Miss Quinn's Quandary (4 page)

The Earl of Rushton viewed himself in his full-length glass. He
shifted from his right to his left with military precision, admiring the
results of the diligent labors of his valet, Georges.

All in all, Uncle Cyrus seemed pleased with his new wardrobe. A
dark blue fitted coat of superfine, cream knee breeches and cream stockings
with black slippers. In the center of his crisp, snow-white cravat, which
Randall instructed Georges to starch lightly, sat an ostentatious sapphire, a
silent reminder of his wealth.

Randall found the earl resistant to his new hairstyle. Rushton
proclaimed the effort to be venturesome, to say the least, and fought Randall
at every step of its undertaking.

“Cut locks cannot be replaced,” his Uncle Cyrus cautioned,
feeling the horror of cropping the lengthy strand he used to feign a full head
of hair.

“A wealth of hair cannot be simulated, Uncle,” Randall had
responded. “You must make the most of what you have. Women will accentuate your
positive qualities.”

“And what if the gentler sex deems it appropriate to point out my
inadequacies?”

Randall gave a thoughtful smile. “Those would be the women to
avoid, wouldn’t they?”

Rushton’s eyes shot open in realization. “Ah, just so! You are
right once again.”

“Trust me, Uncle,” Randall said in total confidence. “As an
eligible earl at
Almacks
, you won’t be ignored.”
After that discussion, the length of hair in question had been removed.

Rushton fingered his cravat and managed to tear himself away from
his glass. “Well, let’s be off, shall we? Soon the Season will grind to a halt
and then where will I be?”

“Uncle, the Season has only just begun.”

“I plan to put every moment to good use. My marriage to your Aunt
Constance was arranged, but we grew to love one another, and it was that love,”
he punctuated the statement with a forefinger, nearly stabbing Randall’s face, “that
grew over the years. I know now that love is the only reason to marry. I know
the ton would not find it fashionable, but what do I care!

“Young or old, rich or poor, it shall not matter to me, for I
plan to marry for love. If love eludes me, then I shall not marry. I never
intended to replace your Aunt Constance, God rest her soul.” Rushton crossed
himself. “But I believe she would understand my wanting to remarry.”

“I’m sure she would, Uncle. I don’t think she would want you to
remain alone.” Randall felt eternally grateful he did not feel the need to join
his uncle in the petticoat line.

Almacks
. The weekly gathering of the
fashionable and titled. He dreaded being here. It had been two years since
Randall had set foot inside its auspicious doors. And just as he had expected,
not much within those hallowed walls had changed.

There were the same types of young girls and their matchmaking
mamas. Different names, different faces, but they would all look and act the
same as the last time he attended.

Randall and his uncle proceeded through the room, reacquainting
themselves with the elite guests who were lucky enough to be in attendance.
Randall noticed Rushton kept his observant eyes focused mainly on the fairer
sex in the crowd.

From across the room, Randall recognized Lady Dorothea
Brookhurst
. She had been a beauty years ago when he had
first set eyes on her. How she had blossomed!

Randall had never seen such loveliness and grace combined in one
woman. Luckily he was not a stranger to her and he need not wait for an
introduction. There was no sign of men inundating her. He did not know why, but
decided not to question his good fortune and did not delay making his move.

“Excuse me, Uncle Cyrus. I see someone I need to reacquaint
myself with.”

“Of course, my boy. Do go ahead.” Rushton waved him on.

Randall could feel his lips curve into a gracious smile. He was
well pleased indeed. Smoothing a hand over his fine waistcoat, Randall shifted
and straightened a crease in the arm of his jacket before advancing across the
room.

As he neared Lady Dorothea, he thought her radiant hair surely
must consist of the rays of the sun. Her eyes, of celestial blue, glistened.
Her lips would cause the reddest of roses to pale. He need not go on to see
that she was a delight to behold. The grace of her arms only hinted at the
lithe movements of her body. Every turn, sway, and dip bespoke her statuesque
elegance.

“Lady Dorothea,” he greeted and sketched a bow.

“Why, Sir Randall, is it not?” she remarked, surprised. “It has
been an age, has it not?”

“It has been quite some time since we last met.” His eyes met her
cool stare. “Would it be presumptuous to inquire if you have an opening on your
dance card?”

