The Wedding Chase (12 page)

Zel felt her cheeks heat and gave her aunt a hard look. Did everyone in town know she was husband hunting? Aunt Diana directed her to a strategic sofa near the dance floor. Lady Mattingly, as good as her word, brought several gentlemen to sign her dance card. Lords Newton and Melbourne made an appearance with several leering friends in tow. All signed her card, but after their departure she fervently wished to raise the neckline of the revealing sapphire-blue gown. Her hand went to her bosom, she should have at least stuffed in a piece of lace.

She whirled through a country dance, cotillion, and ecossaise, becoming more hopeful by the minute that Northcliffe would fail to appear. Her hopes were dashed when her partner returned her to her sofa to find the villain conversing easily with her aunt and Lady Mattingly. Aunt Diana smiled stiffly. She would never show the slightest impropriety in public. Northcliffe was in his element, playing the charming man-about-town.… His eye, oh Lord, Smythe was right, she had done fine work. It had the loveliest shades of blue and purple, with just a touch of green. Spirits suddenly lifted, she advanced to her aunt’s side and smiled radiantly as he raised her fingers to his lips.

“
Enchanté
, Miss Fleetwood.” The deep, full resonance of his voice rippled across her skin, raising the tiny hairs on her arms and nape.

“Lord Northcliffe,” Zel murmurred, purposefully coy. “Your poor eye, however did you do that? It must hurt awfully.”

“My eye is well enough to see how divine you look.” He smiled, smoothly changing the subject. “That gown was designed to display your charms to their fullest advantage.” His eyes held that familiar sensual gleam as he scanned the wide expanse of skin exposed by her neckline. If he dared to pull out a quizzing glass, she would stuff it down his throat.

“Ah, my lord, still the consumate flatterer.” Zel tried to hold his eyes with a cool look, but as the image of his long-fingered hand cupping her bare breast flashed through her mind, she lowered her head to hide her flaming cheeks. Thank God the candle had been behind him, merely outlining his naked form, or she would have a more disturbing image with which to contend.

Damn the man!

Northcliffe took her card, signing for the remaining dance before she could respond. He caught her eyes, his challenge clear. Would she boldly refuse him? How would it feel to wipe that gleam from those insolent silver eyes? Aunt Diana’s light touch on her arm brought her whirling back from certain folly.

The strains of a waltz sounded. Zel looked for Melbourne to claim his dance.

“I fear your partner has abandoned you for the lure of the card room. I’d be happy to assume his place.” Pouncing before she could respond, he led her toward the dancers. His fingers curled around her arm, knuckles grazing the outer curve of her breast. Zel gasped, nearly pulling away, but he tightened his hold, forcing her to walk rigidly beside him. She would not make a scene, though she would dearly love to blacken his other eye. She glanced back toward her aunt. Melbourne stood watching them, mouth slightly ajar.

Twirling her smoothly onto the floor, Northcliffe held her several inches closer than the accepted twelve. Her muscles were clenched so tightly she feared she would shatter.

“Relax.”

“Relax,” she hissed. “Relax? I’ll relax when this dance is over and you decide to leave.”

He chuckled. “But you enjoyed our waltzes only days ago.”

“I do not enjoy this waltz, nor do I enjoy your company.”

He circled rapidly, drawing her close, until the tips of
her breasts brushed against his chest. Despite layers of cloth between them, she felt her breasts warm, the nipples harden. How could her body betray her so? How could she respond to such a scoundrel? She must learn to guard herself well around him and discover any means to avoid him.

Northcliffe loosened his clasp on her waist, the distance between them nearly respectable. “If I apologized on bended knee, would you forgive me?”

Her back stiffened. “I would doubt your sincerity.”

His mouth curved into the boyishly crooked grin that so disarmed her. “As it is useless to apologize, I must find another way to thaw your cold heart.”

“Does my heart really have anything to do with this?”

He laughed too loudly, then whispered close to her ear. “I wouldn’t know, madam. Does it?”

They finished the dance in silence, and as the music finally ended, Zel quickly took his elbow. She would control where those long, wicked fingers landed.

