Miss Goldsleigh's Secret Page 9

  She’d never really bought into the idea of finding a husband during the season Lady Evelyn sponsored for her. She glanced about the room, scanning the gentlemen in attendance. She’d met several that night who were very handsome, complimentary, or good conversationalists. She did recall a certain dark-haired gentleman who smelled deliciously of warm leather and pipe smoke, and an auburn-haired man whose hair curled enticingly around his ears who’d made her giggle with funny stories while they danced. There were others, too, gentlemen whom she wouldn’t be opposed to spending more time with. One quadrille over the course of one evening, however, didn’t guarantee compatibility. It barely even suggested at it, in fact. How could she know if any of these gentlemen, while pleasing to the eye or her intellect, would accept Warren?

  Her gaze continued to travel over the broad shoulders and taller heads of the gentlemen in the room until her eye landed on the one particular man her subconscious had been searching for all along. Lord Dalton had penciled his name on her dance card for the final waltz of the evening, and Olivia, quite unwisely she was sure, anticipated his hands at her waist in a way that didn’t seem prudent.

  The evening had moved along at lightning speed. It was hard to worry and self-flagellate when one was chasse jette-ing and counting poussettes in a cotillion, all while maintaining one’s end of a socially acceptable conversation.

  Her last partner handed her off to Lord Dalton as the announcing strains of the final waltz filled the room. A little thrill of anticipation skittered through her belly.

  “Finally, I get my chance with the belle of the ball.” Lord Dalton placed her hand on his forearm as he led them through the crowd to an empty space on the dance floor.

  “The belle.” Olivia tsked. “You’re much too kind, Lord Dalton.”

  “I am not too kind. My sisters will assure you I have no qualms expressing my displeasure of them all the time.”

  Olivia turned to face Lord Dalton and placed her gloved hand on his shoulder. “But they are your sisters. I am merely a houseguest, and you should feel no need to flatter me, my lord.”

  “I’m quite certain you’ve received plenty of flattery from your rampant admirers this night without my contributing anything false. My point was I don’t give insincere compliments, Miss Goldsleigh.”

  His right hand slid into position on her back, and his left gently clasped her hand. It was no wonder the waltz was so scandalous in the ton. Even though they were arm’s length apart, the position still felt intimate, like a loose embrace.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned this evening in my first foray into London’s society, is that compliments are loosely given.” But I wouldn’t mind hearing more from you, even if they are exaggerated.

  The first bar of the Sussex Waltz filled the room. Lord Dalton’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on her back, and they began the fluid movement characteristic of the slow waltz. Olivia concentrated on the dancing, otherwise she’d be forced to contemplate how handsome her dance partner was, and nothing good could come from that.

  “As I suspected.” Lord Dalton’s voice was low and modulated, loud enough for her ears in the crowd of dancers. “What uninspired compliments did those blighters try to woo you with? I’m sure your radiant beauty was mentioned.”

  Olivia blinked at him. “How am I to answer that question without sounding like the shallowest lady in the room?”

  “It wasn’t a question. They would be idiots not to mention your beauty.” They drew closer as he navigated them through a turn. One of her earlier partners smiled broadly at her over the head of his unsuspecting partner. “There’s a perfect example of an idiot.”

  Olivia remembered the man. He’d been flirtatious, but not obnoxiously so. “Oh, I thought him quite nice.”

  “I’m sure. His two mistresses and passel of illegitimate children probably agree.”

  Well, that was an eye-opening revelation. She glanced upward to verify Dalton’s veracity. Was he jesting with her? He didn’t seem to be—there wasn’t even a hint of a grin on his face. She stared at his lips for a second longer than was acceptable. He must have felt her gaze on him because he glanced down at her, his ice-blue eyes pinched in a squint.

  “Did any of them get specific with their compliments?”

  “My lord?” she asked. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  The man didn’t reply right away. His jaw tick under his ear. He darted a glance her way before shifting his gaze over her head. “Your hair or your eyes. Maybe your lips. Did any of them mention anything specific?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” She had no idea why she was being coy with him.

