A Summer Seduction (5 page)

Mr. Portland had just started to inquire whether she
wished a glass of Champagne when Damaris heard a deep voice say, “Mrs. Howard?”

A frisson of excitement darted through her, and Damaris was glad she was not facing in Rawdon’s direction because she suspected her face revealed that fact. Pulling her features back into their usual composure, she turned around, but she could not hold back a smile when she saw him.

“Lord Rawdon. What a pleasant surprise.”

She had been sure that her memory had exaggerated how tall he was and how squarely his shoulders filled out his jacket, but she could see now, with a little fillip of appreciation, that she had not. He was a large, lean man, and his looks were well suited to his severe black suit and contrasting snowy-white shirt. A signet ring decorated his right hand, accentuating his long fingers and the bony outcroppings of his knuckles. He was not exactly handsome; there was something too gaunt and predatory about the angular structure of his face and the slightly coiled tension in the way he stood. Yet Damaris could not deny that every time she saw the man, a ripple of something raw and tantalizing ran through her.

“The pleasure is mine, I assure you.” The slight movement of his mouth could hardly be called a smile, yet it shifted the planes of his face and lit his pale eyes in a way that was distinctly warmer. His gaze held hers a moment longer than was strictly polite before he shifted and went on. “Pray, allow me to introduce you to my sister, Lady Genevieve Stafford. Genevieve, this is Mrs. Howard. She is a friend of Lady Morecombe. We met in Chesley.”

“Mrs. Howard.” The fair-haired woman on Rawdon’s arm nodded toward Damaris. Her attractive, strong-boned face was as smooth and difficult to read as her brother’s, but Damaris was certain that it was curiosity she read in the other woman’s blue eyes. “I am afraid I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Lady Morecombe. My brother speaks highly of her.”

Damaris smiled at the thought of Thea. “He is quite right to do so. Lady Morecombe is delightful. I hope you will become acquainted with her soon. Please, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Portland.”

There was another exchange of pleasantries. Damaris was very aware of Rawdon’s gaze on her throughout. She wondered what he was thinking; it was impossible to tell from his face. Finally the polite greetings and comments regarding the weather and the play dwindled down, and a lull fell upon the conversation. Genevieve glanced at her brother, then faintly cleared her throat. Damaris wondered if Rawdon was not paying attention or was simply refusing to take the girl’s hints. Damaris started to say something in order to keep them there a moment longer, but Rawdon spoke first.

“I was recently at the Priory,” he told Damaris. “Lord and Lady Morecombe send their regards.”

“How nice. Thank you. And did you find Master Matthew well?”

His smile was more definite now, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Indeed. Hale and hearty. He is walking.”

“Oh, yes.” Damaris chuckled. “He leads everyone in a merry chase. I find I quite miss him.”

“Have you been in London long?” Rawdon asked.

“No. Only a fortnight. I have taken a house for a month.”

“Indeed? So short a time?” Did he looked disappointed, or was that merely her imagination? “That will be London’s loss.”

“Very prettily said, my lord.” Damaris’s eyes twinkled. She had almost forgotten how invigorated she felt when crossing verbal swords with this man. The challenge of making his controlled face spark with humor or surprise or even irritation was almost irresistible. “Still, one cannot help but think that such finely honed compliments must come from frequent repetition.”

She was rewarded by the faint widening of his eyes in surprise, and his voice lifted with a hint of laughter.

“You imply that I am a flirt, madam?” Beside him, Rawdon’s sister looked startled, but he did not seem to notice her slight involuntary movement as he went on. “I fear you would find yourself alone in that opinion.”

“I would never call you a flirt,” Damaris demurred. “’Twould be most uncivil of me.”

“And are you always civilized?” he retorted. The light in his eyes was unmistakable now.

“Indeed, one must always try to be.” A small, slightly wicked smile curved her lips. “But I fear that I do not always succeed.”