The next dances were with men she had just met but they hovered too close. One let his hand drift over her hip, another murmured an unknown word in her ear, his lips nearly touching her. She made it clear to them that their attentions were undesirable, but by the supper dance she was thoroughly shaken. Had these men seen her waltz with Northcliffe and assumed they could take similar liberties? But he had pulled her close for only a moment, no one could have seen. So what was she doing to encourage these attentions?

Zel’s supper dance partner was the youngest Mattingly son. He could not be a year over twenty, and she sighed with relief when he treated her as a respected elder. Being something of a scholar, he engaged her in a lively discussion on the classics. Northcliffe and his partner sat across the table. She could feel his eyes on her and kept her head turned to the youth beside her.

The evening improved as Northcliffe kept his distance
and her next few partners behaved. When she complained of thirst after an energetic reel, she was not surprised to hear Northcliffe’s even baritone offer to fetch her punch.

He turned, snagging a glass from a footman’s tray. “Regent’s Punch, for the lady’s refreshment.” He put the glassware into her hand, his light touch lingering on her fingers.

“Thank you, my lord.” Zel drank deeply, choking on the potent mixture. Removing the goblet from her hand, Northcliffe tapped her gently on the back until she ceased to cough. Putting her hand out for him to return the punch, she watched in mortification as he deliberately turned the rim of the glassware until the faint smudge made by her lips lay directly before his own. He drank slowly of the citrusy liquid, leaving one sip in the bottom of the glass bowl.

“Your punch, my dear.” He placed the stem into her still-outstretched hand, carefully positioning it so the smudge of both their lips faced her mouth, his eyes again offering challenge. Zel met his eyes and his challenge, calmly dropping the goblet to smash against the hard floor below.

His eyes glittered, a flash of surprise followed by amusement, laughter rising from deep in his chest. Startled, she tried to draw away, but his fingers circled over hers. Several of the men near enough to witness the exchange joined his laughter. Northcliffe raised her hand to his lips, his voice low and welcoming. “Well met, Miss Fleetwood.”

Zel disguised a sharply in-drawn breath with another little cough. Oh, the man certainly had nerve. He must have made a formidable, if wildly reckless, captain. But who would have feared him more, the French or his own men?

Lord Newton stepped forward for his dance, happily, this time not a waltz. But she never felt comfortable in his company, and the expression in his eyes told her clearly that he had observed the preceding interaction with cold amusement.

The dance with Newton heralded the evening’s complete collapse. When her next partners were improper to the point
of insult, she cravenly hid in the retiring room, feigning a headache until her aunt summoned a carriage to take them home.

Wolfgang reined in at the little town house on Brook Street, handing the phaeton’s ribbons to his groom. A curtain fluttered in a second-story window. By the great horned demons, he’d blundered again. He was far too predictable. Without thinking, he’d come at the same time as yesterday and she would set her dog on him again.

He jerked about at the rumble of another carriage, then flashed his teeth at the aged dumpling inside. His luck was in. Mobilizing his best manners, he handed Lady Selby down, escorting her to the door. The clairvoyant little butler answered as usual before he could knock, and ushered them into the small front parlor. No dog in sight. His smile widened to a full grin. Zel must have seen Lady Selby and called in the hound. He graciously—yes, he felt quite gracious—assisted as Lady Selby settled her carmine-clad self on a sofa with legs entirely too thin for her voluminous bulk.

Distant, sharp vibrations of a harpsichord twined about the endless stream of words flowing from Lady Selby’s mouth. The complex melodies and rapid runs surrounded and bounced off the droning conversation in a strangely agreeable counterpoint. Zel was playing that fellow Bach. He listened to the music, nodding frequently to Lady Selby, thinking of the private performance Zel had promised and never delivered.

Moments after the music stopped, his quarry appeared with aunt and dog in tow. Shouldn’t the hunter have the hound, rather than the fox? And what a lovely, intriguing fox she was. Whoever dressed her now certainly knew their business. The clinging sea-green muslin gown hid not a single curve. The cloth looked so soft, so smooth, that touching
it would surely feel like stroking bare flesh. He stretched his fingers, itching to massage the skin lurking beneath.

Wolfgang shook his head. That thought and similar others had filled his mind and dreams since the Mattinglys’ ball last night. He could still see her as the goblet shattered on the floor, a barely leashed storm-at-sea shimmering in her eyes. He had taken her hand when what he wanted was to pull her to him, kissing and caressing away the chains that bound her passion.

