What a Lady Requires (17 page)

Despite their interlude in the carriage, Emma still wasn’t certain she could carry off their ruse. Miss Conklin’s lessons had included etiquette and the intricacies of dance steps, but to act on this scale…Emma definitely knew she’d never been destined for the stage.

As she took her place opposite her husband in the middle of the dance floor, Battencliffe’s lips stretched into a languid smile. At least one of them was enjoying this. “Now, remember, you only have eyes for me.”

She hardly needed the reminder the way her lips still tingled. It felt as if every eye in the room was drawn to them. The mask covering half her face did not help matters. It also left no room for her spectacles. She couldn’t see any farther than his face with any clarity. But even if she had been permitted to wear her spectacles, looking was the simple part.

The flicker of myriad candles in the overhead chandelier cast her husband in a favorable light. He was by far the handsomest man in the room, but when he held her gaze and his blue eyes glittered as he smiled, when she recalled his sudden, fiery kiss in the carriage, she could almost believe he’d developed an affection for her.

“How will anyone know who we are?” she replied.

“Oh, they all know. The masks are another part of the show. Identities are hidden only as far as it’s convenient. When it suits people to know who you are, they’ll suddenly recognize you.”

He stepped back, leading her into the first turn, expertly guiding her between the other couples, the hand at her waist as steady as an anchor. And all the while, he watched her as if she were the only woman in the room. Each effortless movement emphasized his complete control over her every step, and yet she felt elevated. Each change of direction spun them up and up and up.

Was this how she was meant to feel, light and airy, like a bubble dancing its way heavenward through a glass of champagne?

“There,” he said over the music. “You just keep watching me with that exact expression, and everyone will forget your father and my brother arranged our marriage. In a year, all of society will swear we sought each other out and made a love match.”

“As much as that? And how am I looking at you? How can you even tell when I’m wearing a half mask?”

His grin stretched to the point of insufferable. “Oh, I can tell. One might liken it to adoration. Or worship.”

Behind the cover of her mask, she lowered her brows.

“I see that,” he teased. “You are completely ruining the effect.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to overdo things.”

He dipped his head close enough that his breath wafted past her ear. “You’ll force me to use my secret weapon yet. Don’t think I won’t.”

“If you’re talking about your sad excuse for a sense of humor, please do not subject these poor, unsuspecting lords and ladies to such torture.”

His grin turned downright devious. “You’re afraid I’ll make you laugh in front of all these people, and then everyone will know you delight in the most god-awful puns known to mankind.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Would he? She let her gaze drift past his shoulder. The other dancers swirled in an ever-changing pattern of multi-colored blurs. “I do have a reputation to uphold.”

“Yes. And some things I don’t wish to share.” His voice dropped to a husky note that made her think of the bedchamber and his unfulfilled promise on the journey here. The entire room seemed to sway, the way the carriage had. Or perhaps it was the way he led her through the dance.

The persistent ache he’d awakened had taken up permanent residence deep in her belly, a hum of desire, low and constant and ever hungry. A new companion that liked to surprise her at the most inopportune moments with vivid images of Battencliffe doing all manner of wicked things to her willing body. Like now.

“I like this,” she commented.

“What?”

“This. We’re not arguing.”

“I believe it’s called banter. Highly recommended.”

Somehow, feigning affection for him became easy. Perhaps she wasn’t even pretending, not entirely. Was it possible to fall in love over the course of a single dance? But maybe it had happened over the last few days, when he’d shown her caring and passion. When he’d opened himself and let her see the vulnerable man inside him. When she’d faced his worst and realized she could forgive, because she knew he would not make the same mistake twice. The guilt that gnawed at him was punishment enough.

All too soon, the music ended on a flourish. Battencliffe’s fingers tightened about her waist for a moment before he released her, but just as surely, she sensed their presence at the small of her back, the touch light, steady, and warm as she worked her way through the crowd.

How disappointing husbands and wives did not dance consecutive sets—when they danced at all—not even purported love matches. It was so much easier to forget society’s scrutiny in the midst of a ballroom, surrounded by music. Emma could nearly pretend they were alone in the middle of the throng.

