Nearly a Lady (42 page)

It was with some disappointment, then, that on the very eve of seeing her efforts come to fruition, she found herself not emboldened with the thrill of imminent victory, but battling fear, nerves, and the surprising weight of reluctance.

Tonight, Sir Robert Maxwell would propose. She was certain of it. Fairly certain. It seemed a reasonable expectation. The courtship was reaching near to four months, which, in her estimation, was an excessive amount of time to allocate to romance. More significantly, Sir Robert had strongly hinted at the possibility of a proposal should she attend Mrs. Cress’s house party. Well, she was in attendance, and had been for a fortnight. Surely tonight, amidst the music and drama of a masquerade ball, Sir Robert would present his offer.

Mind you, Sir Robert had no great appreciation for music, but he did seem to Adelaide to be inordinately fond of dramatics.

“I don’t care for dramatics,” she muttered.

Her feet slowed in the hall that led from her guest chambers to the ballroom. At best guess, the distance between the rooms required a thirty-second walk. She managed to stretch the first twenty yards into a ten-minute exercise of unproductive meandering. She stopped in front of the mirror to fuss with a rebellious lock of chestnut hair and wrinkle her small nose at the narrow features and light brown eyes she’d inherited from her father. Eyes that, she could not help but note, had begun to crease a bit at the corners.

A few feet later, she reached down to straighten her hem and pull a bit of lint from the ivory silk of her sleeve. Then she peeked into a room, fiddled with a vase, adjusted the low bodice of her gown, and stopped again to examine an oil painting . . . in minute detail, because art appreciation was not something one ought to rush.

And between each pause in movement, she literally dragged her feet. Her dancing slippers made a soft and drawn-out
woooosht, woooosht, woooosht
against the polished wood floor with every step.

Annoyed by the sound, Adelaide stopped to pull off her mask and fiddle with the feathers. This, she assured herself, was
not
another bid to stall. The mask required a considerable amount of fussing. She’d constructed the silly piece herself, and having no experience with—nor any apparent talent for—such an endeavor, she’d made a terrible mess of the thing. The feathers were unevenly spaced, sticking out where they ought to be lying flat, and bent in several places.

Sir Robert was certain to take note of it. She could envision his reaction well. His pale blue eyes would go wide, right before they narrowed in a wince. Then he would cover the lapse of manners with a smile that was sure to display his perfect teeth to best advantage.
Then
he would pronounce her a
most charming creature
in that awful, condescending tone.

“I don’t care for that tone,” she muttered.

She rubbed an errant feather with the pad of her thumb while the lively strains of a waltz floated down the hall and the scent of candle wax tickled her nose.

It was only a tone, she told herself, a minor flaw in a man positively brimming with things to recommend him. He was handsome. He was fond of her.

He was in possession of five thousand pounds a year.

The mere thought of so much money lightened the worst of her nerves with visions of a happy future. Her sister, Isobel, could have a London season. Little George could have a proper nanny. Wolfgang’s debts would be paid. And the lot of them would have a roof over their heads and no shortage of food on the table. It was her dream come true.

“Right.”

Ignoring doubts that lingered, she replaced the mask, securing it with a double knot and an extra yank on the ribbons for good measure. She set her shoulders, took a single step forward . . . and nearly toppled to the floor when a deep voice sounded directly behind her.

“I’d not go just yet, if I were you.”

She spun around so quickly, she dislodged her mask and tripped on the hem of her gown.

“Easy,” the deep voice continued with a chuckle, and a large, warm hand wrapped around her arm, steadying her.

She caught a glimpse of dark blond hair and light eyes, and for one awful moment, she thought she had been caught dawdling in the hall by Sir Robert. But by the time she righted herself and straightened her mask, that fear had been replaced by an entirely new sort of discomfort.

