A Breath of Scandal: The Reckless Brides (4 page)

And it was an especially different thing when that ball was given under the aegis of the likes of Lord Aldridge for the express purpose of celebrating his
arrangement
with her. Because as much as he had promised to keep the spurious engagement secret, and not make any public announcement, he had clearly made at least a few private announcements. Odious man.

From the moment the Preston family, dressed in the finest fashions Mama’s economies could allow—freshly re-made muslin frocks with new ribbon trimmings—stepped out of the carriage Lord Aldridge had sent to convey them the six miles across the county line into neighboring Hampshire, Antigone found herself the object of more than a few probing glances, and any number of whispered confidences behind cupped hands and tilted fans. People were talking about her.

It was not the first time in her life that she found herself the object of idle speculation—she had gotten herself into many a scrape over the years, and her country neighbors were a garrulous, noisy lot—but this was the first time that the gaze felt … if not outrightly malevolent, then certainly not benevolent. The weight of the assembly’s judgment hung over her like the mythical heavy sword of Damocles, dangling from the merest thread, ready at any moment to fall.

And she felt ridiculous in the pale muslin gown. For one thing it was winter, and they were in England, and the flimsy material was no protection against the drafts in the cavernous house, let alone against the frigid weather. Though Cassie had gone to much trouble to trim the neckline and sleeves with dark velvet ribbon to signal their half mourning, Antigone still felt she was mutton dressed as lamb. She was too old, and too tall and spare for such a demure, girlish look. She was hardly the green, dewy-eyed girl she was dressed to portray.

Antigone tired to brush the feeling of unease aside, and concentrate instead upon her sister, who gripped her hand so tightly, the damned lover’s eye ring her mother had insisted Antigone wear cut into her fingers until her knuckles began to ache. “Cassie, dearest, it will all be fine,” she whispered into her sister’s ear. “No matter their silks and plumes, they are still only men and women. I will lay you a shilling that someone here will get just as drunk as Squire Hoskins did at the White Horse last November, only here they will have extra footmen laid on to help whomever it turns out to be up from the floor.”

Cassie answered with a quick, thankful smile, and nodded, as determined as Antigone to make the best of the situation.

But the whispers and glances continued, and even accelerated, when Lord Aldridge immediately approached to ask her for the first dance. “Miss Antigone. I hope you will do me the honor.”

Another invitation issued as a statement. As little as she liked it, there was nothing else for it but to accept as gracefully as possible.

“My lord.” Antigone curtsied and took her place where Lord Adlridge led her, at the top of the set. The dance was to be a stylishly forward quadrille, and thankfully not the new waltz that everyone in Wealdgate had secretly practiced, but never dared to dance in public. Hampshire was apparently fast, but not
that
fast.

Antigone kept her own counsel, and silently concentrated on the steps of the dance, until an inconvenient movement brought Lord Aldridge to her side.

“I saw you the other day, you know. Out on the downs. On that mare of yours.”

During the past months, Antigone had found the only way she could relieve her aching grief, and endure the resentful apprehension that burrowed deep into her chest at the thought of her spurious engagement, was to ride hard across the downs on Velocity, or take to the shelter of the forest and walk for hours with no company but her dogs. To let the wind howling across the downs shriek out her frustrations for her, and let the relentless rain pummel her until she was numb and exhausted enough both in mind and body to sleep through the night.

So the observation didn’t bother her—only its sly intent. Because, just as when he had gifted her with the mourning pendant she had also been forced by Mama to wear, Lord Aldridge’s slow, meticulously appraising glance managed to make her feel as if the rain that had only just begun to patter against the windowpanes was sluicing its chilly way down the back of her collar. Antigone felt her shoulder blades twitch beneath the light muslin of her gown.

Lord Aldridge remained impervious to her discomfort. He carried on conversationally. “I had taken my second best hunter out for the exercise. I haven’t ridden him much this season.”

“The Dutch warmblood chestnut?” It was an easy thing to say to turn his conversation away from the uncomfortable direction it seemed to be going—toward her.

“Ah, you’ve remarked upon him, have you? I’m not surprised. Gaius Caesar, I’ve called him. Superb hunter.”

