The Rogue’s Prize (30 page)

he fumed. “You should have been

paraded out and about London long ago.

One does not
come out
after the fruit has

ripened.”

People turned to stare. Constance

felt a blush creep up her neck. Was he

openly suggesting, before everyone

present, she had long ascended into

spinsterhood? At nearly twenty, she

feared that was the case. Her heart beat

a strange pitter-patter, but before she

could respond, her father called the

Baroness forward and the ignominious

Marques Stanton was gone. She shook

her head at the absurdity of it all. Yet, as

more people thronged past, she could not

help but think there was a kindness in the

man’s jovial remark that instinctively

warned her not to take offense. But all

thought of the odd man fled when her

next guest stepped forward.

“Lady Constance. I’ve been eagerly

awaiting this moment.”

Constance curtsied, albeit slowly,

and bowed her head politely. Burton

reached for her hand but she kept it

hidden in the folds of her gown, as if

smoothing away an unwanted wrinkle.

Burton exchanged a quizzical

glance with her father. “I take it this

soiree will be a joyous occasion for

all?”

“I guarantee you a night you will

never forget, Burton,” her father replied.

The smug satisfaction on Burton’s

face alarmed her. His sly wink was a

reminder she’d pay for her public slight.

A shiver trailed down her spine and she

swallowed

a

sickening

lump

of

revulsion, suddenly reminded of the last

ball she’d attended in his presence.

Nevertheless, Constance stood her

ground. She wasn’t his to command …

yet.

When at last the final guests

arrived, her father put his hand to the

small of her spine and led her into the

pulsing mob. Haunting strains of the

violin swelled upon the floriated air.

The luxurious mix relaxed her. Though

the

pianoforte

was

her

favorite

instrument, she was devoid of any

personal talent, which forced her to seek

out the presence of others more gifted,

like Winifred Simmons and Eleanor

Mason, two of her dearest childhood

friends. As the night progressed and her

father finally released her to her own

amusement, she ventured into the throng

in search of Winifred and Eleanor.

Sighting the former sipping punch with a

dark-haired gentleman, Constance set out

to intercept her, but a large muscular

form outfitted in blue stepped into her

path. Immediately, she recognized the

shiny naval uniform buttons.

“Lady Constance, it is gravely

important that I speak with you,” Guffald

whispered.

Constance stared up into Guffald’s

eyes, unable to comprehend what could

be so urgent. Skirting a glance at guests

nearby, she asked, “Is something amiss,

Lieutenant?”

He grabbed her forearm none-too-

gently and led her to the atrium, away

from the crowd. “I’ve been trying to see

you, but your father will not allow it.”

Peering

over

his

shoulder

alarmingly, she noticed her father

immersed in deep conversation with

Burton and shivered. “He’s been

preoccupied,” she confided.

“Aye. It seems your father has taken

permanent steps in providing for your

future.”

There was an unspoken sadness in

Guffald’s eyes. Sympathy overflowing,

she offered the only thing she could. “Do

not allow my father to unarm your

worth.”

“If that were but the case,” he

confided. “Tell me, are you presently

unattached?”

She laid her hand on Guffald’s arm

reassuringly, fearful he might get the

wrong impression, and then answered

with an honesty she did not feel. “Yes.

At present, I am unattached and

thankfully so. This is the first ball of the

season, is it not? What better way to

spend one’s first ball, than to fill a dance

card with the name of every man

present?”

She smiled, hoping to alleviate his

pain. He adored her, that much was

plain. There was a time when that would

have been enough. But now — she could

not tell him that he was unsuitable.

Surely, that is what he feared, and why

he felt such a desperate urge to plead his

case. Defying convention, she raised her

gloved finger to his brow. “It pains me

that you have suffered so cruelly in my

stead.”

He flinched at the slightest pressure

of her touch and peered over her

shoulder. “I would do anything for you,

my Lady.”

“Indeed, you are brave.” She

lowered her voice. “I’ve been unable to

thank you. If it hadn’t been for your help

with the gig, Morty and I would be

dead.”

“No one must ever know of my

involvement,” he whispered.

She nodded, fully understanding

that secrecy meant salvaging her

reputation. “You would make any

woman proud, Lieutenant.”

He gazed into her eyes and held her

hand in his. “Any woman?”

“I must go,” she said, refusing to

answer. She had nothing to offer him.

Captain Frink and Thomas Sexton had

seen to that. And without her father’s

approval, there could be nothing

between them. She turned to leave.

“Wait,” he said, restraining her.

Staring down at his hand, she hoped

no one took note of his impropriety, but

a voice behind her inferred someone had

seen them.

“What a sight!” The odd voice

floated near. “I hate to interrupt so

private a discussion but I thought to

ensure my name was written upon Lady

Constance’s card.”

Both she and Guffald turned to see

Lord Stanton standing close by, dipping

his fingers into a lion-crested silver

snuffbox. He dabbed the substance to his

nose and inhaled until he sneezed most

comically.

