The Forbidden Lord (7 page)

At least their encounter had been brief, and the illusion that he’d found the only female in England who could totally bewitch him had finally passed. No doubt if he met Miss Emily Fairchild again during the light of day—and he wouldn’t—he’d find her ordinary and distinctly unbewitching.

“I’ll never understand your cynical view of marriage, Blackmore,” Pollock said, “but obviously St. Clair chose you well for his scheme. Any other man might be tempted to steal a winsome little thing like Lady Sophie after dancing with her. But not you—the lord with the granite heart.”

“Mock me if you will, but I’m well pleased with my granite heart. It doesn’t bleed, it doesn’t fester, and it can’t be wounded.”

“Yes, but it can break if someone hits it with a hammer. One day a woman will come along who shatters it into a million pieces. And I, for one, can’t wait to see it.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time then,” Jordan said, growing bored with this subject. “And it won’t happen tonight. I’m dancing with Sophie merely to oblige Ian. He thinks it’ll prompt Lord Nesfield to accept his suit and thus get Sophie out of my foul clutches. Ian assured me I’d be done quickly. Good God, I hope so. These affairs are tedious.”

“I don’t mind them. But then I can appreciate a good party. You can’t.”

Pollock’s insistence on making him sound like a cold bastard began to irritate Jordan. “And I’m not looking for a wife to enhance my standing in society. You are.”

Pollock glared at him. “Is that an allusion to my lack of a title or connections? To the fact that my father was in trade? My word, you’re pompous. You can have any woman you want, so you lord it over the rest of us.”

The vehemence in Pollock’s voice startled him. “That’s not true. Any number of merchant’s daughters would happily lead you to the altar.”

“I don’t want a merchant’s daughter. As you so crudely put it, I want someone who can increase my standing in society.”

“Why? You already move in exalted circles.”

“Yes, but I want a woman who can be the jewel in my crown, a woman so stunning that my position is secured forever. And preferably someone who can love me despite my faults.”

Jordan couldn’t restrain his laughter. “You think to find it at Merrington’s? With a lot of simpering virgins and scheming mamas?”

“Perhaps.” Pollock fingered the cravat he’d spent so much time torturing into a Mathematique. “Before St. Clair set his sights on Lady Sophie, I’d planned to try for her myself.” He scowled. “Then St. Clair came along and captured her fancy. He isn’t even in love with her. He just wants a docile wife, God knows why.”

Yes, that was curious. Jordan himself had wondered why Ian seemed so bent on marrying these days. “I wouldn’t envy him his conquest of Sophie, if I were you. She’s tolerably pretty and good-natured, but her father’s a bastard. I fear Ian will rue the day he marries into that man’s family.”

The carriage drew up in front of Merrington’s, and Jordan checked his watch. They’d made good time; the girl might still be here. If so, he’d give it an hour. That should be sufficient time to enrage Lord Nesfield and promote Ian’s suit. Then he could go to his club and be done with this nonsense.

The two of them left the carriage and entered Merrington’s handsome town house in silence. The place was all got up in spring flowers and ribbons, enough of them to make a man ill. When they reached the ballroom, Jordan paused to survey the scene. As usual, Merrington’s ball resembled a ship’s hold full of doves and crows, cooing and cawing and taking wing whenever they liked. White-gowned women swirled down the lines of dancers accompanied by their black-tailed companions, whose cinched waists, tight knee-breeches, and brilliant-colored waistcoats enhanced their birdlike appearance.

Hovering on the sidelines, he scanned the crowd
for Ian or even Lady Sophie. But despite the glow of a thousand candles and Argand lamps, he saw nothing but flashes of fans and trains and white slippers.

Then he and Pollock were surrounded by Pollock’s friends, all of them bachelors attending the ball in search of mates. A few moments of pleasantries ensued, but they soon gave way to earnest comparisons of the young women’s attributes. Jordan wanted to laugh at the lot of them. What romantic drivel these young pups spouted! If they had to have wives, at least they should choose them sensibly.

That’s what he would do when the need for an heir became overwhelming. He would find some experienced woman—a widowed marchioness or some such—with taste and good judgment, who could preside over his household without a lot of fuss. A businesslike marriage. Sensible. No emotional entanglements.

