The Incomparable Miss Compton (4 page)

“Your servant, madam,” he intoned.

Her hand still on his arm, her pulse pounding in her ears, she let him lead her out onto the floor.

Chapter Three

Malcolm watched the woman on his arm with a mixture of annoyance and amusement as they formed part of a set for a country line dance. As blatant as she had been, he should have depressed her notions immediately. Yet something about her intrigued him. For one thing, she was considerably older than most of the ladies who had sought his interest. While her dark blue dress with its modest neck was neither fast nor fashionable, he wondered fleetingly whether she might be a doxy. She had the curves to put a French courtesan to shame. Yet surely Anne Prestwick would never allow anyone less than a lady to enter her ballroom. No, there must be some other explanation.

She looked a bit embarrassed by his scrutiny as she took her place across from him, her porcelain complexion tinted a charming pink. She kept her head high as if to deny her embarrassment, but as he took her hands to start the dance, he found that they trembled in his grip. Others would have hastened to set her at ease, but he was too used to putting his enemies in their places, he supposed, to let her off easily. Accordingly, he said nothing as they moved through the figure of the dance, even when the motions brought them close enough that conversation might be expected. She likewise said nothing for the first few turns, giving him ample opportunity to look his fill.

What he saw only intrigued him all the more. She was a tall woman, standing almost eye to eye with him, yet her hands were small and delicate. Her hair was the color of honey and just as thick. It was knotted at the back of her head to allow a tantalizing curl to hang over one shoulder.

As they crossed the set, his gaze held hers. With surprise, he found it impossible to tell the color of her eyes. It was very much like looking in some crystal ball -- gray, blue, and green swirled in various shades in equal measure, pulling him into the depths. As he was forced to break the spell, he noticed that her eyes tended to tilt up at the outside corners, enhancing the impression that there was something mysterious about them. Otherwise, she had a pleasant face, cheeks rounded and lips generous. She carried herself well, even under the present circumstances, as if sustained by some inner strength. He caught her gazing back at him again and wondered what she saw.

He had never considered himself handsome, but he was aware he was considered striking. He was also aware he was fully capable of intimidating people. That would have been a curse to many, but he had found the trait useful. Still, it didn’t seem to be helping him learn the reason this woman had brazened her way into a dance with him. He could not see her as the conniving debutant. He took her hands again for a promenade and surreptitiously squeezed the left hand. He could feel no ring beneath the silk of her long gloves; certainly none was visible outside. She was unmarried then, and not a wife seeking support for a law her husband wanted to enact. He’d met those types before as well. Could she be someone’s sister or cousin then?

He decided to give her his best smile in hopes of fostering conspiracy, but she only gave him back the tightest of responses, her pink lips barely curling. The dance parted them for a moment, and he found himself losing patience. It seemed after her initial bout of bravery that she was as timid as the others who had attempted to attract his interest that night.

“You have nothing to say to me, then, madam?“ he demanded as the dance once more sent them past each other, shoulder to shoulder. As she took her place opposite him, her expressive eyes widened at his gruff tone. He waited for her to pretend he had actually asked her to dance, to say anything that would give him some idea of her game. She merely allowed the gentleman of the second couple in their set to take her hand and lead her out, as the dance demanded. When he approached the lady of the second couple to do the same, he could not help but notice that she quailed under the frown that had evidently formed on his face. He managed a grimace that would have to pass for a smile and found himself back opposite the mysterious lady. He was rather glad to see that they had reached the end of the line of dancers and would be standing out for a round.

“Forgive my impertinence, my lord,“ she said as they waited to rejoin the set. Her voice was deep for a woman, seductive, surprising, and his mind tumbled once more to the doxy theory. “I must thank you for not giving me away. It was most kind of you.”

“I hope you plan to reward my kindness with an explanation,” he replied. She blushed again, and he found the effect even more charming. Was she some kind of sorceress that he could not focus on his intended interrogation?

“I shall try, my lord,” she said. “You had just been introduced to Persephone Compton, I believe?”

