Scandal of the Year (2 page)

The fantasy sustained Blythe as they joined the other dancers. The men formed a long line opposite the women and the music commenced, as restrained and proper as the duke himself. Bowing to her in accordance with the dance, Savoy cut a fine figure in a maroon coat lined with pale pink satin. A snowy-white cravat enhanced the ruddiness of his face and the hints of gray in his dark hair.

He was quite old enough to be her father.

Blythe banished the off-putting notion. Affection knew no boundaries of age, and once they grew better acquainted, surely a lasting warmth would develop between them. Besides, her parents regarded the duke as an excellent marital prospect for her, and she trusted their judgment implicitly.

Performing the prescribed steps, she aimed a flirtatious smile at him, but Savoy gave no sign of noticing. His expression remained aloof and sober, his blue eyes focused just beyond her shoulder as if he were immersed in his own private world.

Perhaps his thoughts dwelled upon his late wife.

Sympathetic curiosity niggled at Blythe. How dreadful to have endured the tragic death of one’s spouse. Had he dearly loved the late duchess? Even if it had been an arranged marriage, there must been a bond between them, and the loss of that companionship would have left a hole in his life.

Perhaps a little banter might serve to distract him as it did her Papa when he became too preoccupied with business. As she took the duke’s gloved hand and stepped around him as the other couples were doing, she murmured, “I daresay this is all rather humdrum to you, Your Grace.”

For the first time his gaze settled directly on her. Unfortunately, he did so with a frown. “Eh?”

“Attending balls. Dancing the night away. Conversing with silly young girls like me.”

“It is what one does at such events.”

He had not denied her silliness as a besotted swain would have done. And yet his gaze flitted to her mouth, a sure sign of his interest.

Blythe dipped her chin slightly and gazed at him through the veil of her lashes. “Are you certain you do not mind squiring me, then? Perhaps you would rather be playing cards or smoking cigars with the gentlemen in the library.”

“Rest assured, Miss Crompton, I am perfectly content.”

The dance steps separated them, but Blythe was pleased with the little exchange. There had been a flash of awareness in his eyes before he’d turned away. By not playing the mouse, she had accomplished her goal of distinguishing herself from the multitude of other debutantes. When Savoy looked back on this evening, he would remember her as a woman able to converse with him.

For the remainder of the set, she savored the vivid scene of gentlemen and ladies moving in harmony. All those dull lessons with a dancing master had been worthwhile. But how very different this was from when she’d practiced her steps right here in this ballroom, and she and her two sisters had taken turns partnering each other.

A pang struck her. It was a pity they couldn’t have been here. Lindsey lived in London, but she’d given birth to a daughter a fortnight ago. Portia’s young son had taken ill with a cold, so she’d remained in Kent to nurse him back to health.

Blythe wouldn’t let their absence dampen her spirits, though. Tonight was the culmination of a dream, and she would enjoy every moment of it.

As the music ended and Savoy escorted her off the dance floor, she murmured, “Thank you, Your Grace. I hope you won’t think me forward, but perhaps we shall have an opportunity to meet again soon.”

He grunted in what she hoped was an assent.

Had she displeased him? Blythe couldn’t quite tell from his somber expression. But she had high hopes that once they grew closer, he would favor her above all others. There had never been a male, young or old, that she couldn’t twist around her little finger.

His hand on her elbow, Savoy guided her through the throng of guests. People stepped back as if they were royalty. The men bowed and the ladies curtsied. Such deference was shown to Blythe and her parents only by the servants. But soon she would elevate her family’s position through a grand alliance. And the Duke of Savoy ranked at the top of her list of potential husbands.

Blythe cast about for an excuse to prolong her time with him. She scanned the crush of guests in the hopes of seeing a familiar face with whom to stop and converse. By lucky chance, the sea of ladies and gentlemen parted and her gaze fell upon a group of debutantes chatting near the tall arched doorway.

“May I trouble you with a request, Your Grace?”

“If you wish.”

His closed expression wasn’t encouraging, and Blythe had no wish to annoy him. At the same time, it was imperative that she forge a close connection between his family and hers.

“Would you afford me the honor of escorting me to your daughter?” she murmured. “We were introduced in the receiving line, and I would enjoy the chance to further my acquaintance with her.”

