Amy Lake (2 page)

Glide, step, glide. Turn. It was the last figure of the dance and she curtsied to the earl as they came face to face. He bowed, then took her hand firmly, leading her out onto the duchess’s terrace.

* * * *

Claire felt she could hardly breathe, but she kept her smile firmly in place as Major Trevor continued his address.

“My dearest Miss de Lancie, I hope I’ve not led you to expectations of . . . ”   The major’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. He took her left hand in both of his. “I would never wish to cause you any pain.”

“But of course not!”  Claire forced herself to sound light and cheerful. She brushed a palm frond out of her face and added,  “We are friends, are we not?  I assure you, sir, I never thought of more.”

She could see small beads of sweat forming on Major Trevor’s brow. “Oh,” he said, clearly relieved. “I am so glad. You see, you are so beautiful, so dashing . . . I knew you must have many suitors far more felicitous than I.  But my Agatha . . . ”

He glanced behind him, and Claire thought she could pick out the object of the major’s affections, a tiny brown-haired wren of a girl. Agatha looked shy and almost lost in an overblown gown embellished with row after row of satin ruching.

“My Agatha,” the major repeated. “I can’t explain it. The moment we met I felt I couldn’t live apart from her a single hour.”

Claire was touched by his earnest explanations and, despite the blow to her own plans, she answered him in all sincerity. “I could not be happier for you, sir. If you have been so fortunate as to find true love–”

“Oh, yes, yes!” interjected Major Trevor.

“-then you will find joy indeed. You have my heartfelt congratulations.”   He kissed her hand, and Claire watched as he made his way back to Agatha, who was now blushing prettily.

Claire sat for a moment and stared blankly at the inscriptions covering a nearby obelisk. Lady Pemberton’s attempt at hieroglyphics, she finally decided, and returned her attention to the occupants of the ballroom. Perhaps Baronet Aubley had also found his lady love during the last day and a half. What would she do then?   A thin tendril of despair began to wrap itself around her heart.

* * * *

“Her name is Claire de Lancie,” said Lady Pamela, enjoying Edward’s startled look. She paused for a moment and let his blue eyes demand more information before she continued.  “Her family situation is a bit of a mystery.”

“De Lancie.”  The earl frowned. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

“The de Lancies were minor French nobility at one time, I believe,”  continued Pam. Her hair shone silver in the moonlight, and she shivered a little in the cool air. “But they’ve lived in England for the better part of the century.”

“I don’t believe I’ve met her father,” began the earl.

“Miss de Lancie’s parents are both dead.”  Pam reached up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead.  “There seems to be some confusion as to who, exactly, are her sponsors. She speaks often of an Aunt Sophie, but no one has actually seen the woman.”

“You are an amazing detective, my dear,” said Edward.

Pam gave him a dazzling smile. “I know.” 

* * * *

Claire saw him from far across the room. He was a head taller than most of the men, and even at a distance there was no mistaking those chiseled features and the thick, chestnut hair drawn back with a velvet bow. She looked away, worried that–somehow–he would feel her staring at him.

The bosomy matron standing next to her felt no such compunction. “Ah, Lord Tremayne,” the woman murmured, with a suggestive sigh. “Always standing a bit . . . taller than the rest.”  She fanned herself and tittered.

Claire remembered that the shopkeeper had called him the Earl of Ketrick, and judging from the other nobles now crowding around him he was obviously a respected member of the
haut
ton
. She sighed. A handsome man, indeed, but it would never do to catch the attention of someone as powerful as an earl.

Claire found a secluded bench behind an oasis of potted palms and sat down, closing her eyes. Until she saw the earl, Claire had not noticed how exhausted she was. The baronet had yet to arrive, but everything–her search for a husband, the endless frugalities, the lies she was forced to tell every day–suddenly felt pointless. The ballroom, which mere moments ago had seemed filled with laughter and music, ladies in satin and gentlemen in fine cloth coats, now looked unutterably bleak.

Major Trevor had found someone to love him. His Agatha had found someone to love her.

Were those
tears
threatening to form in her eyes?  Claire cursed herself for being three times a ninny, but after seeing the Earl of Ketrick she had no heart left for the Pembertons’ grand ball. She stood, thinking to find her way through the crowd and out to the garden, to find Jody, to go home.

