The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (2 page)

Although not pleased with the interruption, Angelica seized the moment to cool her overheating senses and reclaim her wits, suborned by Debenham's too-handsome face, mesmerizing eyes, and disconcertingly tempting body—a novel occurrence for her. She'd never suffered such an
enthrallment
before. She'd certainly never got lost in a man's eyes before.

Admittedly, he was her hero, which presumably explained his marked effect on her. Nevertheless, that he could so effortlessly capture her senses and steal away her wits left her wary.

Millicent, Claire, Julia, and Serena had claimed the conversation, animatedly performing, their bright gazes flicking again and again to Debenham, clearly hoping to engage him, yet while he paid polite attention, he made no response.

Angelica slanted a glance at his face. The instant she did, he looked down and their gazes touched . . . locked.

A heartbeat passed.

She caught her breath and looked away—at Julia, presently relating some thrilling story.

Debenham's gaze lingered on her face for a moment more, then he, too, looked at Julia—and shifted fractionally closer to Angelica.

Her heart leapt, then thumped heavily.

He felt it, too. He was as intrigued by the link between them as she was.

Well and good. Now how to capitalize, how to gain them an opportunity in which to explore further?

A hidden violinist tested his strings.

“At last!” Millicent all but jigged. “The dancing's starting again.” Her shining eyes shamelessly implored Debenham to ask her to dance.

Before Angelica could react, he brought his cane forward and leaned more heavily on it.

Millicent saw, realized she shouldn't force him to explain an injury that prevented him from dancing; enthusiasm undimmed, she turned her encouraging gaze on Millingham.

Who accepted the cue and solicited her hand.

The other gentlemen stepped up to do their duty by asking the ladies beside them to dance; accepting that Debenham wouldn't be swirling about the space clearing in the salon's center, Claire, Julia, and Serena accepted with alacrity, and the group dispersed.

Leaving Angelica standing between Debenham and Theo, and facing Giles Ribbenthorpe. Theo met her eyes, smiled and saluted her, nodded to Debenham and Ribbenthorpe, and moved away into the crowd.

Ribbenthorpe, who could read the signs as well as any other man, nevertheless arched a brow at her and, lips curving, inquired, “Will you dance, Miss Cynster?”

“Thank you for the invitation, Ribbenthorpe, but I believe I'll stand out from this set. However, Lady Cavendish will be thrilled to see you on her floor, and Jennifer Selkirk”—she tipped her head toward a young brunette standing alongside her dragon of a mother—“could do with rescuing. I suggest you play St. George.”

Ribbenthorpe turned to survey the Selkirks, then laughed, bowed, and, still smiling, walked off. Angelica was pleased that he acted on her suggestion and drew Jennifer onto the floor.

Finally alone with Debenham, she dropped all pretence of acceptable social distance and pointedly directed her gaze at his cane.

He hesitated, but then obliged. “An old injury from before I first came to town. I can walk, but can't risk dancing—my knee might well collapse under me.”

Raising her head, she studied his face. “So you've never waltzed?” She loved to waltz, but if he was her hero . . .

“Not never. I was old enough to have learned and indulged at country balls prior to the accident, but I haven't waltzed since.”

“I see.” Leaving that disappointment aside, she turned to more immediate concerns. “So if you haven't been circling the floors at Almack's or anywhere else, what avenues have you been pursuing in your quest to find your bride? You're not easy to overlook—given that I, and Millicent and company, too, were unaware of your existence until this evening, I would own myself surprised if you'd attended any of the major events this past week.”

His eyes again held hers, as if gauging what would be acceptable to tell her.

She tipped up her chin. “Don't tell me—you've been haunting some gaming hell, or carousing with friends.”

His lips curved in wry amusement. “Sadly, no. If you must know, I spent several days organizing to have some rooms in my London house refurbished, after which my first social forays were, unsurprisingly, into the clubs. Given I've been absent from town for so long, it was . . . unexpected, but gratifying to find so many still remember me.” He paused, then added, “Then Lady Cavendish's invitation arrived, and I thought it time to test the waters.”

