Wicked Angel (15 page)

Lauren shrugged. Obviously another aristocrat with an overinflated view of himself. A man like that would not suit Charlotte at all. "He is a cabbagehead," she said with great authority, missing Charlotte's look of horror. "I have an idea! Come with me to the far side of the room—your mother cannot possibly see us there! You can say you lost your dance card and stand up with whomever you please!"

Charlotte gaped at Lauren as if she had just spoken heresy, but slowly, a tremulous smile spread across her lips. "I don't know," she said hesitantly. "My mother can be quite ill-tempered."

Lauren suppressed the urge to snort her agreement with that. "Come! She cannot possibly think of dragging you from the dance floor without causing a scene. Besides, I know a man who has a proper enough title to suit her, and he shall be happy to stand up with you," she said with supreme assurance.

She grabbed Charlotte's hand, determined that Magnus should be the first to escort her onto the dance floor.

The Duke of Sutherland and Michael Ingram, the Marquis of Darfield, having come from the gentleman's smoking room, stood uncomfortably at the entrance to the ballroom. Surveying the crowd, Michael sighed unconsciously, bringing a grin to Alex's face. If there was a person who despised the Season's events, it was his old friend, Michael. Once known as the Devil of Darfield, Michael had shunned society with a vengeance until his delightful wife, Abbey, had come along and changed everything. He attended

the events now, but reluctantly. Earlier, the two had escaped to the smoking room, where they had stayed just long enough for Michael to divest Alex of two hundred pounds in a card game.

Alex shared Michael's lack of enthusiasm, and this ball was no different than countless others. The house was filled to overflowing, the rooms were stifling, the champagne tepid, and the dance floor a moving obstacle course. But Marlaine enjoyed it, and he had to admit, she looked particularly lovely tonight. He had been very proud to dance with her.

"Ah, there is the happy marchioness now," Michael said dryly, nodding in her direction. In the center of a group of admirers, Abbey was laughing gaily. "If you will excuse me, old chum, I think I shall go to my wife before Whitehurst carries her off," he said, and walked into the crowd. Grinning, Alex turned his attention to the crowd, looking for Marlaine. He peered closely into the crash, until a flash of light upon a gem or crystal caught his eye.

His eyes riveted on the object, all thoughts of Marlaine suddenly vanquished from his mind. Just a few feet from him, Miss Hill glided across the edge of the dance floor with a firm grip on Miss Pritchit's hand.

His pulse quickened at the mere sight of her; it was little wonder; the angel was absolutely stunning.

She and Miss Pritchit stopped and put their heads together, giggling at something or someone on the dance floor. Her smile was infectious; like a bright star, it illuminated those around her. And those sparkling dark blue eyes—God, they were enchanting. It was hard to imagine they had flashed with anger three days ago…

Just what had he said, anyway?

The more he thought of it, the more irritated he became. What exactly
had
he said to cause such ire in her? Jesus, he had merely wished her well! She acted as if it were some grand secret that women came to London in hopes of a good match.

He was so intent on the angel that Lady Harris was able to easily intercept him. "Your grace! I am so glad to have found you in this mob! I should very much like to introduce you to someone," she purred, and linked her arm through his.

"At your service, Lady Harris," he replied automatically, but he did not take his eyes from Miss Hill, who was now talking with the same blond man he had seen with her at the reception.

Lady Harris playfully tapped his arm with her fan. "I should very much like to introduce you to the Countess Bergen. She is from the continent after all, and I thought perhaps you had met her before."

Alex realized they were moving in the direction of Miss Hill. He watched as she turned to Miss Pritchit and introduced her to the stranger. "I am quite certain I have not," he responded politely.

"Well, you should very much enjoy meeting her now. She is truly a delight! Such joie de vivre! I wish you could have seen her just last week. That girl lost at
least
twelve rounds of loo to Lady Thistlecourt, who lorded it over us all with the decorum of a
skunk!
Honestly, Hortense Thistlecourt thinks she positively
owns
the loo tables! And do you know the dear girl simply laughed, declared to Lady Thistlecourt she was honor bound to seek a rematch, and then blithely offered to fetch her a drink? Can you imagine?"

Lady Harris babbled.