Dorothea ran her finger down the dance card. She inscribed Sir
Randall Trent.

“The next waltz,” she announced to his ultimate delight.

Randall could not believe his luck, a waltz! “I shall return
shortly to claim my dance then.” In parting, he took her gloved hand in his and
raised it to his lips. Moving away from Lady Dorothea, Randall scanned the room
for his uncle.

“Is that you, Trent?” Sir Thomas White made his approach,
followed by Donald Sinclair.

“Sir Thomas,” Randall greeted. “Is that Sinclair with you?”

“What the devil are you doing here?” The surprise on Thomas’ face
was only surpassed by the amazement on Donald Sinclair’s.

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d step into this place unless your
life depended on it,” Sinclair added.

“Or unless you think it’s time for a wife.” Randall knew Thomas
must have thought that even further from the truth.

“You’ve nearly got the whole of it. It’s my uncle who is here to
find a new countess.”

“Ah, Rushton,” Thomas recalled, pointing him out on the dance
floor.

Sinclair peered around to look. “Who is that exquisite lady with
your uncle?”

Randall craned to catch a glimpse of Rushton’s dance partner. All
he could see was the smile on his Uncle Cyrus’ face. Dressed all in white, his
dance partner was lovely with her golden hair swept atop her head. Not the
almost white-gold of Lady Dorothea’s hair, but guinea gold.

“Rather. She is a pure confection,” Thomas gasped.

Donald Sinclair gave a sigh and grasped his chest near the area
of his heart. “I believe I am in love.”

“Sinclair, you’re in love with anything wearing a white frock,”
Thomas accused.

The country dance brought Rushton into closer range. So close
that Randall could see the fair face of his uncle’s dance partner. It was then
Randall felt all cheerful expression fade.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be.

Miss Larissa Quinn?

What happened to rusticating in the wilds of Westmoreland?

A lie. Clearly another lie she’d told. And why not? Randall had
lost count of how many falsehoods Larissa Quinn had told during the short
amount of time they had shared. Now she was dancing with his Uncle Cyrus.

What stories would she be telling him? Was she now passing
herself off as an heiress? Or perhaps a princess from some far-off land?

“Sir Randall? Sir Randall?” Sinclair repeated. “Do you know who
that creature of sheer loveliness is?”

“Ah—I know of her.” Randall wanted the acquaintance between
Larissa and his uncle to be nipped in the bud. He would not stand for his uncle
to continue with her. Uncle Cyrus had to be warned, and warned right away. “You
must excuse me, gentlemen.” In set determination, Randall started across the
room to deliver the unpleasant news.

“Wait a bit, Trent.” Sinclair took hold of Randall’s sleeve.
“You’re not leaving without me.”

Randall pulled his arm free. “You are more than welcome to her,
my friend.” Randall noticed how Sinclair’s face brightened. Did Sinclair
consider him a threat? Randall’s solitary interest in the chit was keeping her
away from his uncle. Sinclair could have Miss Quinn all to himself.

As far as Randall was concerned, it was Larissa who should take
care. Describing Donald Sinclair as a rake might be going too far; he merely
enjoyed the ladies. However, Randall noticed Sir Thomas White was the first to
approach Larissa. Sinclair’s unnecessary concern about Randall’s intentions had
caused him to be fourth in line.

Randall found his Uncle Cyrus and ushered him away from where
Larissa held court.

“I find her most agreeable,” Rushton muttered. He glanced several
times over his shoulder to glimpse Larissa.

“Agreeable?” Randall took hold of Rushton’s shoulders and squared
his uncle in front of him. “Listen to me, Uncle, she’s persona non grata.”
Randall saw the faraway expression in Rushton’s face and interpreted it as a
potentially ominous omen. “Someone to stay away from. Very far away from.”
Randall could see by the vacant look on his uncle’s face he still wasn’t making
any progress.

“Know her, do you?” Rushton remarked in a knowing way.

“Let me just say if I had known she was on the ship up the
Severn, rather than keep her company, I’d plunge into the drink and take my
chances with a pack of circling sharks.” Randall checked his uncle’s
expression. “You do take my meaning, don’t you, Uncle?”

