Silver Splendor (22 page)

“No doubt,” Nicholas said. “I had just determined to have a word with her.”

“Thank goodness you’ve recalled your duty.” Swinging toward Charles, she added in a scolding undertone, “And you! You should be diverting Cicely from that gambler, Drew Sterling. You must be firm with her if you ever expect her to encourage your suit.”

“With all due respect, my lady, she won’t listen —”

“No excuses,” Lady Beatrice said, tapping his lapel with her fan. “I shall expect results from the both of you, and quickly!” Her beribboned russet hair held regally, she sailed away.

“Why do I feel like a chastened schoolboy?” Charles asked.

Nicholas laughed. “Admiral Beatrice does make her opinions known. Come along, let’s bowl the ladies over with our charm and wit.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Cicely will probably freeze me out, as she always does.”

“So don’t let her. Compliment her. Ask her to dance, then invite her into the garden for a romantic look at the stars.”

“Spoken like a true rakehell,” Charles said with a wry grin. “I envy you your knack of winning the ladies.”

“At present,” Nicholas murmured, “I’d hardly call myself a winner at amorous encounters.”

Straightening his shoulders, Charles brushed a hand over the black lapels of his evening coat. “All right. After you, old chap.”

They set off through the tightly packed assemblage, Nicholas in the lead. As they neared the French doors where Elizabeth stood, he felt that familiar charge of excitement disturbing his heart. Resolutely he tamped down his rising emotions. His sole purpose in approaching her was to steer her clear of Buckstone.

Serene and ladylike, she sipped a cup of punch and chatted with a cluster of people. A peculiar pang invaded Nicholas. Somehow he preferred her unadorned, smelling of clay, wearing those ridiculous trousers, her hair tumbling down her back.

Cicely stood with Drew, apart from the group. Lady Phoebe stood at Elizabeth’s side, but Nicholas’s eyes focused on the thin, aesthetic features of Peter Tate, the Viscount Buckstone.

Nicholas gave the man a terse nod. “Buckstone.”

“Hawkesford.” Buckstone inclined his neatly groomed fair head. “I say, I’ve been meaning to have a word with you all evening. You deserve to be boiled in oil for keeping such a lovely woman hidden away at Berkeley Square.”

Elizabeth playfully slapped his arm. “You exaggerate, Lord Buckstone. There must be a hundred women here more lovely than I.”

“None that interest me,” he declared. “You possess more than outer beauty; you have intelligence and talent, as well. No other lady here could have created such a stunning necklace.”

Buckstone gazed at the silver filigreed moonstone resting on the milky sweep of her bosom. Digging his fingers into his palms, Nicholas fought to contain a jolt of anger and chagrin.
He
hadn’t known the necklace was her own design.

“Do you truly make your own jewelry?” Lady Phoebe asked, her blue eyes bright with admiration.

Elizabeth smiled. “I’m afraid you’re looking at my one and only effort. I created it in an art class.”

“You American women are so lucky.” Phoebe sighed. “To make one’s own life, to come and go as one pleases must be wonderful.”

Charles chuckled. “Yes, your ogre of a brother does keep you chained in the attic, eh, Phebes?”

She made a face at him. “Yesterday I missed riding in Hyde Park, all because you returned home late from parliament. Had I been a man, I could have gone alone.”

“Were you a man, you wouldn’t have been clamoring to show off your latest dress, so there’d have been no point in going, anyway.”

“Male logic,” Phoebe said, disgust wrinkling her dainty nose. “Who can understand it?”

“Not you, Phebes,” her brother said good naturedly. “Logic is something you can’t even begin to —”

His mouth clamped shut, his shoulders stiffening. Following the direction of Charles’s gaze, Nicholas saw Cicely approaching, Drew Sterling sauntering alongside her.

Nicholas felt his own body tense. Sterling looked more indolent than ever and far too self satisfied.

Clinging to his elegant arm, his sister brought Sterling into the group. “Hullo, everyone.”

“A pleasure to see you, Cicely,” Charles said, his voice rigidly proper. Disapproval hardening his boyish face, he glanced at Sterling without acknowledging him.

As Cicely caught Charles’s look, a shadow dimmed her radiant smile; then she tipped her chin to a rebellious angle. “I brought Drew to meet you, Elizabeth,” she said gaily. “I’ve been telling him all about my art lessons. Drew, this is Miss Elizabeth Hastings.”