He frowned, toying with the idea that she was bent on usurping the lady in his affections. As he had not had time to form any affections, and she was not in the lady’s league in looks, he threw the idea off as preposterous. “Lord Prestwick had performed the introduction as you arrived,” he confirmed.

“May I ask why you wished to be made known to her?” she persisted.

His frown deepened. That ought to have been enough to cause the most ardent campaigner to desist, but she did not seem to be affected by it. “I am not in the habit of discussing my affairs with strangers, madam,” he said quellingly.

She gazed at him. “I imagine you must get them to vote your way out of sheer intimidation,” she said wonderingly.

Surprised, he could not think of an answer. Malcolm Breckonridge, speechless. His peers would laugh themselves sick. He was so appalled that the moment of silence stretched. As the dance ended, she dropped a curtsy, and he remembered himself and bowed.

“Your servant, madam,“ he managed. “I wish you luck.”

She laid a hand on his arm. “I fear I have been forward. Would you take a turn about the room with me, my lord, so that I might explain myself further?”

Malcolm stared at her. He had given her a set down calculated in look and manner to quell the most pretentious upstart and she remained focused on her purpose. Could she be the woman he sought? She certainly had the courage to stand up to him. One could not have asked for a more queenly consort. It was too much to hope that she be intelligent as well. He decided it only made sense to investigate further.

“Very well, madam,” he replied, offering her his arm. They began a slow promenade about the room.

He had never paid much attention to Almack’s, remembering only that chairs were spaced around the room for those who wished to watch the dancing. He paid the people ogling him less attention now, focusing on the woman on his arm. She strolled beside him, offering an occasional smile to other couples similarly engaged, and glancing every so often toward the next set of dancers, which included the Incomparable Miss Compton, now partnering Lord Rupert Wells. They would have made a striking couple, except that she was pouting and he looked bored by the entire affair. The Duke of Reddington, Malcolm noticed, looked on from the edge of the dance floor with ill-disguised annoyance. Malcolm had thought when Prestwick had introduced him to Miss Persephone that the usually suave and sophisticated Reddington was besotted. He felt nothing but pity for the fellow.

“I should start by introducing myself,” she said when he had began to wonder whether she would be silent after all. “I am Miss Sarah Compton, Persephone’s cousin and her chaperone for the Season.”

Disappointment shot through him again. She was after a favor after all. “I see. You accosted me for the sole purpose of furthering your cousin’s case.”

“Not in the slightest,” she assured him fervently.

Malcolm frowned. “Is it my intentions you question, then? I assure you, madam, they are strictly honorable.”

“Oh, dear,” she said with a sigh. As he looked at her in surprise, she hurried on. “That is, I’m sorry to hear you have intentions, my lord. You would never suit.”

“Indeed,” he replied, glancing at the gossamer young lady on the dance floor with more interest than he had felt earlier. “May I say, madam, that you came to that conclusion on remarkably little evidence.”

“Not at all, my lord,” she corrected him, obviously warming to her argument. “I have read and heard a great deal about you. You are obviously a gentleman of mature years, with a thriving career and every expectation of a glorious future. You will want a wife who can help make that future a reality, someone with intelligence, breeding, and a great dollop of common sense. My cousin is beautiful, cultured, and well-read, completely self-absorbed, and utterly lacking in common sense. She would attempt to lead you a merry dance, as she does the youth who cluster about her. You would see through her shortly. I merely save you that time.”

He stared at her for the third time that night. “Thank you, Miss Compton,” was all he could think to say. She smiled at him, revealing dimples on either side of her generous mouth, and making her eyes appear the color of a southern sea at sunrise.

“You are most welcome, Lord Breckonridge,” she replied. “If we are in agreement, I shall take my leave of you.”

He had no choice but to bow, still stunned by her logic, her intuition, and her honesty. “Your servant, madam.”