At a touch on her shoulder she turned to see, against all reason, the couple from the draper’s shop. The woman. The earl. It was as if her thoughts had conjured him up, and she was momentarily paralyzed with shock. What on earth could this lord and his lady want with her?

“Miss de Lancie!” said the woman. “I thought it must be you. Did I not say so, Edward?”

“Indeed,” murmured the earl. He was looking at Claire with strange intensity as his companion chattered on.

“I said, that must be Miss de Lancie. Such a gorgeous dress–you know, I’m sure you don’t even remember me, so much older and you were just a girl, of course. I’m Pamela Sinclair, my dear,” the woman said in introduction, then continued almost without pause. “We met at your Aunt Sophie’s place–oh, it must be seven years ago now. How is your dear aunt?”

Aunt Sophie?  Claire felt the first glimmering of real fear, and she resisted the urge to turn and run. Who
was
this woman?  Claire was quite sure she’d never seen her before this afternoon in the shop. How could she know Aunt Sophie?  Aunt Sophie didn’t even . . .

The handsome couple was waiting for her to reply, Claire belatedly realized, the woman favoring her with a reassuring smile.

“My aunt is often unwell, I fear.”

“What a pity. Oh, but allow me to introduce you to my dearest friend. Miss Claire de Lancie, Edward Tremayne, Earl of Ketrick.” 

“My lord.”

“Miss de Lancie.”

“I see the orchestra has returned,” said Lady Pamela.  

Claire heard the strains of  “Love Be Kind,” a waltz said to be the current favorite of Sally Jersey, one of the
grandes dames patronesses
of Almacks.

“How perfect. Edward, be a dear. I must speak with Elizabeth Carroll.”  Lady Pamela turned on her heel and quickly slipped away.

Claire wished she could drop through the floor, but the earl said simply, “Would you do me the honor?” and held out his hand.

He is incredibly handsome, thought Claire, and Jody won’t be expecting me yet. Perhaps just this one dance. She smiled up at the earl and allowed him to lead her out onto the floor.

* * * *

On most occasions the Earl of Ketrick was a charming and attentive dance

partner, but for the first minutes of his waltz with Claire he was quiet, a number of perplexing questions occupying his mind.

Foremost was how Lady Pamela had maneuvered him so efficiently to the side of Claire de Lancie. Why had Pam pretended to know her?  And why had she chattered on like some ninnyhammer female–that was very unlike Lady Pam–and not given the girl a chance to say much more than a word?

Who was this Aunt Sophie, anyway?

No answers were forthcoming as he swept his partner around the room. The earl soon became aware of the silkiness of Claire’s gown under his hand and the warmth of her skin seeping through. She was a marvelously graceful dancer and blessedly tall, so for once he didn’t have to spend a waltz staring down at the top of his partner’s head.

He should make an attempt at conversation, at least, as Miss de Lancie showed no signs of starting one herself.

“I am sorry to hear your aunt is so often unwell. You have other relations, I’m sure, to assist you while in town?”

She looked up at him with a pair of clear, unwavering grey eyes. He had the impression that she hesitated a moment, but her answer was calm and matter-of-fact.

“There is no Aunt Sophie,” Claire de Lancie said.

* * * *

After that alarming interview with Lady Pamela, Claire welcomed the respite offered by the waltz with Lord Tremayne. As he showed no signs of wishing conversation, to her relief, she began to feel calmer and to collect her thoughts. Whoever this earl was–and his hand did feel strong and wonderful on her waist–he was no part of her plans, and she doubted she would ever see him again after the dance.

Her thoughts once more in order, Claire had begun casting an occasional glance for the baronet when the Earl of Ketrick suddenly asked about Aunt Sophie.

At his words, Claire lost the rhythm of the dance and almost stumbled, but then, more acutely aware of the earl’s strength than ever before, she came to an abrupt decision. She wasn’t a liar by talent or inclination and trying to spin any more of a facer to this man was an unbearable thought. This wasn’t the scatterbrained Duchess of Pemberton. This was the obviously astute Lord Edward Tremayne, who didn’t look in the least likely to be fobbed off with stories of made-up cousins or Aunt Sophie’s megrims.

