Unlocked (2 page)

“Very well, and
thank you
for the gracious inquiry,” she said, ignoring Lady Cosgrove’s delicate smirk. “And do tell—how are
yours
?”

“Leave off the talk of horses,” Westfeld said shortly. He wasn’t smiling, not even a little.

“True. Westfeld has been all round the world,” Lady Cosgrove put in. “He could talk about more exotic creatures than
pigs
or
ponies
.”

Westfeld didn’t glance at his cousin. Still, his lips thinned further. “Don’t.” His voice was steel. “Besides, I spent most of my time in Switzerland. I don’t consider the alpine ground squirrel to be particularly exotic.”

“Don’t tell me you saw
nothing
exotic.” Elaine let a hint of breathiness invade her tone. “Didn’t Hannibal lead all his elephants into the Alps?”

At Lady Cosgrove’s befuddled look, Elaine felt her smile broaden, and she gave herself a mental point in this match.

“You see,” Elaine said, “I know all about foreign animals. I haven’t any need to hear from Westfeld on that score.” And with that, she laughed.

Laughter was an act of defiance, although these two would never understand it. Elaine knew her laugh was
awful
: high-pitched and so loud that people turned to stare at her. When she laughed, she snorted in the most indelicate manner. Her laugh had been the cause of their torment all those years ago. And so when Elaine laughed without holding back, she sent them a message.

You cannot break me. You cannot hurt me. You cannot even make me notice you.

“Yes,” Lady Cosgrove said after a telling pause, “I can see you’re quite the expert.”

“Indeed.” Elaine beamed at the pair of them. “I attended a lecture given by a naturalist just the other week. He had traveled
all the way
to the Great Karoo.”

“The Great Karoo?” Lady Cosgrove asked. “Where—never mind. The animals there must be different indeed. Do they snort? Or squeal?”

Elaine waved a dismissive hand. “It’s a desert. There aren’t many creatures that make their homes there.”

Still, she had pored over his sketches of giant, flightless birds. He had said that the creatures put their heads in the sand when threatened. Apparently they believed that if
they
couldn’t see
you
, you could not see them.

She hadn’t seen why anyone would need to spend nine months traveling to Africa to find specimens that hid from the truth. No; one had only to travel half a mile to the nearest ballroom.

She had been the butt of jokes for so long now that denial had become second nature to her. It didn’t matter what people said; if you pretended not to hear it, they couldn’t embarrass you. She need show no reaction, need have no shame. If you didn’t acknowledge what they said, you need shed no tears. And so she’d hid her head in the sand and locked away everything about herself but a pale-haired marionette of a lady. Marionettes felt nothing, not even when they were presented with their biggest tormenter of all time.

She smiled, this time at both of them—Lady Cosgrove and her petty jabs, and Lord Westfeld, who had not so much as cracked a smile the entire time since he’d returned.

“No,” Elaine said brightly, “there’s nothing in all the African continent that could be considered the least bit foreign.”

Westfeld was watching her intently. That abstracted look on his face had always heralded a particularly cruel remark.

Beside her, her mother tapped gloved fingers against her skirts. “Lady Cosgrove, Lord Westfeld—I do thank you for giving your regards. It has been so long since we’ve seen you.” Her mother paused, and Elaine could see her drawing in breath and doing her best to make polite small talk. “The stars. They’ll be bright tonight. Did you know the moon is almost new?”

“Indeed,” Lady Cosgrove said silkily. “Tell us more of the
moon
, Lady Stockhurst. You know a great deal about it.”

A muscle twitched in Westfeld’s jaw. “No,” he said. He looked surprised to have spoken. “No. I didn’t come here to… That is, Lady Elaine, I came here to ask you to dance.” He turned his gloved hand out—not reaching toward her, just offering it up. Incongruously, she noticed that his gloves were kidskin brown—not a fashionable color.

How odd. Westfeld had always dressed at the height of fashion.

Despite that lapse, she would almost have thought him handsome, if she let herself forget who he was. Since she’d last seen him, the lines of his face had grown harsher, more angular. She could almost pretend he was a different person.

