Lord Ruin (13 page)

“There’s more,” said Devon, thrusting his hands into his trousers’ pockets as he leaned against the wall.

“What?”

He gave Ruan an inscrutable look. “Katie is here.”

Anne scanned the crowd, looking for Cynssyr like a child who knows she will have a treat and is constantly on the lookout for its arrival. Farther than twenty or thirty feet distant she recognized people mostly by shape or coloring. Despite not having her spectacles, she’d feel it if Cynssyr were in the room, and he wasn’t. She rubbed her eyes. Not having her glasses made her head ache. Her temples throbbed with the effort of trying to see. She felt more tired than she’d ever been in her life, and not just from dancing. The fatigue never really left her anymore, and now, with the late hour, she felt ready to collapse.

“Duchess?”

Recognizing the voice, she turned, smiling. “Lord Thrale.”

“I’ve come to claim my dance.” The marquess had a smile to rival Cynssyr’s, surprising for so grim a man. He took her arm, preparing to lead her into line. His slate-gray eyes swept over her, and he stopped short.

“But, I’m done in,” she said. “Would you mind terribly if we sat this out?”

“Not at all.”

Thrale walked with her to a crowded salon where he somehow managed to find her a chair. She sank gratefully down. “I’ll fetch you some punch.” People who’d come for dinner had left, others who’d not been invited to dine had just arrived, and judging from the number of people crushed everywhere she looked, a good many people who’d not been invited at all had come. Quite a different mix than earlier.

“My lord,” she said when Thrale returned with a glass of orgeat. She motioned for him to bend close so she could speak softly. “Who is that?” Anne pointed to a tiny woman holding court at the far side of the room. Hardly five feet tall, she was surrounded by admiring men, and with reason. Brilliant blue eyes flashed in a heart-shaped face and shining auburn hair made a striking counterpoint to her pale skin.

“Which?”

“There. The woman in the exquisite gown.” Snow-white silk gauze set off rubies the color of blood. They encircled her slender throat and sparkled on her wrists, fingers and delicate shell-like ears. “I’ve seen her several times tonight, but we’ve not been introduced. She must have come late, for I don’t recall her from the receiving line.”

“Mrs. Forrest.”

“She’s beautiful.”

Thrale gave her a penetrating look. “You’ve been a married woman for all of six weeks now.”

“Is that all? It feels as if I’ve always been married. No, that’s not quite it. Inevitable.” She moved a hand in a gesture that encompassed the whole of the scene before them. “That this all was inevitable. Isn’t that strange?”

“Yet you are innocent. Among the Ton, that’s a rare commodity.”

“You mean unpolished, but I thank you for your tact.” She smiled, expecting him to smile back, but he didn’t.

“I mean innocent. He must find that fascinating.”

“Cynssyr?”

“Shall we take a turn?” Thrale rose. He tucked her arm under his and began a slow stroll around the perimeter of the crowded salon. “Tell me what you think of London. Do you find it as tiresome as I do?”

“Honestly, I’ve not seen much. Queen Anne Street and Portman Square. Once to Hampstead Heath for tea with the duchess. Goodness, what an ordeal that was.”

They continued their circuit, coming quite near Mrs. Forrest. The woman saw Thrale and lifted one fragile hand in greeting. Every finger glittered with gems and filigreed gold. As close as they were, Anne saw no flaw in the porcelain skin, no imperfection in her features or figure. Thrale acknowledged the gesture with a nod, but he continued past.

“Will you introduce us?” Anne asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

They’d reached the door, and as he led her back to the ballroom, he said, “May I give you a word of advice?”

“I should welcome it.”

He pressed Anne’s forearm. “Your husband can be very charming when it suits him. I expect just now it suits him to be charming to you.”

Anne laughed. “Charming to me? No, I’m afraid not.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“How unlike him.”

“Cynssyr is himself around me.” Anne knew that for fact because this evening she’d seen him charming the ladies and it wasn’t anything like how he behaved with her. She’d know if Lord Ruin ever set out to deliberately charm her.

“Now that, Duchess, astonishes me.”

A stir distracted them and they both turned toward the salon they’d just left. They saw him at the same time. Cynssyr. Anne shivered inside, and she smiled without realizing she did it. Goodness, but he was handsome. The crowd near him parted so that he appeared to move effortlessly where everyone else had to start and stop and jostle one another. Cynssyr lifted a hand in greeting to someone off to his left and continued his course toward the salon.

Thrale glanced down. “The moment he holds your heart in his hand, he will crush it. That is his way.” He gave a very Gallic shrug. “I have seen it happen so many times. To so many women. I should hate to see you hurt that way.”

“Oh, I’m safe from that danger.”

“Ah!” someone called. “I say, Thrale, it’s not sporting of you to try to hide her away.”

“Wilberfoss.” Thrale greeted the man with a somber nod.

“It’s my dance now.” He wasn’t a particularly tall man, nor terribly handsome either, but he reminded Anne of Aldreth, with his look of perpetual good humor. Wilberfoss reached them and bowed, a trifle too deep to keep his balance. “Your grace.”

“Now, I really should let you go,” Anne said to Thrale, taking the viscount’s arm. “I need a word with Lord Wilberfoss.” She tapped his arm. “If he wants to marry my sister, he’ll have to prove himself worthy.”

