Shirley Kerr (2 page)

He looked beyond the couples forming the quadrille, to the wallflowers and their duennas seated against the far wall. Was there anyone he had not danced with before, who would not expect an offer after being partnered in one country dance?

Wait, back up. There she was. The miss from this afternoon! He smiled, but she did not return it. He was about to go to her, but was detained by Clarke and Dorian and other fellows of The Royal Society. While TRS was committed to the advancement of science in general, many of its members had banded together to study astronomy.

“Moncreiffe, I say,” Dorian said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Tell us of your visit with Herschel and his forty-foot telescope. Is the view really as sharp and clear as everyone claims? I have a guinea riding on your answer.”

“I did not have another telescope with me worthy of making a comparison, but I assure you the view exceeded all my expectations.” Normally eager to converse with fellow members of the Society, Alistair couldn’t help a pang of regret. Now the young woman was nowhere in sight. He’d missed his opportunity.

Clarke claimed Alistair’s answer could not settle their wager, and the topic quickly spiraled from telescopes to betting books.

“My lord, may I have a moment?”

Alistair stepped away from his companions’ jovial bickering and smiled at his hostess, who suddenly stood before him. His smile widened at the sight of the mysterious blond miss standing next to Lady Gatwick.

“Viscount Moncreiffe, may I introduce Miss Charlotte Parnell?”

T
he blonde blushed prettily and batted her eyelashes as she rose from her curtsy. No spark of recognition flared in her eyes. Her smile was correctly polite and did not falter as she made the briefest of eye contact before resting her gaze on his cravat.

Alistair was certain it was her. Unmistakable blue eyes. He decided, again, to play along with her game. After performing the niceties, and both women looking at him expectantly as the quadrille ended, Alistair led Miss Parnell out as the orchestra began a waltz.

Perhaps she wasn’t playing a game this time. Did she really not recognize him from the street? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask about their initial encounter.

“Oh, la, my lord,” she said as they took their positions for the dance. “You’re so tall, I scarce can reach your shoulder.” She batted her eyelashes again.

Alistair had opened his mouth to speak, but closed it in surprise.

She glanced to her left as a couple passed by, the lady’s crimson skirts brushing Miss Parnell’s pale blue velvet gown.

“Such a shocking display of flesh,” she said, half to herself. She looked up at Alistair. “But isn’t that a most darling reticule?”

Miss Parnell continued with her vapid commentary on the dancers they passed. Alistair began to fear she was just as empty-headed as she appeared. Had someone coached her into her brazen behavior this afternoon? Surely such a silly creature could not have come up with such a tactic by herself.

To her credit, she danced divinely, following his lead easily, as if they’d partnered each other often. Her subtle scent of rosewater teased his senses as they moved across the dance floor.

He adjusted his hand at her waist, feeling her lush curve beneath the smooth velvet of her dress. Her gown was quite proper, the light color typical of a young miss, the neckline cut low enough to give a hint of her charms yet high enough to still be decorous. But their close proximity during the waltz, and the advantage of Alistair’s height, gave him an excellent view of her bosom. He couldn’t help noticing a freckle on the inner curve of her left breast, a perfect little dark circle on her creamy flesh that rose and fell with her every breath. Her voice had become breathy from the exertion of the dance and the effort of talking nonsense nonstop.

With a start, he realized she had stopped talking. Feel
ing a slight twinge of guilt, he raised his gaze to meet hers. Her blue eyes sparkled, and for an instant he thought he saw a gleam of satisfaction. But she batted her lashes, and the vapid smile was once more firmly in place.

“Isn’t the dry weather lovely, my lord? My aunt predicts it will still be clear for Lady Bainbridge’s Venetian breakfast in two days. Aunt’s hip is never wrong when it comes to predicting rain.”

Clear skies meant great observations, if he could get out of the city, or at least up onto the rooftops. If he could get away from his father and grandfather.

“The dry weather should increase the longevity of that bonnet you were admiring this afternoon.”

Her step faltered, and he tightened his grip on her hand and waist to help her stay upright. He hid his satisfaction at her momentary astonishment, though he wasn’t sure if her reaction was for the way he’d practically picked her up off her feet, or for drawing attention to the elephant in the room between them.

“Yes, about this afternoon…”

He eased his hold, letting her support her full weight again. “Yes, Miss Parnell?”

“I…I wanted to thank you, for going along with, ah, my little game.” She batted her lashes at him. “I’m afraid I outpaced my maid, and there were some people on the street that I did not wish to see me walking alone.”

