The Kiss (17 page)
He nodded and glanced to his side to find the Duke of Helston at Georgiana's elbow, the damned gentleman giving her a head-to-toe survey.
Oh, absolutely not.
He stepped forward.
"Helston, I would thank you to stop leering," he said softly.
Rosamunde laughed, one of her endless supply of brothers at her side. "Luc?"
"I don't know what the devil you are inferring, Ellesmere, but if you treasure your cowardly, remarkably stupid hide I would suggest you stop before you make a fool of yourself." The duke's voice was strained.
Quinn was grateful the good Lord had given him an inch to tower over the blasted duke with the roving eye. "You know precisely what I'm talking about, and if you would like to discuss it more openly, let us repair to—" He chanced to notice Grace's expression, which was filled with sadness. He stopped abruptly.
"Och . . .
what have we gotten into here?" John Brown appeared at Ata's side and his Scottish burr intruded. "Merceditas, there you are, lass. I understand you would like for me to dance with you. I am grateful to Quinn for—"
"I suggested nothing of the sort." Ata snorted. "Why, I would never condescend to dance with—"
"Come along, Ata," Luc St. Aubyn's tense voice cut in. "It seems that bloody diplomat has been at work in your corner as—"
"Why do you always feel it necessary to interrupt me?" Ata interrupted.
"Perhaps because you taught the lad well," Mr. Brown said to Ata, his eyes twinkling. "Care to make one last cutting remark in my direction before I escort you inside? I know you only do it because you're fond of me."
Ata sputtered and the tension of the moment eased despite the anger still brimming inside Quinn.
Rosamunde ushered everyone toward the double doors, where a vast crowd of guests mingled in the beautiful ballroom, which was rarely on display. Tonight flowers spilled from every table and the gold gilt of the molding gleamed from every corner. Bejeweled ladies eagerly awaited the dancing, while gentlemen resigned themselves to an evening of sore toes. At least there would be excellent wine and brandy to dull the pain.
Quinn noticed Helston gripping Georgiana's arm to lead her inside and it was all he could do not to fist his hands in anger. The vision of Grace's pretty bowed head stopped him. But it did not block out the voice of one of Rosamunde's brothers, asking Georgiana for the next set of dances. Quinn intervened abruptly before she could answer.
"Georgiana will be too fatigued to dance all evening, Miles. I daresay she will have better things to do."
Ata laughed. "Better things to do than dance at a ball? That's ridiculous, Quinn."
"Well, I was only trying to—"
Georgiana interrupted him, her voice laced with deadly calm. "I would
love
to dance the second set with you, Miles. It's been an age since I've seen you. How is your father?"
The melodic notes of a waltz began and Quinn tried to refocus his attention on the Countess of Sheffield and not on the vulturelike form of the duke. A waltz? He was certain Grace had arranged for a minuet to open the ball.
He looked at the five couples surrounding him: Mr. Brown and Ata, Rosamunde and her brother, each of the other widows paired with Ro-samunde's other blond brothers, and finally the duke looming over Georgiana. And Quinn knew without a doubt that it was that ill-mannered blackguard Helston who had arranged this outrageous waltz.
"Are you all right, Quinn?"
He lowered his gaze to find a tremulous smile on Grace's lips, and he was mortified. "More than all right, Grace. How could I not be, with the loveliest lady in the room gracing my arms?"
"I hope you don't mind that I arranged for this waltz. I realize it's not quite the thing, but sometimes it's fun to be a touch audacious, is it not? I remember your fondness for daring and I'm afraid Ata has ordered us all to be a little outrageous tonight."
He laughed. "Why, Grace Sheffey, I wouldn't have guessed you to be so bold."
Her face flushed with shyness or the heat of the evening. "Sometimes it's tiring to be so proper all the time. You know, I'm only five and twenty... no, I shall not lie to you, Quinn. I am
seven
and twenty, but I feel like I've lived a very sheltered life, an only child, then married for such a short time, and now alone in the world . . . except for my friends here. Everyone says I should take comfort in the great wealth left to me, but I find it cold consolation." She paused. "Of course I would never admit as much to someone who did not share equal richesse—it just sounds too pathetic. I realize every day how very lucky I am, because I'm surrounded by other ladies who are not so fortunate. But then I suspect you know as well that riches do not guarantee happiness, do they?"
He looked down into Grace's eyes, which were glittering with emotion. "How very true, my dear."
And as he guided the pretty little countess into the measured whorls of the dance he realized not for the first time that a marriage to this lady could very well be the answer to so many of his dilemmas.
As a stepmother, Grace would set an excellent example for his hoydenish daughter, who had taken to the countess, if not to her twin passions of reading and embroidery. And unlike other ladies, Grace had nothing to gain by the marriage other than relief from her usually well-concealed loneliness. Why, she was nothing short of an heiress, and her character, integrity, and reputation were unblemished.
Most importantly, she was self-sufficient. She would understand the rules of a marriage of convenience. A marriage that would be very short on emotional entanglements and long on companionship.
Yes, she would do very well, he thought looking at her flawless face.
"Grace, I must thank you for spending so much time with my daughter. I know she can be a sore trial."
