A Well Pleasured Lady (10 page)

This interrogation was exactly the sort of conversation Mary had feared. She hadn't told falsehoods for the last ten years. She didn't think quickly when challenged. She'd been dreading the confrontation with Sebastian tonight; now she wanted him. “Not at all. I simply believe it is necessary to teach a man respect early.” She smiled at the snubbed viscount with extra charm to make up for her relatives' rudeness.

The viscount smiled back, delighted, and asked, “May I be so bold as to beg a dance later, Miss Fairchild?”

Nora interceded before Mary could answer. “She's not accepting invitations yet, Lord Thistlethwaite. Give the other gentlemen a chance.”

Leslie forcibly moved him with a hand on his arm. As the Fairchild daughters closed around the precipitous
suitor, Leslie snapped at Mary, “Lord Thistlethwaite is unsuitable and a fortune hunter. Try to remember you are a Fairchild, and save your smiles for more appropriate mates.”

Vicious bully.
She turned on Leslie fully, looked up into his gorgeous Fairchild eyes, and said, “I behave decorously for my station at all times.”

“Your station? Your station?” Leslie sputtered. “How would you know the correct way for an heiress to behave?”

“Lady Valéry taught me well. Perhaps
you
could go to
her
for guidance.”

“Go to…go to…a woman for guidance?” Like a capon waiting to be butchered and dressed, Leslie gobbled and shook his head until the flaps of skin beneath his ample chin jiggled. “I'll have you know I have never asked guidance of a woman.”

“Ah, that's why you are wearing such old-fashioned breeches.” Mary delivered the insult coolly, depending on her sharp tongue and her poise to give it the proper bite.

While Leslie squinted self-consciously down at his clothing, she greeted the earl of Shaw with his son. When the son begged a dance, she said, “This is my debut, and Lady Fairchild won't let me accept invitations yet. She says we must let the other gentlemen have a chance.”

And what could Nora say? She smiled and murmured agreement, and Mary experienced the beginnings of triumph. Maybe she
could
be more than just prey in this den of Fairchild wolves.

If only Sebastian were here to share the moment with her.

She allowed her gaze to search the ballroom, but she saw no Sebastian among the crowd. How could he abandon her at this crucial moment? Unless…while everyone was dancing, he planned to search for the diary.

Mary wondered at her own inconsistency. She wanted to leave this place, yet wanted the dark, brooding, bruised man who would make leaving possible to remain at her side. Perhaps the upsets of her trip and her arrival had unsettled her mind. She preferred that explanation to the other—that she craved Sebastian and his kisses.

“Look, dear.” Nora sounded poised and pleased. “Here's someone you must reward with a dance. Here's Ian.”

Mary brought her attention back to the business at hand. Ian was dark and brooding, and undoubtedly bruised within, but he wasn't the man she sought.

“Little cousin, every time I see you, you are yet more beautiful.”

The giddy excitement of her debut returned full force under Ian's appreciative gaze. Mary knew he was safe; she knew he wouldn't laugh at her enthusiasm. She twirled around. “It is a lovely dress, isn't it?”

“I would say it was the woman within the dress.”

“The woman within the dress was always there,” Mary said tartly. Giddy excitement could not destroy
the sensible housekeeper within her. “Nobody noticed before.”

“That's because I wasn't with you,” Ian returned.

She focused on him fully. “You are so nice!” she said, and she meant it genuinely. He understood her discomfort in this unfamiliar situation, and he sought to put her at ease.

He stared at her as if her compliment took him aback, then his customary cynical mask fell into place. “Men do not wish to be known as
nice.
Dashing, handsome, witty, attractive—but never
nice.”

“I will remember,” she said, then leaned forward and whispered, “But I'll still think you're nice.”

“Mary has met almost everyone,” Bubb interposed. “Ian, escort her onto the dance floor.”

She hadn't met almost everyone, of course, but she understood what Bubb meant. She'd met everyone who mattered, and if someone of consequence came in late, Bubb or Nora would make sure she was introduced.

