Anne Barbour (2 page)

“I've been trying to connect with Beaumont for the last two weeks. He owes me money, and he's never at home when I call. Heard he's making up to the Danvers chit, so thought he might be here. Don't see him, though. I might ask the same of you, by the by. Reduced to trolling among the virgins, are you?”

Seth breathed a sigh of relief that Bel appeared to be in one of his sunnier moods. Unwilling to let his brother know how close he'd come to the mark, Seth merely smiled. “Aunt Blessborough is sponsoring the daughter of a neighboring squire. She asked me to come by tonight and do the pretty. Stand up with her once or twice—take her into supper—that kind of thing.”

“Of course. Saint Seth at work again.”

A spurt of irritation prickled through Seth at these words, and he forced an expression of placid cordiality to his features.

“Not at all. I always feel a stab of pity for these infants, pitchforked into society without the slightest notion of how to go on. This particular babe in the woods is a taking little thing, and I don't mind doing her a spot of good if I can. Besides,” he added, drawing cautious aim, “I've been rather enjoying my little survey of this Season's buds of promise.”

Bel's flat gaze swept the room. “Really? But, brother dear, you cannot be thinking of marrying one of them—even if you could convince any of them to overlook your, er, plebeian origins.”

Seth forced himself to relax. He had long since learned not to rise to Bel's baiting. “No, of course not. I am well aware of my origins. But, you see,” he said gently, “I don't care. I have no particular desire to marry at all—after all, I need not concern myself with getting an heir—and I particularly do not wish a union with a pampered damsel of the
ton.”

“Ah. Don't fancy prominent teeth, do you? Or spots, or the occasional squint. You might—I say, who is that? Don't tell me she's on the block?”

Concealing his distaste, Seth followed the direction of Bel's languid gesture. His eyes widened. Well, well, Bel found the little Beckett attractive, did he? This was promising, indeed.

Bel's rather narrow mouth quirked cynically. “I see she practices the old strategy of mingling with the ape-leaders and antidotes in order to enhance her own charms.”

Seth eyed the woman to whom Miss Zoë was talking animatedly. She was some years older than Zoë, and, though next to the dazzling young beauty, she must be considered plain, the approbation “antidote” seemed misplaced. No longer in the first blush of youth, the woman was yet possessed of a trim figure, and her gown, fashioned with neat propriety, hinted subtly at the curves that lay beneath it. Her most striking feature, however, was a pair of speaking gray eyes and dark brows that swept toward her temples like glossy little wings. That she had placed herself among the rank of the spinsters was evidenced in a small lace cap that rested softly on a sweep of mahogany-colored hair.

“The beauty's name is Zoë Beckett, and, although I've not met her, I believe the woman at her side is her sister. I don't remember her name, something rather exotic, I think. Zoë was presented last Season. Took pretty well, I understand, but has not married.” Seth glanced swiftly at Bel, noting the predatory glitter that had sprung to his brother's eyes. “Her father is something of a nonentity, but I hear he's the old-fashioned protective sort.”

Bel laughed and turned away dismissively. “You'd best stick with the antidote, boy-o. She looks to be just your type. Submissive and virtuous and utterly boring. As for the beauty, she might be amusing for a week or two, but Lord protect me from tedious parents and their shabby genteel morality.”

With an impudent wave, he sauntered away. Seth exhaled a long breath. He wondered for what seemed like the millionth time how the Duke of Derwent and his lovely, loving duchess could have produced the disaster that was Bel. Self-centered, venal, and with a cruel streak the size of Hadrian's Wall, he took delight in causing pain to others. In Seth's case, this had taken the form of a constant denigration of Seth's status in the household. Almost since Bel had been old enough to talk, he had pointed out at every opportunity to any who would listen that Seth was low-born, and not really the son of a peer. He had implied on many occasions that Seth was a bastard. Seth, a few years older, several sizes larger and many decades wiser, had refrained from putting a stop to these calumnies until the day at Eton Seth realized that his younger foster brother had at last grown to match him in height. After Bel had been ducked repeatedly and with great thoroughness in the River Isis, the lies had stopped, but the sly digs and innuendos continued to the present.

And would probably do so until the day one or the other of them died.

