Blood Marriage (3 page)

Nicholas didn't realize he was scowling until one particularly plain brown wren fidgeted nervously, her wrinkled face stretching into a strained smile. He smiled back in acknowledgment and she blinked rapidly, one hand going to her gray hair in an almost girlish gesture while with the other she fanned herself briskly. He started to turn away when his attention was arrested by a young woman leaving the refreshment salon. 

Her blue-black hair was knotted in a simple bun at the nape of her neck, save for two heavy coils that hung loose on either side of her face in the Spanish manner. It was not a fashionable style but it suited her well, giving her a look of both sophisticated elegance and soft innocence. Thick black lashes and wine-red lips stood out in stunning contrast against cream white skin. The simple blue dress she wore was as outdated as her hairstyle, stretching snuggly over high, full breasts, curving in at the waist and then falling past softly rounded hips. She walked with a slow gliding regalness, her back straight, her head high, her hips gently swaying.

Balancing three glasses of punch in her hands, she moved across the ballroom, apparently oblivious to all the male eyes, including his own, that followed her progress. Nicholas's carefully maintained control slipped at the sight of her and the chaotic smells, sounds and colors of the ballroom rushed in to assault his senses. 

Hunger flared, its intensity taking him by surprise. His lips tightened against his teeth. He closed his eyes, fighting for control. When he opened them again she had reached a knot of young bucks standing near a tall potted plant. 

One of the men, a corinthian in a wildly striped waistcoat, stepped away from his fellows to block her way. Nicholas knew the boy. Jamie McClintock was a rowdy lad, known for his heavy drinking and skirt chasing. But for all his wild Scottish ways, he was harmless enough. At least Nicholas had always thought so.

The Scot said something. The dark-haired beauty shook her head and tried to go around him. McClintock sidestepped with her, blocking her escape. Like sharks tasting blood in the water the other young men moved in. Nicholas looked around expecting a parent or chaperon to swoop in. What was her family thinking to let her wander about alone in a London ballroom? It was tantamount to abandoning a kitten in a wolf den. 

By the outdated cut of her dress he guessed her the daughter of one of the landed gentry. Country folk standing the expense of a season in the hope her beauty would be enough to win her a well-heeled husband, dowry or no. There were a few such girls each year. Most returned home disappointed. That would not likely be the case with this one. With her striking looks and elegant carriage she would have no trouble securing an offer. 

The young men had her surrounded. McClintock reached out and wrapped a finger around one of the dangling locks of gleaming black hair. Insolent pup! Was he trying to ruin the girl in front of the entire
ton
? 

Nicholas started forward, but before he could take more than a few steps McClintock's eyes widened, his mouth rounded. He released the girl and jumped back, punch dripping from his fancy waistcoat. The other bucks roared with laughter, their attention redirected to tormenting their friend. The dark-haired goddess, mouthing apologies and clutching her now empty glasses, backed away. She slipped back into the refreshment room as a ripple of laughter passed through the nearby crowd. Nicholas smiled. There was a country kitten who could take care of herself.

The urge to follow her into the refreshment salon, to learn more about her, was alarmingly strong. His expression sobered. He was engaged to Amanda Blakely. But even if he weren't, he could not allow himself to be distracted. Time was short. Vlad had someone he wanted Nicholas to meet, a doctor friend from the old country. They would be expecting him and even the promise of a second crown wouldn't keep that jarvie waiting in the park forever.

The card room had been a disappointment. No sedately dressed companions had lurked on the comfortable couches that lined its paneled walls. Nor had a lady young enough to be the one Vlad had described sat at the card tables. Nicholas needed to find the girl quickly. It shouldn't be that difficult to locate a lady's companion. Her very ordinariness should make her stand out like a brown hen in a crowd of exotic birds like this.