As Ian slipped his arm around her waist and led her into the throng, she confided, “It feels good to be away from our relatives, does it not? I very seldom think of myself as extraordinarily kind or virtuous, but here, you and I are veritable saints!”

Ian was silent for so long, embarrassment crept up on her.

“I didn't mean to offend you,” she said. “You probably find it difficult to live with them without
experiencing some affection for them. I won't speak ill of them again.”

“Affection?” Ian said. “I assure you, it is quite possible to live with them without experiencing affection. I'm just surprised you don't group me in with…them.”

“You?” She laughed up at him. “You gave me money, remember? You told me to get away from Fairchild Manor, that I was lucky to be rejected. I've lived to appreciate your advice.”

He seemed to be struggling within himself, but before he could reply, a man's hearty voice interrupted. “Ian, old man, you've brought us the beauteous Miss Fairchild. Thank you, and begone!”

She stared at the laughing intruder and placed him at once. She'd met him while in the receiving line; he was the Viscount Dyne, a single man of probably forty years who had done his best to ingratiate himself with her.

“Begone, begone, Miss Fairchild wishes to dance with me,” he said emphatically.

“I think not.” Ian kept his arm around her. “She is my cousin. I have first right.”

“First right?” Another male voice spoke from behind. “A cousin has no right at all. Nor do you, Dyne—now, get you gone. Miss Fairchild already adores
me.”

She turned and saw the earl of Aggass, younger than Dyne. His frock coat sported the longest tails, his waistcoat the most extravagant embroidery, but his face was heavily pocked and he attempted to
disguise it with an excess of white powder and a variety of patches. More irritating was his air of supreme confidence that Mary called conceit.

“Miss Fairchild wishes to spend time with none of you.” Mr. Mouatt appeared and straightened the ruffles on his shirt. “It is me she loves.”

“Actually, gentlemen, I love none of you.” Mary spoke with the authority of a housekeeper quelling an incipient quarrel among her underlings. The men's faces reflected astonishment, so she followed her initial advantage with a word of warning. “I love not the quarrels of babes or popinjays, either, so should you wish to please me, you must behave in a courteous manner.”

The men fell back and glanced among themselves while Ian smothered a grin.

Then another voice, smooth, amused, and pleasant, said, “Have you been making fools of yourselves, lads? Let Mr. Brindley show you how it's done.”

A tall, well-made gentleman of perhaps fifty moved forward and bowed to Mary. “Miss Fairchild, I have adored you from afar this past hour. Would you do me the honor of granting me the first dance?”

She didn't recognize this man or his name; he was probably one of the many gentlemen her aunt and uncle considered unsuitable. That made him all the more attractive to her.

“I would love to dance with you, sir,” she replied. “But I have not danced for years, and I fear I would step on your feet.”

Taking her hand, he stroked it between his own large palms. “To have such a lovely young woman facing me across a dance floor, it would be worth any amount of crushed toes.”

She couldn't help it; she smiled up at him. His aging skin crinkled with each passing expression. He seemed strong as a coal shoveler, and his broad shoulders had not yet begun to stoop. He dressed in clothes that had been in style twenty years ago, and his powdered wig was horsehair at best, but his charm easily overcame all disadvantages. As she walked onto the dance floor, her erstwhile suitors watched glumly.

“I'm Mr. Everett Brindley, my dear, and I was reckoned quite a dancer in my youth. There is none better to guide you through this first minuet.” He placed her in the line with the other ladies, then as the music began, moved to take his place among the men. “I'm also a merchant, and not a proper suitor for one so noble and enchanting, so I will promise not to woo you if you promise not to fall in love with me.”

What a flirt he was, this unsuitable merchant! “That might be difficult, sir, as it is obvious a man of your grace is not easily discounted.”

“I recognized you as a true lady from across the ballroom.” He nodded brusquely toward the aristocratic suitors she had left behind. “Those worthless leeches aren't worthy to lick your slippers.”

She was startled by his vehemence. “You are too harsh, sir.”

“And you are too kind.” Abruptly he seemed
recalled to his role as gentleman-merchant, and he smiled whimsically. “In truth, you remind me of my dear, departed Mrs. Brindley.” He pressed his veined hand just above his heart. “I have heard that you are betrothed to Viscount Whitfield.”

