Ravished by the Rake (26 page)

‘Some. There are snide remarks from the usual cats, some of the chaperons look at me a little sideways, but I can ignore that. The men—’ She shrugged, making light of it in case he reacted badly. There had been things said,
hinted, glances and touches and several outright offers that were most definitely not honourable. Somehow she had coped, although it hurt. Sooner or later they would realise she was not available, she hoped.

‘Lady Cartwright,’ she said as they came up to a lively group, ‘may I make known to you the Marquis of Iwerne, just returned from the East?’ As she expected, Fiona Cartwright, a lively young matron, pounced on this promising-looking gentleman and promptly drew Alistair into her circle of friends. With that start he would soon know virtually everyone in the place and surely, once he did, he would see that there were many young women who took his fancy and this foolishness would cease.

A glance at the dancers showed that Evaline was partnered by the young man in the handsome waistcoat. With a mental note to find out who he was, just in case he should prove undesirable, Dita strolled on, in no mood to dance herself. She felt weary and out of sorts, her mood not helped when she saw Alistair walk on to the floor with the charming Lady Jane Franklin on his arm. It was just what she hoped for and the sight was like a knife in the stomach.

‘Madam? May I assist you?’

Startled, she turned to find a gentleman at her side. He was slightly over average height, with light brown hair, hazel eyes and tanned skin. ‘Sir?’

‘I beg your pardon, but you sighed so heavily I thought perhaps …’

‘Oh, no, I am quite all right. Just bored, if the truth be told.’

‘Would you care to dance? I am sure I can find someone to introduce me.’

‘I fear I am not in a dancing mood this evening, sir. But thank you for offering.’ Impulsively she held out her hand. ‘Shall we forget propriety for a moment and introduce ourselves? I am Perdita Brooke; my father is Lord Wycombe.’

‘Lady Perdita.’ He bowed over her hand. ‘Francis Wynstanley. You may know my brother, Lord Percy Wynstanley. I am quite a newcomer to Almack’s myself; I have been in the West Indies for several years.’

‘And I am just back from India, so I am equally out of touch,’ Dita said.

A flash of crimson caught her eye and she saw it was the waistcoat of Evaline’s partner—and he was dancing with her again.

‘What makes you frown, if I may ask?’

‘My sister, dancing a second time with a man I do not know. See, the blonde girl in the pale green and the man with the crimson waistcoat.’

‘Oh, I can help you there. That is James Morgan, my brother’s confidential secretary. Percy is much involved in politics, you know, and Morgan is his right-hand man. Good character and all that, nothing to be worried about.’

‘No, indeed. If you can vouch for him I am quite reassured.’ But she was not. Confidential secretaries, however well bred, were not what her parents were looking for.

A week later her friendship with Lord Percy’s brother was pronounced enough for her mother to be asking
questions. ‘He seems a most pleasant gentleman,’ she observed. ‘And intelligent. I spoke to him for a while at Lady Longrigg’s soirée last night. Has he any prospects?’

‘I really have no idea,’ Dita said, with truth.

‘I trust he is not some idler hanging out for a rich wife.’

‘Mama, we are friends, that is all.’

But she was provoked enough to probe a little as they sat in the supper room at the Millingtons’ ball. Alistair, she noted with a pang, was partnering one of Lord Faversham’s daughters and Evaline had her head together with James Morgan, which was worrying.

‘Do you make your home in London, Mr Wynstanley?’ Alistair was flirting, she could tell, just from the back of his head—and the way the Faversham chit was blushing.

‘I am doing the Season and living with my brother for the duration, but I have an estate in Suffolk I inherited from my maternal grandfather and I shall be basing myself there and seeing what is to be done to bring it about.’

‘How interesting. It needs much work?’

He was a nice, intelligent, apparently eligible man. It would be pleasant, but unwise, to continue their friendship. Was this whole Season to be like this, fearing to make any male friendships while she watched Alistair find his wife?

‘Good evening, Lady Perdita.’

Dita jumped and then managed a smile of welcome as Francis got to his feet. ‘Oh …’
Pull yourself together!
‘Lord Iwerne, Miss Faversham, may I introduce
Mr Wynstanley? Mr Wynstanley: the Marquis of Iwerne, Miss Faversham.’

