Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (23 page)

He grabbed her forearm none-too-gently and led her to the atrium, away from the crowd. “I've been trying to see you, but your father will not allow it.”

Peering over his shoulder alarmingly, she noticed her father immersed in deep conversation with Burton and shivered. “He's been preoccupied,” she confided.

“Aye. It seems your father has taken permanent steps in providing for your future.”

There was an unspoken sadness in Guffald's eyes. Sympathy overflowing, she offered the only thing she could. “Do not allow my father to unarm your worth.”

“If that were but the case,” he confided. “Tell me, are you presently unattached?”

She laid her hand on Guffald's arm reassuringly, fearful he might get the wrong impression, and then answered with an honesty she did not feel. “Yes. At present, I am unattached and thankfully so. This is the first ball of the season, is it not? What better way to spend one's first ball, than to fill a dance card with the name of every man present?”

She smiled, hoping to alleviate his pain. He adored her, that much was plain. There was a time when that would have been enough. But now — she could not tell him that he was unsuitable. Surely, that is what he feared, and why he felt such a desperate urge to plead his case. Defying convention, she raised her gloved finger to his brow. “It pains me that you have suffered so cruelly in my stead.”

He flinched at the slightest pressure of her touch and peered over her shoulder. “I would do anything for you, my Lady.”

“Indeed, you are brave.” She lowered her voice. “I've been unable to thank you. If it hadn't been for your help with the gig, Morty and I would be dead.”

“No one must ever know of my involvement,” he whispered.

She nodded, fully understanding that secrecy meant salvaging her reputation. “You would make any woman proud, Lieutenant.”

He gazed into her eyes and held her hand in his. “Any woman?”

“I must go,” she said, refusing to answer. She had nothing to offer him. Captain Frink and Thomas Sexton had seen to that. And without her father's approval, there could be nothing between them. She turned to leave.

“Wait,” he said, restraining her.

Staring down at his hand, she hoped no one took note of his impropriety, but a voice behind her inferred someone had seen them.

“What a sight!” The odd voice floated near. “I hate to interrupt so private a discussion but I thought to ensure my name was written upon Lady Constance's card.”

Both she and Guffald turned to see Lord Stanton standing close by, dipping his fingers into a lion-crested silver snuffbox. He dabbed the substance to his nose and inhaled until he sneezed most comically.

“Guffald.”

“Stanton,” Guffald exclaimed. “I thought you were wasting away in Tuscany, Morocco, or some such place.”

Constance curtsied a greeting and raised a quizzical brow. No matter what could be said of Stanton's attire or mannerisms, she felt amazingly safer in his presence than Guffald's.

“Odd's fish! Imagine that. You thinking I was on sabbatical. Why, I've only just returned.”

Guffald looked anxiously back and forth from Constance to his friend. Stanton dropped his gaze and focused it upon Constance's arm, which the lieutenant still held within his hand.

He cocked his brow. “I say, have I interrupted something scandalous?”

“Nonsense,” Guffald replied, releasing her. “I was simply helping the young lady regain her strength from the dance.”

“What a gallant lad you are, sir! But the lady seems quite replenished.” Turning to Constance, Stanton winked. “Shall we?”

“Shall we what, my Lord?” she asked, perplexed.

“Dance,” he suggested.

Scrutinizing Lord Stanton, head to foot, Constance could not help wondering what kind of show he would provide the gentlemen and ladies present. Guffald appeared pained by the request, but the opportunity compelled her to prevent him from forming any further attachment to her.

“I'm quite refreshed, Lieutenant. Thank you for your assistance.” Turning to the fancy gentleman, she added, “I should be delighted to dance, my Lord.”

She held out her gloved hand. Stanton raised it to his lips. His veiled eyes glistened with a hint of mischief and something else. A shiver raced up and down her spine, tingling her all the way to her toes. She held his gaze a moment longer than seemly as he led her to the dance floor.

“You are a diamond of the first water. Sweeter than memory serves,” he cooed.

She went rigid. “You have me at a loss, sir. Have we met before?”

“On the eve of lover's delight,” he waxed poetic.

