An Improper Suitor (4 page)

He was interrupted by the appearance of an impeccably dressed young man with windswept reddish hair.

‘Thorwynn,’ he said, clapping his hand on the earl’s shoulder. ‘What brings you here?’

‘My mother would not take no for an answer,’ said Thorwynn, waving a hand towards Lady Thorwynn. ‘She insists it’s time I think of marriage.’ Then, as if remembering his manners, ‘Allow me to introduce Miss Swifton. Miss Swifton, Viscount Benedict.’

She curtsied.

‘I met Miss Swifton at Hyde Park this morning,’ said Thorwynn, still speaking in that unnaturally loud way. ‘Remember I told you
about the unfortunate young lady who fell off her horse?’

‘Yes. My dear Miss Swifton, I hope you didn’t suffer any injuries?’

‘You’re mistaking the matter, Benny. It was
Miss Neville
who fell off when her horse bolted. Miss Swifton attempted, very valiantly, to catch up with her horse. As did I. As did Miss Neville’s valet. Even Lady Bullfinch tried valiantly to catch her. But none of us succeeded.’

The exchange between the two men was so obviously contrived that Julia began to succumb to a fit of giggles. She smothered it,
ruthlessly
. She had to control herself; if she started laughing, she would ruin everything.

‘It was providential that so many people saw her horse bolt. My grandmother, in spite of a recent set-back in her health, was able to give chase. Miss Neville certainly did not lack people to attend to her.’

‘Well, I’m delighted to make the acquaintance of the young lady who was the first on the scene,’ said Benedict loudly. He shot her a close look. Something must have alerted him that she was on the verge of losing her composure. ‘Perhaps you would do me the honour of dancing the next dance with me? Unless your reputation as
heroine
has preceded you, and your card is full?’

She gave him her hand, smiling. ‘No, indeed, sir, you flatter me. I did not succeed in saving Miss Neville, after all. However, I would be delighted to dance with you.’

Lionel watched her as they took their places in the quadrille. The dance began, and he found himself following the fluid motion of her body under her shimmering Pomona green gown. She slid through her steps gracefully, with the certainty of a woman who knew she danced well. He had not noticed before that her auburn hair
glimmered
with ruby highlights, glinting in the hundreds of candles that lighted the room. Something Benny said made her laugh, and he was surprised at the air of mischief she conveyed. She was not what he had been led to expect. His grandmother had mentioned her many times, usually as an intelligent, no-nonsense young lady who seemed to enjoy earnest conversation. He was clearly seeing another side of her tonight.

She seemed to have taken a liking to Benny. Whenever the dance brought them together, they exchanged a lively remark, and they both
moved apart with smiles on their faces.

Her face was open, an honest face in which contriving and trickery did not play a role. He could not help contrasting her to Angelique, his last mistress. Angelique was beautiful, with her expensive perfumes and her sophisticated hairstyles. She knew how to seduce a man, but she had never given him an uncalculated look in her life. As for Mrs Radlow, the Golden Widow, her beauty took his breath away. He still desired her, despite a long and vigorous night they had shared, but her eyes were hardened, and even though she panted in pleasure under his caresses, she had never once looked at him as though she understood him. Unlike Miss Swifton.

He dismissed the thought. The two of them had been brought together by a sense of conspiracy, and the unspoken communication between them came from that. It was as though they were comrades in arms, preparing for battle. They had a common goal to accomplish, and that in itself created a bond which would normally not exist.

There was only one thing wrong with that analogy. In all his years at war, he had never once wished to dance with a comrade in arms. 

Julia did not remember enjoying a ball so much in her life.

Certainly she enjoyed the company of Lord Benedict. He put her at ease, and she found conversation with him stimulating. He referred to the Classics, and when she quizzed him on his knowledge, he admitted self-consciously that he had read a first in Classics at Oxford. Before long, they were speaking in Latin, laughing as they translated ballroom inanities into that ancient tongue.