Miss Elizabeth Smith
-- even her name was ordinary. Perfect. Though somehow, after seeing the dark-haired girl, he'd lost whatever enthusiasm he'd once possessed for finding her. Vlad had said she'd taken a position as a companion to the Countess of Glenbury. Nicholas recalled the dowager vaguely from a brief meeting years ago, but like every member of London society he was familiar with her reputation. The countess was a gossip of the first order, able to talk non-stop for hours about the tiniest details of the latest scandals. He'd questioned Vlad's wisdom in directing him to any female connected with such a woman, but Vlad had been insistent in his quiet way. This was the one they'd been looking for, the one suitable for their purpose.

If what Vlad said was true she should be easy enough to find, or at least would have been had he not been forced to seek her in a ballroom crowded with the scents of so many warm-blooded creatures. He'd hoped to locate her without attracting the attention of her mistress. It wasn't wise to stir the curiosity of a busybody like the countess, but he'd wasted all the time he cared to waste tonight.

A polite inquiry to a pair of ladies seated against the wall gave him the countess's direction. She was seated near the terrace doors. He must have walked past her when he'd entered the Huntington's ballroom. Nicholas moved to a vantage point where he had a clear view of the countess and her lady friends and allowed himself a moment to study his prey. She was sitting next to the countess and Lady Barton. Both were ignoring her, their heads leaned close together as they spoke. 

He'd expected a plain female. Those who made their living as companions to the wealthy generally were, either by birth or by design. But Nicholas was surprised to see that this companion was dressed quite fashionably. Though the fact that her yellow gown made her skin look sallow and clashed with her red hair meant it was probably one of her mistress's castoffs. Perhaps he should consider himself lucky. She was a surprisingly pretty girl. Or might have been save for the sour expression on her face. 

He glanced over his shoulder toward the refreshments salon. McClintock and his friends were gone. There was no sign of the dark-haired girl. Best to get it over with.

Both the countess and Lady Barton froze in mid-chatter to stare, mouths agape, when he stopped in front of them.

"Good evening, ladies," he nodded. A set for a cotillion was forming behind him. It seemed a good excuse to avoid having to converse with the older women. He extended his hand and, with the social arrogance allowed the heir to a dukedom, ignored the proprieties and didn't wait for a proper introduction. 

"May I have this dance?" he asked the girl in the yellow dress.

"I would be delighted!" 

The speed with which she rose to her feet and placed her hand on his arm took him by surprise. He'd expected her to make her excuses, giving him an opportunity to suggest something else, something less public. Perhaps her condition was not yet too advanced. 

Suppressing the instinct to escape the cloying fog of heavy perfume that engulfed him, Nicholas led her onto the dance floor and took a position opposite her in a line of dancers. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Countess Glenbury and her crony, smiling and speaking rapidly, their heads so close together the white feathers in Lady Barton's headdress became entangled in the countess's ribbon and flower concoction. They were still struggling to free themselves when the music started.

"I am so pleased to be asked to dance by a real gentleman, Lord Devlin," the girl said as they executed the first in a series of bows. "I have been pushed about the floor by the clumsiest oafs this evening. I was about to give up dancing altogether." 

The girl giggled at this last statement as though she'd said something quite clever. Nicholas kept his expression neutral. Apparently she took that as encouragement because the next time the steps of the dance brought them close enough for speech she said, "Mama says you have property in both Cornwall and Devonshire, as well as a grand house here in London."

Nicholas was spared having to affirm this partial listing of his assets by the fact that almost immediately the steps of the dance separated them once again. 

Vlad had said the girl's mother was dying of cancer. Why would a woman on her deathbed be discussing his assets with her daughter? It was not unusual for the husband-seeking daughters of the
ton
to know every detail of any and all eligible prospects. Marriage among their class was business after all. But a companion, even a pretty one, had little hope of marrying out of her situation, unless it was to a merchant or clergyman. Even the most naive of females would have considered the only son and heir to a dukedom quite out of reach. 

As the dance proceeded Nicholas was treated to more of the girl's insipid conversation. He said little, letting her talk of all the balls she'd attended since the season began and the ones she would attend over the next few weeks. Nicholas had stopped listening. Had he really thought this girl pretty just minutes ago? The music finally ended. Nicholas bowed over the girl's hand.

"Thank you, Miss Smith." 

