The Westerfield Affair (2 page)

“Tell me some,” he commanded softly, bending his head close to hers.

* * *

If he were collecting data on his level of attraction to Miss Stanley, they would show his fascination doubling every five minutes. Just the feathery brush of her full skirts sweeping against his legs had his hair standing on end. He had inclined his head close to her and he could smell a perfume of some rich, exotic sweetness—vanilla, perhaps. He was overwhelmed with a desire to lick from her collarbone to her ear as she gave him a sly look from under her lashes.

“All right, my lord. Do you see Lady York over there, looking miserable?”

“Yes.”

“It’s because she’s fallen in love with her husband’s brother, who is dancing right now with Miss Angelton. I believe they’ve become intimate—Lady York and Mr. York, not Mr. York and Miss Angelton. Miss Angelton, for her part, was quite set on luring Captain Baycroft away from his interest in Prudence Pennyford. But she was one of the many who looked very interested in your arrival here, so she may abandon that campaign this evening if she gets any encouragement from you.”

“Is this your way of discouraging my attentions from you?”

Miss Stanley emitted a bark of laughter. “Certainly not. If it were, I would not choose Miss Angelton for you.”

“Why not?”

She gave an easy shrug. “Too quiet. You’re not known for your stimulating conversation, either, so to put the two of you together, well—you’d have a very quiet dining table. Of course, maybe that’s what you’re looking for?” She raised her eyes quizzically.

He’d laughed aloud at her impertinent observation of his conversational skills and was still chuckling. “So I’d be better matched, say, with someone like you?”

“Me?” she demanded with genuine incredulity. “I would drive a man like you mad with my prattle.”

“Would you?”

Her skin was the smoothest he had ever seen—a golden silk free of a single blemish, save one mole on her cheek. The dimpled side. The mounds of her breasts were pushed upward, nearly spilling out of her stays so he was almost trembling for want of freeing one—just to see its unfettered shape. He imagined the color her nipples might be—like the plum red of her lips, perhaps. Or maybe lighter, like a peach.

“Wouldn’t I?” she challenged. The assumed perfection of her breasts aside, it was this directness that most captivated him—it drew him out of himself, forced him to engage with her. She’d been absolutely right—he was a dreadful conversationalist, yet here he was, dancing with the most beautiful lady at the ball, and they hadn’t had one moment of awkward silence.

“You might drive me mad,” he muttered, “but it probably wouldn’t be for your prattle.”

Her brow wrinkled as she decoded his meaning, then her lashes flew open and a color came to her cheeks.

“What about me would drive you mad, Lord Westerfield?” she asked carefully, as if determined to verify her suspicion.

When he didn’t answer, she pressed him with her characteristic bluntness. “Were you speaking crudely?”

“Of course not, Miss Stanley.” He smothered all hints of the smile he felt.

“Truly, Lord Westerfield? Because I believe I just saw you trying to look down the front of my dress, did I not?” Her voice was teasing, but then her cheeks flushed a deeper pink as she probably realized she’d pushed way beyond propriety. She stumbled on, removing her hand from his and touching her neckline. “Or were you noting the conspicuous lack of adornment here, in comparison with the other ladies?”

She couldn’t quite hold his eye, choosing instead to sweep her gaze across the ballroom to hide her fluster. He wondered if she often dragged her own flaws out in the open as a means of distraction.

“Do you feel you are lacking?” he asked in a low voice, genuinely interested. In his mind, he was already traveling to the jeweler to find her the perfect necklace.

“Of course not,” she said too quickly. “I have an orange dress; what more could a girl desire?”

It was such a ridiculous statement—because of course, no lady but she would desire a dress of that color. He was certain she knew it and was again poking fun at herself, and he burst into laughter. She threw him a grateful look.

The dance ended then, but he had no intention of letting Kitty Stanley leave his arms. Ever. “Another dance, Miss Stanley?”

She gave him a shocked look and then whirled right and left, surveying the ballroom. “Is there someone you’re trying to make jealous?”

He snorted with more laughter. She truly didn’t seem to understand he was courting her.

