Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (31 page)

"Wretched one!" she scolded, squeezing his arm affectionately. "Good heavens, are they dancing already?"

They walked around the landing and started down the last spiral of
the stairs. Music drifted pleasantly through the huge room. The air was
sweetly scented by the fragrant blossoms of the great bouquets and
hanging baskets. Already the hall was filling, and near the foot of the
stairs, Lord Phineas and his sister, an angular lady named Mrs.
Bridgley-West, who had come down from Bath for the occasion, stood
receiving their guests.

Whitthurst, looking pathetically thin in his dark-maroon jacket and
knee breeches, searched the throng eagerly. Glancing at him, Sophia's
heart warmed, and she enquired teasingly, "Do you see her, dear?"

"No. But—Oh… my… good… God!"

"What is it?" she demanded, her anxiety for him returning.

"Don't go into the boughs, Chicky," he implored. "For pity's sake—do not lose your temper!"

"Lose my temper? Why, Stephen—have you ever known me to—?" And she
stared, immobile with shock. The ballroom was colour-matched to
her
!
Instead of the black jacket she had expected from so formal an
individual, Bodwin wore a peerlessly cut jacket of almost the exact
shade as her new gown. The footmen wore blue waistcoats, the lackeys
sported blue boutonnieres, even the maids hovering in the halls wore
blue flowers in their hair. The bouquets, she now realized, were
predominantly blue!

"Dear heaven!" she gasped. "I am part of a display! Oh! That
odious
—that
pompous
! Oh! How
could
he?"

"Rich as Croesus," Stephen grunted, misunderstanding. "Must have
cost him a mountain of blunt, though, to have all those damned silly
outfits tailored in jig time! Chicky!" He grabbed her arm. "Where are
you going?"

"To change, of course!" she said furiously.

"You cannot! There's no time. Besides—you promised him you'd wear the frippery thing!"

"Let me go! I will
not
be put on exhibition like one of his prize possessions! We shall seem a
couple
! Stephen! It might almost be an
announcement! Oh
! How
dare
he!"

"Because he's a pompous damned ass! If he weren't so blasted well meaning, I should punch his head. But— They've seen us!"

"Ah," cried Lord Bodwin eagerly, "there you are, my dear Lady Sophia. And how exquisite you look!"

Mrs. Bridgley-West's pale face was upturned, her hard eyes filled
with malice. Stephen hissed, "Please, Chicky! It's a devilish trick,
but the poor old fool don't know how clumsy he is."

Seething, she knew that if she left, Stephen would also leave. And
this was the first ball he'd wanted to attend since his illness. "Very
well," she grated, baring her teeth in a tigerish smile, "but never—as
long as I live—shall I forgive that insufferable windbag!"

"Dear Lady Sophia," crowed Bodwin. "Come and enjoy your moment of triumph!"

The dancers, gliding through the complications of a quadrille,
created a brilliant, shifting pattern against the gleaming floor; the
air rang with lilting music and the pleasant chatter of the glittering
throng. Taffeta and satin rustled, feathers nodded, jewels sparkled.
Beautifully decorated fans fluttered in dainty hands; jewel-encrusted
quizzing glasses swung from strong, gloved fingers. And everywhere
speculation was rife. Sophia Drayton and Phineas Bodwin? Was it
possible? He was fabulously wealthy, true, and what lady would not
desire such a magnificent home—such a dozen, in fact, of beautiful
homes? But—Sophia Drayton? The toast of Italy, the darling of London,
the girl who was known to have reproved the Prince himself and earned
only a laugh and a wink from that notorious gentleman? Bodwin was old
enough to be her father. He was handsome, admittedly: a fine figure of
a man. And many an ardent beau gazed enviously at the elegant Lord
Bodwin, while many a lovely lady looked with curiosity upon the
incredible beauty of The Drayton.

Feather, beset on every side, was irked by the enquiries until she
realized what had triggered them. She made her way to Whitthurst and,
drawing him apart from a noisy group of young men, said urgently, "The
ton
is agog! Is Sophia like to murder our host?"

"At the very least," he answered with a rueful grin. "Can't say I
blame her. She didn't notice it in time, y'see, ma'am, and couldn't
very well create a scene at the last minute."

"She's handling herself very well. See how she smiles upon him."

