Vivian Roycroft Read online

  Fitz landed beside her on the sandy roadway, Rounder's liver chestnut face peering over his shoulder. Gratitude soothed her alarm and pricklings of guilt pinched her soul. Of course she could depend upon Fitz for something so ordinary, even if she'd started noticing another man's handsome features. Fitz was still her friend and always would be. Even if he'd never deign to be more.

  But then Lissie and Violetta drew rein, causing those riders behind them to follow suit, and all of Rotten Row began creeping to a halt.

  Behind her. Because she'd slid from her saddle in the middle of the path. She didn't need to look to know that every rider in the crunch stood in his stirrups or craned her neck, trying to see the dunderhead who'd caused it. Wait 'til Father heard about this scrape.

  Not after their morning conversation. Beryl tossed her skirt, ensuring her legs were decently covered, caught Lissie's eye, nodded down the sandy lane, and waited until Lissie nodded back and walked on, taking Violetta and the thickening cluster of horses and riders with her. Then Beryl drew the reins over Tricksey's lowered ears and clicked to the poor dear. Fitz and Rounder beside her, she led the mare to beneath the shade trees, her boots sinking into the sand, to where fashionable pedestrians loitered, watching the riders.

  Now watching her.

  And Tricksey limped every time her near foreleg touched the earth. When they stopped beneath a spreading oak, she whuffled and propped the hoof on its toe, her head drooping.

  Not a good sign, that. But before she could reach for Tricksey's leg, Fitz handed her his reins.

  "Now, Tricksey-girl, let's see what ails ye." Gently, firmly, he stroked the mare's silky neck, ran his square hand down her shoulder, her foreleg, knee, cannon bone. Those strong fingers curled around the pastern, and he and the now-contented Tricksey lifted the hoof together.

  Terrible thing, being jealous of one's own innocent and possibly injured horse. But his hand, so strong and kind, sliding across her skin and responding to her every twitch… Heat blossomed low within her and flickered with a resentful flame. If only that were her skin, her twitches. Beryl forced herself to look away.

  But his head turned, too, as if her motion drew his eye. And there it was, that sideways, bold, cocky grin, the one she loved and despised in equal measures, perfectly and odiously visible even though she didn't look directly at him. That delicious heat died away as her shoulders tensed. Here it comes.

  "Just a stone, Tricksey-girl. We'll have that nasty old thing out in no time, you see if we don't." He propped the hoof on his knee, slipped a folding knife from his coat pocket, wedged it between the hoof and his fingers, and drew forth a hook. "Not long now. And we won't say a word, no, not a word, about riders who'd walk such a lovely horse over stones."

  Already she wanted to yell at him, even though this was merely his version of gentle, brotherly-love teasing. She forced her voice to calmness, no matter how she felt. "You cannot imagine that I'd do such a thing deliberately."

  A twist of his wrist, and a small, pale stone thudded away. "We'll keep thoughts of such bad riders to ourselves, Tricksey-girl." He set the hoof down, put away the knife, caught the bridle's chin strap, and rubbed the mare's nose, those delicious fingers curling and stretching about her lips, up her face. Completely seduced, Tricksey closed her eyes, ears falling sideways and hoof now square on the ground. "Because only a really bad rider would do such an awful thing to such a lovely horse."

  She'd not respond, not say a word. But the tension already in her shoulders climbed to the nape of her neck and sank into her spine. Whenever she'd tried giving him the silent treatment before, he'd merely grinned that cocky, sideways grin and continued the teasing.

  Rounder bumped her with his nose, doing his unsubtle masculine best to wheedle a scratch, too. Normally she'd oblige, but not now. Her emotions had been hauled in too many directions too quickly, and she'd only scare the horse. Beryl pushed Rounder's head aside, slid between Fitz and Tricksey, breaking up their love affair, and tossed the reins over the mare's ears. But when she gathered them and turned to Fitz, his grin broadened.

  "Expecting something?"

  She blinked. She'd always been able to depend upon Fitz, always. "A leg up, of course."

  He angled his face away and watched her from his eye's corner. There it was again, that boisterous grin; he wasn't through with her yet. Not hardly. "Yesterday while exercising Rounder, I noticed a hoyden lower her stirrup and scramble up without her groom's assistance. Haven't you ever wanted to try that yourself?"