What she recalled was that the green horse in question had deposited his lordship on his arse in a ditch during the second hunt meet of the winter season. And that his lordship had not been best pleased with his superb hunter then. “I take it he’s coming along?”

There was an infinitesimal narrowing of his lordship’s brows, to prove not even Lord Aldridge was as impervious as he liked people to think. “He’s learned how to go on. Needs a firm hand.”

What the big-hearted animal needed was a rider with more skill and subtlety than ham-fisted pride, but Antigone forbore from saying so, and settled for smiling over her private amusement.

Which had an unfortunate warming effect upon his lordship.

“There. You see, Miss Antigone. It is not so hard for us to carry on a civil conversation if you try. I know you are young, but we have much common ground in our interest in hunting and all things equine. It is probably fair to say that we have both admired the other’s ability as a rider.”

Aside from the arrogance of the statement, the man was at least in part right—she had admired many of his animals, if not his rather severe, tight-handed way of schooling them. But he had a point. Horses were one subject on which she and he might converse without controversy or contention.

At least not much contention. If she were good. And accommodating. And did not talk about his lordship’s being unhorsed into ditches.

She brought to mind her mother’s instructive warnings, took a page from her sister’s book, and attempted to lower her gaze demurely. “I’m sure you are quite right, my lord.”

His chilly smile thawed another few degrees, until it almost reached his gray eyes. “Perhaps you might like to visit my stables at Thornhill. Understand what
you
might expect—the benefits of the association—as well as what will be expected
of you
as Lady Aldridge.”

Oh, Lord give her patience. The man was serious. He honestly thought he could seduce her into the idea of becoming Lady Aldridge with the lure of his stables. It would be insulting if it weren’t so bloody clever. Because the uncomfortable truth was, if he were almost any other man in the country, it might have worked. If she were to be seduced at all—which she wasn’t—it would probably be by the likes of that promising Dutch warmblood. But his lordship was still ancient old Aldridge, with his cold eye and colder hands, and not even the promise of a stable as fine as his could make her agree to anything more than Mama’s waiting game.

And since she could not agree to such an untenable plan, and had been warned ad nauseam by her mother to say nothing if she could not say something agreeable, she held her tongue and spake nothing, and let the dance separate them until she could be silently returned to her sister’s side.

Indeed Cassandra was all but overwhelmed by the knot of young men who pressed forward for introductions, which Mama, with the assistance of Lady Barrington, was all too happy to give. Cassandra looked besieged, and Antigone was in the process of making her way through the palisade of elbows to aid her sister, when Lady Barrington stopped her with a tap of her fan. “Miss Antigone, we must take you in hand.”

“My dear Mr. Stubbs-Haye.” Lady Barrington called to one of the young men who had been drawn to meet the beautiful Miss Preston. “How do you do this evening? How is your dear mother? Miss Preston is already spoken for, but let me recommend Miss Antigone as a most desirable partner. We must have her dance this evening.”

Antigone made no objection to such an introduction. She would have been content to stay with her sister, but Cassandra appeared to have been persuaded to dance the set with a handsome young man by the very encouraging name of the Viscount Jeffrey, who was already leading her sister away on his arm. And Mr. Stubbs-Haye seemed nice enough.

For his part, Mr. Stubbs-Haye was also smart enough to know an order when he heard it, no matter how softly veiled, and self-interested enough to act upon it without delay. “I should like nothing better, my lady. I should be honored if you would consent to dance with me, Miss Antigone.”

She consented, the gentleman offered his arm, and at the cessation of one piece of music, Antigone found herself being led out beneath the dazzling chandelier to the middle of the crowded dance floor in almost happy anticipation of the next. In the uncomplicated, good-hearted company of a ruddy-cheeked sportsman like Mr. Stubbs-Haye, she might actually enjoy herself.

The musicians struck up a country dance, and Antigone tried to lose herself in the pleasure of the lively steps. But in a few measures, when they found themselves at the top of the dance for a moment, and the moment called for conversation, Mr. Stubbs-Haye ended all her enjoyment.

“Well, I must say, Miss Antigone.” Mr. Stubbs-Haye leaned his head across the gap to impart his confidence. “I am surprised to hear about you.”