Seth sighed and set a course for Zoë Beckett.

Eden Beckett absently noted the approach of the conservatively garbed gentleman, his gaze on Zoë. Eden's mouth curved in a tolerant smile. Lord, how many times had she found herself in this situation? No matter how often she tried to cry off from these interminable social functions, she inevitably found herself acting as backdrop for her beautiful little sister. She did not begrudge Zoë her charm and the skilled flirtatiousness that came as naturally as her breath. However, she was heartily bored with the stultifying conversations to be endured during these occasions, to say nothing of the artificial pleasantries exchanged with persons about whom one neither knew or cared. Hmm, she was unacquainted with this gentleman. Which was odd, she thought, for, at Zoë's side, she must have met every single male in London by now, and somehow, she believed that she would have remembered this tall, angular stranger. Among the jeweled fribbles that crowded the ballroom, he stood out like a raven among peacocks. He wore no fobs and did not carry a quizzing glass. His raiment was superbly tailored, but modest, and his only adornment was a sapphire pin nestled in the folds of his cravat. He could not be called handsome—precisely—for his features were craggy and somewhat irregular. Yet, he moved with an easy, animal grace, and his eyes were dark and commanding.

Perhaps, mused Eden, he was not an habitué of the social scene—or, for that matter, perhaps he was married. In any event—

Her reverie was interrupted by the sudden apparition of young Toddy Danton at Zoë's side.

“Miss Zoë!” he almost gasped in his eagerness. “Would you honor me with your hand for the next dance?”

Toddy was by no means the most eligible of the young men who consistently besieged the fortress that was Miss Zoë Beckett, but he was witty and charming, and his approval was considered essential for any young miss desirous of making a splash in the social swim. With a flutter of her lashes and an engaging giggle, Zoë swept off on his arm, leaving Eden in uncomfortable isolation.

Though the unknown gentleman was almost upon her by now, she fully expected him to reverse course and leave her to her own devices. However, his dark gaze now on her, he continued on his path. She glanced about in search of some lady with whom she might strike up a conversation, but the stranger did not waver in his progress toward her.

Concealing his exasperation, Seth bent over the hand of the young woman left standing by herself. Rather rude of young
Zoë,
he thought, to leave her sister in the lurch while she loped off to enjoy the dance. Not that he was surprised. His short acquaintance with the younger Miss Beckett had not led him to the expectation that she would let good manners stand in the way of her own pleasure.

Miss Beckett lifted her gaze to his, and Seth was momentarily startled at the sensation of what he could only call recognition that swept over him. To his knowledge, he had never met this woman, yet it almost seemed as though he greeted an old friend, one not encountered for a long time, but still warmly regarded.

What nonsense. He cleared his throat. “I hope you will forgive my ill manners in approaching you before we have been formally introduced. I am Seth Lindow, and I am known to your sister—and your parents. I wonder if I might beg your hand for this dance.”

To his astonishment. Miss Beckett's response was a negative shake of her head that set the ribbons on her lace cap to quivering.

“Really, Mr. Lindow, I am, of course, pleased to make your acquaintance, but this is not necessary. I'm sure Zoë will return momentarily, and she will be delighted to dance with you.”

As though reading Seth's disapprobation in his eyes, her own widened and she added hastily, “That is, I do not dance.”

She turned away as though to escape, but, nettled, Seth grasped her wrist.

“You would leave me standing alone like Horatio at the bridge?”
As your sister did you,
he added mentally. “Come, this is only a country dance. I am not suggesting we perform the
pas de deux
from
Medée.”

Without waiting for an answer, he swept her out onto the dance floor. The movements of the dance prevented further conversation, which was just as well, Seth noted in some amusement. A most becoming flush had risen to Miss Beckett's cheeks, and her eyes fairly sparked with indignation. He could imagine the set-down that trembled on her lips.

“You spoke an untruth,” Seth said calmly at their first opportunity for speech. “You dance remarkably well.”