  Steam gathered in Beryl's head, fading out the shade trees, the horses and riders passing by, the pedestrians with their smug little smiles, as if a fog moved inland from the riverbank and covered them all over, taking them beyond her awareness. Surely he wouldn't abandon her on the ground, helpless to help herself? But he stepped back, hands hanging loosely at his sides, making no move to assist her.

  He would. And her anger brimmed over at the realization. Closely followed by humiliation. Those smug little smiles, all listening and laughing at her without making a sound—

  Fitz had crossed a boundary he'd never before approached. With bystanders watching, listening, grinning at his performance, he was refusing all the constraints of good manners. A gentleman always helped a lady to mount. Always.

  And he would choose to do so on the day her father issued an ultimatum.

  "Don't be ridiculous." She reined in her temper as she would a rambunctious horse — as she wished she could rein in Fitz. Never had she swung her cane upon a horse with injurious intent. But it would feel so satisfying now to connect the smooth bamboo with flesh. Masculine flesh, not equine. As His Grace had said, she needed some method of gaining Fitz's attention, since it seemed she'd never truly had it. "Putting weight in the stirrup would drag the saddle off-center and twist it on the horse's back. Tricksey's finely bred and sensitive, and I have no wish to cause her further discomfort."

  "But you must admit it would be a handy—" Without warning, Fitz's mouth snapped closed. His grin died away; his glare returned.

  She'd be burned at the stake before she'd answer that. She would not give him the treatment he deserved, because it would lead to her father giving her a treatment she didn't. Seething, her pulse roaring in her ears, Beryl turned Tricksey toward the low fence; she could scramble up from there without hurting the mare. It would be graceless and she'd look ridiculous, but she had to mount somehow, and putting weight in the stirrup was out of the question.

  Not that that blathering fool would care.

  A white cravat, perfectly tied; a maroon riding coat, sleeves leading down to a pair of clasped hands in white kid gloves; pale blue eyes, cold as iced steel. She stopped before cannoning into His Grace's chest, but only by grabbing Tricksey's mane. Silently he stood beside her, waiting with his hands ready. Rake or no, questionable reputation or no, he was prepared to perform the office of a true gentleman. Was that why Fitz had broken off his sentence? His jaw now was clenched tightly closed, and a flush had started climbing up from his collar.

  Excellent. Served the sop right.

  Beryl awarded His Grace her most grateful smile. Those cold-steel eyes softened, warmed, smiled in return. He bent down, she settled her left boot into his clasped hands — hopefully his valet would be able to clean that white kid leather — and he bounced her into the saddle.

  A duke. A real duke, acting as her personal groom.

  And everyone was watching.

  It felt glorious. As if someone truly appreciated her. Saw her worth and willingly sacrificed a valuable pair of white kid gloves to soothe her anger and calm her soul. To make up for her beloved Fitz's boorishness.

  Before she'd settled, before she'd shortened her reins and settled the still-unblooded bamboo cane against Tricksey's off side, Fitz scrambled aboard Rounder and trotted off.

  Posting in the most ordinary of manners. Without a backward glance.

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday, March 16, 1813 continued

  "
I've always thought George Anson was handsome. Don't you?"

  Belinda lounged on Beryl's four-poster, her pale muslin afternoon gown a colorless gleam against the silken primrose duvet. Her blond curls fell on either side of her face, hiding her expression, but her chubby hands stilled amidst the swirling ribbon the maid had set out for Beryl's hair. She'd been playing with it for an hour, winding it about her fingers and letting it unwind and drift down to the duvet, while Nan had curled and laced and puffed Beryl into her finery. It was the first moment Belinda had been still all afternoon.

  "And a really good dancer." Still no movement. "Have you noticed?"

  "George Anson?" Beryl shuddered, then took another deep breath and held it. Nan's fingers paused, then resumed fastening the evening gown's pearl buttons. Tug, twist; tug, twist; inch by inch down her spine, currently at the small of her back. "I try not to."

  "Whyever not?" Belinda's face shot up, flinging back her obscuring curls. "His father's a lord and a senior bencher. They have a subscription to Almack's, for pity's sake, and boxes at the Olympic Theater and Goodwood."

