A Rogue in Sheep’s Clothing (2 page)

As if she weren’t listening, her mother pulled the covers over Ellie’s bare shoulder. “All the same, wear the pearls tonight and help your family. It’s every young lady’s duty.”

Her mother was right, of course, and Ellie knew it. Brokenhearted or not, she must do what she could for the sake of her sisters. And she had to admit, wearing the pearls would be exciting. She threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Thank you for giving me something to look forward to, Mama. You’re the nicest person in the world.”

“Your Papa is pretty nice too, sweet darling. He would never sell Manifesto unless he absolutely had to.”

“I understand … I just … don’t know who I am without my horse.”

• • •

Leaning against a white panel in the Mortimers’ ballroom, Ellie tried to catch her breath from dancing. The party elated her. Tomorrow, when her father’d had a night to think, she’d convince him to sell something other than Manifesto. Uncle Sebastian had left them plenty of valuable things. And the evening was so lovely, it was impossible to feel blue. Mothers and chaperones lined the walls in a colonnade of damask, silk, satin, and jewels. Young ladies floated in clouds of muslin — their faces flushed with excitement, their hair swept high and fastened with glittering combs. The Mortimers had decorated with garlands of pine strung around the ballroom, offset by sprays of silver birch at every pillar. Lit by candles, perfumed by pine, the ball was too beautiful for tragedy.

And there was the attention of the men to distract her, too. The moment Ellie and her sisters arrived, a phalanx of eligible bachelors pounced. She felt radiant, graceful, and tinged with sadness — a combination the male sex seemed unable to resist.

As she fanned her brow, Howard Fastham spied her through the crowd. Ellie ducked behind the fan’s folds.
Would Mama want me to marry Howard Fastham?
The thought made her queasy. He’d paid her no heed at last year’s ball. Haughty, inaccessible, Howard seemed powerful then. But with the soil still fresh over Uncle Sebastian’s body, Howard led the pack of men who’d sniffed around Fairland like dogs looking for a cozy spot. His grandeur had crumbled before her eyes.

“Lady Ellie,” Howard cried. “How lovely you look this evening.” He tipped the front of her fan down and focused a broad, yellow-toothed smile.

“Why thank you, Mr. Fastham.” The magic of the night died as Howard’s eyes rested on the Fitzcarry pearls.

He stood on tiptoe and rocked toward her. “The Mortimers outdid themselves this year.”

“Yes, the ballroom is splendid.”

Rolling back on his heels, he added, “And how is your eldest sister, Lady Peggity, this fine evening?”

Of course he wanted to know about Peggity. She would inherit the pearls. “La, can’t you see her on the dance floor, Mr. Fastham? I’m afraid she’ll be without a partner in a moment. Perhaps you’d better rescue her.”

Howard smiled ingratiatingly. “You’ll excuse me then.”

Cruel, really, to foist him off on Peggity
, Ellie thought,
but could he be a more obvious fortune hunter?

Tony Binge Harper, another dog in the pack, caught her eye as he elbowed through the crowd.
This is just too much
, she thought, twisting her fan.
And just when Howard Fastham’s round rump finally disappeared.

She pushed off from the wall, intent on escape. Before she’d taken a step, however, someone’s heel landed on her foot. “Ouch, you beast!” she said.

“Good gracious. So sorry,” said the “beast,” turning swiftly and splashing her with white wine.

Ellie eyed the splattered front of her gown. “Now look what you’ve done. I’m a mess.”

The beast yanked a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket. “Use this,” he said, accidentally brushing her breast.

Ellie shied from his touch. “My heavens, sir, cease and desist! Now, give me your handkerchief, slowly.” As she took the linen square, her hand halted in mid air. The sour look she intended for her assailant melted.
La, what a handsome man
. And then she realized she’d seen him before, but where? Dark eyes, nearly black, met her own, a hooked curl bisected his forehead, meeting the edge of a scar that crossed the ruddy crest of his right cheek.

I’m staring
. Quickly she pretended to swab a spot of wine at her waist. Her breath went shallow and her thoughts scattered, but a smile tipped the corners of her lips. She’d had the great good fortune to be trod upon by one of Devon’s most elusive bachelors, Hugh Davenport, Earl of Bruxburton — one of the few gentlemen who’d failed to call at Fairland. A pulse of pain reminded her of her foot. “I … I think I need to sit down,” she told him.