Still looking in Larissa’s direction, Rushton held a steady,
affable smile on his face. “I heard what you said, dear boy.”

“Not what I said, my meaning. She’s not one to be trifled with, I
tell you.”

Rushton stared toward the heavens and continued in a moist,
emotion-filled tone. “Your Aunt Constance used to go on about that—meaning,
morals, life’s lessons and such, God rest her soul.”

“Uncle Cyrus!” Randall was now all but shouting.

“What is it?”

“Miss Larissa Quinn,” he reminded.

“Ah, yes!” Rushton glanced across the room at Larissa for a
reminder. “I find her quite agreeable indeed. Very charming.”

“No, not her, my warning about her. You do understand the point
I’m getting at, don’t you?”

“Yes, oh yes. I got the point, dear boy. Just as well, I’m
probably too old for her anyway.” Rushton went on thoughtfully. “I defer to
your judgment. I entirely agree she is more suited for a much younger man.”

Thank goodness, Randall thought in relief, his Uncle Cyrus had
given up any thoughts about furthering his relation with Miss Larissa Quinn.

“Excuse me. Miss Quinn?” It was a scant hour later when Randall
made his respectful approach. His actions mimicked the many suitors who came
before him.

Clearly shocked by his presence, Larissa stammered, “S-sir
Randall, is it not?”

“Yes, that’s right.” He smiled. “You remembered.”

“It is unlikely I should ever forget.” Her words were innocuous,
but the tone spoke volumes.

“Would it be possible to speak to you alone for a moment?”

“Alone?” Larissa glanced around. For whom, Randall was not sure.
“Is it allowed?”

“We shall be on the terrace, in plain sight of the entire room.”

“I am promised for the next set,” she said, catching her lower
lip with her teeth.

“I assure you, we shall not be long.” Randall held his arm out
and waited.

Larissa placed her hand lightly atop his arm and allowed him to
escort her into the night air.

Once away from the other guests, Randall spun to face her. “What
the devil do you think you are doing here?”

“I see no reason you should speak to me in that tone. I have not
done anything wrong.”

“Haven’t done anything wrong?” Randall glanced into the ballroom making
sure they had not drawn unnecessary attention. “Do you know what would happen
should word get out about…about.” His voice softened to a whisper, “The
incident at The Blue Boar Inn?”

“If you do not wish anyone to know about the incident, then I
suggest you do not speak of it. Even as a point of reference.”

“I want to forget it ever happened. I don’t even want to
acknowledge I know you.”

“Well, it’s a bit late for that, is it not? By addressing me by
name, you’ve just told an entire roomful of London Society that we are
acquainted. Not only know me, but know me well. As I have just agreed to see
you … alone. And at your request, I might add.”

Randall stood silent. She was right. It had been a foolish
maneuver on his part.

“By kissing me, you’ve made yourself quite well-known to me. I
could hardly ignore you, could I?” Larissa’s gaze was hard.

“I think not. Well, you can take satisfaction in knowing it will
never happen again.”

“No?” she squeaked. Almost as if she were disappointed.

“No,” he repeated, his voice firm.

“Was it so very improper?” Her eyes held him riveted. Randall
knew he could not allow himself to be swayed by her innocent appearance. He,
more than anyone, should know better.

She’d told him that she had grown up in the confines of a girls’
seminary. He wondered if it was true. Surely, they must have taught more than
reading and writing, something about the social graces. After all, she had
known how to dance.

“No, it is not proper for a man to kiss a woman in public—even if
they happen to be married to each other. It’s blatant, outrageous behavior.
Wholly unsuitable. That woman sitting across from us, Mrs. Briggs, drove me
into doing something rash.” He swallowed hard. Watching her for a moment
longer, he inhaled her scent, fresh and fragrant. He remembered the sweet taste
of her full lips. Now they were quite alone in the garden and at that moment he
found her very desirable.

“Oh.” was Larissa’s only comment. How could she tell him she had
enjoyed it? He had been on her thoughts since they had parted. A single day had
not passed when she did not think of him. “It is permitted to partake in such
activities when alone, then?” She stared up at him, looking for guidance.

Sir Randall tugged at the inside of his cravat with a finger. “I
shouldn’t even be speaking to you of such things.”

