Rendezvous (3 page)

“Yes, my lord?” She halted and turned back to face him once more, hoping that in the shadows he could not see that her face was flaming.

“You have neglected to take your taper with you. You
will need it to climb the stairs.” He picked up the candle and held it out to her.

Augusta hesitated and then went back to where he stood waiting for her. She snatched the candle from his hand without a word and hastened out of the library.

She was glad she was not on his list of prospective wives, she told herself fiercely as she flew up the stairs and down the hall to her bedchamber. A Northumberland Ballinger female could not possibly chain herself to such an old-fashioned, unbending man.

Aside from the marked differences in their temperaments, they had few interests in common. Graystone was an accomplished linguist and a student of the classics, just as was her uncle, Sir Thomas Ballinger. The earl devoted himself to the study of the ancient Greeks and Romans and produced imposing books and treatises that were well received by people who knew about that sort of thing.

If Graystone had been one of the exciting new poets whose burning prose and smoldering eyes were currently all the rage, Augusta would have understood her own fascination for him. But he was not that sort of writer at all. Instead he penned dull works with titles such as
A Discussion of Some Elements in the Histories of Tacitus
and
A Discourse on Certain Selections from Plutarch’s Lives
. Both of which had been recently published to critical acclaim.

Both of which Augusta had, for some unknown reason, read from beginning to end.

Augusta extinguished the candle and let herself quietly into the bedchamber she was sharing with Claudia. She tiptoed over to the bed and took off her dressing gown. A shaft of moonlight seeping in through a crack in the heavy drapes revealed her cousin’s sleeping form.

Claudia had the pale golden hair of the Hampshire branch of the Ballinger family. Her lovely face with its patrician nose and chin was turned to the side on the pillow. The long sweep of her lashes hid her soft blue eyes. She
deserved the title of the Angel which had been bestowed upon her by the admiring gentlemen of the
haute ton
.

Augusta took personal pride in her cousin’s recent social success. It was Augusta, after all, who, at four-and-twenty, had undertaken to launch the younger Claudia into the world of the
ton
. Augusta had decided it was the least she could do to repay her uncle and her cousin for taking her into their home after her brother’s death two years ago.

Sir Thomas, being a Hampshire Ballinger and therefore quite wealthy, had the blunt to pay for his daughter’s launch and he was generous enough to underwrite Augusta’s expenses as well. Being a widower, however, he lacked the female contacts to manage a successful Season. He also lacked any knowledge of style and dash. That was, of course, where Augusta could contribute mightily to the project.

The Hampshire Ballingers might have the money in the family, but the Northumberland Ballingers had gotten all the style and dash.

Augusta was very fond of her cousin, but the two of them were as different as night and day in many ways. Claudia would never have dreamed of sneaking downstairs after midnight to break into her host’s library desk. Claudia had no interest in joining Pompeia’s. Claudia would have been appalled at the notion of standing around in one’s wrapper at midnight chatting with a distinguished scholar such as the Earl of Graystone. Claudia had a very nice sense of the proprieties.

It occurred to Augusta that Claudia was probably on Graystone’s list of prospective wives.

Downstairs in the library Harry stood for a long while in the darkness and stared out the window at his host’s moonlit gardens. He had not wanted to accept the invitation to Enfield’s weekend house party. Normally he avoided such events whenever possible. They tended to be boring in
the extreme and an utter waste of his time, as were most of Society’s frivolous affairs. But he was hunting a wife this Season and his quarry had a disconcerting habit of appearing in unpredictable locations.

Not that he had been bored this evening, Harry reminded himself wryly. The task of keeping his future bride out of trouble had certainly enlivened this little jaunt into the countryside. He wondered how many more such midnight rendezvous he would be obliged to endure before he had her securely wed.

She was such a maddening little baggage
. She ought to have been married off to a strong-willed husband years ago. She needed a man who could keep her firmly in hand. One could only hope it was not too late to control her rash ways.

Augusta Ballinger was twenty-four years old and still unwed due to a variety of reasons. Among them had been a series of deaths in the family. Sir Thomas, her uncle, had explained that Augusta had lost her parents the year she turned eighteen. The pair had been killed in a carriage accident. Augusta’s father had been driving in a wild, neck-or-nothing race at the time. His wife had insisted on accompanying him. Such recklessness was, Sir Thomas admitted, unfortunately typical of the Northumberland side of the family.

There had been very little money left for Augusta and her older brother, Richard. Apparently a certain devil-may-care attitude toward economy and financial matters also characterized the Northumberland Ballingers.

Richard had sold off all his small inheritance except for a cottage in which he and Augusta lived. He used the money to buy himself a commission. And then he had been killed, not in battle on the continent, but by a highwayman on a country lane not far from the cottage. He had been on leave at the time and had been riding home from London to see his sister.

Augusta, according to Sir Thomas, had been devastated by Richard Ballinger’s death. She was alone in the world.
Sir Thomas had insisted she had come to live with himself and his daughter. Augusta had eventually agreed. For months she had appeared sunk in a deep melancholy that nothing could lift. All the fire and dazzle that characterized the Northumberland side of the family appeared to have been extinguished.

And then Sir Thomas had had his brainstorm. He had asked Augusta to undertake the task of giving his daughter a Season. Claudia, a lovely bluestocking, was twenty years old already and had never had her opportunity in town because her own mother had died two years previously. Time was running out, Sir Thomas had gravely explained to Augusta. Claudia deserved a Season. But being from the intellectual side of the family she had no knowledge of how to go on in Society. Augusta had the skills and instincts and—through her new friendship with Sally, Lady Arbuthnott—the contacts to show her cousin the ropes.