But the passage of years had not dimmed her memory of how this form of recreation would proceed. It was the game of “let’s be kind to Elaine,” and it had been played on her before.
Let’s invite Elaine to our exclusive party. Let’s invite Elaine to dance. Let’s make Elaine believe that we’ve forgotten how to be cruel to her.

The next step was always,
Now that we’ve lured her into exposing herself, let’s humiliate her in front of everyone.
She would have given up on society altogether, except that doing so would have left her mother alone and unprotected.

“You needn’t accept,” Westfeld said, so softly that only she could hear. “I would understand completely.”

And that was the hell of their jests. If she refused, he would know he had the capacity to hurt her. He would know that she feared him. He would
win
. And that was the
last
thing she wanted him to do.

And so Elaine smiled into the eyes of the man who had ruined her life. “But
of course
, Lord Westfeld,” she said. “I would love it above all things.”

Alas. Lady Elaine did
not
love dancing with him, Evan thought ruefully. She hated it.

Her hands were warm in his, even through gloves. She danced beautifully. She smiled the entire time. She also did not look at his face, not once. Instead, she concentrated her attention on the second button of his coat, even though she had to look down to do it.

What Evan needed to say to her was too important to be delivered cavalierly. But with talk so momentous on his mind, his skill for small conversation seemed to slip away.

Finally, he managed, “Your gown is lovely.” It was, he supposed, although he was hardly the judge of such things. Pink silk, large sleeves, a skirt so wide he might have tripped over it. Might
still
do so, if he didn’t watch his step.

Her gaze flicked up, and then back to his button, its touch on his face as temporary as a hawk moth flitting by a window.

“I’ve lost all sense of fashion myself,” he told her.

Her perusal of his coat became more marked, and too late, he realized what he’d said—he’d praised her gown, and then implied that he had no taste. It came out as the worst sort of backhanded compliment.

Lady Elaine raised her eyes to him. He felt a sort of shock travel through him as she did so. Her eyes were gray and luminous. She was smiling at him, but there was a knife-edge to her expression. “Indeed,” she said, her tone solemn. “I can’t recall the last time I saw a gentleman wearing
brown
gloves.”

A little bit of an insult in return. Good for her; he deserved it.

“All my gloves are brown,” he confessed. “It’s a habit remaining from my mountaineering days. If your clothing is too dark, it absorbs too much sun and you become overheated. If it’s too light, the dirt shows. I long ago abandoned fashion in favor of function.”

She raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“It’s the truth,” he said. “Would you believe I still have my waistcoat pockets lined with mackintosh?”

“I hardly know what to think,” she said. “I cannot envision you as anything except an outright
leader
of fashion. You were always quite the dandy.” She spoke lightly, but he could almost hear the accusation underlying her words. He
had
been a useless fribble.

His hand tightened about her waist. “People change.”
He
had changed. “I wish I didn’t have to do this.”

Her hands tensed against him, and her face went as still as a deer sighted in the forest. But she didn’t flee. Instead, that smile of hers broadened.

“How ungallant,” she replied. “You
did
ask me to dance. And here you represent yourself as a gentleman.”

“You misunderstand,” he said. “I do not wish you out of my presence. I wish I had not made it necessary to say what I must. I am sorry.”

She had never flinched at any of his insults. But at his apology, she jumped.

“I am sorry,” he repeated. “You cannot know how dreadfully sorry I am.”

“Whatever for?” Her face was so guileless that for one instant he believed she might forgive him. But then her eyes widened slightly. “Oh, there’s no need to worry about
that
,” she said. “It’s quite easy to misstep in the waltz. You must keep time carefully—
one
two three,
one
two three—”

She was addressing his button once again. He hadn’t misstepped, the little baggage. Somehow, over the years, she’d developed the talent of delivering the most splendid snubs in that breathy tone of voice. She hid her claws behind that innocent demeanor. But, by God, she was insulting him.

And, by God, he
liked
it. He liked that the fire and zest he’d seen in her that first Season had not completely faded. He glanced down and his gaze fixed on the creamy skin of her throat. For just one second, he contemplated leaning down and setting his lips right
there
, on her shoulder. He wondered, not so idly, what she would taste like.