The man was a stranger. He shared the same light coloring and uncommon height as Sir Robert, but that was where all similarities ended. There was an air of aristocratic softness about Sir Robert; his frame was elegantly long and thin, and his features were delicate, almost feminine. There was nothing even remotely delicate or feminine about the man before her. He wasn’t long, he was tall, towering over her by more than half a foot. And he wasn’t thin, but athletically lean, the definition of muscle visible through his dark formal attire. He was handsome, without a doubt, with broad shoulders and a thick head of hair that was more gold than blond. But his features were hard and sharp, from the square cut of his jaw to the blunt jut of his cheekbones. Even his eyes, green as new grass, had an edge about them.

He put her to mind of the drawings her sister had shown her of the sleek American lions. And that put her to mind of stalking. And
that
made her decidedly uneasy.

Her senses tingled and her breath caught in her lungs.

She wasn’t sure if she cared for the sensation or not.

“My apologies,” he said quietly. His voice held the cadence of an English gentleman’s, but there was a hint of Scotland in his pronunciation. “It was not my intention to startle you.”

“Quite all right.” She wanted to wince at how breathless she sounded. She cleared her throat instead and carefully withdrew her arm from his grasp. “I was woolgathering. Do excuse me.”

She turned to leave, but he moved around, quick and smooth as you please, and blocked her path. “You shouldn’t go just yet.”

“Good heavens.” The man even moved like a cat. “Why ever not?”

“Because you want to stay here.”

He offered that outrageous statement with such remarkable sincerity that there could be no doubt of his jesting. The act of silliness both stunned and intrigued her. He didn’t look to be the sort of man who teased.

“That is the most ridiculous, not to mention presumptuous—”

“Very well.
I
want you to stay here.” His lips curved up, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “It was unkind of you to make me say it.”

She was surprised to find he had a charming smile. The sort that invited one to smile back. It did little to slow her racing pulse, but she liked it all the same.

She shook her head. “Who are you?”

“Connor Brice,” he supplied and executed an eloquent bow.

She curtsied in return, then righted her mask when it slipped. “Miss Adelaide Ward.”

“Yes, I know. Settle your feathers, Miss Ward.”

“You’ve not ruffled them, Mr. Brice.” She hoped he believed the lie.

“No, I meant . . .” He reached out and brushed the edge of her mask with his thumb. She swore she could feel his touch on the skin beneath. “Your feathers need smoothing. What are you meant to be, exactly?”

“Oh. Oh, drat.” She reached up and pulled on the knot of ribbons at the back of her head. They refused to give. Sighing, she pulled the contraption over her coiffure and tried not to think of the damage she was doing. “A bird of prey.”

“Ah.” He grasped his hands behind his back, leaned down, and peered at the mask in her hands. “I thought perhaps you were aiming for disheveled wren.”

The sound of her laughter filled the hall. She much preferred the gentle insult to the sort of compliment Sir Robert was sure to give. Mistakes were so much easier to accept when one was allowed to be amused by them.

“It’s true,” she agreed. “I look dreadful.”

He straightened and his green eyes swept over her frame in a frankly appraising manner that made her blush. “You’re lovely.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled. And then, because she’d mumbled it at the mask instead of him, she forced herself to look up when she asked, “And where is your mask?”

“I don’t have one.”

“But it’s a masquerade.” Had a mask been optional? She wished someone had mentioned that earlier.

“There is more than one way for a man to hide himself.” He gestured at a door she knew led to a small sitting room.

“Is that where you came from?” No wonder he’d been able to sneak up on her so quickly. “Whatever were you doing in there?”

“Avoiding a particular lady. What were you doing out here?”

She wanted to ask which lady, and why he’d broken his self-imposed exile to speak with her—she was hardly the most interesting person at the party—but she was too busy trying to arrive at a suitable excuse for her dallying to devise a subtle way to pry. In the end, she didn’t have to come up with anything. He answered for her.

“You’re avoiding a particular gentleman.”

“I’m not.”

“Sir Robert,” he guessed, and he shrugged when she sucked in a small breath of surprise. “Your courtship is hardly a secret.”

She hadn’t thought it was fodder for gossip either. At least not in . . . wherever it was Mr. Brice was from.

“I’m not avoiding anyone.”

