How to Dance With a Duke (44 page)

Slim and fair of complexion with deep auburn hair, Miss Shelby could have been the toast of the
ton
were it not for an accident during her teens that had left her with a pronounced limp. Alec had been partnered with her at a card party some weeks ago and found her to be a sensible and witty young woman. She was not one to suffer fools gladly, and he could only imagine her annoyance at Winterson’s interference. If he guessed right, she’d much rather have spent the evening at home working on one of her compositions for the pianoforte.

“On the other hand,” Monteith continued, “Miss Shelby and I had a delightful conversation speculating over the identity of the artist everyone is chattering about. She thinks he’s probably some unknown trying to gain the spotlight. I think it’s probably some chap with a flagging career who wishes to raise speculation about his work.”

“
Il Maestro
, you mean?”

All of London had been engrossed with learning the identity of the mysterious artist who had begun showing his controversial paintings a little over a month ago. The gallery owner claimed not to know, as did the few who had purchased pieces from the show. And it was generally agreed that the longer he kept his identity a secret, the more intrigued the public would become.

“Who else?” Monteith said with something like disgust. “I blame Byron for all of this ado. He swans about with his dark looks, spouting poetry and seducing women, and now every other fellow with the least bit of artistic inclination thinks a foreign sobriquet and risqué art are the shortcut to celebrity.”

“Yes,” Alec reasoned, “but Byron didn’t keep his identity a secret. He makes sure everyone knows it’s himself he’s writing about.”

The other man grimaced. “Just wait.
Il Maestro
will have a grand unmasking as soon as he’s whipped the ladies into a sufficient frenzy of curiosity.” He smiled. “All except for Miss Shelby, that is. I think a surfeit of chatter about that blighter is what sent her over the edge.”

“What do you mean?” Alec asked, his brow furrowed. “Is she unwell?”

He did not like to think of Juliet ill. And it was the duty of a good host to ensure the comfort of all his guests, of course.

Monteith’s glib tone turned serious. “I think her leg might be paining her a bit,” he said. “And of course her harridan of a mother refused to allow her to take the carriage home.”

On that point, Deveril and Monteith were in firm agreement. Lady Shelby was one of the most beautiful women to grace the
ton
. She and her two sisters had taken society by storm when they’d made their debuts some two and a half decades earlier. The daughters of an undistinguished Dorset squire, they’d been introduced to the
ton
by a distant cousin and within months married three of the most eligible bachelors in town. Of the three, Rose was the least admired. Not because of her looks, which had only improved with age, but because of her unpleasant nature.

“It would have surprised me to hear she had done so,” he remarked. “Lady Shelby loves no one but herself. And even those feelings come with conditions.”

The other man made a snort of agreement.

His respite from his guests over, Deveril took leave of his friend and wandered over to the line of chairs that had been set out for the matrons and those young ladies who either did not care to dance, or had not been asked. An empty seat next to Lady Madeline Essex beckoned, but as he glanced up, he saw a familiar figure slipping through the doors leading to a hallway off the family rooms. Changing direction, he threaded his way through chattering guests, and finally made his way to the exit.

When he reached the corridor, it was deserted except for a few wandering pairs taking advantage of the less crowded room for quiet conversation. Or perhaps for assignations. He was hardly one to judge.

Turning into a side hallway, he saw what he was looking for. A familiar man was turning a key in the door of Alec’s office.

“Uncle,” he said, making no effort to hush his approach. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Roderick Devenish gave a start at being caught, but quickly regained his composure.

“Nephew,” he nodded, revealing the extent to which his graying hair had begun its slow retreat toward the back of his scalp. “I was just wondering if you had any of those Spanish cheroots you like so much.”

Bollocks.
But Alec did not challenge him.

“Were you, indeed?” he asked blandly, letting his eyes convey what he really thought of that falsehood. “I would have offered one if I knew you wanted one. Of course I didn’t realize you had a key.”

A pregnant silence fell between the two men. Alec marveled at his uncle’s audacity. He was just like Alec’s late father.