“Ah yes … ” said Hugh, searching for an empty chair.

Putting the tiniest bit of weight down, Ellie received a powerful jolt. “I’m afraid I’ll not be dancing again this evening.”

Hugh’s back straightened and a hard look seeped into his eyes.
Is he annoyed?
she wondered.

“Well, there must be a chair here somewhere.” He moved off on the hunt.

Ellie took a few limping steps after him. “I’ll need your assistance.” He came back and eyed her suspiciously. “Your arm, in fact,” she told him.

His lips hardened, but he looped her arm through his. As they passed a row of seated grande dams, every eye watched with envy.

At an alcove, Hugh stopped to let her pass. “In here,” he said.

“I can’t go in there alone with you.”

“Did you see a free chair on the floor?” he said. “Because what I saw was a row of plump sugar plums, and none of them likely to abandon her seat.”

“People will say I’ve been compromised.”

“Nonsense. I couldn’t possibly compromise anyone in an alcove shielded by a simple palm tree. A young lady compromised in such a manner either wants to be or wants to pretend she was. Which one are you?”

“Neither,” snapped Ellie.

“Then sit.” He whacked back the palm revealing a gilded bench by the wall. “Besides,” he continued, following her into the alcove, “your reputation will swell in direct correlation to the amount of time spent in my company.”

As she sat, she rolled her eyes. “La, what an extraordinary view of oneself,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear or ignore, as he saw fit.

Hugh cocked an eyebrow. “I tell you nothing but the truth.”

“But we haven’t even been properly introduced.”

“Are you implying that you don’t know who I am?”

A burning pricked her cheeks.

He folded his arms. “I thought so.”

Unable to think of a retort, Ellie straightened her skirts. “Well, as long as we’re here, would you be so kind as to bring over that footstool?”

With stunning grace, he lifted the stool and placed it in front of her. She caught his eyes on her trim ankle as she rested her foot on the upholstery.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked.

“Yes, just fine.” She tucked her skirt tight around the leg. He stepped back, assuming an air of indifference.

She unlaced the ribbon affixing her slipper and massaged the damaged crown of her foot. A red bump had formed.

“Not such a bad wound,” he said. “You’ll be dancing the next jig.”

“It is swollen and throbbing,” she replied. “I may be confined to this alcove all evening.”

He threw a haunted look over his shoulder at the ballroom.

Ha, thinking of escape, are we?
She smiled. “Are you back in Devon to stay?”

“I am,” said Hugh. He peered through the palm fronds again. He wouldn’t look at her.

Well, if he’s going to devastate my foot, I’ll jolly well make him suffer a bit, too,
she decided. She twirled the magnificent strand of pearls about an index finger. “Lovely weather we’re having,” she said, reveling in his discomfort.

A hand went through his hair, the picture of agitation. “Yes, rather.”

“It already feels like summer.”

“Exactly like summer — I was thinking the same thing.”

“Were you, Lord Davenport? When?”

“When … when?” He paced the alcove as if searching for the exact moment he realized it felt like summer. “When I was in the garden the other day.”

“Ah, in the garden,” said Ellie.
Was he sweating? Very possibly he was sweating.
“Would you like your handkerchief back?”

“Perhaps that would be best.” Snatching the crumpled cloth from her, he ignored his dewy brow and stuffed the linen in his pocket.

Does he think I’d want to keep his silly handkerchief because of the insignia?
The conceit of the man.
“The spring foals will have a fine time of it with the warmer weather.”

“I say, you’re an Albright, aren’t you?” he said, as if struck by a revelation. “Your family owns Manifesto.”

Misery swept through her at the reminder of her father’s decision. “We do,” she said, swallowing.

“He’s a speedy animal.”

“Very fast, and he jumps like a winged angel.”

“My guess is his offspring will be toppers.”

“You predict correctly.”

“Amazing luck, your father putting him up for auction — I’m planning to bid on him tomorrow.”

Ellie’s throat went tight. “I beg your pardon?” she choked.

“Yes, at the horse fair. You must have known. When else was he going to sell?”

“I … I suppose I wasn’t thinking properly.”

“You seem upset.”

Ellie scarcely heard him. “Yes,” she said.