“So you’re the sculptress,” he drawled. His dark eyes dipped to her decolletage. “Pretty necklace you’re wearing.”

“Thank you.”

Nicholas gritted his teeth. Was every man here staring at her breasts? He forced himself to concentrate on
Sterling’s face. If he were the one who wanted her
dead, surely he would show some betrayal in his expression, a sign of recognition.

A faint frown marred those aquiline features. “You look rather familiar, Miss Hastings. Have we met before?”

“I doubt it,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “I grew up in New York.”

“Ah, yes, I must be mistaken, then.” Sterling glanced away, already losing interest, his eyes raking the assemblage as if in search of entertainment.

Indecision tugged at Nicholas. Sterling’s reference to familiarity could be a flawless performance, a cover for vicious, cold blooded emotions. Or it could be genuine. Drew Sterling would have been perhaps eight or nine years old when Owen and Lucy Templeton Hastings had left England with their young daughter. Since Elizabeth looked so much like her mother, that could account for Sterling’s reaction.

“I hope His Grace is enjoying good health?” Nicholas said.

Sterling shrugged. “What he enjoys is poor health. Gives him an excuse to hound everyone.”

Cicely gave Drew a sympathetic look. “He was too ill to attend tonight?”

“Sleeping off one of Dr. Marsh’s potions, I suppose. Nothing to worry your pretty head over.”

He patted her hand; Nicholas clenched his jaw.

Buckstone cleared his throat. “Since we’re all gathered here, I should like to make an announcement. I plan to erect a monument to my father’s memory at the place he loved best, our estate in Ireland.” He flashed an admiring look at Elizabeth. “I mean to have a competition to select the sculptor. Elizabeth has done me the great honor of agreeing to submit a design.”

Shock paralyzed Nicholas. Buckstone’s pale blue eyes glittered with triumph and his lips arched into a smile. For the first time in his life, Nicholas felt the savage urge to bury his fist in another man’s face.

“How wonderful!” Cicely cried, clapping her hands.

“You make it sound as though
I’m
doing
you
a favor,” Elizabeth chided the viscount, “when in truth it’s the other way around. Designing a monument is a marvelous opportunity to build my reputation as an artist.”

“I’m so pleased you view it that way,” Buckstone said.

His false modesty infuriated Nicholas all the more. That damn conniving philanderer! He didn’t care a whit about any monument; he wanted to get Elizabeth alone on his Irish estate.

Suddenly Nicholas went numb, jolted by lightning. God! What if she were willing? Fresh from his own rejection, she might offer herself to Buckstone.

The viscount bowed to her. “May I have the pleasure of another dance?” he inquired. “We have plans to discuss, and we might as well enjoy ourselves as we talk.”

Buckstone twirled her onto the dance floor before Nicholas could collect his devastated emotions.
What could he do anyway?
he thought bitterly. By enticing Elizabeth with what she loved best, Buckstone had scored his most brilliant stratagem ever.

Drew made a restive movement. “I believe I’ll return to the drawing room. I’m missing the card games.”

“Oh, please stay,” Cicely said, presenting him with a brilliant smile. “The music is so lovely.”

Charles glanced at Nicholas; apparently misinterpreting his friend’s scowl, Charles made a stiff bow toward Cicely. “Er… would you care to dance?”

Clearly vexed that the wrong man had responded to her hint, Cicely pursed her lips. Drew seized the chance to slip away, leaving her no recourse but to accept the offer. She flounced toward the dancers, Charles trailing her.

“They make a lovely couple,” said Phoebe.

“Yes.” Nicholas spared them no more than a cursory glance; he was too obsessed with searching the crowd for Elizabeth and Buckstone.

“If you ask me to dance, you’ll get a better view of your artist.”

Nicholas felt heat rise from under his starched collar. Turning to Phoebe, he saw a wise look in her youthful blue eyes. “Is my interest so obvious?” he asked.

“Only to someone who’s known you for so long.” She held out her arm. “Shall we?”

Nicholas dutifully led her into the swarm of dancers. Holding Phoebe close, he listened with half an ear to her witty discourse about the other guests. Her undemanding chatter was a balm to his bruised pride. For so long he’d thought of Phoebe simply as Charles’s baby sister; now he saw her as a woman, kind and gentle, her figure slim and pleasing. Perhaps Cicely was right; perhaps he should court Phoebe. Such a tractable lady would make a far more suitable wife than a willful woman like Elizabeth.