She was probably counting the minutes until the waltz ended.

He shook his head. “You know what I’m referring to. My conduct all those years ago was inexcusable. I cannot ask for your forgiveness, because I don’t see how I could merit it. But I must let you know I regret it.”

She fixed her eyes on him. “You know, Westfeld,” she said, in that same breezy tone that she always employed, “I have no notion what you could
possibly
be apologizing for.” Her eyes cut away. “In point of fact, I scarcely recall you at all.”

Ouch.

A hint of color touched her cheeks. “If you are perhaps referring to the last time we danced—”

Oh, hell
. He didn’t want to think of that.

“—I assure you, I thought nothing of your inebriation. My father, Lord Stockhurst, says only a very weak fellow drinks to excess, and I am not so unkind as to hold your incapacity against you.”

He hadn’t been
drunk
, damn it. He’d been rude and boorish. And the venom in her words—coupled with that sweet, placid smile—answered his question. No, she wouldn’t forgive him. He could have guessed that from the start. As languorous as the waltz could be, she did not relax against him. The muscles of her back were tense and stiff against his hand. She was wary, as if she expected that at any moment he might savage her.

She had every reason to think ill of him. Yet, for all that, some errant corner of his mind paid avid attention to the pale pink ribbon threaded through the neckline of her gown. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he were to pull on it. Would the gown stay up, or…

God. Ten minutes in her company and he was fantasizing about her breasts again.

He was a beast: there were no two ways about it. He had apologized to her. And if she hadn’t accepted it…he might well be a beast, but he wasn’t the sort of man who would make a lady feel uncomfortable just so he could have the satisfaction of obtaining false forgiveness. If she wanted to pretend that she’d never been hurt, it was not his place to gainsay her.

She was light on her feet, and her gloved hand in his made him feel a whole range of uncomfortable things, from the unquiet stirrings of his lust to a pained, wistful sadness.

Damn, but remorse could run deep. There was nothing to do about this one, though, and so he folded it up and left it inside him. If he lived his life with only this one major regret, he’d count himself lucky. The waltz came to an end. And if his hand covered hers a little too firmly as he escorted her back to her mother, well, there were worse ways to apologize.

“Lady Elaine,” he started to say, and then could not find a way to finish the sentence. He gave her a little bow, and slowly relinquished her hand.

“Lord Westfeld.” She turned to leave, and then stopped, her gaze darting to the figures before them.

Diana had seated herself in a chair near Lady Stockhurst. The two appeared to be engaged in earnest conversation. As Evan watched, Diana leaned forward and set her hand on Lady Stockhurst’s shoulder.

Next to him, Elaine’s breath sucked in.

Lady Stockhurst looked up. Her eyes brightened as she saw her daughter, and she made a beckoning motion. Elaine slunk forward, each step slower than the last. Above her shoulder, Diana caught Evan’s eyes, and she gave him a slow, dangerous smile.

No. Not this again.

“Elaine,” Lady Stockhurst was saying, “I have just been talking with Lady Cosgrove.”

No, no.

Lady Stockhurst brushed at her hair, and a smooth, pale wisp came tumbling free. “And guess what she said? She told me that everyone here was interested in my work—so very interested! She suggested I might deliver a lecture on the final evening of the house party. She’ll present the notion to Mrs. Arleston. What do you think?”

It did not take a particularly intelligent man to tell what Lady Elaine thought. She stared straight at her mother. At her side, her gloved fingers compressed into a fist.

Because if there was a bigger laughingstock in all the
ton
than Elaine, it was her mother—her mother, who seemed dreamy and insubstantial half the time, never quite aware of her surroundings, entirely unable to follow a normal conversation. Ten years ago, she’d been prone to lapse into the most incomprehensible discussions at the drop of a hat, on retrogrades and periodicity of orbits. It appeared that hadn’t changed, either.

“I was thinking of discoursing on my comet,” Lady Stockhurst was saying. “They
did
tell me I might be made an honorary member of the Royal Astronomical Society, if ever my findings were verified. Although they haven’t quite come round to that yet.”