Lady Genevieve was openly staring at Rawdon now. She cleared her throat, then turned to Damaris, offering her a quick, polite smile. “Pray excuse us, Mrs. Howard. Mr. Portland.
It was a pleasure to meet you. But I fear we must speak to Mrs. Haverbourne.”

Damaris nodded. “The pleasure was mine.”

Lord Rawdon remained rooted to the spot despite his sister’s discreet tug at his elbow. “I am sorry my grandmother did not get a chance to meet you. She remained in our box.”

“Pray convey my regards to her.”

“I will. Thank you. But perhaps you will come to Genevieve’s party tomorrow evening. I know the countess would enjoy meeting you.”

“I—” Damaris’s gaze went to Genevieve’s frozen expression. She should refuse, she knew. There were a hundred reasons why she should not attend a
ton
party, not the least of which was Lady Genevieve’s hastily concealed astonishment.

Rawdon turned toward his sister, and Genevieve forced a smile. “Yes, do say you will be there,” she told Damaris, her tone devoid of enthusiasm.

Normally Damaris would not have accepted so tepid an invitation. If Genevieve had any idea of the truth about Damaris’s past, she knew the girl would not have proffered even that. She opened her mouth to refuse, but then she made the mistake of looking at Lord Rawdon.

“Thank you,” Damaris said instead, smiling. “I would love to join you.”

“But who is this girl?”
The Countess of Rawdon leaned forward to fix her grandson with the full blast of her faded blue eyes. Her eyes lacked the icy hue that was a hallmark of the
Stafford family, though they carried enough authority and hauteur to quell almost anyone. But tonight her grandson seemed immune to their power.

He simply said, “Her name is Mrs. Howard, Grandmother. I believe I mentioned it.”

“Yes, of course, but that does not tell me who she
is
.”

Genevieve, beside her, was scanning the audience with her opera glasses. She had had to wait until her grandmother’s guest had left their plush box before spilling out the news that Alec had invited a woman to their party the following evening, and now there was little time left before the lights went down for the next act.

“There!” Genevieve exclaimed softly. “She is that stunning black-haired woman in the pale blue gown.” She handed the glasses to her grandmother, gesturing toward the audience below them.

“Genevieve! Really! Don’t point.” Lady Rawdon snatched the glasses from her granddaughter, shooting her a look of cool reproach. “It’s vulgar.”

“Of course, Grandmother. I’m sorry. She is in the second seat from the aisle almost directly below us.”

“Ah, yes. I see.” The countess studied Damaris for a moment, then handed the glasses back to Genevieve. She cast an assessing glance at her grandson, but before she could speak, the house lights went down and the curtain was raised. Lady Rawdon pressed her lips together and turned back to watch the play unfold.

Alec relaxed in his chair and, with his grandmother’s
attention focused on the stage, stared down into the audience. It was impossible to see Damaris well now, but Alec could remember quite clearly how Damaris had looked. His memory had not played him false; she was as beautiful as he had recalled. Perhaps even more so. He thought of the creamy white pearls scattered throughout her lustrous black hair, echoing the strand around her neck, drawing the gaze downward to the inviting expanse of alabaster chest… the swell of her breasts above the fashionably low neckline… He shifted in his seat and turned back to the action on the stage.

But his thoughts remained on the woman below, so that he could not have said later what had transpired in the second act. He had no interest in the farce, anyway. He had come only because Genevieve had wanted to do so. It was, apparently, the most important night to see and be seen at the theater. And if he was being honest, he had to admit that the thought had occurred to him that it might be the likeliest time for Mrs. Howard to attend the play as well.

Still, even knowing that there was some possibility that she might be there, a little jolt had shot through him when he scanned the audience and saw her sitting there. He was glad that he had glimpsed her first and had some time to adjust before he engineered running into her in the lobby. Even so, he had felt foolishly stiff and awkward. There was always a look in Damaris Howard’s eyes that made him certain he amused her in some way, an expression which both intrigued and challenged him. It was not an expression he was accustomed to, as it seemed that women were more given to viewing
him either nervously or greedily or, often, a combination of the two.