Whitthurst saw and shuddered. "Poor Bodwin. By tomorrow we'll be on
our way back to Kent." A vision in a cloud of pink silk and chiffon
came toward him. His eyes took on a glazed look. His lips formed her
name, but no sound could be heard. Feather watched mistily as they
drifted to one another and, with a sigh for yesterdays, went in search
of her good friend, Lucinda.

"What I should do," Sophia gritted as Harry Redmond handed her a
glass of punch, "is leave this fiasco! Never have I been so mortified!
Look at all those spiteful cats. See how they smile at me, then titter
behind their fans!"

"Then laugh," advised Sir Harry wisely, his green eyes dancing with
mischief. "Bodwin ensnared you very neatly and has announced his
intentions and your apparent acceptance without saying a word. I find
it hilarious."

"Then you, cousin," Sophia remarked with a trill of insincere laughter, "are as odious as Bodwin is foolish."

"In which case, my dear," he countered, "I am not in the least
odious." She glanced at him, her head tilted questioningly, and he
warned, "Bodwin may appear foolish, and self-opinionated he most
certainly is. But he's as safe to cross as a Bengal tiger."

"You jest, surely?"

"No, ma'am. I do not. Aha!" His sober gaze brightened. "Now Phinny's ball is an assured success. Look who just arrived."

Sophia looked, and her heart turned over. Damon stood near the
stairs, his intent gaze turned to her. Their eyes met across that
crowded room and, for an instant, it was as though none was between
them. Then he bowed politely over the hand of the Countess of Carden,
and friends pressed in, surrounding him.

Sophia tore her eyes away from his dark head and realized with a
sudden ache of grief that Redmond was murmuring something. "Your
pardon, Harry?"

"It was of no importance—and I'd not thought to bring you to tears!" Dismayed, he stepped closer. "What's wrong, love? Can I—"

"No, no. It is nothing. Please do not—"

"Lady Sophia…?"

How that deep voice plunged an arrow through her heart. Fighting for
composure, she turned to meet eyes that glittered in a face pale with
rage and powder. His bruises were effectively hidden, but—Camille in
powder? She felt an hysterical urge to giggle and only with a great
effort managed a cool "Lord Damon, how pleasant to see you again."

"You look very lovely, ma'am," he said with a sardonic smile,
straightening from the briefest touch of his lips upon her hand. "And
the colour becomes you far more than some of those you have permitted
to copy it."

"Evening, Cam," said Sir Harry politely.

"Camille," Sophia begged, low-voiced. "If you will let me explain, I—"

"Egad, my lady, I am not blind." His brows lifted, and he drawled,
"And must not allow myself to become confused. I'd come to think
Hartwell was to be the lucky man. Now it would seem I must offer my
congratulations to Phineas."

Looking from the cynical hauteur of the Marquis to the flushed
features of his cousin, Sir Harry smiled, "Awfully good to see you,
Cam."

"Does it indeed, my lord?" frowned Sophia.

The Marquis lifted his quizzing glass languidly to inspect her, the
flowers, and the distant form of Lord Bodwin. "What a charmingly
coordinated picture." And he added wickedly, "Almost a uniform—you
would look so well, side by side, atop a wedding cake… Or—do I detect a
treat in store? Is there to be some kind of group entertainment later
in the evening?"

"I am sure you will both excuse me," Sir Harry grinned.

"Group entertainment!" gasped Sophia.

"Cheerio!" Redmond laughed and deserted the field of combat.

"All you need," sneered Damon, eyes glittering, "are the Bodwin sapphires, and your costume would be complete."

"If you must know, I refused them. It would have been most improper!"

Damon appraised a passing footman, glorious in his blue waistcoat, and said with a curl of the lip, "Belated awareness, ma'am?"

"You," she hissed, "are extreme offensive tonight, sir. Did you come purely to be odious?"

"Apparently, since I am sadly at odds with your colour scheme. I do
possess a blue jacket. Would you wish, ma'am, that I go home and
change?"

Sophia drew a deep breath and, knowing that many eyes were upon
them, opened her fan with a snap that almost rendered it in twain and,
with a forced smile, grated, "Thank you for this beautiful gown, my
lord. Though I will admit I had no least intention to wear it tonight."

"What a great pity," he said in a bored fashion, "that you changed your mind."

"So there you are, Damon."

They had been so wrapped in their quarrel that neither had noted the
Duke approaching, and they stared at him, equally astonished.

