The Rogue’s Prize (31 page)

town. Fuss and spoil you anon. Dress

you in fanciful clothes with plenteous

frills, furs, and lace.” He fixed his gaze

upon her and then he tsked. “Indeed, I

would. That’s what women adore, isn’t

it?”

Constance inspected her attire,

knowing her status was far beneath the

man. Her cream-colored evening gown,

a cap-sleeved, round-cut design trimmed

in flowing ivy, revealed too much of her

enlarging bosom, a fact made even more

apparent when she gazed down upon her

pointed, laced slippers. In keeping with

her usual preference, she wore no

jewelry but her mother’s silver locket,

which dangled tantalizingly into the

crevice of her breasts.

Her

appraisal

complete,

she

glanced up and found Stanton studying

her. His tongue slipped out to fully taste

a droplet of punch on the side of his lip.

Powdered, primped for devilment, there

was something familiar about his ill-

timed maneuver. She opened her mouth

to speak, but could not form the words.

Clearing her throat to mask her

discomfort, she asked, “Why is standing

by your laurels a pity?”

“Your pardon?” he asked.

“You said, ‘More’s the pity.’ Why

is standing by your laurels a pity? Many

people live happily outside the ton and

are better for it.”

“You misunderstand,” he hastily

confessed. “I only meant ‘more’s the

pity’ because I might have met you ’ere

now should you have been presented to

the ton in good time. I can assure you,

that day would have been never

forgotten.” He winked, and then gazed

into the crowd. “You have many

admirers,” he admitted, turning his focus

back upon her.

“So it would seem.”

“Tsk. Tsk,” he whispered, turning

her face this way and that with his

gloved finger. “I would think having

admirers would thrill a young woman of

your station, but I sense no exhilaration.”

“You

misunderstand,

Lord

Stanton,”

she

said.

He

stood

conspiratorially near, his body radiating

welcome heat. “I do not like being put

on display.” She wanted nothing more

than to hide from the spectacle she

created, and especially the one Burton

would produce before the violinist

played his last note.

“Why the sudden interest in the

social season then? Has your father

specific designs upon you?” he asked

innocently.

“I cannot say,” she said, turning

away. Her heart twinged and her next

breath strangled in her chest.

“My curiosity is beyond piqued,”

he said. “Why does your father dangle

his jewel before us now?”

She refused to answer. Thankfully

his attention was drawn elsewhere so

that her silence went unnoticed.

“What is this?” he asked, waving

his quizzing glass this way and that

before holding it up to his eye. Passing

his gaze upon the crowd, Stanton

parried, “Is another gentleman a jeweler

in search of our gem? No,” he said

shaking his head vehemently. “No, this

man simply does not have the talent to

appraise our coming out miss. If you ask

me, he’s been unable to assess his own

sense of style.”

She followed the direction he

indicated until the object of his scrutiny

appeared. “Lord Burton? Surely you do

not speak of that particular gentleman?”

“Is he not wealthy? Titled?” After

some scrutinizing, he asked, “Can he not

afford a good tailor?”

“Wealth and finery do not make the

gentleman. A gentleman is made of more

than outward appearance.”

He gasped. “You, my dear, are

indeed a prosperous find. Dare I say

I’ve met a woman who cares not about

wealth, prestige, nor the preoccupations

of the ton?” He raised his quizzing glass,

appraising her head to foot. “Odd’s fish!

I’m confounded.”

“Not without risk,” she stammered.

He lowered his voice so only she

could hear him. “And is the risk great?”

His question held more passion than she

thought appropriate.

“Indeed.”

The closer Burton came, the higher

Stanton lifted his spectacle. She found it

odd that the Marques put her at ease. But

what surprised her even more was the

fact that Stanton’s devil-may-care air

tantalized her sensibilities. His graceful

movements appeared spontaneous yet

calculated, feminine yet strong. The man

was a conundrum. How was it possible

for one’s personality to be at odds with

oneself?

Perhaps

his

flamboyance

garnered her attention above all others

present because the life she was

intended to live did not appeal. Or

perhaps there was more to the man than

he led on. Constance did not have

enough experience with men of the ton to

know the difference, but if she believed

her own philosophy of what made a man

a gentleman, shouldn’t his nonsensical

behavior be suspect?

Burton advanced. She made sure

not to make eye contact. He was a man

adept at hiding his hideous nature.

Whatever Stanton’s character flaw might

be, however, he made it impossible for

her to put her finger on what rattled her.

That was most vexing of all. Proven

more so as he spoke and broke her out of

her musings.

“Will you introduce me to your

friend?” Stanton suggested.

“That
gentleman
is no friend of

mine,” she argued without fear of being

subjected to a litany of Burton’s

achievements. Other women might be

playing coy, but that was far from her

abilities where this gentleman was

concerned.

“The look in his eye proves

otherwise, my gel.” His words forced

her to turn and focus on Burton.

“Lady Constance,” Burton said

forcing his way between them, “at last I

have found you. I’d hoped to sign your

dance card.”