She shrugged. “Well, I had a few dances promised, but none with partners who will arouse such jealous attention from the crowd, so lead on, my lord.”

The idea of other suitors rankled him. He gazed around the ballroom, looking for the possible rivals. He felt a flash of anxiety about courting Miss Stanley. It could be a long and drawn out process of calling on her and escorting her to balls, without ever knowing if she returned his affection. Now, to realize he had competition irritated him. “To whom are your other dances promised?”

“Oh, just friends. Gentlemen who wish to be seen with a lady in orange, that sort of thing.”

He laughed, somewhat relieved. She gazed up at him with an appraising look. “Why
did
you come here, tonight, my lord?”

“To dance with you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not really,” she said doubtfully.

He nodded.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Did my brother put you up to this?”

He frowned, perplexed. “What?”

“Did you lose a bet to him, or something? And he asked you dance with me to help boost my status?” She blew out her breath. “I’m not doing
that
poorly,” she muttered sulkily. “It’s only my second season. I started late, you know.”

“I didn’t know. And don’t be silly—I did not come for your brother.”

She looked at him for a moment. “All right—don’t tell me why you’ve come. I’ll find out eventually, my lord. I’m quite good at ferreting out motives.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said mildly, slightly disappointed she did not believe him to be an actual suitor. But her mention of her brother gave him an idea of how to put the odds in his favor.

Because Harry had no intention of losing this bet.

* * *

“Two dances with Lord Westerfield?”

“I know, I can’t tell what he’s about.”

“I think he is about courting you, love,” Teddy said as he swooped her around the room in a waltz. Her best friend Wynn’s rakish brother, Teddy—Lord Fenton—was her favorite dance partner, by far. A childhood friend, he had the same sardonic sense of humor as she about society, and the grace and ease of a man who is far too comfortable with women than he ought to be. She never worried about being held too close by him or giving the wrong signal, as they had a perfect understanding between them that dancing together meant nothing more than it was.

“Certainly not. Harry Westerfield does not court anyone. He gambles and solves mathematical problems.”

“Well, he looks like he wants to eat my liver right now, so I think you are mistaken.”

She tried to crane her head to catch sight of Lord Westerfield, but Teddy was spinning her about the room too quickly and everyone was a blur.

“There is no reason on earth he would court me. No one courts me. I’m the sort who is better enjoyed from afar.”

Teddy snorted. “What sort am I, then?”

“The sort that is better enjoyed by the already married. Speaking of which, Lady Dunning has been making eyes at you all night; are you ignoring her on purpose?”

“Dear lord, yes. I had her once and she was worse than a virgin. Now she won’t stop sending me love letters. I’m trying to discourage her attentions.”

“You could foist her onto Captain Morse. He seems positively wretched since he returned from the war. A little attention might do him some good.”

“He has a wife!”

“Yes, but I believe his wife is otherwise occupied.”

“With whom?”

“Lord Merriweather.”

“Well, no wonder Captain Morse is wretched.”

“Exactly. So if you could redirect Lady Dunning, everyone would win!”

Teddy gave another snort. “And precisely how do I do that?”

“Tell her you’re stepping back because a dear friend of yours is madly in love with her and you don’t want to cause a rift. I’ll hint to her who it is.”

Teddy laughed as the short dance came to a close. “Thank you, Miss Stanley,” he said with a graceful bow and mock formality. “I shall take your advice and I appreciate your assistance with the matter.” He brought her gloved hand to his lips for a kiss, looking over her shoulder as he did. “Mmm hmm,” he said with satisfaction.

“What?” she said and started to turn around, but he stayed her with a slight tug on her hand. “Don’t look yet—he’s burning a hole through your back with his gaze.” Teddy gave her a wink and departed as she digested that information.

She met Wynn, who was also leaving the dance floor, and hooked elbows with her friend. “How was he?” she asked in a low, conspiratorial tone about Wynn’s dance partner.

Wynn made a disapproving sound in her throat, though her expression remained bright and friendly to all who might see her.

“That bad?”

She nodded, still smiling pleasantly.

“I’m sorry.”

Wynn shrugged. “Is it just me, or does it seem like we’ll never get married?”