“I’m not.” Antigone knew well enough from all the sidelong glances she had received that he must be referring to her engagement, but if rumors were to be shared, perhaps she might exchange Mr. Stubbs-Haye’s for one of her own. “And pray what have you heard about me?”

“That old Aldridge has his hooks in you. You don’t exactly look the type.”

His bald, nearly vulgar statement threw her uncharacteristically off her stride. An uncomfortable heat settled between her shoulder blades and no doubt blotched up her neck. She put something more tart than vinegar into her voice. “And pray what type is that, Mr. Stubbs-Haye?”

“Ah, ha-ha.” A roguish tilt of his head supplied all the innuendo his words had not. “Manners forbid a gentleman, and all that.”

“Manners ought to have forbidden a gentleman from making reference to a lady’s
type
in the first place, but that doesn’t seem to have stopped you, Mr. Stubbs-Haye.”

“Ha-ha. Too true. But I tell you something. When the time comes, and you want a man who knows what to do with a lively girl like you, you remember your friend Gerry.”

“Mr. Stubbs? Are you perchance drunk? Or merely suicidal?”

“Stubbs-Haye,” he corrected without an ounce of shame, smiling at her in a way that did not inspire confidence in either his sobriety, or in appeals to his gentlemanly character. “Ain’t you just a lively, taking little thing.”

And as she skirted past Mr. Stubbs-Haye to circle around the gentlemen next down the line, Mr. Stubbs-Haye reached down, and quite deliberately patted her bum.

Antigone knew this—the deliberateness—because the dance called for no touching whatsoever at that point in the proceedings.

She instinctively sidled out of his reach, her discomfort rapidly distilling down into ire. She may have been a country miss, more at home with horses and huntsmen than dandies, but surely manners in Hampshire were not so very different from those six miles away at home, as to permit gentlemen such liberties?

“Sir! I have no wish to be a ‘taking little thing.’” Antigone attempted to keep her voice low—Mama would have apoplexies if she heard her daughter employing sarcasm in Lady Barrington’s ballroom—but Antigone could only think dark humor was necessary in such a case. “Nor do I wish to be pawed at like a tavern maid, Mr. Stubbs-
Haye
. Please kindly confine your dancing maneuvers to the prescribed areas. Or—”

Antigone let her threat subside. If they had been in the upper rooms at the White Horse tavern she would have simply abandoned him on the dance floor and walked away, manners and appearances be damned, and seen to it that he was sent the wrong way on a hunt to come a cropper in a hedge. But they were not in Wealdgate village, and her mother’s tense instructions had not included direction on what to do when pawed by drunk, or otherwise obtuse, gentlemen. As it was, her forceful style of addressing Mr. Stubbs-Haye was drawing curious eyes in their direction.

Well, perhaps the censure of his peers would help to stifle Mr. Stubbs-Haye’s ungentlemanly urges. And yet it seemed to Antigone, not all those glances were friendly or sympathetic. The gazes of the couple now nearest to them—a windswept-looking blond man and his much fairer skinned sister, for their familial resemblance was unmistakable—darted back and forth between the partners, seeming to question what she had done to invite such unwarranted liberties.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Antigone felt the heat in her face flame higher, until she was sure it must be singeing her eyebrows. She certainly was
not
encouraging Stubbs-Haye. She had only just met the confounded man, in whose character Lady Barrington must be sadly deceived.

Antigone cast a glance over her shoulder toward the silk upholstered chairs where her mother sat with Lady Barrington, to see what they made of Mr. Stubbs-Haye’s egregious behavior.

Yet that proved to be an error of the gravest kind, for while her attention was diverted, Mr. Stubbs-Haye took the opportunity to make good on his vulgar promise, and reached down and
groped
her bottom. Roughly.

And that, as they were wont to say, was
that
.

Before another thought could force prudence upon her brain, and remind her that she meant to be good, and proper, and quietly supportive of her sister, Antigone simply hauled off and punched Mr. Gerald Stubbs-Haye with every ounce of indignant anger surging from her affronted behind. Luck, and the full centrifugal force of her blow would have it that she struck him squarely on the chin.