“So I've caught you at your first ton event.”

“Indeed.” He heard her satisfaction. His eyes searched her face. “Why are you preening?”

“Because, in ton parlance, that means I've stolen a march on all the other young, and not-so-young, ladies.”

He looked down at her as if inwardly shaking his head. “As much as I find your candor refreshing, are you always this forthright?”

“Generally, yes. Creating unnecessary complications through overnice adherence to the social strictures has always struck me as a waste of time.”

“Is that so? Then perhaps you'll tell me—in all candor and without any overnice adherence to the social strictures—why you inveigled Curtis to introduce us.”

She opened her eyes wide. “
You
were hunting
me
.”

He held her gaze. “So?”

She'd expected him to deny it; the look in his eyes, an expression she associated with an intent and focused predator, made her breath tangle in her throat, but she evenly replied, “So now I'm hunting you.”

“Ah. I see. That must be some new twist in the customary matchmaking dance.” He glanced briefly around, then returned his gaze to her face. “Although I confess I haven't noticed any other young ladies being quite so bold.”

She arched her brows. “They're not me.”

“Clearly.” He looked into her eyes for a moment more, then said, “So tell me about Angelica Cynster.”

His voice had lowered; along with his changeable, mesmerizing eyes, it lured her on, as if reeling her in. She decided it wouldn't hurt to let him think he was succeeding. “Anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm twenty-one going on twenty-five, and am commonly held to be the most confident, stubborn, and willful of all the Cynster girls, and none of us could be described as wilting flowers.”

“You sound like a handful.”

She arched a challenging brow at him and didn't deny it.

The musicians launched into a second waltz. He hesitated, then said, “If you would like to dance, please don't feel obliged—”

“I don't want to dance.” She glanced around. The attention of all those not waltzing was focused on the dance floor, on the couples now whirling. “Actually . . .” She looked up and caught his gaze. “I'm finding it rather warm in here. Perhaps we might stroll on the terrace and get some air.”

He hesitated; again she got the impression that he was inwardly shaking his head at her, and not in an approving way. However . . . “If that's what you wish, by all means.” Gracefully, he offered her his arm.

She put her hand on his sleeve, felt steel beneath the fabric, and smiled delightedly, as much at herself as at him. Her pursuit of her hero was underway.

His cane in his other hand, he very correctly escorted her to the open French doors that gave access to the terrace and the gardens beyond. Stepping over the threshold onto the terrace flags, she breathed in, savoring the near-balmy night. A wafting breeze caressed her nape, her throat.

The Cavendish House gardens were old, the trees large and mature, their thick canopies shading the steps at either end of the long terrace and deepening the general darkness of the night. She looked around, noted several other couples strolling in the faint light of the quarter moon, and steered Debenham in the opposite direction.

He noticed; although he obliged, when she glanced up, into his eyes, despite the shadows she sensed his disapproval, underscored by the set of his chiseled lips.

She widened her eyes. “What?”

“Are you always this . . . for want of a better term, forward?”

She tried to look offended, but her lips wouldn't oblige. Regardless of any disapproval, he'd fallen in with her suggestion; they were slowly strolling further down the terrace that ran the full length of the salon. “I realize that gentlemen like to lead, but I'm impatient by nature, and also direct. I want to get to know you better, and you want to get to know me, and that requires being able to converse in private, so”—she waved at the expanse of deserted terrace before them—“here we are.”

“We've only just been introduced, and you've engineered a private interlude.” His tone held more resignation than complaint.

“I see no point in wasting time, and”—she glanced pointedly at the salon's wide windows—“trust me, there's nothing the least illicit about this. We're in plain sight of the entire room.”

“All the occupants of which are facing the dance floor.” He shook his head. “You're as bold as brass.” His gaze rose to her hair. “Just like your curls. Your brothers have my sympathies. You have two of them, I believe.”