“I’ve no notion where the girl might be in this squeeze.”

“I spied her a moment ago, if you’ll permit me to show you.”

Blythe didn’t give Savoy a chance to refuse. She deftly guided him in the direction of the door.

Judging by the way the three girls had their heads close together, they were exchanging confidences. From time to time, one of them would cast a sly glance around the ballroom as if to seek out a new subject for gossip. Then they would whisper and giggle behind their fans.

Blythe instinctively recognized the type. They were an exclusive clique of blue-blooded ladies who had grown up in this rarified world. Unlike the gentlemen present, the girls would have little interest in befriending the daughter of a common merchant—no matter how rich the Crompton family might be.

But they didn’t know the extent of Blythe’s determination. As she and Savoy approached, she donned a gracious smile. One of the trio, a petite brunette, spied them and spoke to the willowy blond beside her.

The duke’s daughter, Lady Davina, turned to look at Blythe. Those blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly and her patrician features took on a coolness that radiated arrogant disapproval. The other two girls dipped their curtsies to the duke.

Gliding to her father, Lady Davina placed a proprietary hand on his arm. “Dear Papa, there you are at last. Are you feeling quite well? You appear a trifle flushed.”

A smile touched his lips, warming his stern features. “’Tis the dancing you may hold to blame, my dear girl. I vow I haven’t cavorted so much in two score years.”

“Perhaps you need a rest. You mustn’t overtax yourself.” Lady Davina slid an accusatory look at Blythe as if the state of his health were all her fault. “I would be most happy to sit out the next set with you, Papa. Come, let’s find a quiet spot elsewhere.”

He patted her hand. “I assure you, I am not quite doddering enough to require a nursemaid. However, Miss Crompton would like to have a chat with you, so perhaps you can sit with her.”

His daughter ignored the request as if Blythe didn’t exist. “If you insist upon dancing, you should ask Lady Ellen to be your partner. She hasn’t yet had the honor of your company.”

Lady Davina signaled one of the other girls forward. Short and somewhat stout, Lady Ellen made cow eyes at the duke over her fan.

“I hear the music starting,” Lady Davina went on. “Run along now, you mustn’t delay or you’ll miss the opening steps.”

Her desire to separate the duke from Blythe could not have been any more transparent. But Savoy seemed oblivious to the ploy. He politely took his leave and escorted Lady Ellen off into the crowd.

The ease with which he’d been maneuvered by his daughter interested Blythe. If he was malleable, so much the better. It meant that he was susceptible to being charmed by those he held dear. She had only to win his love, coax him into a proposal, and then her life would be perfect.

Of course the other side of the coin was Lady Davina, who appeared to thrive on directing those around her. Such a trait was usually seen in a matron much older than a lady in her first season. Yet was not her animosity understandable? She must be appalled at the notion of having a stepmother so close to herself in age.

Blythe extended her gloved hand to the other girl. She was a plain-faced brunette with slightly protruding teeth.

“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Blythe Crompton. And you are—?”

The girl glanced warily at her companion, then touched Blythe’s fingers and stepped back. “Lady Anne Oglethorpe. Davy and I grew up together.”

“Davy?”

“A childish nickname,” Lady Davina said, frowning at her friend. “One that is to be used only at home.”

Anne ducked her chin. “Oh! Forgive me. I-I quite forgot.”

Her distress stirred Blythe’s sympathies. So the duke was not the only one who was subject to Davina’s bullying.

“I wanted to bid you both welcome to Crompton House,” Blythe said by way of a distraction. “I’m most pleased that you could attend tonight.”

Davina’s gaze roved over the vast ballroom with its vaulted ceiling and the chandeliers aglow with hundreds of tapers. “This will always be Herrington House to me,” she said with a sniff. “It was named for the Earls of Herrington, although when the last earl died without issue some two score years ago, the title went extinct.”

The comment somehow made Blythe feel like an outsider in her own home. No doubt that was the intent. “It seems you know more about this house than I do,” she said lightly. “Perhaps you would come to call one day and tell me more of its history.”