Constance stared, dumfounded. What was she to make of this popinjay?

“Ah! I'm quite disconsolate. It appears you do not remember,” he said, frowning.

Constance struggled for poise. “I must confess you confuse me greatly, my Lord.”

He stopped near a group of couples preparing to dance. His eyes held hers longer than necessary. She was fascinated by the dark, ebony orbs glistening with strange, unrelenting promise. What was it about him that put her at ease?

“I shall put it to rest then,” he said. “Do you not remember we met in the receiving line, my gel?” He chuckled. His laughter took her by surprise.

Of course she remembered. But he'd hinted at something else, hadn't he? “Why, of course,” she admitted. “For a moment, I thought you meant — ”

“ — that you had conjured my dashing arrival in your dreams?”

“How could I when I wasn't even aware of your existence before tonight?”

“Touché,” he parried. “But I thought every woman dreams of a man who will sweep her off her feet.” He looked down at her feet and led her to the center of the floor. For once she was thankful for the fine silk slippers Morty had forced her to wear, rather than the older, more comfortable ones she'd chosen.

The music began.

As they moved in time to the melody, Constance relaxed. Lord Stanton was a breath of fresh air and she was definitely in want of it. She smiled thoughtfully, for once easily forgetting the true purpose of this soiree.

“I simply adore your smile,” he whispered as he passed her to join the other dancers across from her.

“Sir — ” she objected, as they circled one another.

“I take it you do not like compliments,” he said, passing her again.

“Only when they come from someone I barely know. It is highly improper to address me — ”

“I say what I believe, my gel, and the knowing can be remedied.”

He winked, thrilling her to her slippered feet. His accompanying chuckle filled her to bubbling as they stepped through the dance line and the music escalated. Stanton, in accomplished flourish, pranced forward, crossing to bow to his counter partner. Step by step, he proved a capable dancer — fluid, impulsive, winking with mischievous pleasure whenever they passed each other. She felt alive when near him, desolate when he passed on to another partner. What was it about the man that intrigued her? Before she could decide, the dance ended and Stanton steered her toward refreshment.

“Shall we? I'm rather parched,” he said, grabbing her fan, opening it in front of his face, slowly closing it and then putting the handle to his lips.

“As am I,” she offered gaily, grabbing the accoutrement back, wondering if he could possibly know that he'd just offered to marry her and requested a kiss. She shook off the idea as he handed her a glass of effervescent liquid.

“You are a superb dancer, Lady Constance. But I'm curious as to why I have never seen you at soirees before.”

She nearly choked. Dabbing her mouth with the napkin he quickly provided, she tried with thankful success to keep the crimson liquid from staining her gown. “My father,” she tried not to sound bitter, “does not attend such gatherings.”

“More's the pity. Were I your chaperone, I would parade you all about town. Fuss and spoil you anon. Dress you in fanciful clothes with plenteous frills, furs, and lace.” He fixed his gaze upon her and then he tsked. “Indeed, I would. That's what women adore, isn't it?”

Constance inspected her attire, knowing her status was far beneath the man. Her cream-colored evening gown, a cap-sleeved, round-cut design trimmed in flowing ivy, revealed too much of her enlarging bosom, a fact made even more apparent when she gazed down upon her pointed, laced slippers. In keeping with her usual preference, she wore no jewelry but her mother's silver locket, which dangled tantalizingly into the crevice of her breasts.

Her appraisal complete, she glanced up and found Stanton studying her. His tongue slipped out to fully taste a droplet of punch on the side of his lip. Powdered, primped for devilment, there was something familiar about his ill-timed maneuver. She opened her mouth to speak, but could not form the words. Clearing her throat to mask her discomfort, she asked, “Why is standing by your laurels a pity?”

“Your pardon?” he asked.

“You said, ‘More's the pity.' Why is standing by your laurels a pity? Many people live happily outside the ton and are better for it.”

“You misunderstand,” he hastily confessed. “I only meant ‘more's the pity' because I might have met you 'ere now should you have been presented to the ton in good time. I can assure you, that day would have been never forgotten.” He winked, and then gazed into the crowd. “You have many admirers,” he admitted, turning his focus back upon her.