‘Will you not join us?’ Francis pulled out a chair for Miss Faversham and they all sat down again. Francis gestured to the waiter and wine and glasses were brought.

Dita met Alistair’s eyes with what she hoped was tolerable composure, only to find he was at his coolest, one eyebrow slightly raised. She stared back defiantly and engaged Miss Faversham, who appeared very shy, in conversation. Beside her she was aware of Francis undergoing a skilful interrogation—damn Alistair, he would be warning the man off in a moment!

After what seemed like an hour, but was probably only fifteen minutes, Alistair rose. ‘Might I beg the honour of a dance, Lady Perdita?’

‘Why, yes.’ Her instinct was to refuse, but that would show she cared. She consulted her card. ‘The second set after supper?’

‘Ma’am. Wynstanley.’ He bowed and escorted Miss Faversham out of the supper room.

By the time Alistair came to claim her for the set she had lost her nerve. ‘I have changed my mind,’ she said, staying firmly in the seat where Francis had left her when he went to claim his own partner.

‘Don’t sulk, Dita, it isn’t like you.’

‘I am not sulking and you, Alistair Lyndon, are not my keeper; I’ll thank you not to embarrass me by interrogating perfectly respectable gentlemen just because they are in my company.’

‘I am going to marry you,’ he said, taking the chair
next to her without being asked. ‘And besides, you should not toy with men’s affections this way. Wynstanley seems a decent enough fellow and he is within an inch of falling for you, if I am any judge.

‘Well, we know you are not, don’t we?’ she countered, refusing to react to the declaration that he would marry her. ‘You place no importance upon love.’

Alistair stretched his legs out in front of him, showing every sign of settling down for a long and intimate conversation. ‘It is a chimera, a delusion. You will come to your senses soon enough and marry me, Dita.’

‘What if I fall in love with someone else and want to marry them?’ she demanded. ‘Or are you so arrogant that you believe that would be a delusion that I must be saved from?’

It was not a possibility, of course. She had come to accept that she was not going to fall out of love with him and into love with some other man. Given that, marrying someone like Francis and settling down to a pleasant, if second-best, life might be possible if only she could square her conscience over hiding her feelings for Alistair from him. But to marry Alistair when she loved him and he did not love her would be misery. She would be constantly hoping that he would fall in love with her and every day she would be disappointed.

‘If he is a decent man and if I was convinced you loved him, then perhaps.’ He did not look happy about it. ‘And if you gave me your word of honour that you did love him and were not simply trying to escape from me.’

‘You trust my honour?’

‘I thought I could trust it with my own,’ he countered and there was no mistaking the bitterness now.

‘So you place your honour above my happiness?’ she asked. ‘No, do not answer that, I do not think I want to hear it. ‘Why not give some thought to your own happiness instead and then perhaps we can both sleep easy in our beds?’

Alistair sat down again as Dita swept off. Happiness. He had never thought of it as something to go out and seek. He had lived life as he wanted it and on his terms ever since he had left home and he supposed that for most of the time he had been happy. Certainly he had felt challenged, fulfilled, energised by the life he had lived.

Happiness, Dita appeared to be implying, required him to take a wife. He knew he needed one, but these little peahens were intolerable; he had observed them for two weeks and they bored him rigid. He studied the room, feeling like a punter assessing racehorse form.
Silly laugh, intolerable mother, rude to servants, never washes her neck …
None of them had Dita’s class or intelligence. And she, with every reason in the world to marry him—except her fantasy of love—refused him.

He sat and watched the dancing until he caught sight of Lady Evaline Brooke waltzing, which he was fairly certain she shouldn’t be, with that young man who only appeared to possess one waistcoat. He should extricate her from that flirtation before her mama saw her. Alistair waited until the music stopped and then walked across to cut into their conversation that was continuing as they left the floor.

‘Lady Evaline.’

She jumped and looked guilty. ‘Lord Iwerne.’

‘Won’t you introduce me?’

‘Of course. Lord Iwerne, this is Mr Morgan, Lord Winstanley’s confidential secretary. James, the Marquis of Iwerne.’

‘My lord.’ The young man made a neat bow. He was slightly stocky, dark—Welsh, perhaps, as his name might suggest—and met Alistair’s cool regard with a expression that was polite but not cowed.
He’s got some backbone, then.

‘Mr Morgan. Lady Evaline, I was hoping for a dance.’

