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“Hardly that. It’s my papa, you know. Though he’s only a baron, the title is an old one. You see, his ancestor, named Palais D’Onne, arrived in England with the Conqueror. Thus we are quite ancient,” the lady recited, precisely as her great aunt had taught her. “People put much stock in such things, though one does wonder why. I had not noted that human beings were bred for speed or endurance as horses or hounds are. I suppose it is because ancient titles are so rare nowadays.”
“Indeed,” her attentive student soberly replied. “If Charles II had not been so generous to his illegitimate offspring, we would speak of the Upper Ten, rather than the Upper Ten Thousand. So you conclude that your rarity accounts for your popularity?” Lord Rand asked, sternly suppressing a smile.
“Not entirely. I’m sure Papa’s money and the property I inherited are considered as well.”
As perhaps must the fact that she looked like a pink rose, Lord Rand thought. Her eyes sparkled with happiness, her cheeks were flushed, and her pink muslin gown with its delicate embroidery fit her to perfection. That much he’d noticed from halfway across the crowded ballroom.
Now it struck him that she appeared a deal healthier overall. She had gained some weight. He hadn’t realised that yesterday. He decided the addition became her, and felt somewhat relieved that life with his domineering sister was proving agreeable—physically at least—for the young lady. What she wanted now was a tad more self-confidence. Ancient titles, bloodlines—she knew as well as he what rubbish that was!
“I mean to debate this issue with you, ma’am, at length,” he answered. “But later, when your next partner is not bearing down on me. Will you save me the country dance and sit out one waltz?”
“Oh, you really needn’t—,” she began, but he’d turned and left, and her partner had come to claim her.
Really, he was too obliging, she thought as Sir Somebody led her to the dance floor. All the women in the room were ogling the viscount as though they were half-starved and he a holiday banquet. In his simple evening garb—black coat, dove grey unmentionables, and snowy white linen— he was more striking and handsome than ever.
How graceful he was. For all his great height and those broad shoulders, he was well-proportioned, as the perfect tailoring of his coat clearly demonstrated. Well, he was an active man, and such men seemed to have an inborn grace—the natural result of physical self-confidence. In plain point of fact, he was splendid, and certainly needn’t waste a waltz on her when she couldn’t even dance it and there were scores of beautiful women who could.
He had asked her, though, and did not seem drunk. He would probably fluster her—he already had—but that was because she was unused to the ways of elegant gentlemen. One could not avoid every new experience simply because it was new or one would never develop intellectually.
“Dash it, Mother, I ain’t a baby to be hauled about by the ear,” Lord Rand complained as Lady St. Denys clutched his arm.
“My dear, no one ever led you by the ear—at least I should hope not, or if they did it must have been because you were doing what you oughtn’t, and no one would have done so at any rate when you were a baby and couldn’t walk at all until you were nearly two years old and then it was run, run, run.”
She paused to catch her breath and Max was about to order her to let go of his sleeve when he found himself confronting a statuesque blonde whose light blue eyes were nearly level with his own. Dimly he heard his mother rambling on at the fair goddess’s mama and then babbling at the goddess herself. He shook out of his daze in time to hear the introductions. Lady Diana Glencove. She even had the name of a goddess.
He heard himself uttering all the inane imbecilities he despised, and couldn’t stop them from dribbling off his tongue. The goddess seemed to accept them as her due. After she’d made some gracious reply, she asked, in throaty tones that made his brain whirl, what he had thought of North America.
At the moment, Max knew as little of the New World as Molly did. It seemed to exist, along with everything else but this fair Juno, in another galaxy. With a mighty effort he wrenched his mind back to answer as rationally as he could. Then at last—blessed relief—he had to talk no more, for she’d agreed to dance with him.
That, Catherine thought as she watched the two tall fair ones take their places in the set, was exactly as it should be. They matched perfectly, Lord Rand and the beautiful unknown, like a pair of Norse deities. If her own face had suddenly grown overwarm, that was because the way he looked at his partner could not be quite proper. Though Catherine was unsophisticated, she was quite certain a gentleman ought not stare at a lady as though he were a famished horse and she a bucket of oats. Goodness, she was full of dietary similes this evening!
Catherine decided she was hungry. Lately her appetite astonished her. She, who normally picked wearily at her meals, had just this morning accepted Tom’s offer of a second helping, and she blushed to recall how many of those delicious tiny sandwiches she’d consumed at tea. She would grow out of her new wardrobe before Madame had finished cutting the pattern pieces.
When the viscount came later to claim her for the country dance, Catherine forgot all about being famished. The steps were a tad too complicated—especially for one who’d just learned them—to permit concentration on much else, and the movements too energetic to permit witty repartee. She did miss a step when he told her she was in looks, but she reminded herself about intellectual development and managed a faint smile.
She returned to Lady Andover feeling rather pleased with herself and somewhat awed at the novel sensation. Catherine knew she was not, as Lord Rand had flattered, the belle of the ball. She had not expected to be.
