My Favorite Bride (18 page)

The men groaned, and lined up to greet her.

Lady Marchant waggled her finger at them. “Before I start, gentlemen, I must warn Miss Prendregast that you're all single and in want of a wife,
and unless she wants to find herself settled with a staid husband, she should be very careful of your gallantries.”

“Single and in need of a wife? Indeed, I will remember,” Samantha promised.

Lady Marchant introduced the first of the somberly clad males, a man of perhaps fifty with drooping eyes and thinning hair. “This is Mr. Langdon, a gentleman most sought after for his charm and his dancing.”

“I'm honored, Miss Prendregast.” He kissed Samantha's fingertips in a manner that flattered and charmed.

“The earl of Hartun. His mother would like him wed and settled.” Lady Marchant smiled at him knowingly. “I have promised her my help.”

“Thank you for warning me. And, Miss Prendregast, it's a privilege to have you among us.”

Lord Hartun wore his garments with a continental flare, but Samantha wanted to squirm beneath his steady, grave gaze. It was almost as if he knew she hid something, and he would ferret it out.

Lady Marchant indicated the mustachioed officer who wore his regimentals with such flare. “Lieutenant Du Clos from my husband's company. He returned from India this spring, where he was known for dashing ways with the ladies.”

Lieutenant Du Clos also kissed Samantha's hand, but on the back, and with an intimacy that made her uncomfortable. His manner and Lady Marchant's warning clearly told Samantha he was a lady killer of unparalleled skill. She would take care never to find herself alone with him.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Lady Marchant clapped her hands. “Try to contain yourselves. Miss Prendregast might be our newest belle, but she needs room to breathe. Perhaps a few of you could curry favor by fixing her a plate and bringing her a drink.”

Other men clustered around, and Samantha assessed them, too. The skills she'd learned as a cutpurse stood her in good stead now. She didn't listen to their words, but watched their eyes and their gestures, seeking the truth of their characters in their expressions. She had only to keep her head, and she could pull this off.

Oh, and she needed luck, of course. A wise thief never dismissed the significance of luck.

Chapter Eighteen

“See, William, darling? You were right. Our little governess is doing very well.” Satisfaction oozed from Teresa's tone as she took his arm.

William knew why. He was being pushed back further and further from Samantha's sphere, and that was exactly as Teresa had planned it. Make Samantha the center of attention, and Teresa would have William to herself. An admirable stratagem, one that benefited both Samantha and Teresa. Only William was left frustrated.

Although really . . . why should he be? He had hoped Samantha would prove adept in society. Not because he wanted her, but because such proficiency gave her confidence and made her a better governess, more able to teach his daughters such skills. He looked down at the crushed grass
beneath his boots, and wondered why she didn't challenge the other men as she had challenged him. With them, she was all charm and ease. With him, she was nothing but a handful of thorns.

And the fact that Teresa felt she had to maneuver events meant he had not covered his interest in Samantha, and that was a disservice to them all. Even if he remained indifferent to Teresa as a possible wife, she nevertheless deserved his complete attention as his hostess. “Come,” he said to Teresa. “General and Lady Stephens have arrived. We should greet them.” He led her away.

Yet somehow, without trying, he managed to keep sight of Samantha as she basked in the devotion of a constantly increasing crowd of gentlemen, lords, and officers. She had even managed to attract and hold Lord Hartun, a man whose family was both ancient and moneyed. A man who, it was rumored, had connections deep in the secret recesses of the Home Office. Lord Hartun was one of the willing participants in the scheme to ensnare Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh.

If not for Lady Bucknell's recommendation, William would be highly suspicious of Samantha's allure.

But how could he not be fascinated by her? She gestured openly, unlike the circumscribed ladies scattered throughout the crowd. Her slender fingers fluttered like birds. She was vibrant, blonde, unique in a way that the men here could scarcely fathom.

As William greeted the guests, chatted, and
smiled, he watched her. Watched her not because he feared she would falter. He watched because he couldn't look away.

Her throaty laughter rang out, bold, free.

The ladies' heads turned, then leaned together.