“You are.”

Since he seemed immovable on that point, she tried another.

“Perhaps it is Mr. Doolin,” she said smartly. She did make a habit of steering clear of the elderly man and his wandering hands, so it wasn’t a lie,
per se
, but more of an irrelevant truth.

He gave a small shake of his head. “It’s Sir Robert you’re not eager to see, and you were wise to drag your feet. Last I checked, he was lying in wait for you right on the other side of the ballroom doors.”

Her mouth fell open, but it was several long seconds before she could make sound emerge.

“Sir Robert does not
lie in wait
. I am quite certain he is not to be found crouched behind the doors like an animal.” It was a little discomfiting that she could, in fact, easily imagine the baron doing just that. More than once in the past, she’d felt as if his sudden appearance at her side had been something of an ambush.

She sniffed, and with what she thought was commendable loyalty, she added, “He is a gentleman.”

“Do you think?” Mr. Brice’s smile wasn’t inviting this time. It was mocking. “It is a constant source of amazement to me how little effort the man must exert to disguise his true nature. But then, the ton is ever ready to take a baron at his word and at his . . . five thousand pounds a year, I believe you said?”

Oh, dear heavens. She’d said that bit out loud?

Heat flooded her cheeks. This was awful. Perfectly dreadful. There was no excuse for having made such a comment. And yet she couldn’t stop herself from attempting to provide one.

“I was only . . . What I meant by that is . . .” She told herself to give up the effort before she somehow made matters worse. “One cannot . . . There is no shame in marrying a man with an income.”

And there it was . . . Worse.

Leave, leave
now.

“Excuse me.” She struggled to untie the ribbons of her mask. She’d put it on, go to the ball, and pray to every deity known to man that Mr. Brice’s low opinion of Sir Robert kept the two men from speaking to each other, or about each other, or
near
each other, or . . .

“Allow me.” Mr. Brice took the mask from her hands, his long fingers brushing across her skin. “You’re right,” he said gently. “There is nothing wrong with making a practical match.”

“Oh. Well.” That was very understanding of him, she thought with a sigh of relief. Then she wondered if he might expand on that understanding a little. “You’ll not repeat what I said?”

“On my word.” He pulled the knotted ribbons free and handed her the mask. “The true shame is that you’re given no other choice.”

Was he speaking of the lack of opportunity for women everywhere to make their way in the world, she wondered, or was he referring to her shortage of suitors? She would have asked him, but she was distracted when his gaze flew to something over her shoulder.

She heard it then . . . Footsteps. The sound was muffled and distant, still around the turn in the corridor, but it was growing louder and more distinct.

She winced and stifled the urge to swear. It wasn’t uncommon for two guests to meet in the hall and share a few words in passing, but it was generally frowned upon for a young, unmarried lady to converse with a gentleman to whom she’d not been properly introduced. At seven-and-twenty, she was no longer considered a young lady, but that wouldn’t stop Sir Robert from chiding her for not making the trip to the ballroom in the company of a maid.

She didn’t care for his chiding.

“
Please
, do pretend we’ve not been speaking,” she whispered and took a step to move around Mr. Brice. Perhaps, if she put a bit of distance between them . . .

Mr. Brice had another idea. He reached over and opened the door he’d emerged from earlier. “This would be easier.”

“Yes, of course.” Hiding seemed something of an overreaction, but it was preferable to having a marriage proposal turn into a lecture.

She brushed past him into the dimly lighted room. The door closed behind her with a soft click of the latch, and she stood where she was for a moment, taking a deep breath to settle her racing heart. It was fortunate Mr. Brice had so quickly interpreted the cause of her discomfort. It was even more fortunate that Mr. Brice had thought to shield her presence while he sent the passing guest on his way. Quite considerate of him, really. Very nearly the act of a knight-errant.

Having never before been the object of a gentleman’s chivalry, the thought brought a warm slide of pleasure and a small, secret smile. But both began to fade as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She turned around slowly and found herself staring at the small ruby pin in Mr. Brice’s crisp white cravat.