“How shall I ever understand if I am not told?” she replied with
a hint of frustration.

“What I mean to say is, I should not be the one informing you of
subjects of such a personal and delicate nature,” Sir Randall said in his own
defense. “I hope you enjoy your Season, for I do not expect we shall meet again.”
With those parting words, he sketched a bow and left.

Larissa watched Sir Randall reenter the room and disappear into
the crowd. Sir Randall Trent was the last person she had expected to see. He
had been traveling to see his uncle, if she was not mistaken, and London had
never been mentioned as far as she could recall.

Still, he was here. Sharing the same city, sharing the same
ballroom, and sharing the same memory. Only he wanted nothing more to do with
her. If he would not be willing to indulge her, she would find someone who
would.

Larissa strolled into the room, tapping the end of her folded fan
on her fingertips. He wasn’t the only man around. She surveyed the room, there
were dozens. She liked what she had felt with Sir Randall when he kissed her
and decided she’d have more.

Indeed, there would be no stopping her.

Randall kept company with his uncle between the next several
sets. As anticipated, there was no lack of interest in Rushton. What did
surprise him was his uncle’s stamina, participating in every dance. Randall
eagerly anticipated the approaching waltz, the waltz he planned to share with
Lady Dorothea.

His attention drifted from the languorous Lady Dorothea, whom he
suspected might be striking an attitude for his benefit, and returned to
Larissa. Observing the surrounding throng, Randall saw she did not lack
attention, for her popularity appeared to grow with every passing minute.

Randall had broached the dance floor and now stood at Lady
Dorothea’s side. No more thoughts of Larissa, he told himself, for Lady
Dorothea was more to his taste. Refined, subdued, and above all, suitable.

With a smile, he tucked her kid-gloved hand into the crook of his
arm and led her to the dance floor. During their dance, while he held her close
in his arms, guiding her around the floor, he further contemplated his partner.
He thought that surely, by now, Lady Dorothea would have married. Sir Randall
added to her list of engaging qualities, charm, delightful company, and
accomplished dancing.

Knowing he would be expected to call on the morrow, the last
thing he wanted to do was send a footman with his card. That was not the
message he wanted to relay. Randall was interested, he repeatedly told himself,
deeply interested in Lady Dorothea.

He took his commitment to his Uncle Cyrus seriously and could not
abandon him while he took the time to pay a call on his latest love interest.
After all, Randall was not the one in London to find a wife.

Strangely enough, he did not find the idea of marriage disturbing
in the least, and if Lady Dorothea filled that position, so much the better.
She was a girl who knew her place, knew how to act properly. He would
ultimately be better off with her.

It was too early to tell whether Lady Dorothea adequately filled
his requirements for a wife and he looked forward to exploring that avenue. If
he had the time, that is. At the present, he did not. He had to attend to Uncle
Cyrus.

Randall felt he should mention his inability to pay her proper
attention, and that he would rectify the situation once matters with his uncle
sorted themselves out.

“Lady Dorothea, I would love to take you on a drive tomorrow.”
Randall glanced across the room to his uncle.

“Then, pray tell, why don’t you?” Dorothea directed her eyes to
Randall. They were breathtaking, wide, celestial blue eyes framed by long,
lovely lashes.

“To tell the truth, I am not here to indulge myself. I am to
accompany my uncle.”

“Your uncle? And who is your uncle?”

“The Earl of Rushton.”

“I see,” Dorothea replied.

“He is depending on me. I cannot shirk my responsibility to him.”
It didn’t seem to make a difference to her that he had an earl for an uncle.
Gads, half the room must have earls for uncles, if not dukes.

“I understand. Nor would I even ask it of you.” She gave a
wistful sigh and a longing look. “How dutiful you are, Sir Randall. It is such
an honorable quality.”

“Tomorrow, I shall do my utmost to pay a call.”

“Oh, please do.” Lady Dorothea stared at Randall with her wide
eyes. “But, I would understand completely if you cannot find the time to do so.
One cannot fault a dutiful gentleman.”

“I am sure this is not the last we shall meet.”

“I am sure you are correct.” The corners of her rosebud lips
curved up. She bestowed upon Randall the most perfect smile he had ever seen,
charming him to the tips of his dancing slippers.