“Will you hold it against me if I leave you with your aunt and cousin?” he asked from behind her. He was steering her toward the end of the room where the chaperones and wallflowers generally sat. Until recently, it had been her preferred haunt.

“I ought to, but I may as well get the niceties over with.”

“I believe I shall do my penance straight off and ask your aunt to dance a set with me.”

Emma nearly stopped in her tracks. Only the firm pressure of the hand at her back kept her on target. “If you can convince her to dance with you, I shall be in your debt.”

“Will you? How interesting. I shall have to put some thought into how you might repay me.”

The sudden heat in his tone sent a rush of red creeping up her cheeks. How in heaven’s name did he do that? A simple lowering of his voice conjured all manner of wanton thoughts. Pure seduction, that was what he was, and he likely knew it.

“And isn’t it a pleasant evening, Miss Strawbridge?” He bowed over Uriana’s hand, eliciting an uncharacteristic giggle. “Mrs. Strawbridge. How are you enjoying the festivities?”

“I daresay they’ve just improved somewhat.” Aunt Augusta adjusted her mask, but the pinch of her lips rendered her instantly recognizable. “Now that you’re here, I believe you might introduce my daughter to a few of your friends. The unmarried ones with connections, if you don’t mind.”

Uriana blushed in turn. “Mama, please.” It was as much of a protest as the girl would voice.

Battencliffe’s smile did not waver. “I’d be happy to discuss which of my friends you might deem appropriate for your daughter if you consent to the next set.”

Behind the cover of her mask, Aunt Augusta raised her brows. Emma could surmise as much from the movement of her forehead. “I hardly think that is necessary. A turn about the room would accomplish as much.”

Battencliffe bowed. “As you wish.” He glanced at Emma, and she could have sworn he winked.

The moment they moved out of earshot, Uriana’s gloved fingers closed about Emma’s upper arm. “Thank goodness. Now you can tell me everything.” She delivered the statement on a breathless note Emma had only heard when her cousin was sighing over Mr. Crawley. “Oh, say he’s not a drunken lout as he appeared when he first called on your papa.”

Emma unfolded her fan and waved it slowly in front of her face. “No, surprisingly.” In fact, while he indulged in a glass or two of wine or brandy, he imbibed much less than most men of his station—but then, he had good reason to avoid intoxicating himself.

“You looked quite happy with him just now.”

Emma eyed her cousin, knowing the true intent behind that observation. “It seems he’s an excellent dancer.”

There, let her make of that what she would. Uriana did not get a chance to reply to the statement directly, however. Instead, she beamed. “Mr. Crawley.”

The newcomer inclined his head. “Miss Strawbridge, Mrs. Battencliffe. I was wondering if I might convince either of you two ladies to dance.”

He may have addressed his words to the both of them, but he looked straight at Emma.

“I’m certain my cousin would be delighted,” she replied smoothly.

“You’ll save me a set later?” he persisted. “I’ve been looking for a chance to have a word with you.”

“With me?”

“Indeed. We’ll talk later.”

She was about to ask what he could possibly have to discuss with her when she recalled a previous social event. He’d been oddly persistent about approaching her then, too, at least until Battencliffe had interrupted. Interrupted and staked his claim in no uncertain terms.

A few weeks ago, she might have rationalized Crawley’s pursuit as being connected with her substantial dowry, but now? Her husband was even acquainted with the man. She’d seen Crawley’s name in Battencliffe’s ledgers.

As Crawley melted into the crowd with her cousin, she turned the questions over in her mind. Something was eluding her, something she ought to have set her finger on straightaway. The thought niggled at her brain, but nothing solidified out of the mass.

Instead, a new couple emerged from the dance floor. The man, tall and grizzled, somehow looked familiar. Emma squinted. Ah, yes, Anstruther. He exchanged a knowing glance with his partner before giving a decisive nod and heading in the direction of the card room.

The young lady turned and, with a smile, approached Emma, her face coming more clearly into focus.

“Lady Lindenhurst.”

“I’m certain I asked you to call me Cecelia.”

She had, but Emma didn’t feel a large social gathering such as this was the place to make light of the formalities. Miss Conklin surely wouldn’t. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Lord Anstruther.”