Anger filled her eyes. Bright red blotches appeared on her face and arms. She slapped him, her kid-gloved hand popping explosively against his flesh.

"I am not Elizabeth!"

The ballroom went silent around them. Hundreds of curious eyes turned in their direction. He heard the countess gasp, followed by the sound of a punch glass shattering against the ballroom's polished floor. The dowager rushed forward to embrace her daughter, but Nicholas barely noticed the woman as she brushed past. His eyes were fixed on the seats the countess had just vacated. 

There, beside an obviously delighted Lady Barton, sat the dark-haired goddess.

Chapter Five

"Oh, my darling girl! My sweet Harriet!" 

Nicholas caught the flash of fear in the dowager's eyes as the crowd moved closer, surrounding them. He almost felt sorry for the old gossip-monger. The Countess of Glenbury knew better than most how a scandal of this sort could destroy an unmarried girl's reputation and bring shame on her entire family. That Harriet might have been the innocent victim of a randy bachelor would make no difference. Her name would be on everyone's lips and the speculation would go both ways. Had Devlin said or done something lurid to drive the girl to slap him? Or was Harriet spoiled, unable to conduct herself like the well-bred lady she should be? 

Which it was wouldn't matter in the end. The countess had made plenty of enemies over the years with her malicious prattling. The chance to turn the tables on her would be too good to pass up. The hiss of whispering could already be heard.

"Just a silly misunderstanding, I'm sure..." The dowager directed a pleading look at Nicholas. Harriet's expression remained angry, as if she was unaware of what such a public display would cost her. 

"A misunderstanding?" the girl's mother prompted Nicholas again. He opened his mouth to speak, but a bright voice interrupted him.

"Oh, Harriet, you poor thing! And you with such a terror of spiders. How awful for you!" All eyes turned toward the dark-haired beauty who'd come to stand beside the girl. She spoke to the countess, her voice pitched to carry to the far corners of the room. "It was simply enormous!"

A muted gasp ran through the crowd. Several ladies and a few gentlemen backed away in alarm.

"Have you been out in the garden, your lordship?" the beauty asked.

Nicholas stared down into wide violet eyes. The sweet scent of her reached out to envelope him, calling to him. He took a step closer and inhaled deeply. She was intoxicating. Even in a crowd this large, with all the odors that assaulted him, he could smell the difference in her blood. This was the one Vlad had sent him to find. This was that rarest of creatures, a female hemophiliac.
Elizabeth Smith.
Hunger unlike any he had ever known ignited within him. 

"Your lordship?" 

"Yes, I came in from the garden not long ago." He saw relief in her eyes. 

"Well then, you must have brought it in on your hair. It was a truly large spider." Elizabeth played her part convincingly, selling her story to the crowd. "I could see it from where I was sitting." She gestured back to their seats.

"Yes, I saw it as well!" the countess chimed in. "My poor girl is terrified of spiders of any sort, but to see such a large one and so close... Well, surely your lordship can understand her panic. She acted without thinking."

"Yes, it was the shock." Elizabeth's gaze traveled the crowd, engaging their empathy. "Poor Harriet. Say you forgive her, my lord. Please?" 

Nicholas looked into those stunning eyes and knew he, and nearly any other man, would willingly say or do anything she asked.

"Yes, of course. I forgive her." Nicholas inclined his head. He would show this violet-eyed actress he could perform as well as she. "Not only do I forgive her, I thank her. I would not care to have a creature like that take a bite of me. It couldn't be healthy. Lady Harriet is a heroine as far as I'm concerned. She may well have saved me a trip to the physician." 

Elizabeth arched a dark brow at him, as if to say he needn't take it too far. 

Nicholas smiled at her. Then he bowed to Harriet, who had remained silent during this bit of play-acting only by virtue of the vise-like grip her mother had on her arm. He wouldn't be the only one with a mark on him come morning. 

Already murmurs rippled through the crowd as one suggestible peer after another claimed to have spotted the spider. Ladies eyed the floor with alarm, lifting their skirts. It would be a story that would make the rounds of gossips for days, but one that could do neither Harriet nor him any real harm.