“I’ll have to check my schedule,” Davina said with an air of cool boredom that indicated she would do no such thing. “Now, come along, Anne, we’ll take a turn about the room. It is a tolerable assembly, I suppose. Although I must admit to being a trifle … disappointed.”

With effort, Blythe held on to her resolve. She would not let the girl’s sour nature deter her from being pleasant. “If there’s some delicacy or drink you prefer, I should be happy to send someone to fetch it. Perhaps you’d care for champagne?”

As Blythe turned to look for a servant, a footman in blue livery appeared right beside her, as if he’d been standing within earshot awaiting her summons. Startled, she took half a step backward.

He was tall—so tall that her gaze was on par with his broad shoulders and she had to tilt her head back to view his face. Beneath the customary white powdered wig, he had arrestingly handsome features and swarthy skin as if he’d spent a good deal of time out in the sun.

He wasn’t one of the regular staff. Perhaps Mama had hired additional footmen to help out at the party.

He held forth a tray of crystal glasses filled with golden champagne. “My ladies,” he murmured, extending the salver to them.

As he did so, he turned his head to look straight at Blythe. His dark, penetrating eyes caused an involuntary clutch in the depths of her body. The reaction disconcerted her as did the novelty of a manservant staring at her as boldly as a gentleman of the highest rank. The fellow deserved a reprimand for overstepping his bounds. Yet she felt mysteriously bewitched by that keen gaze.

Lady Davina’s voice broke the spell. “We’ve had quite enough champagne,” she said, waving the footman away.

Lady Anne had been reaching for a glass, but she furtively drew back her hand. “Yes, of course we have.”

“You’ve mistaken my meaning, Miss Crompton.” Davina lifted a haughty eyebrow at Blythe. “It isn’t drink that I want. My disappointment tonight lies with the entertainment.”

Blythe struggled to focus her thoughts. The footman had moved back out of her view. Freed from his magnetic stare, she wondered if she’d imagined that odd little interlude. “The entertainment?”

“Quite. I would have expected you to make a much grander entrance tonight … perhaps by riding into the ballroom on the back of an elephant.”

She cast a droll glance at her friend, and Lady Anne giggled behind her fan.

Heat flamed in Blythe’s cheeks. She had been subject to whispers about her upbringing in India, but never before had she been mocked so openly. Her fingers tensed at her sides. How dearly she would like to slap the superiority off Lady Davina’s face. Or at the very least, respond with a cutting jab about ill-mannered shrews.

Blythe knew the folly in making a scene. A brawl would hardly serve her hope of becoming the next Duchess of Savoy.

Mustering every bit of restraint, she kept an agreeable smile on her face. “What a remarkable notion. The next time we have a party here, I really must consult you in the planning of it.”

But Davina wasn’t pacified. If anything, the cool contempt on her face grew more pronounced.

Stepping closer, she murmured, “Pray be forewarned, Miss Crompton. I will not be used as a contrivance for you to loiter near the duke in the hopes of tempting him into wedlock. I would never permit my father to marry so vastly far beneath him.”

With a chilly nod, Lady Davina took her friend’s arm and they strolled off into the crowd.

Chapter 3

Blythe stood frozen in the doorway. All the magic of the evening abruptly evaporated. Her smile felt stiff, her chest filled to bursting with mortified humiliation. Never in her life had she been insulted with such undisguised malice. To be denied the satisfaction of a sharp rejoinder only rubbed raw her affronted emotions. To make matters worse, some of the guests were looking at her curiously and whispering.

A desperate need to escape besieged her. Turning, she walked out of the ballroom and headed rapidly toward the back of the house. Ladies and gentlemen strolled along the grand corridor with its tall columns and Greek statuary. She kept her chin down to avoid conversation.

I would never permit my father to marry so vastly far beneath him.

Fury nipped at her heels. How dared that nasty girl debase Blythe in her own home! What a hoity-toity snob! A score of scenarios played through her mind, all of which ended with Lady Davina falling to her knees and begging Blythe’s forgiveness.

Not that
that
would ever happen.

At the end of the passageway, she veered sharply to the left. Here, the buzz of noise from the party was diminished and there were no guests to witness her extreme agitation. Picking a door at random, Blythe entered a shadowy sitting room that was lit only by a coal fire on the hearth.