“Forgive me, but I’ve not had the

pleasure, my good man. I’m Percival

Avery.”

The two lords faced each other.

Stanton’s nasal introduction comical as

he bowed low, his arm bent behind him,

his quizzing glass held out to the side

with a flourishing sweep of the arm.

Rising, he then looked to Burton to

return the favor.

Burton did not. “
Lord
Montgomery

Burton,” the man said without any pomp.

“I’ve had the pleasure of advising your

father.”

Constance did not approve of

Burton’s rude dismissal of the man

who’d shown her kindness. She could

not be sure of it, but she thought

Stanton’s eyes narrowed during the

exchange. There was a clever alteration

in his demeanor. His stance appeared

more rigid than before and he seemed to

struggle with civility. But quicker than

taking a deep breath, the man popped

Burton under his chin with his quizzing

glass, the movement sharp, unexpected.

“I’m afraid Blendingham has never

mentioned you,” he huffed. “Had he done

so, I’m sure he would have paid

particular notice of your attire, sir. Who

is your tailor?” he demanded.

“My tailor?” Burton stammered,

now forced into conversation with the

man.

Raising the looking glass to his

eyes, Stanton peered at Burton’s clothes

and frowned. “Odd’s fish, I’ve never

seen such a disgrace!”

“Pardon me?” Burton gulped,

turning three shades of red.

“Come now. No need to get your

cravat ruffled, which may be something

you need to watch out for since it has

most assuredly been so poorly made. I

have a motto, Burton. A man without a

proper cravat will never resemble an

aristocrat.”

“How dare you!” Burton fumed.

Stanton took Constance’s arm.

“Come, dear. I believe I’m inked in for

this dance. Besides, this
gentleman
,” he

said, “has unconscionable manners. I

wouldn’t dream of letting him ruffle your

voluptuous collar.” His eyes gazed

appreciatively down her décolleté.

Gallantly, he took her by the hand, turned

her away, and then squired her to the

dance floor with pomp and swagger that

brought a smile to her lips.

“Lord

Stanton,

you

are

a

scoundrel,” she teased, fearful of

Burton’s retaliation.

“A man is what he is,” he offered

without reservation. “Nothing more,

nothing less.”

“And what kind of man are you?”

“What kind of man indeed,” he

said. “’Tis a question I often ask

myself.”

“’Twould seem you are a paradox,

sir.”

The dancers parted, then do-si-

doed and sashayed back and forth

through the line until Constance and

Stanton faced each other again.

“Life is to be enjoyed, not labored

in vain. Isn’t that so, Lady Constance?”

he asked.

“Only if one has the privilege of

forgoing labor,” she quipped.

“Touché!” he said, twirling in a

circle. “I, for one, intend to enjoy life,

not experience it only as society

demands.”

“Then you are privileged.” She

smiled,

suddenly

heated

by

his

wandering stare, which had a way of

straying to her cleavage.

Music undulated in the air. She

withdrew her eyes from his and gazed

about

the

crowd.

Burton

stood

impatiently at the edge of the dance

floor. The lieutenant stood in the

opposite corner, nearest the veranda

doors. She was surrounded. A good man

desired something her father would

never openly allow. Another more

disagreeable choice, one her father

sanctioned, desired what she would

never willingly give. Now she was

dancing with a man who cast her

worries away with verve and finesse. If

only it were her choice, perhaps then —

Stanton winked, sashaying back

into place. Heat crept up her neck. She

wasn’t used to playful scrutiny. When

this man gazed at her, his eyes did

something to her insides. And when their

eyes locked, the room swayed and her

heart drummed riotously to the music.

She was not worthy of Stanton’s

attention, of any man’s consideration, for

that matter. She’d seen to that by

succumbing to a rogue’s charms.

Oblivious to her turmoil, her

partner swaggered his way down the

line with practiced ease. As she watched

him, she became more certain she did

not want the Marques’s attention. She

was unworthy of his interest and

support. But as panic rose in her breast,

she was consumed anew with fears and

doubts. What was to become of her? Of

her child? What kind of future would her

child have if the truth of her

indiscretions leaked out?

Feeling a swoon coming on,

Constance closed her eyes to get her

bearings. But no sooner had she done so

than she felt a slight pressure on her arm.

Opening her eyes, she lifted her gaze and

found Stanton staring down at her oddly.

He said nothing, but ably guided her

toward the refreshments as though he

could read her mind, a matter that

unsettled her.

“You’re flushed. I thought you

might need some air.” His concern was

real.

“Yes. Thank you,” she said.

Burton stepped forward to intercept

them. He reached out to take her hand

but

Stanton’s

handkerchief

floated

gracefully into the air with a flourish,

waving him off.

“I’ve been asked to escort her, sir.

I’m quite adept with the vapors.”

The vapors? Heavens, the things

this man said. She kept her mouth shut,

ever anxious to escape Burton’s sharp

tongue. Surely the moment he got her

alone he would make her pay for her