Still, Papa’s lineage and wealth counted for something, and she was grateful that they offered her a chance to find a more agreeable husband than Lord Browdie. None of the gentlemen she’d met so far appeared irritated or bored with her company, and she had managed to control her sharp tongue. She’d acquitted herself reasonably well, she thought, even with the one man who could unsettle her with a glance. London was not such a terrifying place after all.
Her new-won confidence and optimism helped her through the rather difficult few moments that ensued between Lord Rand’s relinquishing her to Lady Andover and Mr. Langdon’s appearance to claim Miss Pelliston for the next set. During these few minutes she found herself face to face with the hated Lord Browdie.
The shocked look that creature bestowed upon her gave Catherine some grim satisfaction. He had always made unpleasantly jocular remarks about her appearance. “Skinny as a broomstick” was not her idea of a witty compliment, any more than his blunt advice that she put some meat on her bones had ever sounded like affectionate concern. He had always spoken to her precisely as he spoke of his horses and hounds—except that he considered the beasts with far greater warmth. If he’d had his way he’d surely have put her in the care of a stableman who’d have made her eat her corn.
Now, though she found the way he leered at her bodice highly objectionable, she bore his clumsy compliments with frigid composure. Looking, she reminded herself, was all he’d ever be able to do.
She was delighted that she could decline his request for the next two dances without uttering any falsehood. Her pleasure would have been unalloyed had he not gone on to ask for the supper dance. She had hoped the somewhat absentminded Mr. Langdon would remember to ask her about that. He was very attractive, and his soft voice was so calming. Now she darted a pleading glance at Lady Andover, who promptly came to her rescue.
“So sorry, My Lord,” the countess told Lord Browdie with a cold smile. “Another gentleman has won that honour.”
Mr. Langdon appeared in time to hear this exchange. When he led Miss Pelliston out, he expressed his disappointment. He looked so forlorn that Catherine had to stifle a maternal urge to brush his hair back from his forehead and murmur something soothing. She too was disappointed. Mr. Langdon seemed so gentle and intelligent. She would have enjoyed talking q
uietly with him during supper. Now she would dine partnerless—though that was hardly a tragedy. Her cousin and his wife would be with her and they were both most entertaining—and had she not already achieved undreamed-of success?
Having dragged six debutantes about the dance floor, Lord Rand decided he’d done his duty. In fact, he might be on his way to fulfilling the most unnerving duty of all.
He’d never expected to meet in elevated company a woman whose physical attributes so perfectly met his ideals. Not only was Lady Diana in no danger of breaking if one touched her, but she was generously formed and stunningly beautiful. Her throaty voice was a merciful relief from the usual high-pitched nasalities. She did not chatter endlessly about nothing and certainly didn’t lecture about everything. Actually, she’d said very little, he now realised. Instead, she’d encouraged him to talk, and upon a subject she seemed to find as fascinating as he did.
The viscount’s obligation to marry and get heirs began to seem less onerous. Tall, fair Junos were a rarity, even in the crowded London Marriage Mart. Courting Lady Diana would not be a punishment... still, he needn’t make so weighty a decision this instant.
Nudging duty aside for the moment, Lord Rand headed for the card room. There he had the dubious honour of being introduced to Lord Browdie and the satisfaction of finding the brute as contemptible as he’d imagined. The viscount s enjoyment of the evening was further heightened when he proceeded to relieve Lord Browdie of a respectable sum of money, despite the rather paltry stakes.
Lord Browdie was a poor loser. Though he managed to put on a swaggering show of hilarity at the outcome, he decided he disliked Lord Rand. After the card game broke up and its participants filed out to supper, dislike grew into loathing. Lord Browdie watched the blond viscount saunter confidently up to the Earl and Countess of Andover, make some remark that caused the couple to smile, and offer his arm to Miss Pelliston.
Lord Browdie had expected to find Catherine languishing at the sidelines with the other antidotes. To discover her dancing her feet off the entire evening was a greater shock than her improved appearance. He felt he’d been villainously deceived and illused, and though his feelings for her were no more affectionate at present than they’d ever been, he remembered her property and dowry with every sort of tenderness. He recalled as well the numerous rebuffs he’d borne this evening from all those other females Reggie had claimed were panting to breed Browdie heirs.
How he’d like to wipe that insipid smile off her sharp little face, and how he’d love to put that grinning, yellow-haired Exquisite in his place. Much as he would have enjoyed these innocent diversions, Lord Browdie had no idea how to bring them about. He decided, therefore, to leave the party and get roaring drunk in more congenial surroundings.
“You see, Catherine?” Lady Andover was saying. “We spoke no falsehood to Lord Browdie. My instincts must have told me Max would forget to ask anyone to sup with him. Though that’s hardly complimentary to you, perhaps he’ll contrive to be entertaining enough to make you forget the insult.” The countess took her husband’s arm and they preceded Max and Catherine to the supper room.