“Indeed. Rupert and Alasdair—or Gabriel and Lucifer, depending on whether you're within hearing of our mother or aunts.”

“I'm surprised neither of them is here, lurking in the shadows, ready to step in and ride rein on you.”

“I grant you they would try were they here, however, happily, these days they have better things to do—wives to attend, children to dote over.”

“Nevertheless, you strike me as the sort of mettlesome female who requires a permanent keeper.”

“Strange though you may think it, not many would agree with you. I'm generally held to be remarkably sane and thoroughly practical—not the sort of female any perspicacious gentleman would attempt to take advantage of.”

“Ah—so that's why no one seems to be keeping any close eye on you.”

“Indeed. It's an outcome of being viewed as twenty-five, rather than twenty-one.”

He glanced back along the terrace; she did, too, noting the two other couples still strolling near the door.

When she looked back at him, he said, “You said you wanted to talk. About what?”

She studied his face, taking in the telltale features, the clean, strong lines that unequivocally placed him in her social class. “I'm puzzled that I can't place you, that I can't recall ever having seen you. When were you last in London? Theo thought it was four years ago.”

“It was five. I first came to town in '20, and the last time I graced London's ballrooms was in June of '24. I've visited the city on business over the intervening years, but had no time for socializing.”

“Well, that explains it—I wasn't presented until '25. But perhaps you remember my sisters?”

He nodded. “Yes, I remember them, but in those days I wasn't interested in
young
ladies. I spent more time avoiding them than chatting with them, and I don't believe I ever spoke with your sisters. We were never introduced.”

“Hmm . . . so your return to the ballrooms in search of young ladies is something of a novel endeavor for you.”

“You might say that. But tell me, what of you?”

They'd reached the end of the terrace; halting at the top of the steps leading down to a gravel path, she glanced out into the gloom of the garden. The light thrown by the salon's windows ended several yards back; the spot where they now stood was enveloped in dense shadows cast by nearby trees.

Drawing her hand from his sleeve and turning to face him, putting her back to the garden, she met his gaze and arched a brow. “What do you want to know?”

“You're clearly very much at home in this sphere. Do you spend all your time in London?”

Looking into his shadowed face, she smiled. “As a Cynster, I've been a part of the ton for all my life, so it's hardly surprising that I'm at home within its circles. That said, I spend only the months of the Season in town, and perhaps a month during the Little Season. For the rest of the year I'm in the country, either in Somerset, where I was born, or visiting family and friends.”

“Do you prefer the country, or town?”

She paused to think.

He glanced back along the terrace.

Idly following his gaze, she saw the last of the other strolling couples returning inside.

Then he looked at her again, and she refocused on his eyes. “Whether I prefer town or country is not easy to answer. I enjoy being in town with all the associated amusements and entertainments, but if, in the country, I had other things to occupy my time, my energies—other challenges to satisfy me—then I suspect I could be entirely content remaining far from London.”

He looked into her eyes for a long moment, then glanced down and propped his cane against the balustrade. “I have to admit”—straightening, he met her gaze—“that that's something of a relief.”

“A relief?” She wanted to know, so she asked. “Why?”

He looked into her eyes, and she looked into his. Time seemed, oddly, unexpectedly, to suspend, to thin and stretch. Slowly, gradually, puzzlement rose and grew; she let it show in her eyes.

“My apologies.” The words fell from his lips, soft and low, so deep they were almost a caress.

She frowned. “What for?”

“This.”

Clapping one hand over her lips, wrapping his other arm around her, he picked her up. Holding her against him, he went swiftly down the steps and into the garden.

Shock, complete and absolute, held her frozen as he carried her into the deep shadows under the trees.

Then she erupted.

Behind his hand, she screamed, then wriggled and fought against his hold, but his body was as hard as rock, and the arm locking her against him might as well have been iron for all the give in it. Realizing the futility, she abruptly went boneless, slumping in his hold.