  “If I’m to escort you about town like my sisters, then it’s my responsibility to protect you from bounders and rakes with no good intentions.”

  Of course, his responsibility. Olivia sighed.

  “So, did any of them say anything untoward?” he demanded.

  “Lord Dalton, I assure you, not a one of the men I danced with tonight made any unacceptable advances.”

  The marquess looked down at her, disbelief evident on his face. “Not a one of them mentioned your hair or eyes or form? Not a one?”

  Olivia kept her countenance perfectly still and despised herself for fishing for compliments. “What would they have said about my eyes other than there are two, or my hair of which there is plenty, though it rarely behaves, my lord?”

  She guessed Lord Dalton gathered her purpose when his expression eased and the tension in his jaw relaxed. He didn’t bother to suppress the start of a grin.

  “Is this quid pro quo from earlier then?” he asked.

  This time Olivia didn’t know what he meant. She sought through her recollections of their conversation this morning and blushed when she remembered him catching her at a blatant appraisal of his masculine assets.

  “Fair is fair, Miss Goldsleigh.” His palm urged her into his loose waltzing embrace, closing the distance between them by several inches. His voice deepened and sank into a whisper which, combined with his masculine heat, enveloped her within a shroud of intimacy that sped up her pulse and quickened her breathing. “Should I want to woo you, my luscious little pixie of a lady, I would start with an ode to your lovely face, your skin like the freshest cream and ripest peaches. I would recite sonnets to your eyes of robin’s-egg blue, and I would mention your honey-colored hair which is matched in its glory only by your lovely figure.” His liquid gaze traveled down the length of her body, pausing at the curves of her breasts and hips before it traveled its way back up to her meet her eyes. “I would liken you to Créide, the Irish Goddess of women and fairies, because certainly you must be both. Did the goddess gather all the best, most beautiful aspects of nature and combine them to weave you into the most ethereal beauty? You say you came from the country, but I say you must be made of the country.”

  Olivia was breathless. His mouth was so close to her ear, each syllable, each exhalation, caressed her face and neck. It would take only the tiniest movement to turn her face and tilt her chin, and her lips would meet his. One moment of hesitation was too much. Lord Dalton rose to his full height, and the space between them resumed an acceptable distance, the opportunity over. Olivia marshaled her composure and opened her mouth to give some sort of pithy response, but Lord Dalton’s face was inscrutable.

  His choice of compliment mirrored exactly how she felt. Olivia wore the gold. Madam Bolivant had been right, she looked fantastic in it. The low-cut bodice showed off a wide expanse of chest, and the satin ribbon at the empire waist displayed her bosom to its finest. The pale-yellow silk underskirt hugged her curves, not necessarily in the fashion of the day, but when paired with the sheer gold lace overdress, the effect was ethereal and, as Penny had described it with an awed sigh, breathtaking. Bugle beads started around her hips, spread all the way to the hem, and made an entrancing rustling sound when she walked. Natalie had done something magical with her unruly hair so it looped in twists and curls, and tendrils twined
down her nape to frame her face. In that dress, under the twinkling chandeliers, she felt like the fairy princess he mentioned.

  “If any of your intrepid suitors tries something like that nonsense, you’ll let me know right away, won’t you, Miss Goldsleigh?” His tone was light and airy. Nothing concerned him other than the propriety of his responsibilities.

  Olivia nodded. She felt absurdly vacant, and after the waltz ended several bars later, it was a relief when Lord Dalton released her from their pseudo-embrace and walked her back to Lady Evelyn and his sisters.

  “I’ll meet you all in the entrance hall shortly,” he informed the ladies. “I need to see to something first.”

  Olivia exhaled a great sigh of relief when he gave a curt nod and strode rapidly away from their group.

  “Your brother does take his chaperoning very seriously, doesn’t he?”

  “What do you mean?” Cassandra asked.

  “He had a million questions for me about the other gentlemen I danced with.”

  Penny squinted and looked askance at her brother’s retreating back. “Like what, for instance?”

  “He wanted to know what compliments the other men gave me.”