The one thing he would
not
do is marry some chit out of the schoolroom who would expect him to dote on her every word and indulge her whims. Like the tittering young women the men around him were discussing.

Impatient with their talk, Jordan turned to Pollock. “Have you spotted Ian yet?”

“Just now. He’s at the top of the set.” Pollock nodded toward the dance floor.

“Ian is dancing? You must be joking. He hates to dance. Though I suppose he’ll do what he must to secure Lady Sophie.”

“Lady Sophie?” one of the others remarked. “Haven’t you heard? Lady Sophie’s very ill, and no one knows when she’ll be able to leave the sick-room.”

“You must be mistaken,” Jordan said. “I heard
she’d left town briefly last week, but St. Clair told me yesterday she was back. He planned to call on the family today.”

“She may be back, but she’s not out and about. St. Clair is dancing with her cousin. For the second time, I should add.”

“Deuce take it.” So Lady Sophie wasn’t even here, and he needn’t have come after all. Well, he’d stay just long enough to torment Ian for missing his shot at Nesfield’s girl, then leave for his club.

It took only half a minute to pick his friend out of the throng of dancers, for Ian was hard to miss. Unlike the blond, fair, and short Pollock, Ian had the coffee-colored skin of a gypsy and stood easily a head above most other men. Among the fair geldings of English society, he was certainly a dark horse.

As for his dance partner…Well, well. Ian always managed to snag the pretty ones, didn’t he? Jordan couldn’t make out her face from where he stood, but her hair was the rich, dark gold of late sunset, and the figure a randy young man’s dream, even draped in pure white satin. Of course, he wasn’t young or randy, not for these sweet darlings. He preferred women in scarlet…or black bombazine.

Good God, where had that come from? That was the second time he’d thought of Emily tonight. Matchmaking was polluting the spring air, that’s all. It was bound to affect him a little.

The dance ended, and Jordan threaded his way through the crowd toward Ian, casting a warning look at the one bold matron who approached him with a simpering daughter in tow. She stopped in her tracks, thank God. Smart woman.

He should never have come. All these harpies would get the wrong idea about his attendance at
a marriage mart and descend on him en masse. After talking to Ian, he’d have to beat a hasty retreat.

The closer he got to the couple, the more interested he became in the woman on Ian’s arm. For a girl at her coming out, she was much too graceful. No awkwardness in the way she walked, no hint of uncertainty in her manner. Her back was to him, and a very shapely back it was, too—not to mention the exceedingly attractive derriere. And there was all that glorious hair, swept up into a chignon and studded with pearls above her long, elegant neck.

He could swear he’d seen that neck before, and all that hair, too. But that was absurd, of course. He’d never even heard of Lady Sophie’s cousin, much less seen her attractions before tonight.

Then the couple stopped at the edge of the dance floor, and the woman turned toward her companion, putting her face in profile.

Devil take it. He
had
seen her before! The profile was achingly familiar. Last time it had been muted by moonlight and covered by a mask, but he could swear it was the same face…the same delicate nose and modest smile.

No, it couldn’t be. How could she be in London at a ball like this, dressed in expensive white satin and pearls? He was imagining things. This woman merely shared some of Emily’s features. And he couldn’t be sure about the face, after all. He’d seen it for only a few moments in the darkness.

Still, this woman had the same height and the same figure, the same way of ducking her head when she smiled and that same swanlike bend in her neck. She even had the same color hair, though it was dressed more extravagantly. His heart thudded loudly, and he quickened his steps. It couldn’t be her. But it was—he couldn’t be mistaken.

What on earth was she doing here? “Emily?” he said hoarsely as he reached them. “Emily, is it really you?”

The woman faced him, a startled expression on her face. A flash of recognition seemed to touch those emerald eyes before it disappeared completely, replaced by a cold look of censure. “I beg your pardon, sir. Do I know you?”

Jordan couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d hit him in the face with her reticule.

“My God, Jordan,” Ian cut in. “At least wait until I introduce you before you call the lady by her Christian name.” He looked from Jordan to the woman, both of whom were staring at each other. “You two don’t know each other, do you?”

“We do,” Jordan asserted at the same time she said hotly, “Certainly not.”

Jordan gaped at her. How could she pretend not to recognize him?