“Oh, dear.” Teresa got that steely-eyed look that spelled doom for any feminine malice. “I must go visit with my dear friends.”

“Of course.” He watched her move into the group of ladies and with incredible charm, move them toward Samantha. She introduced her, and in a few moments everyone was laughing.

True to form, Teresa had saved the day.

“Lady Marchant is the perfect choice for your hostess.” Mr. Gray, a gentleman whose appearance matched his name, spoke loudly. Then he glanced around at the four men surrounding William. When he was sure they were chaps of like mind, he lowered his voice. “Have the rats taken the bait?”

“Not yet. They're still in their rat hole. But I not only sent over an invitation with a personal message expressing my dearest wish that my neighbors attend and lend their elegance to our gathering, I also gave our spy among their servants a list of the guests. By now, Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh know every name.” William's gesture included the four gentlemen gathered close. “With you here, Mr. Gray, and Hartun, and General Stephens, and so many of the gentlemen deep in the government's confidence, I feel sure the rats will arrive soon.” Teresa caught William's gaze; he
smiled and nodded as if he were having no more than the usual well-bred conversation.

General Stephens, a clean-shaven, upright military man, said, “It's a damned risky plan. Someone could slip and give real information.”

“It
is
a damned risky business,” William agreed, “and none of these men got to their positions because they made a habit of slipping.”

Lady Stephens joined them, and the gentlemen made way for her. She had won their respect; she spoke five languages and had such wide blue eyes she'd pried many a confidence from many a foolish foreigner. “You don't like having to travel so many miles in such a hurry, Henry. At least—not to a party. Now if it were a battle . . .”

All the gentlemen chuckled, then quieted as Teresa swept back in. “Excuse me for leaving you, William, but I wanted to tell the ladies why we have your governess at the party. I didn't want them to think us havey-cavey, as Miss Prendregast so quaintly says.”

“Why
is
she here?” Lady Stephens asked.

“William invited disparate numbers of men to women, and Miss Prendregast has such lovely manners, of course we thought of her at once. But she's so modest, we quite had to cajole her into coming to the party at all.” Teresa patted William's hand. “So you must blame William for Miss Prendregast.”

“Give him a medal, rather,” General Stephens said.

The other chaps laughed.

“Yes, she's certainly collecting more than her share of the gentlemen.” Lady Stephens's cool gaze considered Samantha. “Do we know who she is?”

“Her people, you mean? No.” Teresa pulled a long face. “She's an orphan, I believe, but she has Lady Bucknell's patronage.”

“Oh!” General Stephens harrumphed. “Quite all right.”

Lady Stephens's famous smile blossomed. “Yes, if Lady Bucknell says she will do, then she will do. Look! There's my dear friend, the ambassador from Italy. I must go greet him.”

“Not without me, you won't. That chap's been infatuated with you since you came out twenty years ago.” General Stephens chased after his wife.

Everyone laughed, and drifted toward different groups.

William turned to Teresa. “A fabulous performance with the ladies.”

She tried to pull an innocent face, but gave up and chuckled. “I love making them do as I wish.”

“You're wasted on society. You should be running the British Embassy in Paris.”

Teresa, the sophisticated, actually colored. “I would like that. Why don't you recommend me?”

“Perhaps I shall.” He'd left one element off his list of desirable traits in a wife—that he should like her. For all her foibles and wiles, he very much liked Teresa.

“Did you ever find Mary's portrait? The one you were seeking yesterday?” Teresa asked.

His pleasure in the day, in the plan, dimmed. “Not yet. I hate to think one of my servants took it, but I suppose that is the case.”

“You don't have the time it takes to run a household properly.” Teresa touched his cheek. “You need a wife, darling.”

Her gesture was less than subtle, and that surprised him. Teresa was usually the soul of refinement. Looking around, he saw several smiling faces watching them. Duncan scowling. And Samantha had her back to them. Was Teresa trying to force his hand?

“Well!” she said brightly. “Perhaps you think you can get along without a wife. Certainly you have for a few years.”