He’d wager a guinea there wasn’t an ounce of truth in her statement. “And walking with a perfect stranger was a better alternative?”

“Mmm, perfect, yes,” she murmured, so quietly he barely heard her. She raised her gaze to his and met it full
on, looking as though many words wanted to tumble from her lips all at once. “Yes, it was,” she said at last, in a normal tone of voice.

“I do hope it’s not a practice you indulge in often. Could have been quite dangerous for you, were I a different sort of person.”

“Yes, of course you’re right, my lord. I believe I learned my lesson.” She cast her eyes down, but Alistair wasn’t taken in. There was still something else going on. Perhaps he could tease it out of her upon further acquaintance. He hid his smile at the prospect.

Just then they danced past the potted palm in the far corner, where Alistair noticed his father standing with a woman in a flesh-colored gown that upon first glance made her look as though she were nude. Father had his arm around the woman’s waist, and she was so close she was practically inside his coat. He winked at Alistair just before he bent his head to kiss the woman’s throat.

Alistair quickly turned so Miss Parnell would not see his father’s disgraceful behavior. He took a step back, making sure there was proper distance between himself and his partner. He had no intention of being stiff-rumped like his grandfather, but had sworn that he’d never embarrass the family like his father. Sometimes it seemed he’d spent every day of the last twenty years balancing the fulcrum between his grandfather’s nearly puritanical ways and his father’s descent into debauchery.

Miss Parnell cleared her throat. “So, are you as delighted as I at the prospect of continued dry weather?”

“Yes, I am enjoying the weather very much,” Alistair replied, disappointed at the return to mundane topics.
Should he press her for more information, or let her grow more comfortable in his presence first?

Miss Parnell continued in a similar vein, discussing how much rainfall was predicted for the month, how she hoped it would hold off for the outdoor amusements scheduled during the Little Season.

She paused mid-sentence, her gaze focused on the balcony door. Alistair followed her gaze, just in time to see Nick and Blakeney slipping outside. Miss Parnell’s eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, but just for a fraction of a second. Then her bland smile was back in place.

Hmm. Most women tended to either swoon in ecstasy at the sight of Nick or frown in disapproval.

“Will you be attending Lady Bainbridge’s Venetian breakfast, my lord?” She fluttered her lashes at him again.

“I have not made up my mind yet.”

She took a shorter step than the dance called for just then, which brought her body into brief contact with his, her velvet skirts brushing against his breeches.

It could have been an accident.

“I do hope you’ll be in attendance,” she said, her breathy voice pitched low.

Alistair kept his polite mask in place. Now
this
was behavior with which he was all too familiar. “I shall have to consult my appointment book.” It seemed only fair that if she wanted to pursue him as though her intent was to make a match, he could press for details and find out what she really was doing. After her innovative behavior this afternoon, he hoped she wasn’t doing something as ordinary as concealing an assignation.

The dance took them past the row of wallflowers, where Grandfather sat deep in conversation with a matron and what appeared to be her daughter. Grandfather tried to catch Alistair’s eye, but he pretended not to see, and instead returned his gaze to Miss Parnell’s freckle.

Her sudden intake of breath made him look up. He caught her staring at a woman in red, the same one they’d danced past earlier, slipping up the stairs, arm in arm with a male companion.

When he glanced back, Miss Parnell’s smile was dazzling. The music ended, and he escorted her back to their hostess. How soon could he partner her again, without causing undue speculation about his motives?

“I do hope your schedule permits you to attend the breakfast,” she said. As Alistair bowed over her hand, her fingers squeezed his, and her smile grew even more vapid.

He gave a noncommittal murmur and made his exit.

Perhaps he was misreading the whole situation, and everything was in fact the way it appeared on the surface—Miss Parnell was merely a silly miss on the hunt for a husband. In which case, he should avoid her at all costs.

Duty done, both relatives having seen him, he was now free, at least for a few hours. He made his way to the footman in the hall to collect his haversack and coat.

The footman with whom Alistair had entrusted his telescope was nowhere in sight. A bran-faced youth who appeared too young to be out of the schoolroom jumped up from the footman’s bench as he approached. “Beg pardon, my lord,” he said, his face turning bright red. “We, er, had to move some things from the cloakroom, so your
haversack is in the, er, the small salon.” He gave directions to a room at the back of the building.

Alistair thought it odd to move the guests’ belongings so far from the front entrance, but shrugged and wound his way through the hallways to the indicated room, sidestepping the occasional couple seeking some privacy.

As he turned the knob to open the door, he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder. No one else was in sight. No one, that is, but a particularly ugly piece of statuary standing guard in the corner.