Alex only vaguely heard his hostess. The golden stranger was escorting Miss Pritchit onto the dance floor, and the angel was smiling as if she had just eaten a fat cow. She further startled him by calling after the stranger in German, telling him to please try and smile. "Excuse me, Lady Harris, but where is the Countess?" he asked impatiently, wanting to be done with it so he could speak with the angel.

"Why, she is just there," she responded happily, and nodded toward Miss Hill.

Alex looked at Lady Harris, then at Miss Hill. "I beg your pardon?" he choked out.

"One can hardly miss her!" Lady Harris laughed. "The dark-haired woman in the sapphire gown. She is quite lovely, is she not?"

God in heaven, for the first time in his life, Alex was utterly speechless. Where in the hell had Lady Harris come up with the idea that Lauren Hill was a countess—the
Bavarian
countess of whom everyone spoke? It was impossible! The little chit had never made mention of a
title!
"I think there must be some mistake," he uttered.

"Oh, there is no mistake, I assure you!
That
is Countess Bergen!" Lady Harris cheerfully confirmed.

Lauren chuckled to herself as Charlotte and Magnus disappeared into the crowd of dancers. Magnus had not liked it one bit, but Charlotte had almost swooned. Well, he
was
a handsome man; she had to give him that. When he smiled. Which was rarely. Nonetheless, he was
trying
to be charming.

"Lauren!"

She whirled toward the sound of Abbey's voice. With a small squeal of delight, she rushed into the open arms of her friend.

"Where on earth have you been? Not a word from you since you left Rosewood! I should be mortally offended, you know!" Abbey gushed, then held her at arm's length to examine her.

"Oh, Abbey, you cannot imagine how sorely I have missed you!" Lauren cried.

"When are you coming again to Pemberheath? The new barn at Rosewood is finally finished, but it is positively too grand to be a barn! The children are quite proud of it."

"I miss the children
dreadfully
," she moaned genuinely. "Uncle Ethan has promised we may visit in a fortnight."

"Oh my, your gown is
beautiful
," Abbey proclaimed honestly.

"Do you really think so? I have had the worst luck finding a seamstress."

"Really?" Abbey beamed. "I know of one who is quite affordable. I commission
all
my gowns from her—"

"I beg your pardon, darling, but shall you not introduce us?" Glancing to her right, Lauren saw a tall man with finely chiseled features and soft gray eyes. Lord, but he was handsome—almost as handsome as that arrogant Mr. Christian. She quickly covered that forbidden thought with a bright smile.

"Michael, darling, I am so very pleased to finally introduce to you Countess Bergen," Abbey happily replied.

Lord Darfield took her hand and gallantly bowed very low over it. "A true pleasure," he said charmingly.

"My wife speaks very fondly of you and your enormous tomatoes."

Lauren graciously curtsied. "I am quite fond of your wife, too, my lord," she said, laughing lightly, "but it is her patronage of my tomatoes that makes me adore her!"

"You are being kind, Countess Bergen, for I rather think we both know it is an obsession. We have eaten so many tomatoes at Blessing Park that I rather fear they may sprout from my ears!" the marquis exclaimed as he took two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and handed them to the women.

Lauren laughed as she brought the flute to her lips.

"Countess Bergen!"

Lauren smiled helplessly at Abbey. The way Lady Harris kept introducing men to her, she would have sworn the woman had been retained by Ethan to find her a match.

"Countess Bergen! Please allow me to introduce you to his grace, the Duke of Sutherland."

She reluctantly looked over her shoulder—and instantly choked on her champagne, spraying the marquis's coat sleeve. A
duke?
Her country gentleman was
the
Duke of Sutherland? The marquis grabbed the flute from her hand before she dropped it and Abbey slapped her soundly on the back. The so-called duke did not make the slightest attempt to keep the insolent smile from his lips. With exaggerated flourish, he pulled a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and offered it to her. "My apologies for having startled you, madam," he said with polished grace.