‘Well, they must have had some form of “do you come here often?” in Latin,’ she said. ‘Even if it never made it into the textbooks.’

‘I suspect some of the monks copying manuscripts in medieval monasteries decided to leave those parts out.’

She tilted her head as she cut across him. ‘They didn’t object to some of the more raucous Greek plays.’

‘The monks who learned Greek were more… enterprising.’

She came off the dance floor laughing. She was still thinking of something Lord Benedict had said when Lord Thorwynn stepped forward and took her hand, teeth flashing.

‘I believe the next waltz is promised to me?’

She curtseyed, smiling.

But, as he drew her closer, the laughter died. His dark eyes met hers as his hand settled into the small of her back. His touch was light, but it seared into her, reaching through her gown to caress the skin underneath. He pulled her towards him and for the first time she discovered why the waltz was considered
fast
.

Being so close to a gentleman jumbled her brain. With
uncharacteristic
clumsiness, she stumbled on to his foot, and – what on earth
was happening to her – gave him her left hand instead of her right. Blood rushed into her face and she looked down, trying to hide it. But her head brushed against his chest and she stepped back quickly,
stepping
on the pink silk shoe of the lady behind her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to the lady, who frowned and turned her back to her.

She glanced quickly at Thorwynn, doubly flustered now.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered to him. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t dance. I think the events of the evening have weakened my nerves.’

What a ninny-headed thing to say. She had nerves like a rock. What had compelled her to make such a statement?

‘Nonsense,’ he said, guiding her firmly across the dance floor. ‘I’ve seen you dance. You dance exquisitely. Just listen to the music, and set aside everything else.’

She resolved to do just that. The strains from the orchestra floated towards her, and she let herself ride them. The hand that held her at the waist melded into her body, its warmth stirring her blood. The fingers entwined in her own sent quiet ripples of sensation into her body. She lost track of the steps, of the whole ballroom, all her senses focusing on the music and the man who danced so close to her. He led her on a journey that was surely not a dance but a whirl through the air, her feet barely touching the ground. She revelled in it, completely lost to the world around her.

Suddenly, she realized she was no longer moving, and the music was gone.

Her partner was looking down at her, his face inscrutable.

‘I can confirm that you know how to waltz,’ said Thorwynn. He sounded breathless, his voice rough.

She smiled up at him, still half caught in the flight. ‘I can confirm the same about you,’ she said.

He bowed to her, offered his arm, and moved her off the floor as other dancers came together, readying themselves for a new dance.

The ballroom came into focus. The faces of the matrons, watching. The inverted roses. The Clarence Blue flounces. The Grecian urns. She stumbled. He steadied her with his hand, and ushered her towards her grandmother. When they arrived, his arm drew away from hers and she felt cold.

‘Perhaps you’d care for some refreshment?’

She managed a nod. He disappeared into the crowd.

‘I told you you’d enjoy the dancing,’ said Grannie, black eyes
glinting
.

She snapped back to awareness. She was in a ballroom, a social event she generally detested, even if she loved dancing. It was an
ordinary
night just like any other. All that had happened was that she had danced with the Laughing Rake, and somehow, for one moment, fallen under his spell. She understood better than ever why rakes should be avoided at all cost.

She would tell Grannie in so many words that she would not, under any circumstances, agree to marry this particular rake. He was dangerous, a threat to her peace of mind. She would make sure to avoid him. It would hardly be difficult, in any case, since she did not attend balls very often, preferring the company of a good book to a roomful of chattering magpies. And she knew he generally avoided events organized by the
ton
, preferring more stimulating company.

And she would make a concerted effort to find her husband in a place where a rake like Lord Thorwynn would not be caught dead. In the corridors of the Royal Society at Somerset House, at the exhibits in the Egyptian Hall, at the British Museum, and various lecture halls around London.
Those
were not places where she would even catch a glimpse of him.

Meanwhile, she waited for him to get her a drink. She hoped he would not choose something as insipid as ratafia, a drink she loathed. It always seemed to attach itself to her tongue like a burr, with a sweet fuzzy insistence.