The salon was lit only by a small fire and one candle on a side table. Shadows flickered across the walls. It took his eyes a moment to adjust before he spotted his haversack on a chair by the window. He hesitated another moment, searching the dancing shadows. In the tidy space, nothing seemed to be out of place. Not one coat or hat or other item belonging to another guest graced the room.

He eyed his haversack, ten steps away. With a last look to make sure the door to the hall was wide open, he strode across the room.

The click of the door closing sounded like a cannon blast.

“Good evening, my lord.” Her voice was silky soft, but the look in her eyes was that of a hound that had just cornered the fox in its den.

Not again. “Good evening, Miss…?” Alistair had his back to the window, one hand snagging the haversack strap, the other feeling along the windowsill behind him. With any luck, the window was unlatched.

“Miss Hewitt.” She ran her fingers through her guinea-gold blond hair as she spoke, mussing the once carefully
arranged curls. “Miss Christine Hewitt. You stood up with me at Almack’s last week. We danced together again, just two nights ago.”

“Ah, yes. My grandfather introduced us.” He pushed against the wooden sill and managed to get the tips of his fingers into the tiny space at the bottom. Just a little more…

“His grace was very kind.” She slid the sleeves of her gown off her shoulders, exposing a generous expanse of bosom. “I would very much like to further our acquaintance, my lord.” She stepped toward him, breasts first, a feral light in her eyes.

“Terribly sorry, Miss Hewitt, but I just remembered a previous engagement.” He shoved the window all the way up, ducked his head out to see if there were any rosebushes in the vicinity, and dove through. Just as he landed in the bed of petunias below, he heard the salon door slam back against the wall.

“Unhand her, you lecherous—” The older woman stopped in mid-screech. “Where is he?”

“Oh, Mama!” Miss Hewitt wailed.

Slinging the haversack strap over his neck, Alistair sprinted to the corner of the building and did not slow down until he reached the front entrance. He brushed off the worst of the dirt as a footman—a different footman—let him in the front door.

“If I may be so bold, my lord,” the servant murmured, reaching up. At Alistair’s nod, the footman plucked several errant petals from his collar and cravat.

Alistair glanced at his clothes in the better light of the hall, but saw no other visible evidence of his roll in the
flower bed. His telescope seemed to have survived the fall intact, with no new scratches on the wooden case. After nodding his thanks, he strode for the staircase and the door to the roof.

The trouble with Miss Hewitt, he thought with a rueful shake of his head, was a pitiable lack of originality. Had she no idea how many times that particular snare had been set for him? When faced with parson’s mousetrap or an undignified leap out a window, well, clothes could be cleaned. Or replaced.

Miss Parnell would never engage in such unoriginal behavior.

Plenty of misses engaged in subterfuge in the pursuit of a husband, and she
could
actually be seeking a suitor. But there was more going on behind those guileless blue eyes, under that mass of blond curls, than mindless pursuit of a match. There had to be. What else could explain the abrupt, brief changes in her behavior?

Perhaps she occasionally succumbed to the pressure all the young women must feel from their families, with the expense and expectations inherent in a London Season. A sort of dual personality, where her natural inclinations were stifled in order to meet someone else’s expectations. Heaven knew he’d had to stifle plenty of his own inclinations.

He might go to Lady Bainbridge’s breakfast after all, if only to further observe Miss Parnell. And her freckle.

Once up on the roof, Alistair set up his observation deck. It took only moments to attach his telescope to its tripod, spread a thin blanket, and retrieve his pencil and journal from his haversack. He kept his gaze at rooftop
height or higher, not wanting the gas street lamps below to ruin his night vision. He sat down, legs crossed, and waited for his eyes to adapt to the darkness.

The light breeze had cleared away the last of the clouds from earlier in the day, leaving the stars bright, though he could make out only part of Via Lactea. This late in the year, he could barely see the teapot lid on the upper tip of Sagittarius to the south, though Mars had risen above the eastern horizon. Unfortunately, it was too late in the evening to see Venus or Jupiter.

He shifted to a more comfortable position. What other invitations had he received that had been issued by hosts with an easily accessible, well-placed roof? If he was doomed to spend the entire Little Season in London playing peacemaker between his relatives, he wasn’t going to give up his observation time altogether.

Movement across the way, a white blur, caught his attention. It looked like a ghost creeping across the roof of the hotel next door. Ridiculous. Alistair got up on his knees and leaned forward, straining to see. Then he chided himself, peered through his telescope, and adjusted the focus.