Genevieve’s presence in the conversation had not helped, of course, for he had been well aware that his sister was observing him keenly. It was useless to think he could get anything past Genevieve, who knew him better than anyone. Not, of course, that there was anything he really wished to hide from her… yet he could not help but think, every time he thought about Mrs. Howard, that he really did not want the rest of the world to know how he felt. Indeed, he had the suspicion that he would prefer that even he didn’t know how he felt.

And
that
was a perfectly idiotic notion. Of course, it was no more idiotic than the vague, eager, twitchy sensations that rose up in him whenever he was around Damaris—as if he were a schoolboy again! He had never been the most socially adept man—and he counted it his good fortune that his reticence was invariably put down to arrogance rather than awkwardness—but it had been years since he had felt as uncomfortable as he did when talking to Mrs. Howard. Yet as soon as he saw her, he had been plotting to run into her between acts.

There was no question of speaking with her again after the second act, something that would be sure to cause talk. But he was not inclined to let his grandmother quiz him more about Damaris, either, so as soon as the curtain dropped again, he was on his feet, offering to bring the ladies back refreshments. By the time he returned, their box was obligingly full of visitors, two of whom were thrilled when he invited them to stay
for the third act as well. By no twitch of her expression did his grandmother indicate the slightest surprise at his saddling them with her dead sister’s friend and that woman’s emptyheaded daughter, but Alec saw the sharp glance Genevieve threw him, and he knew that he had only put off the inevitable.

He was prepared, then, for the countess’s fixing him with her ruthless gaze the moment they left the theater and were safely settled in their carriage, away from prying eyes and ears.

“You did not answer my question, Alec. Who is this Mrs. Howard? Why have I never heard of her?”

“I could not say, Grandmother. She is a widow, and I believe she lives a rather retired life.”

Lady Rawdon made a noncommittal noise. “Rather young and attractive, I would say, to have retired from life.”

“Perhaps grief overcame her.”

“She does not appear to be in mourning.”

“Grandmother.” He looked at her evenly. “I do not know the woman well enough to answer your questions.”

“Yet you know her well enough to invite her to our party.” She smiled faintly. “She is quite lovely, of course. But then, no one can accuse you of bad taste.”

“I fail to see what my taste has to do with it.” Rawdon’s cool gaze would have intimidated a lesser creature than the countess. “I merely invited Lady Morecombe’s friend to your ball. She is here for a short visit; I doubt she knows many people in London.”

Lady Rawdon narrowed her gaze. “You expect me to believe that you extended an invitation—the first time you
have asked anyone to one of our parties, by the way—simply to be nice to one of Lord Morecombe’s wife’s rustic friends?”

Amusement lit Alec’s eyes. “‘Rustic friends’? I assure you, Mrs. Howard does not have bits of hay clinging to her hair, Grandmother. Most of the people I met in Chesley were quite civilized.”

“Chesley.” The countess dismissed the village with a scornful flick of her hand. “Do not attempt to throw sand in my eyes, Alec. The point is: What do you know about this woman? Where does she come from—and do not say the Cotswolds; I am well aware of where Chesley is. What I want to know is, who are her people?”

“I am sorry, but I did not think to interrogate Lady Morecombe about her friend’s background. All I really know is that she is a widow. I think you will find her speech and manners unexceptionable. You needn’t fear that her presence will be an embarrassment.”

The countess’s gaze flicked across him, sharp as a knife. “Pray do not take that tone with me, Rawdon. I have been fending off the overtures of jumped-up mushrooms for a good many more years than you have been alive.”

“I have no reason to think that Mrs. Howard, or her late husband, were ‘mushrooms,’ Grandmother. She is a friend to the Morecombes, and I believe you will allow that they are of adequate lineage to associate with Staffords. Lady Morecombe was a Bainbridge, a cousin to Lord Fenstone.”

“Fenstone!” The countess lifted her head, sending a long look down her nose at her grandson, clearly registering her
disregard for the earl. “Your father’s ancestors were guarding the border long before Richard gave Fenstone to that lot.”