She grew impatient. Of course her impatience meant nothing. Her throat was dry, that was all.

She thought she caught a glimpse of him returning to her corner, but was distracted as Mrs Wadswith, her hostess, approached her. Julia could not help but marvel at the Clarence Blue gown Mrs Wadswith was wearing, the model for the ballroom. She was
accompanied
by a young officer in a dark-green uniform with black facings. He had a pleasant boyish appearance, with wavy straw-coloured hair and a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. His boyish
appearance contrasted strongly with the glinting medals that marked him a war hero.

‘May I present Captain Neave, Miss Swifton? He has expressed a particular desire to be acquainted with you.’

Captain Neave bowed. ‘I’m delighted to meet you. I’ve been hoping to have the pleasure of a dance since the moment I entered the ballroom, but alas, I’ve had no opportunity to be presented.’

‘Faradiddle,’ said Julia, laughing at the extravagant complement.

‘On the contrary,’ he said, as Mrs Wadswith moved away, satisfied that she had performed her duty. ‘Seeking your acquaintance is the only sensible thing I have done this evening,’ he said. He leaned forward. ‘Everything else is faradiddle.’ He waved his hand to
indicate
the flounces and the rose festoons.

A chuckle escaped Julia’s lips. She smothered it. ‘It’s too bad of you,’ she said. ‘When it was our hostess who was kind enough to introduce you to me.’

‘True, and I will be eternally grateful to her.’ The musicians struck up a new dance. ‘Shall we?’ he said.

She needed that drink. But on the other hand, the less she saw of Lord Thorwynn, the better. ‘Certainly,’ she said, placing her hand in his.

As he led her to the dance floor she made a concerted effort not to look back to see if Thorwynn had returned.

Thorwynn swore and looked down at the two glasses of champagne. She had already found someone to dance with. Devil take it, couldn’t she have waited?

Then the green uniform registered, and the unmistakable
sand-coloured
hair. Just to be sure, in case he was imagining things, he waited until her partner turned in the dance and he could see the man’s face. Lionel’s blood ran cold. It seemed his luck was out. The man he had spent three years of his life trying to forget had appeared. And, to make matters worse, he was now dancing with Miss Swifton.

He tossed down both glasses of champagne. He disposed of the two glasses on the first surface he could find, and strode off to the card room, in search of Benny.

Benny was in the middle of a game of whist, and the counters that
surrounded him indicated that he was on the winning side.

Lionel bent over him and murmured in his ear. ‘I think you need to come with me,’ he said. ‘There’s something that needs our urgent attention.’

Benny looked up absently from his game. ‘Sorry, Thor, I’m in the middle of a winning streak. Can’t stop now.’

‘Even,’ murmured Lionel, ‘if it’s about Neave?’

Benny looked up sharply, then surveyed the players round the table.

‘I’ll join you in a minute, Thorwynn, give me a few minutes to finish.’

Lionel nodded, and stalked back to the ballroom. He found a hidden corner from which he could observe Miss Swifton dancing with Neave. His eyes remained fixed on them, noting every move, every nuance. He took note as Neave bent towards her, smiling, saw her laugh in response. His mouth tightened in disapproval. She lavished the same kind of attention on any man she danced with. She laughed with Neave as she had laughed with Benny. But whereas Benny was an honourable person who would not harm a fly, Neave was—

Bitterness rose up in him as he recalled those weeks after he had returned from the Victory at Waterloo. He had tried to tell his commanding officers about Neave. He had made a cake of himself instead. It took a naive fool to think anyone would care enough to listen, especially when someone was as well connected as Neave. Besides, the war with Napoleon was over. Napoleon was defeated, for the last time. Inflated with the victory, indifferent to the testimony of a minor officer, a mere lieutenant, they had dismissed him. They had given him his honours, his share of the prize money and a promotion. And they had sent him on his way, patting him on the head and urging him not to make trouble.

