How the Marquess Was Won (21 page)

Isaiah would be at his side soon enough, he knew. The Redmonds, until the King decided to bestow a title on them or the Everseas—he was forever dangling one—craved the aristocratic connections. An earl
was
now in the family, but he was hardly the sort of earl Isaiah had always dreamed of.

The Marquess Dryden was another story altogether.

He saw Lisbeth perched on a striped settee. Effortlessly, achingly pretty in gauzy white, a diamond sparkling at her throat, a coronet in her hair, destined to hear a dozen compliments comparing her to an angel or a nymph or some such ethereal creature tonight. He wondered if
she
ever tired of her compliments, or if the assortment she received ranged widely enough to divert her.

But he was conscious of looking at her the way a man admires the main course . . . dutifully. While looking forward to the dessert.

Dessert was sitting right next to Lisbeth.

And she hadn’t yet noticed him. Or so it seemed. She was wearing a green dress that had been the rage two seasons ago.
Willow
, he thought they’d called it. And it was simple—cut square at the neckline and low enough to reveal a tantalizing, pale swell of bosom, puffed at the sleeves, ribboned beneath the bosom in a darker shade of green. Her slim white arms were covered in a surprisingly fine pair of cream kid gloves up to nearly the elbow. She’d tied a narrow matching ribbon around her throat and dressed her hair up high. Tendrils of it traced her jaw, and he followed them down, down, past her lips, to where they tickled, lightly, her collarbone.

What he
should
have thought was: She looks every bit of what she is—a country schoolteacher, invited to attend a party out of charity, a paid companion to Lisbeth. For she did.

But what he thought was:
I haven’t yet touched her hair.

And from that thought a dozen more spiraled in an exhilarating, carnal rush: there was a
universe
of her he hadn’t yet touched or tasted. The whorls of her ears. Her collarbone. That vulnerable bend of her elbow revealed just above the long gloves she was wearing. The shadowy valley between her breasts. Dear God, her
breasts
. The curve of her shoul—

“What
are
you looking at, Dryden?”

Jules gave a start. Waterburn had materialized and planted himself against the hearth and followed the line of his gaze with his usual unerring instinct for annoying Jules.

Waterburn answered his own question. “Are you looking at that grunting governess creature?”

Grunting? “She’s a schoolmistress,” he said shortly.

Waterburn shrugged, as if the entire lot of working class females was interchangeable and he couldn’t be bothered to distinguish between them.

“Why do you ask? How was I looking at her?” He took great pains to sound amused and ironic. But tension pulled the bands of muscle across his stomach taut. Surely Waterburn saw nothing incriminating. Inscrutability was one of his chief qualities. And certainly now that he had a forelock his expression would be even more difficult to decipher.

Waterburn inhaled, apparently giving this actual thought. “Well, it’s a
bit
like the way you looked at Countess Malmsey when she wore the blue dress the night of the Mulvaney ball—”

He paused to allow the requisite moment of reverie.

“Ah, yes. That blue dress,” the marquess allowed, dutifully, as the blue dress was legend now and it almost considered bad form not to say just that, the way one followed a sneeze with “Bless you.” It had been a splendid dress, and he would have wagered a guinea her modiste had sewn her naked into it, to the humble gratitude of every man present.

“—and a bit like the moment before you intend to fire a rifle. Rather . . . oh,
purposeful
, I suppose . . .”

He sounded both pensive and insinuating.

Jules opened his mouth, preparing to scoff.

“But noooo . . . that isn’t quite it, either.”

One of those footmen appeared and Waterburn gave a start and frowned. But then he took his port gratefully. “Silent as cats, those chaps,” he muttered, when he left. “Need to drink just to calm my nerves with them sneaking about. Wonder if Redmond uses them as spies. No . . . you looked . . . you looked . . .”

He was looking at Jules now with those pale eyes. Jules had clenched his teeth in anticipation, actually interested in what the man would say. As though Waterburn, of all people, was a sage come down from the mountaintops bearing prophecies.

But he wanted to know:
How
do I look? What on earth
is
it I’m feeling? Because God only knew he had no idea.

“. . . worried,” Waterburn concluded at last.

Jules gave a disdainful snort, and sipped at his port. “I’m worried I won’t get a stronger drink tonight.”

Then pulled it away from his lips and eyed it resentfully. The port was thick and cloying and sweet. He would have liked something stronger, something that bit back. He wanted a punishing drink. A thin, clear, angry one.

Did
he look worried?

But God help him, Waterburn wasn’t finished. Jules was tempted to plant his foot in the man’s instep and go in search of a more comfortable conversation.

“Well, no,” Waterburn admitted. “That’s not it. Not exactly. But the mere fact that I cannot quite identify your expression . . .”

He let the sentence dangle. Took a sip of his own port, looked at it, and nodded in happy approval.

Jules just sighed, and shook his head, implying world weary, mild amusement. He deliberately inspected the rest of the room, his eyes lighting on one person at a time, causing more than one woman to absently touch a hand to her hair, or turn her best profile toward him unconsciously.

It was a glittering gathering, the sort of which he approved, in which he reveled, in which he felt at home. It was his native environment; it reminded him of his place in the world and all he had done to keep it. And yet he was as interested in everybody here as a shopkeeper was in counting the number of potatoes left in a bin. In a day’s time they had become just that mundane.

Troubling.