  “What in heaven’s name for?” Penny looked at her sister. “Has Henry ever asked you that question?”

  “No,” Cassandra said, but then volunteered, “Not that I would ever tell him anyway. You didn’t tell him, did you?”

  “No,” Olivia admitted. “He said he needed to know what the other men talked about so he could protect me like he does you both.”

  Penelope snorted. “I’ll admit my brother is an annoyingly responsible escort, but what that usually means is he shows up and scowls whenever we’re having too much fun.”

  Cassandra nodded. “Never once has he asked me how gentlemen have complimented me. How odd that is.”

  “Really quite strange.” Penny grinned and leaned in. Cassandra joined them in their little huddle. “Just between us, were there any especially good ones?”

  The heat of a blush spread across Olivia’s cheeks. “Only one, but it was insincere.” Was it a beauty, though. What a shame he’d meant not a single word of it.

  “Oh, too bad.” Penny took one of her hands and Cassandra the other as the three of them joined the rest of the departing guests moving towards the great entrance hall. “I can live on a really good compliment for days.”

  Indeed. Olivia could go for weeks on Lord Dalton’s if they were real.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Henry Dalton, Marquess of Cavendish, had no idea who he was.

  Or rather, he had no idea who that man at the ball was. That man was possessed by some sort of randy, sex-starved demon. Henry was appalled with himself. It’s not like he was a bloody vicar or something—he wasn’t celibate for God’s sake—but he’d been acting like his friend Morewether, and that wasn’t who he was.

  He stepped off the curb and crossed the street, mindful of a steaming pile of horse droppings. He’d left his family at the house, but he was nowhere near ready for sleep. Not yet. His long, purposeful strides ate up the cobblestones. He crossed the square and turned up Oxford Street.

  He was going to have to apologize. Christ, he was going to have to prostrate himself in front of the girl and…

  He needed a drink. And to hit someone. Inexplicably, he wanted to hit Morewether. That desire didn’t make any sense whatsoever, but why should it? Nothing else this evening had made any damned sense.

  Dalton made an abrupt change in course and turned down the next avenue. With a plan in mind, he quickened his pace even more, his foul mood propelling him down the street just short of a trot.

  When he arrived at his destination, a well-equipped black lacquer carriage pulled to a stop in front of the massive townhouse. Dalton watched from the walk as a footman opened the carriage door and a long-legged gentleman stepped out. The man turned and extended his hand back into the equipage. Before much more than a slim, gloved hand of the other passenger came into view, the man noticed Dalton.

  “Dalton? Is that you?” Christian, Duke of Morewether, called out.

  Dalton nodded and grunted. He shoved his hands in his pockets. It seemed as though everyone but him was destined to enjoy the company of a soft female body that night.

  Morewether released the gloved hand, and it disappeared back inside the darkness of the vehicle. “Where is your carriage?”

  “I walked.”

  Even in the darkness, Dalton could see Morewether was surprised. “At this hour? Are you insane?”

  “Quite possibly.” Dalton pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Morewether stared at him for several seconds before he spoke to the occupant of the carriage in a low tones Dalton couldn’t make out. A decidedly feminine voice replied, sounding impatient. His friend leaned in the carriage, and Dalton imagined the kiss and promises Morewether offered up that caused the woman to respond in a husky giggle. Dalton shook his head in annoyance. Morewether shut the door, and the carriage pulled away, leaving the gentlemen alone in the street.

  “I’m sorry to have ruined your plans,” Dalton said, but he didn’t mean it. He wasn’t feeling especially repentant about many of his actions this evening. He knew he should apologize to Morewether, just as he should apologize to Miss Goldsleigh, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t feel sorry. He felt frustrated, itchy.

  Morewether shrugged. “The lady will be fine. She’ll wait for me—either tonight or another evening. It makes no difference.”

  The man’s self-confidence and sense of entitlement irked Dalton to a monumental degree. Why did this sort of thing come so readily to men of his ilk?

  “Come inside.” Morewether motioned for Dalton to join him. “Whatever your problem is, it can’t be solved shuffling about in the street in a pout.”

