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Phillipa walked to her and clasped her hands. “It may not be love now, but it sounds like you are well on your way.”
“Lord Jensen is distressingly persistent, and mother and father are insisting that I wed him in a few weeks, instead of allowing a drawn-out engagement.”
“I know,” Phillipa said soothingly. “They are hoping a wedding will quash the potential for scandal…and they do not want Lord Jensen to change his mind again.”
Payton got to the heart of what had been keeping her awake. “Mikhail wants to marry me.”
Surprise, then delight, lighted Phillipa’s features. “That is wonderful, I—”
“I blurted it to Mother in frustration, and she slapped me,” Payton choked.
Anger flashed in Phillipa’s eyes. She, too, had felt the brunt of their mother’s anger and disappointment when she had dared to stand firm and insisted she would marry Lord Anthony despite his bastardy.
“I will speak with Father,” Phillipa promised.
“Thank you,” Payton whispered. “Mother already spoke to him, and he will only consent to me marrying Lord Jensen. I will not, Phillipa. I would prefer to risk sailing back to America.”
“Wipe the anxiety from your eyes. Attend Lady Davenport’s ball and have a grand time. I will speak with father when he returns in the morning, and you will promise not to act rashly.”
“I promise,” Payton said.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, you are weary from your journey, and you seem tired.”
A radiant smile pulsed from her sister. “I am exhausted.”
“I never thought you would be so happy at the notion.”
“Oh, Payton, I am with child.”
“Good heavens.” Payton drew her into a hug, laughing. “Congratulations. I am so thrilled for you and Anthony.”
“It has only recently been confirmed, and we are keeping it to ourselves a bit longer, but I fear I cannot keep secrets from you.”
A sweet feeling of joy curled through Payton. “Thank you for taking me into your confidence.”
They exited the room together, and for the first time in hours a sense of peace washed Payton’s senses.
The possibility had existed that Lady Davenport might have been made aware of Payton’s seclusion in the cottage with Mikhail. After handing over her coat and strolling inside the small ballroom with an affected serene countenance, it only took a few seconds for Payton to realize everyone knew.
She descended the wide marble stairs to the ballroom floor, and she felt the weight of the guests’ glares upon her. It could be her imagination, but the hollow sensation forming in her stomach reminded her of the times she had braved society after being jilted. Lifting her chin, she scanned the massive ballroom, looking for a friendly face. Dozens of eyes settled on her, some only indulging in a cursory glance, others from gentlemen in a lascivious and leering manner, and some outright rude as some young ladies giggled behind their fans, obviously discussing her.
“Why is everyone staring at us?” her mother fretted, none too softly.
A murmur rippled through the crowd, and people who had not been aware now directed their attention to Payton and her mother.
Payton’s shoulder blades prickled with uncertainty under their rabid scrutiny. She felt like such an outsider, and it took everything in her not to turn around and escape up the stairs.
“Please excuse me, Mother, Aunt Florence.”
A hand gripped her elbow and Payton paused.
“Remember, Lord Jensen will be in attendance tonight, and you are to save two dance spots for him,” her mother whispered somewhat conspiratorially and with evident excitement.
Payton spied Lady Victoria and, with a smile, walked toward her without answering her mother. It felt good to see a friendly face that was not family. Lady Victoria was surrounded by a bevy of suitors, and Payton wondered if she should intrude.
“Blood will always tell. Can we really blame her for dallying with a horse breeder?”
She almost stumbled as the too loud whisper reached her ear. Payton glanced to her left at the huddle of females staring at her, their fans to their faces, gossiping.
Jilted. She heard the whisper from her right, and she flinched, unable to contain her reaction to the dreaded phrase. The word itself had become a weapon. Young ladies and lords alike had whispered it conveniently like a mantra whenever she drew close. She had hurt so horribly then. Lord Jensen had been the one to act with dishonor, but he had not borne any of the scorn. After a few weeks the need to scream had faded, and she’d become blessedly numb.
She turned left, intending to escape to the terrace when another sly whisper reached her ear.
Ruined.
They were making no effort to be discreet.