  George Anson. Despicable, self-centered, preening, ridiculous George Anson. Debbie Kringle had put him in his place with one long, cool stare at the Christmas Eve ball, after he'd tried to claim more than two dances with her. How everyone had laughed. Without letting him see, of course.

  Then, they'd laughed. Now, she'd not shudder again; Nan deserved better, after the marvels she'd achieved with Beryl's flyaway copper curls. The rose pink satin ball gown, the only shade of pink or red that didn't clash horribly with said curls, was a smidgen tight, not to mention low cut and draping off her shoulders in the most provocative, daring manner. But it was also a nightmare to fasten all those tiny pearl buttons, and Nan didn't need further irritation.

  Nor did Beryl, come to think of it.

  "Or the Earl of Norcross." A heaved sigh, sagging shoulders, and dreamy eyes, which looked ridiculous in that heart-shaped face, with those plump, rosy cheeks. Not to mention all too overdone. "He must be one of the most handsome men in London, in the entire world." Belinda's eyes popped open. A bit too squinty for believability.

  If only Papa would allow her to come out now.

  A rustle of cotton, and Nan rose with a satisfied, wry nod. All done, and the rose pink satin hugged her waist and hips, flowed to the floor with the overdress of exquisite lace echoing each line. Beryl whirled from the mirror and grabbed the ribbon, yanking it from Belinda's startled fingers.

  "I assure you, my girl, you'll have your chance. Norcross and George Anson will still be available when you come out. And you're welcome to them."

  ****

  The ballroom's barrel roof soared above, Cipriani's murals lost in the chandeliers' burning glare. Primrose panels, white pilasters, and walls of the palest yellow all glowed in the candlelight, very much like the gilt work near the roof, and night pressed against the vaulted windows as if yearning for a ticket to the entertainment within. His Grace lounged before one pilaster, opposite the entrance, as the fashionable but not top-drawer crowd flowed past him, silks and pearls and witty conversation all glittering in the chandeliers' flames. Lady Grantholm fluttered her fan in passing; again he smiled at her, and again he let her go. Infidelity was the game of churls and not one that attracted him.

  In one corner, Fitzwilliam stood out amongst a quartet of gentlemen by his sullenness, his only concession to the evening's supposed gaiety being the glass of champagne he held in one hand. Only his second drink, that was; alcoholic over-consumption, it seemed, was not one of his shortcomings. His friends, however, might be coming up a bit short, for while two of them were dressed normally and well, the fourth of the group wore full Highland regalia, from his belted plaid to his bare knees, outrageous stockings, and silver-buckled shoes, all in an eye-scalding combination of orange and black. The drifting, chattering crowd left a little circle about the wild man — the better, it seemed, for the ladies to eye his curved calves and the arrogant swirl of his hemline.

  And beau monde society considered him outré.

  Near the opposite corner, beyond the musicians' dais, a bevy of beauties surrounded a still elegant matron with a lace cap, a suspicious stare, and thick brown curls the exact duplicate of Miss Violetta's. Actually, the relationship had to be the other way around, as this most assuredly was the maiden's mama, the Eighth Baron Lisle's esteemed wife. And amongst the ladies under her care, Miss Beryl stood out for the dusky rose pink of her gown, a clear flash of exquisite color visible all the way across the ballroom.

  And what a gown.

  It took a sturdy feminine heart to wear that assemblage of satin and lace. Not only because of the sheer amount of décolletage it displayed, not only for the suggestively accident-prone way the capped sleeves drooped off her shoulders, not even for the fact that she had to have abandoned breathing as impossible for the evening. No, this particular lady's main worry with that dress had to be its color, for that rose pink shade, while beautiful in itself, did not occupy a comfortable position on the color wheel in relation to her own coppery tresses. In the wrong lighting, such as a drab or overcast day, that combination of colors could be a walking disaster.

  In the brilliant candlelight of the many massive chandeliers, it was stunning.

  Any man who didn't torture himself by drinking in the vision of that nymph was leaving his discernment open to question. At best.