“Good heavens.” Cecelia flapped a hand in front of her face, clearly forgetting the fan that dangled from her wrist. “I nearly married the man. I’m grateful it didn’t work out, though, as I’d never have married Lord Lindenhurst. And I’d much rather be married to him.”

Lindenhurst. The name settled uneasily on Emma’s heart. “Battencliffe is here, as well. Will that cause any difficulties?”

“Lind has ensconced himself in the card room. He’s promised to avoid any uncomfortable encounters. The masks make that so much easier. It’s simply a matter of pretending you don’t recognize someone.” Cecelia swept an all-encompassing arm to indicate the ballroom full of guests. Then she turned a penetrating gaze on Emma. “Are you now aware of the nature of their dispute?”

“I am.”

“I’m glad. I wouldn’t want to continue to tiptoe around the situation when we might find a solution. I’d like to hope they can come to occupy the same room without calling each other out.”

“Solution?” A quick glance about proved no one else was near enough to overhear their discussion. Still, Emma slipped deeper into the corner. “I’ve no idea how you’d manage, given the nature of the affair.”

“Lind is now happily married, and I intend to ensure he remains that way. I might hope for the same outcome in your case.”

Emma attempted a smile, but she feared it came across as more of a grimace. Blast it, and she was meant to act the love-struck bride, too. “We’re making a valiant effort.”

And didn’t that sound romantic? The act was so much easier to carry off in Battencliffe’s presence. Once he left her, the doubts crept back in.

Cecelia reached out and squeezed her arm. “I had my share of challenges with Lind. I’ve every confidence you’ll get there in the end.” She waved her arm in another expansive gesture. “Isn’t this all so diverting? It’s been ages since I’ve gone out in society.”

Something about that statement called to mind Aunt Augusta’s declaration of this woman as scandalous. A person to avoid, to cut, even. Not that Emma would do so when she knew exactly how that felt. She’d be damned if she’d turn herself into Emily Marshall. “You don’t normally come to London for the Season?”

“Lind has spent the last six years on his estates. It took a great deal of convincing for him to agree to come.” Cecelia smiled and her brown eyes sparkled. “But most men succumb eventually if you go about your convincing the right way. At any rate, I’m ever so glad I came.”

“Of all the…” exclaimed a new voice. “It cannot be. A relative of mine hiding in the corner.”

Emma turned her head to find Lady Epperley peering at Cecelia through her lorgnette. Like the other attendees, the dowager wore a mask. Unlike the others, her mask was a relic of the previous century, a bejeweled contraption sporting orange ostrich plumes. The woman could not pass incognito if she wished. Henrietta Sanford stood at her elbow, not so much a prop for age as a contrast in staid colors.

Cecelia bowed. “Do you know Emma Battencliffe?”

Lady Epperley snapped her attention to Emma. “No, but I should like to.”

Emma paused midcurtsey. “My lady?”

“Albemarle tells me you know a thing or two about finances, and I am quite interested in hearing what you have to say.”

“I beg your pardon?” Emma could hardly believe a lady of her position was initiating such a crass topic as money in so direct a manner. “Albemarle?”

“Oh, yes. Albemarle would have attended if it hadn’t been for this silly masquerade business.”

“Oh, did he refuse to don a mask?” Henrietta asked.

“Of course not. He’s a cat. Cats do not need masks.”

Cecelia quashed a smile. “Naturally.”

“Well…erm…” Emma cleared her throat. “Finances.”

“Yes. I’d like to know where a young lady learns of such things.”

Ah, so Lady Epperley was going to take her to task for her knowledge. “My papa taught me all he could.”

“And he thought that was an appropriate education for a young lady?”

Henrietta was nodding emphatically, and Emma took courage from the support. “Yes, my lady. I also like to pay close attention to the kinds of things gentlemen discuss in the card room.”

“And what sort of things are those?”

“Railways, for instance.”

“I see.” Lady Epperley pursed her lips, but Emma couldn’t quite tell if the expression was censorious or approving. “And what do you think about that particular project?”

“It has potential, depending on various factors. I’ve yet to research it fully, so I cannot recommend it at this point. Others will give you a different opinion. Lord Anstruther, for example, thinks it would be a waste of resources since a canal system already exists.”