Ian said with distinct amusement in his voice, “Since there seems to be some confusion on the matter, I’d better perform the introductions. Lady Emma, may I present Jordan Willis, the Earl of Blackmore. Jordan, this is Lady Emma Campbell, the Earl of Dundee’s daughter and Lord Nesfield’s niece.” In an aside to the woman, he added, “Don’t let his rudeness give you the wrong impression. When he puts his mind to it, he can charm the moon out of the sky.”

Ian’s humor was lost on Jordan, especially when the mention of his full name and title didn’t produce a reaction from her. Lady Emma? Who the devil was Lady Emma? It had to be a mistake. This wasn’t the Earl of Dundee’s daughter; this was Emily Fairchild, the rector’s daughter. He was sure of it.

But it had been dark that night in the carriage,
and he
had
seen her face only briefly in the moonlight. Could he be wrong?

Either way, he couldn’t just stand here gawking at her. He gave a sketchy bow, then said, “I’m sorry, Lady Emma, for accosting you so boldly.” He forced a contrition he didn’t feel into his voice. “My only excuse is that I mistook you for someone else. Please forgive my error.”

The woman arched her eyebrows in wary disapproval. “Someone else? Pray tell me who this Emily woman is.” Her tone grew coy. “Don’t disappoint me, Lord Blackmore, or I swear I’ll never forgive you. Please tell me she’s an exotic princess from the South Seas. Or even an opera singer. I’ll be insulted if it’s anyone less interesting.”

It was Emily’s voice, Emily’s lips…Emily’s blond hair. But not Emily’s manner. And yet…“Then I’m doomed to remain unforgiven. She’s a rector’s daughter.” He added, very deliberately, “Her name is Emily Fairchild.”

He watched for any reaction and fancied he saw a faint tinge of a blush spread over her cheeks.

If so, it was quickly gone, for she smiled archly and said in a haughty voice, “A rector’s daughter? Indeed, you
are
doomed. I could never countenance being mistaken for a common rector’s daughter. No, no, I can’t forgive you at all.”

Ian was watching Jordan with narrowed eyes, but Jordan paid no attention whatsoever to his friend. “Then I must make amends. May I have this dance, Lady Emma? I can think of no other way to atone for my horrible error.”

Her smile slipped. Good, he’d flustered her.

But she recovered her composure with amazing speed. Tucking her hand in the crook of Ian’s elbow, she said, “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Lord Blackmore. I promised the next waltz to Lord St.
Clair, and they’re playing the waltz now.”

For the love of God, she was refusing to dance with him. The brazen chit! What had happened to her? He flashed Ian a quelling glance. “You don’t mind crying off, do you, old friend?”

With a chuckle, Ian quickly disentangled himself from the woman. “I absolve you of your commitment, Lady Emma. Even another dance in your delightful company can’t compare to watching my friend dance the waltz at a marriage mart for probably the first time in his life.”

A look of outrage spread over her face as Jordan held out his hand. She glowered at Ian, then Jordan. “But we have barely been introduced! You can’t do this! It’s not at all proper!”

Emily had protested his lack of propriety that night in the carriage, too. Jordan smiled, feeling more sure of himself now. He ignored her protest and cupped his hand about the slender waist that felt so painfully familiar. Surely he’d held this waist before and seen those same tender lips quiver as they were doing now.

Taking her small hand, he placed it on his shoulder and repeated the same words he’d said that night, in a voice meant only for her ears, “As if I care about propriety.”

If she remembered, she showed no sign of it. “Oh, but
I
care,” she spat back, “especially when a rude man attempts to forgo it.”

He tightened his hold on her when she tried to wriggle out of his embrace. “Sorry, my dear, but this rude man shall have his waltz, and you
will
follow along. Everyone’s watching, and if you refuse me, your name will be on every gossip’s tongue tomorrow.”

Her name would be on every gossip’s tongue regardless. Already he could feel the hush that had
fallen on the crowd the moment he’d taken her in his arms. Ian wasn’t the only person keenly interested in observing the Earl of Blackmore break his own rules about dancing with innocents. It had been this very effect Ian had been hoping for with Sophie. And with any luck it would prod Emily into telling him the truth.

He could tell when she became aware of the eyes on them. Her hand in his trembled, though her shoulders remained stubbornly set.

“I see we understand each other,” he said smoothly.