Wife. He slammed the lid on the tenderness lifting his heart. She was not the woman for him; she was already wed to her work.

Yet over and over his eyes strayed to Elizabeth, each time the waltz steps swung him in her direction. The numbness left him at the sight of her in Buckstone’s arms. With rising fury Nicholas glared at her. Didn’t she know she was playing with fire? Did she truly not care a whit for her reputation? Or his feelings?

By the time the last strains of music faded, Nicholas had worked himself up into a justifiable rage. Pausing only to give Phoebe a sincere thanks, he cut a determined path through the throng and found Elizabeth alone by a pillar. No one could guess by looking at her that she hadn’t been born a lady. Her lustrous black hair shone in the gaslight, her high cheekbones and full mouth giving her an aristocratic air. An aura of mystery enveloped her, an aura as exotic as a hothouse camellia. He had the impression he could never learn everything about her, even if he were to love her for a hundred years.

The thought fired his anger anew. Without even trying she could reduce him to another of her panting admirers.

“I see your devoted lapdog has deserted you,” he said.

She turned, looking not the least bit surprised. “Lord Buckstone didn’t desert me. He’s fetching punch.”

“A pity, since you shan’t be here to drink it.”

Elizabeth’s heart tripped in alarm as his strong hand closed around hers. Yet she far preferred to face hot fury than cold indifference. As he hauled her through the multitude of lords and ladies, the evening took on a sudden sparkle, the gaslit chandeliers twinkling, the colors of gowns turning rich and vivid, the aromas of fine perfumes caressing her heightened senses. A delicious chill of anticipation leapt up her arm and into her heart. She loved the warmth and firmness of his fingers, the masculine power inherent in his clasp, the feel of his life and energy flowing into her.

“If you want to dance,” she said, “you might ask me in a civilized manner.”

His eyes raked her. “You’ve danced enough tonight.”

She went willingly as he pulled her through the opened French doors and onto the loggia, a long roofed porch that ran the length of the town house. Moonlight silvered the formal gardens. Here and there, couples strolled arm in arm along the winding paths. The scent of roses hung heavy in the summer night air.

Instead of leading her down the steps, Nicholas drew her deeper into the shadows. The trill of feminine laughter drifted from the garden. The prospect of stealing a moment alone with him warmed her blood and quickened her heartbeat. This was why she had enured the prissy company of Lord Buckstone, to force Nicholas to notice her.

“Why are you so angry?” she asked in her most innocent voice.

He let loose her hand so abruptly she stumbled backward; her fingers met the rough stone balustrade.

“Because you’re making a fool of yourself,” he growled. “You can’t spend all evening with one man and expect people not to talk.”

“Let them talk if it busies their small minds. Peter is a charming man.
He
appreciates me for what I am — an artist.”

She could scarcely make out Nicholas’s face in the darkness, but she heard his harsh bark of laughter.

“You’re a babe in the woods when it comes to playing society’s games, Elizabeth. Buckstone doesn’t care about any commission. He wants to seduce you.”

She had suspected that, but the thrill of designing the monument made her forgive the viscount’s motives. “I can manage him,” she said. “And I plan to win that commission for the monument on his Irish estate.”

Nicholas stepped closer, emerging from the shadows of a pillar. Moonlight gilded his classic features, the chiseled planes of his cheekbones, the slash of his lowered brow.

“What else do you have planned?” he bit out. “To share his Irish bed?”

Nicholas was jealous! Swallowing a bubble of exuberance, she kept her voice steady. “My plans are no concern of yours, Lord Hawkesford.”

“I see. I’m supposed to look the other way while my sister’s mentor cavorts with a notorious philanderer.”

“From what the ladies were whispering,
you’re
far worse than he is. By dragging me out here, you’ve probably done more damage to my reputation than he did.”

“I’m surprised at you, Elizabeth. I didn’t think you were the type to pay heed to gossips.”

Vexation pricked her. Why didn’t he deny the rumors about his prowess with women? “Oh, but in this case it’s more than idle chatter. I saw how close you were holding Lady Phoebe on the dance floor. I saw you whispering in her ear, no doubt arranging an assignation.”

She stopped short, afraid at the hardening of his face. Her fingers curled around the cool stone railing. From the garden came the rumble of a man’s voice; then the lilt of music masked the sound.