  And Fitzwilliam stood with his back to that corner. Drinking champagne. Ignoring his Highland rogue friend's musically unaccompanied demonstration of a reel. As best anyone could ignore massed yards of orange-and-black plaid wool as its wearer capered like a goat on a mountain crag.

  In truth, the rogue wasn't bad.

  The three young ladies had clustered together since their arrival, their heads bent, chattering and laughing, Miss McTaggart in pale pomona green and Miss Violetta in deep evening primrose. Calling to friends, responding to the hopeful gentlemen who braved Lady de Lisle's glower, but mainly speaking amongst themselves in a huddle that proclaimed "Secrets!" to any who observed. And while Miss Beryl never glanced toward Fitzwilliam's corner — not even when the wild man interspersed his reel with a shouted battle cry, capable of penetrating all but the thickest social armor — neither of her lovely companions were able to resist the temptation of that most interesting portion of the room.

  Finally Miss Beryl straightened from their huddle. Even as the other two ladies exchanged glances that didn't seem all that confident, she gave them a firm, decisive nod.

  His cue, without a doubt.

  The thick crowd parted in front of him like the Red Sea, bows and curtseys and whispers spreading before his path along the assembly room's long wall. His chosen pathway, beneath the line of massive chandeliers, threw the brilliant candlelight fully onto his face and dress, doubtless highlighting the fine woolen swallowtail, the silk of his white breeches, the subtle gleam of the signet ring on his left hand, his only jewelry. Carefully he'd instructed his valet regarding his evening's attire, and perfectly had that worthy man heeded and obeyed. That night, Beau Brummell wouldn't cut a finer figure.

  Just as he'd intended.

  Only once along that long wall did he pause. Susan York had only come out this year, was mere weeks past her presentation, and still the awed excitement of an assembly room brought a delicate rose-hued flush to her fresh young face. Eyes wide, she bobbed a graceful curtsey, small and blond, straight and graceful, so much like—

  And Mistress York's eyes narrowed, in that unmistakably predatory maternal-matrimonial manner. His Grace bowed to Miss York, caught her glance in passing, and rewarded her sweet innocence with a smile, and then he moved on.

  The long wall of the Hanover Square ballroom was long indeed. By the time His Grace reached Miss Beryl's corner, there could be no doubt that he commanded the attention of every person within. All eyes had traced the last steps of his path, and the assembly stilled, watching and waiting.

  Hoping to ascertain
the identity of his next victim.

  Far be it from him to disappoint them.

  The three young ladies dropped into lithe curtseys, and he bowed in response. Impossible not to smile at Lady de Lisle's astonished expression. But he fashioned the impulse into his most charming smile, not his rakish leer. Not yet time to bring forth that weapon.

  The remainder of the assembly's noise died away. The Hanover Square ballroom fell still.

  One heartbeat. Two. Three.

  In a single second, five hundred hands produced five hundred fans — there, the rustle and flutter of fans flipping open, and the increasing, increasingly excited babble of discreet murmurs, surely behind those genteel covers. The gentlemen would simply have to make do as they could, should they decide to join the gossiping.

  The blood rushed to Miss Beryl's face, brightening her complexion to the most amazing scarlet. Then she whitened to ivory, equally astonishing against her coppery curls.

  Her eyes never left his. And of course, his never, ever left hers.

  She hadn't realized what two dances with him meant.

  She did now.

  ****

  A duke, well, yes, of course; his presence in any assembly would grab everyone's attention and grip them until they burst out into the most wretched gossiping. Not on a long-odds bet would she glance toward the corner where Fitz cowered with his old Oxford chums. Nor would she look at anyone else. Although she had to admit, having so much attention in such a good manner was rather fun, underneath all her embarrassment.

  And of course, Lady de Lisle had an apoplexy. Granted, she was sufficiently discreet to keep it from spraying out her ears. But not by much.

  The only gaze she dared to meet was his.

  Those pale blue eyes pierced her, peered through her skin, through her anatomical bits and pieces, and devoured her soul, kept devouring her, as if she were some tasty tidbit he'd long promised himself and meant to savor to the last teensy crumb. He looked away for the introduction to Lady de Lisle, to greet Violetta and Lissie and arrange their dances, and when one of them spoke to him and it was his turn to reply. Otherwise, she commanded his attention.