The sight of Neave brought everything back. The sense of loss, the pain, and the utter humiliation of his pathetic attempt to bring Neave to justice.

He abandoned his post in the corner and went in search of
something
stiff and strong.

When he returned, four glasses of brandy later, the cotillion was
drawing to a close. He held a brandy in one hand, and a new glass of champagne in the other. Lionel pushed his way through the jostling crowds and waited for Miss Swifton and her partner to walk off the dance floor. He blocked their way. Bowing to Neave without looking in his direction, he handed the glass to Miss Swifton. ‘I brought refreshments,’ he said.

His sole goal was to draw her away with him, away from Neave.

Her eyes flashed. She did not like his interference. But she was too much of a lady to make a scene. She thanked Neave graciously and allowed Lionel to lead her to the side of the ballroom, a space
marginally
quieter than the rest.

She spoke quietly, still smiling, so the gossips would not notice her anger. ‘You have no right to separate me from my acquaintance that way.’ She had spent her life free of the meddling of either brother or father. She did not need a stranger to hover over her. He had
misinterpreted
her willingness to help him as an invitation to become part of her life. Nothing could be further from her mind.

He shrugged, determined to ride it out. ‘I agree that I have no right. However, I would be doing you a disservice if I did not. I wished to warn you: Captain Neave is not all that he appears. I think you would do well to be – careful.’

To his chagrin, the words came out slightly slurred. He normally held his liquor well, was in fact, only a moderate drinker. But the sight of Neave after three years of avoidance had made him lose count.

He downed the glass of champagne.

She examined him closely, a frown lining her brow. He could not help thinking the lines resembled the flounces on the wall. Lines that swayed and dipped. ‘You’re foxed,’ she said, disgust sharpening her voice.

‘If I were foxed, Miss Swifton, you would certainly know it. It takes quite a few drinks to get me foxed.’ His speech was perhaps a little slow, but what of it? He was not in a hurry.

Certainly not in a hurry to leave her with Captain Neave. ‘Really?’ she said, her lip curling upwards. ‘Well it certainly looks like you’ve had them.’

His eyes narrowed. Her tone was angry, accusing, and he reacted with anger of his own. Couldn’t she see he was trying to help her?
‘You need not concern yourself with this matter. I am quite capable of judging how much I need to drink.’ He took a deep breath. It would not do for him to quarrel with her. There were many eyes observing them. He pasted a smile on his face. It felt lopsided, for some reason. The whole evening was turning out to be lopsided. Where the devil was Benny?

‘Perhaps we can discuss this elsewhere,’ he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘I will call upon you tomorrow morning and explain the situation.’

She pasted a smile on her face. ‘It is kind of you to be concerned about me, but I can assure you I can take care of myself. Although I appreciate your advice, I am not in the habit of consulting with strangers about my actions.’

She took a step away. He could not prevent her leaving, not
without
causing a stir, and certainly he could not hold her back physically.

‘As you wish,’ he said, congratulating himself on his calm. ‘Won’t call on you if you don’t wish it. But at least let me tell you something about him. Neave is a rake—’

She laughed. Of all the things he had expected, he had not
imagined
that she would laugh. ‘Isn’t it a case of the kettle calling the frying pan black?’

Her words struck him like a hammer. He struggled for words under the onslaught, but found none. She smiled and curtseyed.

‘I hope we’ve solved your problem with Miss Neville in a
satisfactory
way. We’ll know by tomorrow if our story has been accepted by Society. Meanwhile, I hope you’ll refrain from treating me with a familiarity that is inappropriate.’

She walked away, leaving him to deal with a wave of emotions that rolled over him. He felt as if he waded in water. The thick air of the ballroom stifled him, and he started to loosen his neck cloth. Then he caught sight of his mother across the ballroom. Better wait until he’d taken his leave. She would probably rearrange the damn thing. He schooled his face into a mask of indifference, and sauntered slowly towards her.