gentlemen, in particular a lieutenant of the Light Bobs who was very insistent that she take his offered arm to go in. She could not eat without removing her veil, and that was something she dared not do.

Once free, she turned quickly away from the supper room and into a vacant hallway. Since most town houses had similar floor arrangements, she moved confidently down the hall toward what she expected would be the library. Lifting the latch, she entered.

A blazing fire behind the grate took away any hint of the late-spring chill that was visiting London. The warm shades of leather-bound books and embossed gold lettering lent the room a congenial glow. Even the shadows seemed warmly welcoming. The only sounds were the steady hiss and occasional pop of the embers.

She moved quickly across the wool carpet, her satin slippers whispering in accompaniment to her trailing skirt, only to pause with a start as the bearskin rug at her feet suddenly lifted its head.

“A dog!” she declared with an embarrassed laugh as two soulful Spaniel eyes gazed up at her. She squatted on her heels, military fashion, and offered the back of her hand, which was immediately licked by a long, warm, wet tongue.

As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw that he was a Brittany Spaniel of splendid proportions. “What a very pleasant creature you are,” she crooned and scratched behind his ears.

In response to her coaxing flattery, the dog stretched out beneath her hand and then rolled over to offer his belly for her stroking.

“My father maintained that a dog is naught but forty pounds of insincerity wrapped in a great hairy coat,” she continued, smoothing the long curling hair with her hand. “At least you are spared the ordeal of donning a swallowtail coat and prancing about on your haunches to impress the bitch of your choice.”

Her laughter laced the silence with sound. “How they all fawn over the ‘Princess’ in their midst. I overheard one gentleman say that on principle he objected to heathens, but he would reconsider if my dowry were sufficient. Truly, I do not know why the
ton
does not simply hold an auction of brides at Tattersall’s. To the most inflated egos would go the best-dowered ladies. No doubt Lord Ramsbury would lead the pack. I’m told he is a veritable monument of consequence.” Engrossed in her subject, she failed to notice when the dog suddenly lifted his head at the slight sound of a sharply indrawn breath.

Hadrian had not been deliberately lurking in the shadows, nor had he meant to become an eavesdropper. He had come to the library to enjoy his tobacco in peace when the door opened and the young lady entered. When he spied her veil, he had momentarily forgotten good manners and proper behavior. So this was the Mysterious Veil.

Concealed by long shadows, he had watched her cross the room. His gaze fixed on her superbly molded back and shoulders, and then the thrust of her beautifully rounded bosom when she turned in profile. As her tantalizing silhouette undulated through his line of vision, he imagined slim satin thighs brushing lightly against each other as she walked, and his mouth went dry. When she swooped down in a friendly manner upon the accommodating dog, he could only envy the Spaniel stretched out for her stroking hand. Her voice was like the touch of silk, smooth and provocative, caressing his mind. Her laughter made his stomach muscles contract hard. No wonder Bascombe had been near-drooling over the rumors about her. Had he been struck by a bolt from the blue, he could not have been more surprised, nor intrigued.

He heard the sound of approaching footsteps long before she did, but until the noise caught the lady’s ear and she bolted to her feet, he had not given it much thought.

For a moment she stood absolutely still, as startled as a deer upon hearing the sudden baying of a hunter’s hounds close by. She seemed infinitely frail, not at all able to defend herself against the merest intrusion. As a hand fell upon the latch, he heard a voice beyond the door say, “In here, Harry. There’ll be brandy on the sideboard.”

One moment she was standing before the fire, the next she had slipped completely into the deep shadows to one side of the mantel.

The door opened a fraction of a second before he stepped forward to bark in military fashion, “This is a private room, sir! Take you off!”

The mumbled “Beg pardon” scarcely preceded the sharp
crack
of the door closing.

For the space of several seconds, there was only the sound of the snapping fire, the thump of the dog’s tail, and the sound of his own soft breathing. Finally he realized there was no help for the embarrassed silence that was likely to continue until the next interruption. “Forgive me, lady, for frightening you. Will you not make yourself known?”

There was no answer, and then he saw her, a slender shadow skirting the far wall toward the exit at the rear of the room. He knew he should let her go. But he could not, not like this.

He crossed the room in rapid strides. He heard her gasp of outrage and then the brisk whisper of satin slippers as she tried to outrace him. Yet he was too quick and, intercepting her, reached out to detain her.

He did no more than clasp her elbow between thumb and forefinger, but the result was jolting. An electrical charge jumped between them. For a split second the room crackled with the sound of the discharge. The next she recoiled with a soft expulsion of breath from the pain of the contact.

Amazed and chagrined, he said, “Dear lady, forgive me! I had not expected our meeting to set off sparks!” Because he wanted more than anything to touch her, he reached out to clasp her by the elbow a second time. “Are you hurt?”

To Clarissa the shock of his touch was less surprising than the sound of his voice, for she knew, without seeing him, who this was. The Earl of Ramsbury! Of all the rotten luck! What had he overheard? What had she said? She couldn’t remember a thing.

“I—I must go,” she said distractedly, for his fingers were so restless upon her skin. It was happening again, the confusion and the strange desire to turn to him for the answer to the questions his nearness raised. She gave a sharp jerk to pull free of his disturbing touch.