Well, of course she did, reflected Eden. She'd had lessons from an accredited master who had said the same thing. Mr. Lindow was merely chiding her for her earlier rudeness. As well he might, she conceded ruefully. Even as she had spoken her rejection, she almost gapped at her own temerity. How could she, the consummate country mouse actually have refused to stand up with a gentleman of the ton? She quailed a little before his disdainful stare. How odd. She had never met this man. Why, then, did she feel she already knew him? To say nothing of the effect his dark gaze produced deep inside her.

However, she said merely, “Thank you, sir,” before taking refuge once again in the figures of the dance. When the last strains of the music died away, she kept her gaze downcast as Mr. Lindow returned her to where Zoë posed prettily, talking to their father.

Poor Papa, thought Eden. He had been pleased at their invitation to Lady Saltram's ball, but he was not comfortable at such functions. He stood now, looking hot and harassed as Zoë spoke to him, obviously trying to wheedle him into something.

Upon being introduced to Mr. Lindow, Zoë's expression grew blank, but she was perfectly willing to agree that they had probably met before. Eden stood back to let Zoë take charge, which she did, of course, with her usual ease and confidence. After one sweeping glance over Mr. Lindow's person, she bestowed on him the brilliant smile she bent on any male—followed almost immediately by an expression of courteous disinterest.

“Mr. Lindow,” she murmured, whereupon she transferred her attention to a young gentleman standing by. Lord Willipott, if Eden was not mistaken. Mr. Lindow turned to her father, whose greeting was only marginally more cordial.

“Lindow? Yes, we met at some confounded soiree or other, didn't we?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Mr. Lindow courteously. “We discussed your string of Thoroughbreds. I believe it was Sir Robert Oakaton who was telling me just the other day that your stud is the finest this side of Ireland.”

Not unnaturally, these sentiments caused her father to beam expansively. She glanced at Mr. Lindow, only to intercept his gaze as it slid from her father, back to Zoë. She found it oddly compelling—and unsettling.

Smiling slightly, Mr. Lindow begged Zoë's hand for the next dance. As they moved away, Eden thought she caught a speculative glint in the gaze he bent on her little sister.

Eden frowned.

Chapter Two

The air on a March morning a few weeks later was chill, as though winter protested its slackening grip on the countryside. But as the sun climbed higher in the sparkling Surrey sky, it was evident that spring was ready to take the upper hand. A certain softness blessed the breeze that flirted with tentative, new-green leaves and sighed over budding orchards. Birds chirped ecstatically as though affirming the advent of the season.

The beauty of the day was lost on Seth as he made his way along the Portsmouth Road in a light traveling coach. Sprawled on the forward-facing seat of the vehicle, frowning in abstraction, he was oblivious to nature's beguilements and the splendor of the Surrey landscape. Across from him, Jason Moppe sat rigid and prim.

Seth had procured an invitation to Lord Beckett's estate with laughable ease. Once he had conveyed the information that he was representing the Duke of Derwent in his search for additions to his stables, the man was all beaming joviality. He fairly begged Seth to visit. "Do come along any time, sir. Stay as long as you please. We can promise you some fine fishing." Seth grimaced distastefully, and looking up, noted Jason Moppe's grin.

"It's been a long trip, Moppe," he responded, shifting his shoulders under a modish coat of superfine. "I'll be glad when we reach—what the devil is the name of the place?—Clearsprings. Although, glad is not precisely the
mot juste.
Relieved, perhaps."

"Well," countered Moppe, his eyes, black and bright as shoe buttons, snapping mischievously. "Y'could have traveled a bit more plumpish. His Grace wouldn't object if ye—"

"Yes, I know. We could have arrived in a style more appropriate to His Grace's man of affairs."

"Or, ye might say, to his son," admonished Moppe severely.

"Adopted son. In any case, it's not
my
style, Moppe."

"Hmph. Half the Polite World don't even know you're something more than his man of affairs. Y'never show up at any of the nobs's parties or flirt with the pretty little maids on the marriage mart."

"And that's how I prefer it. I have never endeavored to hide the fact of my adoption, but I have no wish to bray out my connection with His Grace. The fact that I'm known to handle his affairs gives me all the clout I need in dealing with his associates. As for the, er, maids, I am a commoner, Moppe. I could never aspire to the hand of a lady." He smiled sardonically. "Would you have me horsewhipped at the cart tail?"