He was a man, Claire knew, who could ruin her with a single word, and she could only hope the truth would not make it more likely that he would do so.

 “There is no Aunt Sophie,” she told him.

 “No Aunt Sophie?” the earl echoed.

“No. I can’t imagine why Lady Sinclair said . . . ”  Claire hesitated, not wanting to accuse the earl’s companion of a falsehood.  “I think Lady Sinclair must be mistaken. I don’t believe she has ever seen me before today.”

To Claire’s immense chagrin, the earl didn’t seem very surprised.

“Ah. I see,” he said. “So who is your sponsor?  You must be living with someone.”

“There is no one other than my brother Jody. He’s fifteen. He usually watches for me in the gardens and when I’m ready to slip away . . . ”  Claire trailed off.

“You are really living alone?  Unprotected?”  The earl sounded shocked.

She nodded.

“And you make your way into the amusements of the
ton
–?”

“It’s not that difficult, really,” Claire told him. “I just . . . show up. I suppose most people assume I’m someone’s daughter, or that Aunt Sophie is somewhere about even if they can’t remember her surname just then–”

The earl laughed, amused despite himself. “Why?” he asked her. “Why take such a risk?”  There was a much longer hesitation at this question, and he watched as a battle of emotions played itself out in her wide, silver-grey eyes.

In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Claire.

“I must find a husband. Soon.”

“Is it a lack of funds?”

“No. That is, yes.  I have a legacy from my mother, but it is under the control of

my . . . uncle.”

She seemed unwilling to continue, and Edward was left to wonder if the uncle was as imaginary as the aunt. As they made their way around the ballroom in easy, graceful turns, the earl found his attention straying to the neckline of Claire de Lancie’s gown. Her breasts were mounded up and held firmly by the fabric of the gown’s bodice, and Edward was finding the effect stimulating.

“There are . . . easier paths than marriage for a beautiful woman to make her way,” he said finally. A thought had come to mind–

The girl’s eyes flashed fire. She stiffened under his touch, and only the firm pressure of his hands kept them moving. “It will cause a scene if we stop in the middle of the floor,” Edward told her, again amused.

“
Je ne suis pas une putain!
  I am not a whore!” she hissed at him. “How dare you suggest such a thing?”

“My apologies,” said the earl. “I was unaware of the importance you attached to conventional behavior.”

First an insult, now sarcasm. Claire glared at him, feeling chagrin that one man’s strong arms could have made her into such a fool. She had just told a stranger every secret she’d been at pains to hide for the last three months. And now he had the nerve, the gall, to suggest–

“Why does your uncle not help you?” asked the earl. “Does
he
exist?”

“He exists as much as you do,” she retorted. “One more loathsome, arrogant, self-important male–”

“I think I get the idea,” he interrupted. “So you wish to marry without the protection or knowledge of your relations?”

Claire’s anger suddenly deserted her and she felt exhaustion creeping back to take its place. She shook her head wearily in answer to his question.

“Our parents have been dead these nine years and there truly is no one else. Our family is of good name,” she added. “and I’m simply looking for an older man, a widower, perhaps, who would be happy with what I can offer.”

Edward understood her meaning well enough. An older member of the gentry, his estate secured and heir already in hand, wouldn’t need to look much further than a pretty face.

A very pretty face. The final notes of the waltz faded away, and the earl realized that, as  his partner had no chaperon, he had nowhere to return her. He looked at Miss de Lancie, his dark eyebrows raised in question.

“I usually claim to have spotted an old friend just gone into cards,” she said with a small smile. “Or to need a few minutes in the retiring room.”

“Come,” said the earl. He led Claire out onto the terrace, and she followed mutely. Was she afraid to say no? he wondered. He didn’t dally with young misses. Ever. There were entirely too many ways for such a liaison to go irretrievably wrong. Still, he was reluctant to let this particular young miss disappear.

She was a girl of good name–Pam had confirmed as much–but had no family to interfere. She was very pleasant to look at.

Edward felt the stirrings of desire. He led Claire to a darkened corner of the terrace until she was backed up against the balustrade, close enough that he could see her pulse jump erratically in the soft hollow of her neck. He reached out and felt the beat of her heart against his fingertip.