  “Curse you, I’m not pouting.”

  Morewether paused on the third step of the stoop and glanced back at Dalton with an infuriating look of complete amusement. The man was damn fortunate he didn’t laugh, or Dalton couldn’t be held responsible.

  “You are pouting. And you look like you need a drink and the company of a woman. I’ve already let the woman go, so you’ll have to settle for a belt of Scotch I keep for just these occasions.” London’s most discreet butler opened the door to Morewether’s townhouse and, pouting or no, Dalton followed his friend inside.

  “You know what your problem is?” Morewether asked after they’d settled into the duke’s comfortable study, whiskey glasses full, the fire warming the corners of the room.

  Dalton rolled his eyes. This ought to be rich. “No telling. Let’s hear your diagnosis.”

  “You’re the marrying kind,” Morewether declared and took a swig from his glass to punctuate his point.

  “Go to hell.”

  Morewether chuckled. “I’m not insulting you, you idiot. Some men marry and they’re good at it. You’re one of those men.”

  “And some men stick it to everything in a skirt.” Morewether shrugged again. “I am what I am, Dalton. You are what you are.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I’m not married. I’m not even engaged since your sister ran off with Harrington.”

  Morewether turned serious for a moment. “She didn’t run off, and you were the best man at the wedding.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” This time Dalton really was sorry. “I adore your sister and I always will. She married the right man.” He stared into the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass. “How do you know it’s a woman that has me flummoxed?”

  Morewether took another thoughtful sip of whiskey. “Because it makes sense. I trust your investments are in order, so it’s not a money issue. Your family may plague you with all the fripperies the female sex has in their arsenal, but I’m guessing it’s a different kind of female trouble tonight.”

  Dalton grunted in acknowledgment again. “I don’t think it’s a specific female.” Who are you trying to fool?


  “Well then, go solve the problem. I don’t understand what the complication is.” Morewether stretched out his long legs, kicked off his shoes, and crossed them at the ankle. Eyeing his friend relaxing in his chair, Dalton was jealous at how at ease the man was. Even having his assignation for the evening foiled, he didn’t seem remotely worked up. Dalton, on the other hand, was like a coiled spring.

  “I’m not like you, Morewether.” Dalton downed the rest of his glass and relished the rasp of the liquid burning its way down to his stomach. It had a satisfyingly punishing feel that suited his dark mood. “I don’t just bed women and let it mean nothing.”

  “We’ve been friends a long time, Dalton, so don’t give me that.” Morewether offered him the bottle to refill his glass. “It didn’t used to bother you.”

  Dalton gave his friend a scowl. “I grew up, which is more than I can say for you.”

  Morewether sighed. “I’ve grown up sufficiently for my needs. Besides, I’d like to point out I’m not the one drowning my blue balls in Scottish whiskey.”

  Dalton choked on his drink. “I don’t happen to have a stable of women at my disposal like the infamous lothario, the Duke of Morewether, to solve my problem.”

  “Balderdash!” Morewether threw one of his shoes at Dalton. He didn’t bother to duck, and it bounced off the arm of the chair and landed in his lap. He brushed it unceremoniously to the floor. “If you expressed one whit of interest, I could name fifteen ladies who’d gleefully shuck their drawers for you. That pretty face of yours could provide you with plenty of cache. And I’m talking real beauties—married women and widows both, who’d not cause you an iota of trouble. And if anonymity is what you want, I’ll happily call for the carriage right now and take you to The White House in Soho Square.” The duke leaned forward in his chair as if preparing to rise.

  Ugh. “I think not.”

  Morewether leaned back in his chair with a smug look on his face. “That proves my point.”

  Dalton snorted dismissively. “Really? What point is that?”

  “That you, my friend, are the marrying kind.” When Dalton opened his mouth to protest again, Morewether raised a staying hand and continued. “All I mean is you’re not the type to go gallivanting about town. Not as a single man and not as a married one, either. That’s why I was so pleased to have you for a potential brother-in-law.”