A horse breeder.
She faltered and closed her eyes.
Lord Jensen still offered for her, after she lay with that horse breeder. He must be desperate to fill his coffers.
Bile rose in her throat.
What is the name of her horse breeder?
A Mr. Konstantinovich.
He sounds foreign.
What did you expect? No English gentleman of good breeding would willingly consort with the likes of her.
Lady Prendergast was right…blood will always tell, and it seems fitting for a commoner to lay with a horse breeder. It is terrible that poor Lord Jensen feels he must wed her.
The crush of the room almost stifled her.
Why was her ilk invited?
Her family shamelessly importunes upon the kindness of the Duke and Duchess of Calydon.
The curious side glances made Payton want to scream. Without looking to see who spoke, she pushed through the packed ballroom, her throat tight and burning.
“Some say he is a cousin to Calydon;” a closely whispered voice snagged her attention. She glanced at the speaker and identified Lady Prendergast.
“Everyone is agog to meet the new Duke of Avondale. I heard from the most reliable source that the town house at Berkeley Square is being opened.”
“I have also heard he is alarmingly wealthy.”
“He is a prince; embarrassing wealth is to be expected. He is Prince Alexander Dashkova, I’m told.”
A sudden hush settled over the throng. She was jostled and pushed, but she moved against the tide, wanting to escape.
“The Duke and Duchess of Calydon, and Mr. Mikhail Konstantinovich.”
It was as if the assembly gasped in unison, no doubt titillated that the very horse breeder they were discussing would appear. Of course no one would dare give him the cut direct, for he had arrived with the powerful Duke of Calydon.
She did not linger, nor did she turn to view them as they descended the ballroom steps. Payton escaped to the gallery that overlooked the ballroom and took a deep cleansing breath. Tonight felt especially painful, and Payton had never felt so wretchedly alone. She wished she’d not agreed to attend. She spied her aunt in the sitting room on the chaise lounge near the refreshment table speaking with Lady Davenport and several other society matriarchs. Aunt Florence was smiling and nodding, looking decidedly pleased.
Had they noticed Mikhail? Or were they pretending they did not know him?
Chatter mingled with muted laughter. Dozens of chandeliers created a dazzling display of light, women laughed and twirled, giggling behind their fans, a few even rudely pointing at some unsuspecting young lady, believing they were being discreet. Payton would prefer to leave everyone she had formed a connection with in England and escape back to America, before she would ever marry Lord Jensen and trap herself with such vicious harpies she would be forced to be polite to as his viscountess.
The hairs on the back of her neck lifted.
“You do not look happy to be here,” a too-close voice whispered. How had he found her?
Temptation walked into her sanctuary in the form of Mikhail. Payton gasped at the picture he presented, dressed in so casually an elegant man
ner, in stark black-and-white. He was garbed in an expertly tailored black jacket and trousers. Only his crisp white cravat, waistcoat, and a white pleated shirt lightened the overall impression of darkness. His black hair was perfectly groomed, and the raw brilliance of his male beauty had her heart stuttering.
Without hesitation she gripped the lapel of his jacket and pressed her forehead to his chest, relief crashing into her. She buried her nose in his shirt, and his scent invaded her senses, rich and masculine.
“You are trembling, Payton,” he said softly, his strong arms wrapping around her.
She had no thought for propriety or to worry someone else might intrude upon the sanctuary of the gallery. She was only happy he was present, a calm anchor in the midst of thundering pain and emotions their cruel words had elicited. His warm embrace was also a wonderful haven from the pounding demands she had faced recently. Everything faded, and she sank more into the security of his arms. “Where have you been?”
Gently he stroked her back and shoulders. “I traveled to London to see my solicitors,” Mikhail said gruffly. “I had urgent business there. I tried to call on you, but you were abed. I left a note explaining my departure.”
She had been up for hours dealing with her mother’s hysteria and had been beyond exhausted, but she’d received no note. Anger, quick and powerful, cut through her. It was horrible they would go as far as to screen her letters.
“I gathered my note was not delivered to you.” The wry humor in his tone had a fleeting smile touching her lips.