He hadn't answered, he realized. That was rude, yet . . . what could he say? He couldn't propose in public. Hadn't even thought about how to accomplish the deed . . . and that was unlike him. He was a man who planned ahead. Yet in this important matter, he was delaying.

Because of one kiss with another woman. Belatedly, he responded to Teresa. “I flatter myself I've done well with the servants—until now. I pray nothing else disappears.”

He'd offended Teresa, for her mouth was puckered and she spoke too quickly. “I, too. Can I leave you to mix and mingle while I check to see if the silks I ordered for the ball have arrived?”

“Silks?”
How much did that cost?

“To decorate the ceiling of the ballroom. Don't worry, your guests will be most impressed.”

“I'm sure,” he murmured, and tried to look as if he cared.

Apparently he didn't succeed, for she relaxed with a laugh. “I promise. I won't bother you with any more details.”

“Thank you.” As she strolled off, his gaze roamed over the crowd once more. His daughters had swept the visiting children, twelve in number, across the lawn to play croquet. The ladies had dispersed throughout the crowd, their higher tones adding a pleasant mix to the deeper voices of the men. Everything was perfect for a party—and for the baiting of a trap.

He met Duncan's troubled gaze. Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh were not here. His men had reported their arrival at Maitland. His personal invitation had been sent over. Yet he'd had no reply, and his gut tightened. If this plan didn't work, they would have to arrest Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh on an assumption of guilt, and that wouldn't be nearly as gratifying—or as undisputable—as first providing Pashenka with false information, then sending him on his way.

On the other hand—he straightened—since Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh had failed to put in an appearance, he was free to go speak to Samantha.

The crowd of gentlemen around her had dispersed a little as three of the young officers tumbled away in a mock wrestling match. She didn't seem to notice William's approach, but when he spoke at her shoulder she smoothly turned to face him.

So. She had been conscious of him all along.

“You see, Miss Prendregast?” Aware of a dozen feminine pairs of eyes which observed his every move, he took care not to touch her. “I told you you would do very well at my party.”

“Has no one ever told you that
I told you so
is a dreadful phrase?”

He caught himself before he laughed. “Only people to whom I say it.”

She smiled, but without the open, gamine quality that always captivated him, and she didn't quite look at him. Rather, she looked past him, around him. To any onlooker, they shared nothing more than the bond of employment. “If you cannot be broken of the habit, I fear your chances for a waltz are much diminished among these lovely ladies.”

“Yet I would have my waltz with you.”

At his low-voiced declaration, her gaze sliced to his face, lingered for one long, shocked moment, then moved away.

He was content. With that one glance, she showed him her vulnerability to him, and her desire to be in his arms for whatever reason. And he, who had always hated to dance, fervently wished the ball was tonight so he could hold her against him and erase the remembrance of these besotted suitors who surrounded her.

Still she maintained her poise, and managed to sound prosaic and even slightly bored. “To answer your original comment—yes, I discover that I am rather good at this society whirl. It isn't difficult at all. I treat the gentlemen like small children, keep eye contact, pretend to be interested in their silly

“You're being sarcastic about my gender.” Which he didn't really mind. He didn't want her to find traits to admire in the other men.

“Not at all. The gentlemen are very welcoming.” She gestured toward the women. “With Lady Marchant's help, the ladies have been, too.”

“How could they not be charmed?”

“Very easily, I fear. Ladies are not so distracted by a fashionable gown or a pretty accessory.”

He wanted to laugh. Was she really so innocent? Yes, he knew she was. “Believe me, my dear, it is not your gown or your accessories that the men appreciate.”

Her brow wrinkled. “You mean . . . they appreciate my figure? That's hardly likely. I'm quite thin, with scarcely a curve.” She seemed to realize she'd been curt, for she added, “But thank you for the compliment.”

If they had time alone, he could convince her of his appreciation. But the officers, the lords, and the gentlemen who had stayed out of their conversation out of respect for him found their respect wearing thin. They stomped and pawed the ground, grumbling under their breaths. After a glance at them, William gravely said, “Allow me to warn you. The younger officers are back from India, and rather wild after their return. Please view any suggestions to stroll in the garden or admire the stars with great suspicion.”