‘Oh. Well, my card is quite full, my lord.’ She fiddled with it, nervous.

‘How dashing of you, Lady Evaline.’ He caught the dangling card and opened it. ‘Are you sure you cannot spare me a single county dance?’ Every remaining dance had JM pencilled against it. The uncomfortable silence dragged on. ‘How did you expect to get away with that?’ he asked.

‘We were going to sit them out, my lord,’ Morgan said. ‘Over there.’ He nodded towards a partly curtained alcove. ‘Not outside, I assure you.’

‘I suggest you have rather more of a care for the lady’s reputation, Mr Morgan. Lady Evaline, you, I believe, will dance this set with me.’ He swept her on to the floor, leaving Morgan white-faced on the sidelines. It was a country dance, not the best place for a delicate exchange, but he managed to ask, ‘What would your mother say?’

‘She’d be furious,’ Evaline murmured. She was as
white as her swain, but her chin came up and she fixed a bright social smile on her lips. ‘You are quite right to chide me, my lord.’

‘I am not chiding,’ he said. ‘I’m rescuing you.’

The steps swung them apart and they said no more until the set was finished and he walked her off to find her mother. ‘Hide that card,’ he suggested. ‘Lady Brooke, here is your youngest daughter, who has danced me to a standstill.’

‘Thank you,’ Evaline said as he stood looking down at her. ‘You are quite right, I know.’

‘I wouldn’t want to see you come to harm,’ he rejoined as her mother’s attention was claimed by a friend. ‘You matter to me.’ She would be his sister-in-law if he had his way; it behoved him to protect her. Besides, he owed her mother much for her help with Imogen. Evaline blushed and lowered her eyes, but he was not displeased. She had seen the folly of that silly flirtation. Enough of acting the big brother for one evening, he thought, and went in search of the card tables.

‘G
ood morning.’

Dita started and dropped her reticule. Her footman dived for it and Alistair removed his hat with a suave politeness that made her want to hit him for making her react so revealingly.

‘Good morning, Lord Iwerne. This is an early hour to meet you in Bond Street—I would have thought at ten o’clock you would still be contemplating breakfast. Thank you, Philips.’ She took her reticule from the footman and tried for a bright smile as she gestured for him to retreat to a discreet distance.

‘I had some shopping.’ He was carrying nothing, nor did he have a man in attendance, but perhaps he was having whatever it was delivered. ‘Will you be at the Cuthberts’ masquerade this evening?’

‘We all will. Or at least, Mama and Evaline and I. It would probably take wild horses to drag Papa to such a thing.’ They began to stroll along the pavement.

‘And what will you be going as?’ Alistair raised his
tall hat to Lady St John, who was observing them with interest from her barouche.

‘A milkmaid,’ Dita admitted with a sigh. ‘Very pretty and conventional, but Mama thought it suitable.’

‘You are still in trouble with the old tabbies?’

‘Not really, but people are aware of me, I suppose. You saw Lady St John just now. Who am I with, what am I doing?’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t care, but I should be cautious for Evaline’s sake.’

‘Then I cannot lure you off for a morning’s delicious sin in Grillon’s Hotel?’ he suggested.

‘No! Don’t say such things, even in jest.’ She eyed him sideways. ‘That was in jest, wasn’t it?’

‘No. It was a perfectly serious invitation. And now you are blushing most delightfully. Come and look at the wigs in Trufitt and Hill’s window while I make you go even pinker.’

‘Certainly not. I have no desire to look at horrid wigs, or to have you put me any more out of countenance than I already am. I wish you would go away, Alistair, and stop tempting me.’

‘Am I?’ He sounded very pleased at the thought.

‘Yes, and you know it and there is no need to be smug about it.’

‘Very well, but not before I make you another, quite unexceptional, offer. I have sent for Indian silks and jewels from my house in south Devon. It is where I have my plant collection and where I shipped goods back to while I was away. Would you like a costume for the masquerade? I am going to wear Indian dress myself.’

‘Oh, yes!’ The thought of fine silks and fluttering veils made her heart race. To see Alistair dressed in
Indian fashion, to partner her … ‘Oh, no. It would look as though we were a couple.’

‘Not at all. Everyone knows we have been in India—what more natural that we should both chose to dress like that. We will arrive separately, after all.’