Dare to Love (10 page)

“Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Landis?” Miss Yorklyn asked with a slight tug on his arm.

Realizing he’d been ignoring his companion, Dare nodded his head and flashed her a roguish smile. Content that she once again had his attention, she returned to her diatribe.

Dare divested himself of her as soon as the music finished and moved on to speak with his friends. Finding William and Wilshire by the buffet, he loaded up a plate and spent a pleasant few minutes making plans for an upcoming hunt.

Once he finished his meal, Dare took a pinch of snuff and scanned the floor for a dance partner. A quadrille had begun, so he approached Joseph’s wife, Briar. She was a nice enough woman, and a capable partner, able to master the complicated pattern.

He led her to the floor where they joined the first set. When it came time to switch partners, Lady Wilshire wound up on his arm.

“You look very handsome today, sir,” she purred, waiting for a compliment in return. The half-smile she gave him was no doubt designed to draw his interest, as was her crimson dress that clung to her curves. Oddly, it had the opposite effect. He felt nothing but disgust.

Remembering how she made Nivea uncomfortable, and always happy to stir up trouble, he decided to set her straight. Without the courtesy of a glance, he inclined his head and responded, “Good day, Lady Wilshire. Are you enjoying the festivities? There is no better way to spend an afternoon than celebrating the cherished bonds of matrimony. Don’t you agree?”

Eyes narrowed, she snapped, “Oh yes, nothing like watching two people dedicate themselves to each other for eternity. Their future is sure to be filled with nothing but joy and happiness.”

“I sense that you do not find it so. Nor do I. It is much preferred to spend just enough time with someone ’til you are weary of their company and then part ways.” He plucked her hand off his arm and unceremoniously passed her off to the next gentleman.

Her eyes widened with surprise, and then narrowed in anger.

How delightful.
Truly, timing was everything
.

Suddenly, Nivea flew into his arms. Nicholas, as inept on the dance floor as he was on a horse, had spun her off before stumbling over to his new partner, almost knocking the woman over. Judging by her expression, Nivea hadn’t minded his bumbling. Her cheeks had a rosy glow and her laughing mouth gave evidence of pure joy.

What was it about Nivea that enabled her to find such delight in the most tedious of circumstances? How long had it been since he’d experienced such a lighthearted emotion? Had he ever?

Inclined to explore the matter further, he glanced down at Nivea and was disappointed to see her smile disappear. In fact, she was glowering at him.

That was unusual.

Even more odd, she refused to acknowledge him as they twirled in circles, first left then right then promenading across the floor. Only her fingertips brushed his arm as he guided her through the steps.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

With her eyes fixed on the couple in front of them, she responded, “Of course. Why do you ask?”

He could hardly miss the belligerent tone. Puzzled, he pulled her closer, whispering in a seductive tone, “You seemed to be having a much more enjoyable time with Nicholas than with me.”

She shrugged, unconsciously drawing his attention down to her bosom.

God’s blood, it was an attractive bosom.

Forcing himself to ignore
that
detail, he glanced over to the man in question, just in time to witness him stomping on the lady’s gown, almost dragging her to the floor. With a snort, he asked, “What exactly would make partnering with Nicholas so appealing?”

“I find him pleasant and kind and he treats me with respect. It is more than I can say about some people.” At that, she jerked her arm out of his grip and sailed on to the next partner.

Unsettled by the exchange, Dare finished the dance and headed over to the closest footman for a drink. Pulling two glasses of champagne from the tray, he downed one in a gulp. The bubbles produced an unpleasant sensation, but he hoped the jolt of alcohol would clear his head.

It had been such a strange day. Here he was, with his closest friends, surrounded by attractive women, and yet he was irritated beyond measure.

Sipping the second glass of champagne, he observed all the mini dramas playing out amongst lovers and friends—squabbles, flirting, and rebuffed advances. Women pranced by him with an expectant air, waving their fans or tossing their hair, hoping to catch his eye. In the past it had been enough. He’d been content. But something was different today.

Nivea.
She was ignoring him.

Not that it should matter. He didn’t need her attention. After all, she was…well, she was just Nivea.