Wilberfoss nodded gravely. “I very much hope to, Madam.”

“You’ve been kind.” She touched Thrale’s sleeve. “Thank you.”

“I would be glad if you called me Richard.”

“Then you must call me Anne.”

Thrale bowed, and with one brief glance at Wilberfoss, left.

“Lovely Duchess,” Wilberfoss said, speaking so that half the consonants disappeared into the vowels. “You will honor me with a dance?”

“Delighted, my lord.” She sent one last look toward Thrale and had the very briefest glimpse of the exquisite Mrs. Forrest leaving the salon with Cynssyr at her side.

“There is Aldreth with his beautiful lady,” the viscount remarked as they started out by narrowly avoiding the lumbering pair of Mr. Julian Durling and Miss Camilla Fairchild. He spoke carefully now, producing crisp syllables. He was not half the dancer Cynssyr was. Grinning, Wilberfoss swung her around a half-beat behind the music. “Been looking for you all night. Ought to get to know each other better, don’t you agree?”

“I admit I’m curious about you. Emily’s not told me much.” He was younger than she expected, no more than twenty-three or twenty-four, and quite exquisitely dressed, though he hadn’t Cynssyr’s natural flair or Thrale’s austere elegance.

“Your sister mentions you quite often. Can’t praise you enough. Got me worried, her having a paragon of perfection for a sister. What if she expects me to be as perfect as you? It’s been fretting me no end.”

“I assure you, I’m far from perfect.”

“Good.” He feigned relief so comically Anne had to laugh. “Now I see why Cyn married you.” His hand, which had rested very properly on her back during a chasse exerted a slight pressure. “Magnificent,” he murmured. As she and Wilberfoss passed each other again, the viscount’s focus shifted from her eyes to her mouth then down to rest below her chin.

“Your jewels are lovely.”

That made her look. For the briefest moment, she could have sworn to a salacious intent. But his face was all innocence and smiles. They moved past, dipped away, then back to one another.

“A gift from your husband?”

Of course, he meant the diamonds. “Yes.” What else could he have meant? Fewer couples hemmed them in since they had somehow ended up at the edge of the ballroom.

“The duke has always had excellent taste in women and in jewelry,” he said to her diamonds.

“Has he?” She backed out of his arms, giving up the pretense of dancing since Wilberfoss had stopped any attempt to guide her through the steps.

He drew a flask from his pocket and took a long draught. “Give anything for his knack of matching the gem to the woman,” he said. “I keep thinking, what ought I to give my beautiful Emily? Have you any suggestions for me? I confess I’m at a loss.” Daintily, he wiped his mouth with the side of a pinky. The smell from the open flask sent her stomach into near revolt. “What is it I heard him say once? Ah.” He lifted a finger. “I have it. A rule, he said, by which he ordered his most private affairs. Diamonds for a blonde. Emeralds for a brunette. Rubies for a redhead.”

Anne forced a grin because what leapt instantly to mind was Mrs. Forrest’s rubies, and it was really too bad of Lord Thrale not to have made an introduction.

“Were you my wife, I would look no further for companionship. Tonight or any night.” Wilberfoss put a hand on her shoulder, gazing at her with concern. “Why, I Duchess, you’re flushed. Are you faint? Air. You must have fresh air.”

She seized the excuse because her fatigue had quickly worsened with even their little bit of dancing, and her stomach pitched unpleasantly. “Yes. Do forgive me.” She wanted to like Wilberfoss, she really did, but she couldn’t entirely approve of him, though she wasn’t able to pinpoint the reason. They’d stopped near a wide corridor leading eventually to the gallery, and she walked out, heading for a marble bench about halfway down the hall. She never reached it, for Wilberfoss followed her.

“My dear Duchess,” he said, all cloying concern. He walked into the corner of a side table. “Damnation!”

Anne stopped. “Are you all right?”

“Your servants appear to have been lax.” The flask appeared once again. “Have I made a hopeless muck of things?” His disarming smile made her think that perhaps he and Emily would suit after all. She was learning the value of a partner with whom one might laugh. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know about the rubies.”

“For redheads, you mean?”

“Rubies for redheads. Yes, indeed. Magnificent rubies for a magnificent woman. Cynssyr is a man of the world. ‘Deed he is.” He raised his flask, smiling cheerfully so that his round cheeks became rounder yet. “I drink to men of the world.” He opened a door just to his left. “This should do nicely.”

“For what?”

“Come, come, now,” he said impatiently. He gripped her elbow.

“There’s nothing in there, my lord. Cynssyr does not use that room.”

“Even better.”

She dismissed her alarm as absurd. Wilberfoss was a puppy, and practically engaged to her sister. “You wish to speak to me about Emily?”

“Yes, that’s it.” As he came closer, fingertips brushed her bosom. Anne backed away. “Duchess,” he said. “I assure you your husband is well occupied at the moment.”

“What would you like to know about Emily? I fear she’s strong-willed, but I’m sure you’ll agree it’s a good deal of her charm.”

After another sip from the flask, he held it out with an inviting nod. “No?” He shrugged. “Then how about a kiss for your future brother-in-law?”

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, saw him become completely distracted by the movement and immediately uncrossed them. She knew she was naive, but not so much that she could misinterpret that look. “You’re drunk.”