Augusta had been reluctant at first but she had soon plunged into the business with true Northumberland Ballinger enthusiasm. She had worked night and day to make Claudia a great success. The results had been spectacular and somewhat unexpected. Not only was the demure, well-behaved bluestocking Claudia immediately hailed as the Angel, but Augusta herself had proved just as successful.

Sir Thomas had confided to Harry that he was quite pleased and expected both young ladies to form suitable alliances.

Harry had known it was not going to be quite that simple. He strongly suspected that Augusta, at least, had very little intention of finding herself a suitable husband. She was having too much fun.

With that lustrous chestnut brown hair of hers and those lively, mischievous topaz eyes, Miss Augusta Ballinger could have had a dozen husbands by now had she truly desired marriage. The earl was very sure of that.

His own, undeniable interest in her amazed him. On the
face of it, she was definitely not what he required in a wife, but he could not seem to ignore her or put her out of his mind. From the moment his old friend Lady Arbuthnott had suggested that Augusta be added to Harry’s list of prospective brides, he had been fascinated by her.

He had even established a personal friendship with Sir Thomas in order to get closer to his prospective wife. Not that Augusta was aware of the reason behind the new association between her uncle and Harry. Few people were ever aware of Harry’s subtle plots or the reasons behind them until he chose to reveal himself.

Through his conversations with Sir Thomas and Lady Arbuthnott, Harry had learned that, as strong-willed and reckless as Augusta was, she nevertheless had a steadfast loyalty to family and friends. Harry had learned long ago that loyalty was as priceless as virtue. Indeed, in his mind it was synonymous with virtue.

One could even overlook the occasional harebrained escapade such as the one that had taken place tonight, if one knew the lady could be trusted. Not that Harry intended to allow that sort of nonsense to continue after he had Augusta safely wed.

During the past few weeks Harry had come to the conclusion that, although he might have moments of dire regret, he was going to marry Augusta. Intellectually, he could not resist. She would never bore him. In addition to her capacity for intense loyalty, she was intriguing and unpredictable. Harry, who had always been compelled by puzzles, had found her impossible to ignore.

As a final seal on his fate, there was the undeniable fact that he was fiercely attracted to Augusta. His whole body tightened with awareness whenever she was near.

There was a feminine energy about Augusta that captured his sense. The image of her had begun to haunt him when he was alone at night. When he was near her he would find his gaze lingering on the curve of her breasts, which were far too prominently displayed in the scandalously
low-cut gowns she wore with such natural grace. Her small waist and sweetly flaring hips teased and tantalized as she moved about with a subtle swaying motion that never failed to make the muscles of his lower body clench.

Yet she was not beautiful, he told himself for the hundredth time—at least not in the much-admired classical style. He conceded, however, that there was an undeniable charm and vivacity about her faintly slanting eyes, tilted nose, and laughing mouth. Lately he had grown increasingly hungry for a taste of that mouth.

Harry stifled an oath. It was very much as Plutarch had once written about Cleopatra. Her beauty was not remarkable in itself, but her charm and presence were irresistible, even bewitching.

He was no doubt mad to be plotting to wed Augusta. He had set out looking for another sort of woman entirely. Someone serene, serious, and refined. Someone who would be a good mother to his only child, Meredith. Someone who would devote herself to hearth and home. Most importantly, he had intended to marry a woman who was completely free of any taint of gossip.

Previous Graystone brides had brought disaster and scandal to the title and had left a legacy of unhappiness that stretched back for generations. Harry had no intention of marrying a female who would continue that sad tradition. The next Graystone bride must be above reproach. And above suspicion.

Like Caesar’s wife
.

He had set out to find that treasure which intelligent men had always considered more valuable than rubies: a virtuous woman.

Instead he had found himself a reckless, headstrong, extremely volatile creature named Augusta who had the potential to make his life a living hell.

Unfortunately, Harry realized, he seemed to have lost interest in all the other females on his list.

A
ugusta
arrived at the door of Lady Arbuthnott’s imposing town house shortly after three on the day following her return to London. She had Rosalind Morrissey’s journal safely tucked into her reticule and she could hardly wait to tell her father that all was well.

“I shall not be staying long today, Betsy,” she said to her young maid as they went up the steps. “We must hurry home to help Claudia prepare for the Burnett soiree. This is a very important evening for her. The most eligible males in Town will no doubt be there and we want her to look her best.”

“Yes, ma’am. Miss Claudia always looks like an angel when she goes out, though. I don’t expect tonight will be any different.”

Augusta grinned. “How very true.”

The door was opened just as Betsy was preparing to knock. Scruggs, Lady Arbuthnott’s elderly, stoop-shouldered butler, glared at the newcomers as he saw two other young women out the door.

Augusta recognized Belinda Renfrew and Felicity Oatley as they came down the steps. They were both regular visitors to Lady Arbuthnott’s home, as were several other well-bred ladies, all of whom came and went on a regular basis. The ailing Lady Arbuthnott, the neighbors frequently noted, was never short of visitors.

“Good afternoon, Augusta,” Felicity said cheerfully.

“You are looking well this afternoon.”

“Yes, indeed,” Belinda murmured, her eyes speculative as she took in the sight of Augusta dressed in a fashionable dark blue pelisse over a sky blue gown. “I am delighted you are here. Lady Arbuthnott has been most anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

“I would not dream of disappointing her,” Augusta said as she went past with a laughing smile. “Or Miss Norgrove, either.” Belinda Renfrew, Augusta knew, had wagered Daphne Norgrove ten pounds that the journal would not be returned to its owner.