She dropped a curtsy and started to go. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. To his left, Prestwick was motioning frantically toward Sarah. The dance on the floor was ending, rather soon he thought, and he heard the musicians begin the strains of a waltz. He found himself smiling. Hadn’t he said always said Prestwick was a clever fellow?
“Miss Compton,” he began. She turned to him. “How do you feel about the waltz?”

“I have yet to give Persephone permission to dance it,” she said primly, casting a quick glance to the floor, where indeed her charge was suffering herself to be led away.

“Do you find it so wicked?” Malcolm asked, waiting for her to confirm his fears.

She eyed him for a moment, then a conspiratorial grin spread, bringing her dimples once more into view. “Truth be told,” she replied, “I adore it. I learned from my cousin’s dancing master. God bless Lady Jersey for bringing it back from Vienna. It is truly the only dance worth dancing.”

He felt his own grin spreading. He held out his hand. “In that case, will you do me the honor?”

She stared at his hand as if he had offered her a snake. “You are asking me to dance?”

“I am asking you to waltz,” he corrected her. “Turn about is fair play, after all. Well?”

She stared at him a moment longer, as if weighing the repercussions. Then she laid her hand firmly in his.

“I would be delighted,” she told him, and he pulled her into his arms and out onto the floor.

It was the finest waltz he had ever danced. From the moment he held her womanly frame against him, the ballroom receded to a soft gray blur, like a mist around them. She was attuned to his every movement, was reacting seconds before he even knew he had indicated her to do so. She moved so gracefully beside him that it heightened the feeling that they were dancing on air. He gazed down into those witch’s eyes, now a deep blue, and wondered whether he were under a spell he would ever care to break.

Anne Fairchild would only laugh at him. Her charming husband had presented him with the Incomparable Miss Compton, and found he much preferred her chaperone.

Chapter Four

It was the finest waltz she could have imagined. From the moment he put his strong arm about her waist, the ballroom receded to a soft gray blur, like a mist around them. Any fear scattered in the warmth of his gaze. She was attuned to his every movement, was reacting seconds before she even felt his hand move. So light was his touch that it heightened the feeling that they were dancing on air.

Gazing up into his eyes, darker than night, Sarah wondered whether she was bewitched. How on earth had she ended up dancing the waltz, of all things, with the most eligible bachelor in London, at a ball designed to find him his bride? Every unmarried female in the room must envy her at the moment. It was like something out of a fairy tale.

But that sense of wonder quickly disappeared as he continued to dance her about the floor. In fact, everything disappeared, until there was only the music, his powerful body so close to hers, and his hand upon her back, guiding her in slow circles that centered on those very black eyes. This was no dream but reality, and the reality was more potent than anything she could have imagined. Something deep inside her warned her that this bliss could not last, but she ignored it. She wanted only to give herself up to the moment, enjoy for once being the center of someone’s universe, let her heart free of the confines she placed on it. This moment was hers and hers alone.

It seemed forever and only seconds when the music drew to a close. She gradually became aware of another noise rising above the beating of her heart. It was applause. Lord Breckonridge was bowing over her hand, and most of the other dancers were clapping for them. Small wonder she had felt alone on the dance floor. The others had stopped to watch the more practiced couple execute the steps. She felt herself flush, a heat that only sharpened as Breckonridge brought her hand to his lips in tribute. The gentle pressure was nearly her undoing. But far worse was the sight over his left shoulder.

Persephone stood staring at her pale-faced. Her rosebud lips were compressed in a sharp line. Whether she was shocked by Sarah’s behavior or furious that it had eclipsed her own, Sarah couldn’t be sure. Either way, it did not bode well for the remainder of the evening. She had seen such looks on her cousin’s face before and knew the storms that usually followed.

“Now, that was something like, Miss Compton,” Lord Prestwick declared, appearing at her elbow. She managed to murmur her thanks, keeping an eye on Persephone, who was once more partially hidden by her throng of admirers. No doubt they would hasten to assure her that Persephone was the true belle of the ball. Sarah squared her shoulders.