“So it would seem.”

“Tsk. Tsk,” he whispered, turning her face this way and that with his gloved finger. “I would think having admirers would thrill a young woman of your station, but I sense no exhilaration.”

“You misunderstand, Lord Stanton,” she said. He stood conspiratorially near, his body radiating welcome heat. “I do not like being put on display.” She wanted nothing more than to hide from the spectacle she created, and especially the one Burton would produce before the violinist played his last note.

“Why the sudden interest in the social season then? Has your father specific designs upon you?” he asked innocently.

“I cannot say,” she said, turning away. Her heart twinged and her next breath strangled in her chest.

“My curiosity is beyond piqued,” he said. “Why does your father dangle his jewel before us now?”

She refused to answer. Thankfully his attention was drawn elsewhere so that her silence went unnoticed.

“What is this?” he asked, waving his quizzing glass this way and that before holding it up to his eye. Passing his gaze upon the crowd, Stanton parried, “Is another gentleman a jeweler in search of our gem? No,” he said shaking his head vehemently. “No, this man simply does not have the talent to appraise our coming out miss. If you ask me, he's been unable to assess his own sense of style.”

She followed the direction he indicated until the object of his scrutiny appeared. “Lord Burton? Surely you do not speak of that particular gentleman?”

“Is he not wealthy? Titled?” After some scrutinizing, he asked, “Can he not afford a good tailor?”

“Wealth and finery do not make the gentleman. A gentleman is made of more than outward appearance.”

He gasped. “You, my dear, are indeed a prosperous find. Dare I say I've met a woman who cares not about wealth, prestige, nor the preoccupations of the ton?” He raised his quizzing glass, appraising her head to foot. “Odd's fish! I'm confounded.”

“Not without risk,” she stammered.

He lowered his voice so only she could hear him. “And is the risk great?” His question held more passion than she thought appropriate.

“Indeed.”

The closer Burton came, the higher Stanton lifted his spectacle. She found it odd that the Marques put her at ease. But what surprised her even more was the fact that Stanton's devil-may-care air tantalized her sensibilities. His graceful movements appeared spontaneous yet calculated, feminine yet strong. The man was a conundrum. How was it possible for one's personality to be at odds with oneself? Perhaps his flamboyance garnered her attention above all others present because the life she was intended to live did not appeal. Or perhaps there was more to the man than he led on. Constance did not have enough experience with men of the ton to know the difference, but if she believed her own philosophy of what made a man a gentleman, shouldn't his nonsensical behavior be suspect?

Burton advanced. She made sure not to make eye contact. He was a man adept at hiding his hideous nature. Whatever Stanton's character flaw might be, however, he made it impossible for her to put her finger on what rattled her. That was most vexing of all. Proven more so as he spoke and broke her out of her musings.

“Will you introduce me to your friend?” Stanton suggested.

“That
gentleman
is no friend of mine,” she argued without fear of being subjected to a litany of Burton's achievements. Other women might be playing coy, but that was far from her abilities where this gentleman was concerned.

“The look in his eye proves otherwise, my gel.” His words forced her to turn and focus on Burton.

“Lady Constance,” Burton said forcing his way between them, “at last I have found you. I'd hoped to sign your dance card.”

“Forgive me, but I've not had the pleasure, my good man. I'm Percival Avery.”

The two lords faced each other. Stanton's nasal introduction comical as he bowed low, his arm bent behind him, his quizzing glass held out to the side with a flourishing sweep of the arm. Rising, he then looked to Burton to return the favor.

Burton did not. “
Lord
Montgomery Burton,” the man said without any pomp. “I've had the pleasure of advising your father.”

Constance did not approve of Burton's rude dismissal of the man who'd shown her kindness. She could not be sure of it, but she thought Stanton's eyes narrowed during the exchange. There was a clever alteration in his demeanor. His stance appeared more rigid than before and he seemed to struggle with civility. But quicker than taking a deep breath, the man popped Burton under his chin with his quizzing glass, the movement sharp, unexpected.