Hugh flipped the tails of his coat and sat on the edge of the bench next to her. “You didn’t know Manifesto was on the block tomorrow, did you?”

“Funny, no. I thought we’d have him a bit longer.”

“Sorry for springing it on you.”

Ellie couldn’t respond. Her thoughts were like the noise of a coach and six tearing through her brain.

“Are you disheartened? Maybe I should get you something to drink. It could help.”

She looked at him, and the sympathy in his eyes sliced at her last vestige of control. She turned away and blinked back tears. “I’m afraid I don’t want anything,” was all she could say. Silence filled the alcove like thick fog.

Hugh blew out a long breath. “How’s your foot?”

“It’s better,” she said, struggling to squeeze out the words.

“That’s good. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can bring you?”

Shoving agony to the farthest reaches of her heart, she said, “That’s all right. Would you mind leaving me alone?”

“No, of course not,” he replied. “I suppose I’d feel the same way if Manifesto were my horse. But we’ve got some prime mares that will make him happ — ”

“Could you fetch my chaperone?” she interrupted.

“Are you quite sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, my lord. Thank you for asking, but a moment alone is all I require.”

Hugh hovered, backed toward the alcove’s opening. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and slipped through the palm.

Seconds later he reappeared. “How will I know which chaperone is yours?”

Ellie closed her eyes. She hated this man, this man who dared to try to take her horse. “According to your own self-assessment,” she hissed, “my chaperone will be the one paying closest attention to this alcove.”

• • •

Feisty thing, Hugh thought, scanning the room for anxious chaperones. Ach, God help him, his mother had an approving look in her eye. She must like the Albright girl.

Another set of eyes fed on him. By the near wall sat a woman so large she seemed to have taken the chair into her flesh and consumed it whole.
The chaperone
. On the verge of approaching, he realized his mother would think he was inquiring about the Albright wench. Though the girl had looks, with her blue eyes and white hair, she was … well, entirely too appropriate. Gad, every biddy with an eligible chit had her net out for him. Aristocratic pimping — the whole thing disgusted him.

“Jake, take care of the young lady in the alcove for me, would you,” he told a bewigged footman in velvet livery. “She needs her chaperone. Do you see the woman sending that chair to its death? She’s the one.” He slipped the man a shilling, and caught the attention of a second liveried servant. “Give me a glass of that stuff you’re carrying.” Hugh tossed back the champagne in a single gulp. “Wait, Willy, another.”

The footman grinned. “Lord Davenport, you’re a bit out of breath.”

“A close call with a damsel in distress.”

“Would you want a third, my lord, or will that glass hold you?”

Hugh clapped the footman on the shoulder. “I’m good for now. I’ll hunt you down if I have any further frights.”

It was a point of pride with Hugh that he knew most of the servants by name in the grand estates around Exeter. People of the lower classes were kind and generous. Whenever he’d had difficulties it was the serving class that came to his aid, not his mother, and certainly not the neighboring gentry.

When his mother had scandalized the family name, the eyes of the upper classes went to slits as if studying him for signs of infectious disease. That is, until his father died, leaving him sole heir.

As he strode through the ballroom, he could see the question on the lips of every doe-eyed girl and rapacious mother. Had he chosen the Albright girl?
Do something before the gossips hit their stride!
he told himself. Hortense, Lady Mortimer’s comely kitchen maid, popped into mind. With her fizzy hair and fleshy breasts, Hortense was always ready, willing, and able to rescue a gentleman in need.

“My fellow revelers,” he said, joining the well-tailored Eton ne’re-do-wells he called his friends, “did you happen to see Hortense slopping sauce down someone’s cravat tonight?”

“Why, are you in the market for a stain?” asked Poultney Bigalow.

“A blot on the family crest?” added Algernon Swift.

“A saucy piece to wrap around your neck?” Poultney added, raising his eyebrows.

“Bawdy bunch,” Hugh said. “Our Hortense may have a giddy hand with a platter, but she’s unmatched at extracting a fellow from a parson’s mousetrap.”

Algie saluted. “Godspeed, man. I believe I spied your protector feeding trays to the footmen.”

• • •

Hortense’s pert behind led the way directly into Hugh’s groin as she backed through the kitchen door balancing a tray of oysters in one hand and a magnum of champagne in the other.