“It’s just you. I’m hoping for a few more years of freedom, myself.” She looked around and saw her brother leading a young lady out on the floor. “Although with Maury’s gambling habits I’ll be wearing these same dresses next season.”

“I think you should write to Edward about it,” Wynn said, referring to Kitty’s other brother, the practical one, who was respectably married and ran their family’s estate in Penrock.

“He’d be furious. He’s doing all the work in Penrock to ensure a decent profit, while Maury’s squandering it at gambling halls and brothels. And what’s poor Edward to say or do about it, anyway?”

“Well, he’ll find out soon enough, won’t he?”

“Yes, unless Maury’s luck changes.”

Wynn chuffed. “If I were you, I’d try to find a husband as soon as possible, before Maury’s reputation crumbles and drags yours down with it.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s possible. Or, better said, I do a fair enough job of damaging my own status with my blunt tongue. I’ve heard what they say about me—that I’m odd, and that ‘no man would want to hear that tongue at his dining table.’”

“Don’t be silly. Plenty of men would enjoy your conversation. I always do.”

She gave Wynn a fond glance. “You have to say that, dear, you’re my best friend.”

“No, it’s true! Teddy thinks so as well.”

“It was Teddy who told me what the gentlemen say about me,” she said drily.

Wynn giggled. “Then don’t believe it—he was teasing you. Anyway, I think you just pretend you don’t want a husband so you don’t have to make an effort. You prefer to act the wallflower so you can criticize rather than jump in with the rest of us.”

Kitty bit her lip. That observation came closer to the truth than was comfortable. Seeing she’d struck a nerve, Wynn gave her hand a squeeze. Kitty forced a smile and gave a faint shrug.

* * *

Maury watched Lord Westerfield stonewall conversation with his companions, fixing his attention instead on Kitty. For the first time in all the years he’d known the man, he could tell how he held his cards. In retrospect, he should have known the moment Westerfield agreed to attend this ball it was for Kitty. But he’d never seen his friend take an interest in any woman before. He sauntered over to stand beside him.

“Penchant for orange dresses?”

Westerfield gave him a sidelong glance. “Yes.”

He was surprised at the acknowledgment, but not with the attraction. His sister was beautiful, and while many found her aggressive style improper, it was born of a witty intelligence, which might very well entertain a man like Westerfield, whose silence probably stemmed from boredom with most conversation. Whether Kitty would find him attractive, he couldn’t say. But he did know she needed a man at least as bright as she, and Westerfield surpassed that requirement.

“Twenty thousand for her hand in marriage.”

Maury nearly choked on his champagne. He cleared his throat, knowing full well he’d just shown his hand. Not that Westerfield hadn’t known it to begin with. It was exactly the amount for which he was in debt to Spencer’s.

“Ten to sign the contract, ten when the marriage is complete.”

He bit back the question foremost in his mind—why did Westerfield believe it was necessary to buy his sister’s hand? But to ask the question would suggest it
wasn’t
necessary, and of course, he needed the money.

He watched his sister as she danced with a handsome young captain in the army. Westerfield’s eyes narrowed when they swept past and Maury understood. He was shoring his bets. He was locking in the prize through legal contract to minimize any gamble relying on a lady’s fancy.

How would Kitty take to this arrangement? He pushed the thought from his head immediately. It didn’t matter. He needed this money. They both needed it. And Westerfield was an excellent choice for any young lady.

He held out his hand. “Deal.”

Westerfield shook it, looking satisfied. “I’ll bring the contract and a cheque by tomorrow.”

Chapter Two

Harry sat back on Stanley’s red leather settee and crossed his legs. He had the soaring sense of satisfaction he always had upon winning a bet and collecting his reward. Lord Stanley had signed the contract, as promised, and sent for his sister.

Kitty tapped first on the door, then pushed it open, entering with a puzzled look.

He stood and bowed.

She curtsied. “Lord Westerfield, how nice to see you again,” she said, looking surprised. Clearly Lord Stanley had not discussed the matter with her.

“The pleasure is mine,” he said.

“Sit down, Kitty, we have something to discuss,” Stanley said, waving her to a chair.