"Oh dear, I am
dreadfully
sorry!" Lady Harris said in horror. Shocked senseless, Lauren nervously grabbed the handkerchief from him and indelicately wiped her mouth and hand. She could not take her eyes from him, let alone speak. Abbey broke her trance by stealthily kicking her with her foot, and Lauren obediently stumbled into an awkward curtsy. The
duke
, blast him, grinned broadly. "Your grace,"

she heard herself rasp, "what a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

With a smile of great amusement, he took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles, his gaze on her face. "The pleasure is all mine…
countess
."

"I had hoped you had met before," Lady Harris said, looking pointedly at Lauren's hand, which was still in the duke's.

Abbey gaped at her as Alex grinned cheerfully and slowly released her hand. "I am quite certain I would recall the enormous pleasure of encountering such a celebrated… and lovely… countess," he said smoothly.

Lauren blanched and covered her mouth with a half-cough, half-choke. She glanced uncomfortably at a beaming Lady Harris. "His grace has traveled often to the continent, Countess," her hostess chirped.

"Perhaps he has met that wonderful cousin of yours, Count Bergen? Shall we call him over?"

"Cousin?" Alex interrupted politely, his all-too-knowing smile deepening.

"No, no, not exactly," Lauren stammered. Alex quirked a brow. Lady Harris, Abbey, and Lord Darfield all leaned forward as if afraid they might miss her explanation. "I mean, that he… He would be the nephew of my husband. Was the nephew. Is," she stupidly attempted to clarify. Completely disconcerted, she clumsily thrust the handkerchief at Alex. "Thank you," she mumbled.

"No, my lady, I would that you keep it. You may need it again," he said, and had the audacity to wink very subtly. At Lord Darfield's choked laughter, Lauren's pulse surged with mortification, and even worse, some indefinable emotion that made a rash of heat flood her face. She thought of a million retorts she should have made, but the scoundrel had turned her tongue to mush. She could only stand helplessly as he greeted Abbey with sophisticated charm. "Lady Darfield, as always, an immense pleasure."

"Alex, really, you stand on such formality," Abbey laughed, and gave him a familiar hug.

"Sutherland, you surprise me. I've never seen you advance so deeply into a ballroom," Lord Darfield grinned insolently, and turned to his wife. "Speaking of ballrooms, darling, they are playing a waltz."

"Yes, but I should very much like to—"

"I am quite certain the countess will be here a while longer?" he said to Lauren. "Excellent," he said to her dumbstruck nod, and practically pushed his wife toward the dance floor.

"Perhaps the countess would do me the honor?" Alex asked cheerfully.

Dance
with him? Oh no, not on her
life
would she dance with him. "Ah, no thank you… you see, my friend Charlotte—"

"Posh!" declared Lady Harris, and tapped Lauren's arm with her fan. "Charlotte Pritchit can fend for herself!" The duke smiled smugly at that. "I shall wait here and explain to Miss Pritchit if you like," she insisted, and gave Lauren a little push.

Bloody hell, but there was no graceful way out of it. The scoundrel smiled as if he had never been more amused. She considered giving him the cut direct for having lied to her if nothing else, but she could hardly do so without bringing undue scrutiny on herself, and well the rogue knew it. "Certainly," she said with a cool glower, and deliberately placed her hand on his arm as if she were touching a leper. He grinned, covered her hand with his, and escorted her to the floor.

As he led her through the crowd, Charlotte's words suddenly popped into her head:
He is one of the
most popular men in all of England
. Dear God, all this time she had been dreaming about the Duke of Sutherland!
Not
a country gentleman, a
duke! A
rumble of panic began to build in the pit of her stomach.

Still grinning when they reached the dance floor, he bowed and swept her into a waltz, whirling her toward the middle of the floor before she could even lift her skirts to give him a perfunctory curtsey. The stab of panic only sharpened when she noticed how easily she fit within his arms. How on earth could she have been so naïve as to mistake him for a country gentleman? Dear God, there was a marquis, a duke, and an earl or two residing near Pemberheath. Why had she not seen it? And Holy Mother, he danced with such
grace
. He was probably trained on the continent, because one simply did not possess such skill of movement. He danced like he kissed… blast it all, she
would
have to think of that
now!

Bloody marvelous! She had been quite thoroughly kissed by a
duke!
Shaken by the extraordinary turn of events, she could do little more than stare at his snowy white neckcloth.