Now he moved quickly to her side, again taking her hand, and before the dog could so much as bare its teeth, shoving Jenkins’s special treat into its gaping mouth. As he kissed her fingers, the beast plopped onto the floor at their feet, chewing noisily.

Zel looked down, then swiftly back to Wolfgang, her voice a fierce, husky whisper. “Did you poison him?”

“I’d never punish an animal for his mistress’s temper.” He met her glare with a triumphant smile. “What’s his name?”

“Remus. I sometimes call him Mouse.” She seemed to soften, albeit unwillingly.

“Raised by wolves, like his Roman predecessor?”

“No, by dog breeders.” Humor? She must be softening.

“What breed is he?” Wolfgang led her to a sofa near the window. What was behind this agreeable manner?

“He is an Irish wolfhound.” Pride echoed in her voice.

“I’ve never seen his like.” The dog gobbled the last of the dried meat and followed them to the sofa. Wolfgang watched him uneasily, but he sat docile and quiet by his mistress. How long would it last?

“The wolfhounds were a popular breed centuries ago, too popular in fact.” She reached over to scratch the beast’s curly haired muzzle. “Kings and nobility gave them so freely as gifts to foreign royalty and diplomats they all but disappeared.”

“And are they bred to a particular function?” Wolfgang wanted to keep her on the subject to which she’d warmed.

Zel smiled broadly. “As their name implies, they were bred to hunt wolves.”

Wolfgang jerked, then contained himself. Her voice sounded so matter-of-fact, but there was a glint of cool metal in those eyes. Was she warning or teasing him? He asked a bit stupidly, “Remus is a hunter, then?”

“He comes from a long line of superlative wolf hunters.” She raised the dog’s head, brushing the hair from its eyes. “The Irish wolfhounds were so successful in ridding Ireland of wolves, they actually furthered their own decline.”

“How unfortunate for them.” He aimed a tentative grin at mistress and hound. “And fortunate for any remaining wolves.”

“Northcliffe, Mrs. Stanfield says you have been pestering Miss Fleetwood.” Lady Selby’s stentorian voice carried clearly across the small room.

“Dear lady, how could a few posies and calls brand me a pest? I’m hurt to the quick.” He turned to his hostess. “Mrs. Stanfield, tell me the problem so I may amend my behavior.”

Mrs. Stanfield spoke with obvious reluctance. “I suppose it’s not just you. Zel received several bouquets this morning and refused to show the cards. She was embarrassed and upset.”

“But my flowers had no card.” He stood, the hound raised his head, eyed Wolfgang lazily, and dropped his muzzle back on his paws. “Not being even an adequate poet, I planned to deliver my message in person. Miss Fleetwood would you kindly explain. I’d like the chance to clear myself.”

Zel blushed crimson, shaking her head. Wolfgang glanced from woman to woman, surprised at Zel’s lack of rejoinder, but Lady Selby and Mrs. Stanfield resumed their conversation, seemingly content with Zel’s refusal to comment. Being unused to acquiescing to stubborness, unless it
was his own, he determined to pursue an answer. He settled back down beside her, placing his leg over a portion of her skirt where it lay draped across the sofa.

“About those cards.” He kept his voice only slightly above a whisper.

“There is nothing to speak of, and it is not your concern anyway.” She matched his volume, her tone sharp.

“You’re upset.”

She tried to rise but was well trapped. The fine cloth would rip if stretched further. “Get up.”

“I’m very comfortable where I am, thank you.”

“You are on my dress.” She was hissing at him again. Her voice made a very pleasing hiss, low and sibilant. He found himself beginning to like it.

Wolfgang smiled blankly at her. “Tell me about the cards.”

“You win.” The hiss subsided but her eyes still flicked green venom. “Several of the men I danced with last night wrote … questionable remarks on the cards accompanying their flowers. Not what I believe a lady would expect, but then I do not have vast experience in receiving flowers.”

“Did you do anything to give them cause?” If it had been possible for her to spit venom at him, she would have. “What did the notes say?”

Zel’s renewed blush proved the perfect antidote to the earlier poison. “I cannot repeat them.”

“Give me an idea, did they praise your hair, your ankles?” Wolfgang felt his patience thin. “You haven’t been reticent about risqué conversation before.”