They’d had an amenable relationship until now—in fact, recently it had become more than cordial. But today, she wouldn’t look at him. What the devil was going on?

As he finished off the glass and placed it on a table nearby, he sought her out, hoping to solve this unusual enigma. He spotted her near the terrace doors, where a rather plump fellow tapped her on the arm. “Nivvy!” he heard the man exclaim and was annoyed to see her respond with a broad smile.

“Winnie!” she cried, making the fellow laugh.

They talked briefly before the cheeky fop gave her hand a kiss, and they began strolling around the room, arm in arm.

Anger tightened his chest. She could fall all over this countrified buffoon, but couldn’t spare him the time of day. And after he had escorted her up from London for the bloody wedding.

Staring at her, he finally drew her attention. In response, the infuriating chit pursed her lips and turned away. Why did she deign herself important enough to treat
him
with disdain? True, she was looking rather attractive today in her stylish pink gown, but she was still Nivea.

Deciding to set things right, he grabbed two glasses of lemonade and pressed through the crowd. He found her talking to another gentleman, this time a young pup with starched points and an outrageously styled cravat.

Why wasn’t William keeping a closer eye on his sister?
She appeared to be throwing herself at men today.

Marching up, he wedged himself between them and thrust the glass as her. “Here,” he announced, “you looked peaked.”

Her eyes flew to his face, wide with surprise and something else—distaste. “Thank you.”

Without taking a drink, she leaned past him and said, “Sir Morrell, this is Lord Landis, a friend of my brother. Sir Morrell is Nicholas’s cousin.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” answered Sir Morrell with a short bow.

Dare merely glared at him. As he’d hoped, the man grew flustered. After stammering out a few platitudes to which Dare offered no response, the man beat a hasty retreat.

“That was rude,” Nivea snapped.

“Hmmm. I just thought you might need rescuing from the young popinjay. I was afraid if he asked you to dance, he might poke out your eye with his collar.”

She must have been thinking the same thing, because she was unable to smother a smile. Well, that was a start. Trying to figure out his next step, he decided to ask her to dance. That usually did the trick with women. She gave his ego another little poke when she hesitated before answering in the affirmative.

God’s blood, what was going on here? He would set things straight once and for all. He shot her an alluring smile and pulled her close. Closer than he’d ever remembered holding her. It was then he noticed her scent. Not the cloying smell of roses that clung to most ladies. This was something sweet, like a lemon cake or vanilla.

He inhaled deeply, causing Nivea to cast a wary glance his way.

He responded with a deep penetrating look that always caused ladies to sigh with delight, and was encouraged by the heightening color of her cheeks.

Still, she was not fully engaged.

Dare was unable to hide his irritation. “Who was that you were with? A suitor?”

“What? You mean Sir Morrell?”

“No!” he snapped with unusual vigor. “That man you were parading around the room with. Nivea followed Dare’s gaze into the crowd.

“Do you mean Edwin Corknell? Surely, you remember him. He lives in nearby Northumbria.”

He gave a quick shake of his head. “I don’t remember.”

“No? He was here frequently. His father, Lord Corknell, was close friends with Popa. In fact, it was assumed Winnie and I would become betrothed.”

Dare frowned and looked closer at the man. “Hmmm. Really?”

“Yes, really! That is until he went to Cambridge and fell in love with a classmate’s sister.” Her gaze drifted over toward the ridiculous pup, and she sighed. “He’s quite happy now.”

“So he married someone else?”

She stiffened in his arms. He was shocked by the angry fire in her eyes.

“Yes, milord, he married someone else. I guess that’s not surprising, though. After all, he’s a lord, not a vicar! Obviously, no one as decent as Edwin would want to marry
me
.” At that, she tore away from him, leaving him alone on the dance floor. Stunned, he stood there for a moment before heading for the nearest tray of spirits.

That clinched it. For whatever reason, women were even more incomprehensible today than usual. He resolved to spend the rest of the evening conversing with the more sensible sex.