She nodded acknowledgment and concentrated on imitating the slow, graceful movements of the other dancers.

“What a sad state of affairs for the men who even now watch you hungrily.”

“I doubt that more than their pockets will suffer from the loss.” Mary pointed her toe, turned her head at the proper time, and realized with triumph that she remembered her father's instruction on the fine art of the dance.

Nostalgia assailed her. How her father would have loved this evening of celebration! How proud he would have been of her! Usually she tried to crush the memories of her father, but tonight invoked only the golden glimpses of his long-lost kindness and his never-ending joy.

And briefly she wished she had allowed Hadden to come. She'd feared danger, but how could danger exist in such a setting?

“So Viscount Whitfield is already firmly ensconced in your heart,” Mr. Brindley said as they wove in the intricate steps of the dance. “And you in his, I suppose?”

Startled by the familiarity of his inquiry, she missed a step and had to hurry to catch the beat.

“Ah, I've embarrassed you.” In a low tone he
instructed her on the next few steps, then resumed their conversation. “Forgive me the liberty of old age.”

She couldn't let him think that. He moved gracefully, like a man who kept active, and he displayed a veiled strength. “You're not old.”

“I thank you, but my youth has slipped away, leaving me to think I have little time to set the world to rights.” He chuckled, disparaging himself. “Little time to see Whitfield set to rights. I've known him for years, you understand. We've occasionally been partners in some venture or another, and I've grown to respect the lad. He reminds me of myself when I was younger.” He clenched his fist to punctuate his words with it. “Dynamic. Unstoppable. Determined.”

“Yes.” Mary scrutinized the other dancers to keep Mr. Brindley from noticing the color in her cheeks, and to see if anyone was eavesdropping on their unorthodox conversation. “He's all those things,” she almost whispered.

“No one can hear us,” Mr. Brindley said kindly. “A man of my background knows well how loud to project his voice.” He cleared his throat. “Business deals, you know.”

Mary surreptitiously glanced around again. Although the dancing couples appeared to be straining to hear their conversation, they also wore the deeply disgusted expressions of those thwarted.

“But we were speaking of young Whitfield, and I wish for him a deep and abiding love.” He squeezed
her hand, and his firm chin wobbled. “A love such as Mrs. Brindley and I had for each other.”

Mary's chin wobbled, too. How sweet he was!

“I see by your blush, Whitfield is lucky in this, too.” Mr. Brindley couldn't have sounded more fond. “And the dance is finished. You must have been jesting.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

His hazel eyes twinkled. “You dance very well.”

“Only with the proper instructor.” She curtsied when Mr. Brindley returned her to the sidelines.

“Oh, stop scowling, all you young men,” Mr. Brindley said to the enlarged cluster of suitors. “She's not yours, anyway. She's Viscount Whitfield's, and don't you forget it.”

As he walked away, his step firm, the earl of Aggass said in a low voice, “Dockworker.”

“He is.” Mr. Mouatt sneered. “Or used to be. He brags about it.”

“They say he's an anarchist, or worse.” Again Aggass spoke almost in a whisper.

“Why is he here?” Mr. Mouatt asked. “I didn't know the Fairchilds allowed merchants in to mingle with the upper ten thousand.”

“The upper ten thousand have borrowed enough money from Mr. Brindley to get him invitations wherever he chooses to go,” Viscount Dyne replied, but without the discretion of his younger rival. “As the Fairchilds have undoubtedly discovered.”

“Inviting him to a party is better than finding
yourself facing three of his thugs on a dark night in London.” Aggass looked ill, and he flipped his lace handkerchief in Mary's direction. “It's a frightening experience.”

Mary didn't believe Aggass for a moment. The despicable earl wanted sympathy, nothing more. “Mr. Brindley is an agreeable man,” she said. “You should be thankful he will lend his money.”

Ian gave a bark of laughter as the other men shuffled uncomfortably. “You're supposed to pretend you can't hear them when they talk about usury. Young, unmarried women are required to be ignorant of such matters.”