Sophia dropped a curtsey in response to Vaille's bow. Rising, she
shot a glance at the Marquis and found his attention fixed upon a lady
virtually surrounded by admirers, whose answering gaze seemed to hold a
warning. Charlotte Hilby had surely never looked lovelier, gowned in an
exquisite misty chiffon that seemed to an irritated Sophia exactly the
shade of Damon's eyes.

His father's presence astounded the Marquis. He knew he had always
disliked Bodwin, but before he could speak, Vaille murmured gently, "A
private word with you, if you please, my lord."

Sophia experienced a surge of nervousness, wondering what sins the
Duke had now discovered in his errant heir; and then Genevieve was
hurrying to join them, aglow with happiness, her hand on the arm of a
so obviously lovestruck Whitthurst even Vaille's stern countenance
softened.

Bodwin appeared at Sophia's elbow, begging that she keep her promise
and sing for them. She was ushered to the dais, willy-nilly; the
orchestra struck up, and she sang. Conversation was busy in the room
when she began. By the time she finished, total stillness prevailed. A
storm of applause rang out, with shouts of "Encore! Encore!" She sang
again, the old Zingari air her father had particularly loved. And again
their response was tumultuous. Bodwin, delighted by this success,
prevailed upon her to sing "that lovely piece" she had sung for them at
the Priory. She agreed and, glancing to Damon as the orchestra struck
up, found his brooding gaze upon her. Somehow she made herself look
away as she sang the words that would, to her, always belong to him. At
the end, knowing she had never sung better despite her heartbreak, she
looked again to Camille. He was bending to listen to something Miss
Hilby whispered, apparently paying no least attention to the song. A
knife turned in Sophia's breast as she was practically carried from the
dais by a swarm of admirers. The ovation was deafening. Deluged with
compliments, adored, flirted with, worshipped, she was swept into a
refreshment room and plied with ices, cakes, and delicacies. From the
corner of her eye, she saw Damon come in, at once creating a center of
attention. He was in a light-hearted mood now, and she heard his deep
laugh ring out several times. Not once did he seem to glance her way,
and eventually he returned to dance attendance upon an obviously
worried Miss Hilby.

Sophia's cup should have been full. Many of the ton's most eligible
bachelors were vying jealously for her smiles; compliments upon her
talent, her beauty, her charm, were showered upon her; less successful
ladies cast her envious looks; hopeful mamas put up their lorgnettes
and viewed her with disapprobation. But her triumph was hollow. At
last, she excused herself, slipped away, and all but ran to the back
stairs. Climbing to her room, her heart felt like lead. How cold he had
seemed. Well, why not? She had let Bodwin trick her into what must have
seemed a mockery of his kindness in buying her such a lovely gown—
and
she had ruined the man! But he'd known that at Cancrizans after the
meeting, and his tenderness had been… so… She blinked away tears and
hastened her steps. She must not forget what manner of man he was. She
must not forget poor little Nancy…

She secured herself in her room and was about to indulge herself in
a good cry when the door opened and a maid hurried in. Sophia turned
quickly away, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.

"I seed ye come in here, m'lady, and seein's how it do be—"

She spun around with a shocked gasp, "Nancy!"

"Aye, Lady Sophia," the girl beamed. "Though I see ye've no need for me—ye look that beautiful!"

"But… how?" Sophia struggled to gather her wits. "I mean—I thought… Well, it must have been such a… ghastly experience!"

Nancy nodded, her face sobering. "That it were, ma'am! Proper scared I were. Not to say cross as crabs!"

It seemed an odd reaction, but Sophia held out her arms. "Poor
child" After a second's hesitation, the girl came to be hugged, and
Sophia stroked her soft hair and said comfortingly, "You need never be
afraid again. I shall take care of you!"

Nancy looked at her wonderingly. "Ye be very good, m'lady. But—'tis over now, and no cause for'ee to look so dreary-eyed."

She seemed quite in spirits, and Sophia thought wretchedly, 'Oh,
Camille! How could you abuse her when she is so innocent?' "You shall
come back to Kent with me," she smiled, and added nobly, "You will not
have to face shame alone!"

Nancy grinned. "Why, I doan't reckon it do be that bad, ma'am."

"You don't. Oh, my," said Sophia in failing accents. "You are… more worldly than I… had thought."