Waterburn swirled the port around in his mouth. Swallowed. Gave his lips a smack.

“Do you find her . . .
Miss Vale
. . .” He said her name almost satirically. He appeared to be carefully considering the end of his sentence. “. . .
appealing
, Dryden?”

Jules turned slowly toward Waterburn. Whose tone was reminiscent of the careful one his mother had used to address his ancient great-aunt Calliope, Lady Congdon, when she’d blithely arrived at the dinner table one night wearing nothing but her chemise and one slipper.

“Because if it’s novelty you’re seeking, Dryden . . .” Waterburn lowered his voice. “Well, there are other brothels besides the Velvet Glove. For instance, Madame Elaine near the docks employs a young lady who supposedly sports a tiny beard, and another one who is so double-jointed she can wrap her legs round her own head not to mention
yours
if you’re clever enough to ask—”

“For the love of
God
, Waterburn. She’s a woman. She possesses all of her limbs, her form is not . . . unpleasant . . . her features are all present and accounted for and I don’t find her bosom wanting. And I wasn’t staring. I’m truly sorry you’re so bored. There will be cards later this evening. Perhaps losing your fortune to me will prove diverting.”

He realized too late this was both a confession and an obvious lie, in light of his recitation of her qualities. As tempered as he’d made them sound.

Waterburn stared at Jules, his eyes wide in genuine surprise. Then he narrowed them shrewdly.

Then widened them again and swiveled his great chiseled head to level upon Phoebe a speculative gaze.

“If you just need a place to rest your eyes, I would have thought you’d choose a beautiful woman, Dryden.”

Dryden wondered if this was a calculated statement. For it seemed very wrong to want to call Waterburn out, but the impulse burst into flame and he felt his hand curl tightly around his port, and his lungs tighten with anger.

Beautiful.
Jules once thought he’d understood what the word meant. He now believed it overused. Some word needed to be kept in reserve for the rare, the arresting, the surprising . . . the magical. Or a new one invented.

Phoebe laughed at something then. It made him immediately restless. He wanted to be near her and feel the laugh pour like tiny sparks over his senses. He suffered, because he wanted to be the one who’d made her laugh.

“Precisely,” he said to Waterburn absently.

Waterburn’s curiosity was now flourishing. He was staring thoughtfully at Phoebe, too, with not a little bemusement. He called to mind a museum patron told he
ought
to appreciate a particular painting.

“
Ahh
hhhhh!”

Waterburn drew it out into two syllables. So suddenly Jules jerked his head toward him. “Do you know, Dryden . . . I think I see now. Yes, I think I do.”

“See
what
?” Jules said irritably.

“Why, my partner for one of the waltzes this evening. And I salute you, you clever devil. I never would have had an inspiration if not for you.”

He eased away from the mantel with those words and merged with the crowd.

And when Waterburn passed a mirror, he paused. Then drew a lock of his blond hair down over his brow, studied himself, and nodded in satisfaction.

Chapter 15

P
hoebe never suspected her trip to the ratafia bowl would turn out to be one of the most eventful trips she’d ever taken in her life. She’d been sent by Lisbeth, of course, but she hoped to eat a tiny sandwich while she was there, too, because the dancing would begin shortly. And she was certain Lisbeth would expect her to hold her ratafia and accompany her to the withdrawing room when beckoned and hear her assessment of her partners and the music and she’d hardly have time for a sandwich.

The events began with Lord Waterburn, whom she’d begun to silently refer to as Hadrian’s Wall. A little bit of schoolmistress humor. He seemed to be a vacuum of the sort where amusement went to disappear.

For days she’d watched his expression twitch between boredom and disdain and back again, broken only by the occasional fleeting smile, which one might be forgiven for mistaking for gas.

He was smiling now.

She eyed all those teeth suspiciously. She’d never seen them bared in her direction before, and she was wary, as she’d done nothing in particular to earn it. He also, suddenly, sported a forelock. She stared at it, puzzled.

And he was so close she could see dimples, a small crescent nestled inside a large one, at the corners of his mouth, and the lines at the corners of his eyes. Not unattractive. Still, she felt strangely uncomfortable viewing his face in such detail.

“Good evening, Miss Vale,” he said with a bow.

“Good evening, Lord Waterburn.” She curtsied.

He didn’t continue on his way to wherever he’d been going before he intercepted her. He remained still, neatly blocking the view of the rest of the assembly and the ratafia and the tiny sandwiches.

It occurred to her then that
she
was his destination.

And now she was beginning to feel uneasy, since he’d obviously viewed her as something little better than an object until now. She wanted to peer around him yearningly toward the little piles of food, but considered it might be rude. She prepared her polite social smile, since she could hardly offer him a neutral expression while he was beaming at her. It was as useful as her old gray cloak, that smile.

On it went.

Until he cleared his throat. “Miss Vale, I wondered if you might be so gracious as to do me the honor of . . .”

Her smile congealed in shock.

“. . . dancing the first waltz with me. The orchestra is meant to play three of them this evening, I understand. If it isn’t . . . too much trouble, I should be happy indeed if you would accept.”

Trouble?
Had Lord Waterburn been knocked on the head?

He waited. The smile remained.

A
waltz
. A waltz with a
viscount
. Not only that, but he’d requested the
first
waltz . . . suggesting it would be just one of the three she would be graciously, strategically bestowing throughout the evening. As though he might have
competition
for the others.