The next morning, the celebration continued, with most of the party heading to the races. The Horshams had several horses entered and their guests were eager to cheer them on. Nivea was only too happy to stay behind. She managed to have an enjoyable time at the wedding by putting Dare out of her mind, more or less, but she was now exhausted.

Pleading a headache, she spent the better part of the morning in bed. Wallowing in self-pity. How could she be so stupid? Dare didn’t love her. He would never find her attractive. No one would. She was nothing but a dowdy toad. That’s all she’d ever been.

Reaching under her bed, she pulled out a box, secured by a scrap of ribbon. It contained a hoard of poems documenting all the heartbreak of her life. She unknotted the ribbon and lifted the sheath of papers.

The first few, written in girlish handwriting detailed the grief she’d felt at her mother’s death. As she’d grown older, the poems began to detail her youthful insecurities—her loneliness, her weight. After that, there were numerous pages dedicated to Dare and his handsome form, his entrancing eyes, his dancing prowess, each one more mawkish than the last. Then she came to the most recent poem, written after visiting with Nicholas’s sister last year.

“Godchildren”

Laughing, smiling, climbing,

Screeching, chattering, toddling,

tripping, crying, eating,

Falling asleep in my arms.

“Did you have fun?”

“Aren’t they sweet?

She asks, returning from her walk.

Maybe you’ll have some of your own

one day,” she says.

“Maybe,” I say.

With no more conviction than she.

Forever Miss Horsham

Tears blurred the words on the page. With a loud sniffle, Nivea stuffed the poems back into the box and flopped against her pillows. She was a pathetic ninny. She’d wasted all these years pinning her hopes on a man who saw her as a wretched charity case. Fit for a widower and nothing more.

She deserved better. She deserved a man who loved her and would give her children and a home of her own. It was time to put away the silly dreams of her youth and find a man worthy of her love. From this point forward, she would become someone interesting enough to attract the attention of a noble suitor. Mastering her riding skills would be a good first step.

Resolute, she wiped away her tears and climbed out of bed. She threw on her riding habit, twisted her hair into a loose bun, and headed downstairs. As she approached the door to the rear of the house, she heard sounds coming from the music room. That was odd. All their guests had gone to the races. Who could it be?

Creeping to the doorway, she found Dare sitting at the piano, playing furiously. His eyes were closed, and his lips were pressed together, almost angrily. As his fingers dashed over the keys, the music rolled out of him like a storm. He looked positively magnificent.

She stood there in stunned silence. When the last notes of the sonata drifted away, she entered the room, her boots clicking on the floor.

His eyes flew open, and he jumped up from his seat. “Where the hell did you come from?”

Shaken by his tone, she took a step back. “That was beautiful. I didn’t know you played.”

“I don’t,” he snapped. The look of pure fury was so powerful, she was unable to respond. Before she could gather her wits, he shoved back the bench and stormed out of the room. Shaking, Nivea stood rooted to the spot. Through the windows, she could see him marching to the gardens.

What was he talking about?

She raced after him as he strode down the stone path, past the boxwood hedges, and into the rose garden.

When she caught up to him, he was staring into the fountain. The sun flickered light and dark shadows over his face as clouds blew across an uncertain sky. The flowers were in full bloom, encircling the fountain with their crimson beauty, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Attempting to diffuse the situation, she offered softly, “We are putting on a musicale at the end of the week. Perhaps you’d like to play a song for us?”

He jerked his head up. “I don’t know how.”

But he
did
. She had been right there in the room listening to him.“Don’t be silly. You play better than anyone I have ever heard.”

“No!”

“Yes, you do,” she insisted.

He took a menacing step toward her, his eyes blazing. “I do not play. It is Not. Who. I. Am.”

She wanted to take a step back, but was riveted in place.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“I am a man. I’m the future Marquess of Raynsforth. I do not play the piano like a traveling minstrel, begging for coins.”

Abruptly, he turned, leaving her staring at his broad back. A strong breeze tugged at his glossy black hair, but it remained neatly pulled into a queue. Hers was not so obedient. Puzzling through that statement, she thrust an errant lock behind her ear. “That doesn’t make any sense. Who put such an idiotic idea in your head?”