“A legacy of my youth, I’m afraid,” Roderick said, fingering the key in his hand. “And I thank you for the offer, but I’ve decided I don’t wish to indulge after all.”

“Then I’ll have to ask you to return to the ballroom,” Deveril said, his voice still calm. “If the other guests find you wandering about in the family quarters, then they’ll think we’re actually family.”

At the cut, Roderick let his urbane mask slip.

“You know as well as I do that the same poisonous blood runs in us both.”

His sneer made him look every one of his fifty years.

Unwilling to be led down that path tonight, Alec shook his head. “Get out,” he said simply. The steel in his tone was sharp and cold. “But first give me the key.”

The naked hatred on his uncle’s face was nothing new. It was akin to the look his own father had turned on him so many years ago. Grudgingly, he slapped the key into Alec’s outstretched hand. Turning, he stalked back down the hallway in the direction from which Deveril had come.

When he was sure Roderick was gone, Alec let himself into the study to ensure that nothing had been disturbed. To his relief nothing had. He did find, however, a collar—the same sort worn by the housemaids. He had no illusions that it had been dropped in the course of her regular duties. Roderick, it seemed, was as ever, just like his late brother.

The same blood might run in both of them, but Deveril was determined to ensure no woman he encountered would ever find herself a victim of it. He’d built his entire adult life upon that principle.

When he stepped back into the hall, he saw that the door to the music room three doors down was slightly ajar, and strode down the hall. Tonight, it seemed, the ballroom might be the least crowded room in Deveril House.

*   *   *

Hiding behind a screen was not how Miss Shelby had intended to spend the bulk of the Deveril ball.

When she’d arrived an hour earlier, she and her cousin Madeline had dutifully made their way to the side of the ballroom, where chairs had been set up for the chaperones and wallflowers. Though their other cousin, Cecily, had recently wed the Duke of Winterson, Juliet and Maddie had no illusions that they were now to be accepted among the elite of London society.

After an hour or so of chatting with Maddie, and later Colonel Lord Monteith, a friend of Winterson’s, she’d felt the familiar sting of pain in her left leg. But it was the note in her reticule that made her less than eager to socialize. Pleading a headache, which showed every indication of becoming a real complaint, she excused herself to pore over the cryptic message in private.

Limping through the darkened corridors of Deveril House, she finally found the music room, which was, thankfully, deserted. She’d always admired the room, and had even played the magnificent pianoforte a time or two for the small musical evenings Viscount Deveril’s sisters sometimes held. Though much younger than Juliet and her cousins, Lydia and Katherine Devenish were personable young ladies, and among the few friends the cousins could name amongst the more fashionable crowds of the
ton
.

She’d no sooner stepped into the music room when she heard familiar voices approaching in the hall. Cursing fate, she hurried as quickly as her painful leg would allow behind an elaborately decorated chinoiserie screen, where she lowered herself onto a tufted stool and waited for her unwelcome visitors to leave.

“I cannot account for it, Felicia,” Miss Snowe complained. “It is bad enough that Cecily Hurston has stolen a march on every eligible female in London by marrying Winterson, but now she thinks to foist her ridiculous cousins on the
ton.
I had thought that Lydia and Katherine had more discernment than to allow such unfashionable people free rein in their ballroom. Or Lord Deveril for that matter. I am sorely disappointed in the Devenish family at the moment.”

“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly,” Amelia’s bosom friend, Lady Felicia Downes said.

What a surprise.
Juliet rolled her eyes.

“It’s insulting to anyone of taste,” Lady Felicia continued, “as if we’ve forgotten how the Ugly Ducklings languished with the rest of the ineligibles these past three years. Does Cecily Hurston really believe that her lucky marriage will erase Lady Madeline’s plumpness or Miss Shelby’s unfortunate limp?”

Juliet could hardly be surprised at Felicia’s unkind words; hearing them aloud, however, stung. For the three years since their debut, when Amelia had dubbed the unfashionable cousins “the Ugly Ducklings,” they’d been subjected to one unkindness or another from the blonde beauty and her friend. Though she had hoped that Cecily’s marriage to the Duke of Winterson would give the cousins a much-needed social boost, it would appear with Amelia and Felicia the change in status for Cecily had barely registered. And it most certainly hadn’t erased their derision for Madeline and Juliet.