“Guffald.”

“Stanton,” Guffald exclaimed. “I

thought you were wasting away in

Tuscany, Morocco, or some such place.”

Constance curtsied a greeting and

raised a quizzical brow. No matter what

could be said of Stanton’s attire or

mannerisms, she felt amazingly safer in

his presence than Guffald’s.

“Odd’s fish! Imagine that. You

thinking I was on sabbatical. Why, I’ve

only just returned.”

Guffald looked anxiously back and

forth from Constance to his friend.

Stanton dropped his gaze and focused it

upon Constance’s arm, which the

lieutenant still held within his hand.

He cocked his brow. “I say, have I

interrupted something scandalous?”

“Nonsense,”

Guffald

replied,

releasing her. “I was simply helping the

young lady regain her strength from the

dance.”

“What a gallant lad you are, sir!

But the lady seems quite replenished.”

Turning to Constance, Stanton winked.

“Shall we?”

“Shall we what, my Lord?” she

asked, perplexed.

“Dance,” he suggested.

Scrutinizing Lord Stanton, head to

foot,

Constance

could

not

help

wondering what kind of show he would

provide the gentlemen and ladies

present. Guffald appeared pained by the

request, but the opportunity compelled

her to prevent him from forming any

further attachment to her.

“I’m quite refreshed, Lieutenant.

Thank you for your assistance.” Turning

to the fancy gentleman, she added, “I

should be delighted to dance, my Lord.”

She held out her gloved hand.

Stanton raised it to his lips. His veiled

eyes glistened with a hint of mischief

and something else. A shiver raced up

and down her spine, tingling her all the

way to her toes. She held his gaze a

moment longer than seemly as he led her

to the dance floor.

“You are a diamond of the first

water. Sweeter than memory serves,” he

cooed.

She went rigid. “You have me at a

loss, sir. Have we met before?”

“On the eve of lover’s delight,” he

waxed poetic.

Constance

stared,

dumfounded.

What was she to make of this popinjay?

“Ah! I’m quite disconsolate. It

appears you do not remember,” he said,

frowning.

Constance struggled for poise. “I

must confess you confuse me greatly, my

Lord.”

He stopped near a group of couples

preparing to dance. His eyes held hers

longer

than

necessary.

She

was

fascinated by the dark, ebony orbs

glistening with strange, unrelenting

promise. What was it about him that put

her at ease?

“I shall put it to rest then,” he said.

“Do you not remember we met in the

receiving line, my gel?” He chuckled.

His laughter took her by surprise.

Of course she remembered. But

he’d hinted at something else, hadn’t he?

“Why, of course,” she admitted. “For a

moment, I thought you meant — ”

“ — that you had conjured my

dashing arrival in your dreams?”

“How could I when I wasn’t even

aware of your existence before tonight?”

“Touché,” he parried. “But I

thought every woman dreams of a man

who will sweep her off her feet.” He

looked down at her feet and led her to

the center of the floor. For once she was

thankful for the fine silk slippers Morty

had forced her to wear, rather than the

older, more comfortable ones she’d

chosen.

The music began.

As they moved in time to the

melody,

Constance

relaxed.

Lord

Stanton was a breath of fresh air and she

was definitely in want of it. She smiled

thoughtfully, for once easily forgetting

the true purpose of this soiree.

“I simply adore your smile,” he

whispered as he passed her to join the

other dancers across from her.

“Sir — ” she objected, as they

circled one another.

“I take it you do not like

compliments,” he said, passing her

again.

“Only when they come from

someone I barely know. It is highly

improper to address me — ”

“I say what I believe, my gel, and

the knowing can be remedied.”

He winked, thrilling her to her

slippered

feet.

His

accompanying

chuckle filled her to bubbling as they

stepped through the dance line and the

music

escalated.

Stanton,

in

accomplished flourish, pranced forward,

crossing to bow to his counter partner.

Step by step, he proved a capable

dancer — fluid, impulsive, winking with

mischievous pleasure whenever they

passed each other. She felt alive when

near him, desolate when he passed on to

another partner. What was it about the

man that intrigued her? Before she could

decide, the dance ended and Stanton

steered her toward refreshment.

“Shall we? I’m rather parched,” he

said, grabbing her fan, opening it in front

of his face, slowly closing it and then

putting the handle to his lips.

“As am I,” she offered gaily,

grabbing

the

accoutrement

back,

wondering if he could possibly know

that he’d just offered to marry her and

requested a kiss. She shook off the idea

as he handed her a glass of effervescent

liquid.

“You are a superb dancer, Lady

Constance. But I’m curious as to why I

have never seen you at soirees before.”

She nearly choked. Dabbing her

mouth with the napkin he quickly

provided, she tried with thankful success

to keep the crimson liquid from staining

her gown. “My father,” she tried not to

sound bitter, “does not attend such

gatherings.”

“More’s the pity. Were I your

chaperone, I would parade you all about