“Cecily Hurston may have trapped Winterson into marriage,” Amelia said, “but there is no way that Lady Madeline or Miss Shelby can possibly expect to make comparable matches. Why, the idea is preposterous.”

“While it is certainly within the realm of possibility that Madeline will go on a strict reducing regimen,” Amelia continued, warming to her topic, “there is certainly nothing that Juliet can do about her unfortunate limp. I had supposed that one such as she would be confined to her home and not be thrust upon genteel society. I wonder what her parents were thinking to bring her out as if she were any normal girl.”

Juliet felt her cheeks redden with anger. It wasn’t as if she had never heard such sentiments expressed before. Indeed, her own mother had at times said similar things, though she had the decency to keep her thoughts out of the public eye. So long as Juliet kept the true nature of her unfortunate injury secret, Lady Shelby had agreed that her daughter might attend as many society events as she wished. But to hear Amelia Snowe, who had fooled the gentlemen of the
ton
into believing her to be a sweet and nurturing angel, express such sentiments was infuriating.

“I daresay,” Felicia responded, “they are hoping to marry her off to some aged lord who has already sired an heir. The idea of anyone else wishing to marry such an antidote is laughable. What man would possibly wish for the mother of his children to drag herself around with a walking stick?”

As she listened to the two girls share their mirth at her expense, Juliet vowed to “accidentally” trip Amelia at the first opportunity.

“You don’t suppose they’ve already chosen someone, do you?” Amelia asked, once her giggles had subsided. “Because I would dearly love to be present at that wedding! How does one stumble down the aisle, do you think?”

“At least we would not be forced to see her dance at her own wedding! Imagine what a spectacle that would be! Carroty hair mixed with a halting gait. She will be as amusing as a performer at the circus.” This came from Lady Felicia.

The laughing fit brought on by that bit of mean-spiritedness was interrupted by a cough. A gentleman’s cough.

“Miss Snowe, Lady Felicia,” she heard a deep voice say. “How is it that you are not on the dance floor?”

Juliet could all but hear Amelia’s simpering smile slide back into place.

“Your lordship,” she cooed, “what a delightful entertainment you’ve hosted this evening. Felicia and I were just taking a bit of a rest in between sets.”

“I thank you for the compliment,” Viscount Deveril said smoothly, though was that a hint of annoyance Juliet heard in his voice? “I must ask you to return to the festivities,” he continued, his voice definitely cool. “This room is for family use only.”

And you two are not family
, his voice implied. Juliet bit back a cheer.

“We will leave at once,” Amelia said, her voice thick with apology. Of course she would not wish to insult an eligible like Deveril, Juliet thought cynically.

“We apologize for the intrusion, my lord,” Felicia cooed.

Juliet bit her lip to keep from laughing at the insincerity.

“There is no harm done, ladies,” Deveril assured them with more generosity than they deserved. “And I pray you,” he added, “try not to stumble down the hall. One would hate to see the two of you make a spectacle of yourselves. This isn’t the circus, you know.”

Behind the screen, Julie’s mouth fell open in astonishment. Had the Viscount Deveril, leader of the fashionable set, just delivered a set down on her behalf? It was not to be believed!

In the room at large, an awkward silence fell, no doubt while Amelia tried to come up with a suitable response. Apparently she was unable to do so, because Juliet soon heard both ladies thank his lordship again for the warning and hurry away in a rustle of silk skirts and the firm click of the closing door.

Waiting a few minutes more to ensure the room really was empty, Juliet was making to rise from her seat behind the screen when she heard the Viscount’s now-familiar voice.

“You may come out now, Miss Shelby. Your detractors have gone back to the ballroom.”

Juliet dropped her head into her hands in frustration.

He had known she was there the whole time.

Damn.
And double damn.

Schooling her features, she rose awkwardly from her seat and stepped out from behind the screen.

Praise for Manda Collins’s delightful debut!