"Nonsense. She's a dear. Headstrong, yes, and so very animated."
He sighed. "She hates to read."
"Not as much as she loathes the pianoforte and needlework," Grace said, laughing. "But take comfort, she might very well change. She's still young."
Quinn heard the familiar low, lilting sound of Georgiana's laughter and turned. A devilish smile was carved into Helston's hooded expression, and Quinn felt like killing the man.
"Quinn?" Grace asked so softly he had to lean down to hear her.
"Yes?"
"I realize how very improper it is of me to ask you this. But I must know. What are your intentions toward Georgiana?"
"I'm impressed by the concern and deep friendship between all the ladies in Ata's club." He loosed his hold on Grace's waist. "After tonight my plans for Georgiana should be very clear. I've established her as a proper Ellesmere marchioness, and she will be provided for in the manner of all Fortesque widows."
"Where shall she live? With you and your daughter, here?"
"I don't know," he responded truthfully. "With her father ill, all must be decided later. I'm certain you understand. But enough about Georgiana. Tell me about your childhood, Grace."
He heard not a word she said, he realized, many minutes later when the set ended and he escorted Grace to her next dance partner, Mr. Brown. He bowed to her and turned to lead Ata into the minuet.
For the next hour and a half Quinn unconsciously performed all the functions of a host: paying compliments to the wallflowers, dancing whenever necessary—even a short jig with Geor-giana that left everyone breathless with laughter, simple country dances with all the widows, and he even danced with Grace again. After the late supper, he circulated among the gentlemen in the card room and gave discreet orders to the servants during the last dance to fully open all the windows to ease the discomfort of the heated ballroom. But suddenly, he realized something was off.
Something was very wrong.
Georgiana was missing.
At first he thought that perhaps she had repaired to the ladies' withdrawing room. But she'd been gone much longer than necessary, even if the entire hem of her gown had come unraveled.
He swung around and a cold chill hardened his spine. Helston was nowhere to be seen either, yet his duchess was surrounded by two of her brothers, her sister and the vicar.
A blinding fury swept through him, an emotion unlike any he had known before. How dare that blackguard sailor lure Georgiana away from the event that was to ease her back into society?
Beyond the doors leading to the terrace, he slipped into the heat of the inky blackness of the summer night. The air was so thick and still, surely a storm was in the making. After a few moments his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he discerned a few couples leisurely strolling through the gardens, illuminated by lanterns in the lower limbs of the trees.
He rushed down the marble stairs, heedless to everyone around him, and refused to gather his wits.
Where was she?
With long strides he descended the
parterre
gardens, perfumed by late summer's roses. On the lowest level he spied a couple, half hidden by a massive oak. A large man, clearly Helston, was locked in a heated embrace with a woman who had rosebuds entwined among the locks of her hair.
His blood ran cold as his fists balled so tightly he couldn't feel his fingers. He might just have Helston drawn and quartered after he disemboweled the adulterous swine.
Without another thought, he strode up to the man's back and grabbed his collar to pull him off her. The gentleman grunted in surprise and mumbled an oath. Quinn slammed his fist into the man's jaw and a satisfying crack echoed in the night.
The next sounds were decidedly less satisfying.
The distinctive voice of Elizabeth Ashburton sent a cool trickle of reason into his disordered thoughts.
"Quinn? Is that you? What on earth? Oh, Mr. Langdon ... are you all right? Your poor face."
Quinn's horror was complete when the bulky form of Fitzhugh Langdon, one of Rosamunde's brothers, recovered its balance and bore down on him.
Damn Langdons.
They were all country-bred brawn, but he prayed they had none of famed pugilist Gentleman Jackson's town-taught finesse.
Fitz's head rammed into Quinn's stomach and the two of them wrestled on the ground like two adolescents.
"Fitz . . ." Quinn panted with exertion. "Look, I'm sorry. Thought you were someone else." Finally he flipped Fitz onto his stomach and pushed one of the younger man's arms to the middle of his back.
"Let me up, Ellesmere," Fitz muttered, his mouth buried in the grass. "Who the hell did you think I was? Miss Ashburton, you could have told me you had another admirer. Dash it all, what is a fellow to think? You led me out here, for God's sakes."
Elizabeth Ashburton, wide-eyed and blushing to the roots of her hair, looked at the two of them and laughed in horror, which made Quinn all the more embarrassed by his absurd actions.
"Eliza, have you seen Georgiana?" Quinn muttered. "Or Helston?"
That made her stop her infernal laughter. "Georgiana and Luc? Why, of course not. Whatever are you sug—"
Fitz stepped forward and growled, "You don't mean to infer that my brother-in-law is . . . is . . . and not with Georgiana? Georgiana
Wilde?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Elizabeth said. "I mean, really. Whatever can you—"
"I'll kill him," growled Fitz. "I'll kill him and then I'll..."
Quinn didn't wait to hear Fitz's plan to search the chambers in the mansion. He was making his way toward Loe Pool. It was the most isolated spot on the estate and one that Georgiana had favored during their childhood. The sharp saw grass cut his thin silk stockings below his knee breeches to ribbons as he crossed through a pasture in the moonlight.
By the time he rounded the last stand of trees, still far from the lake, he was completely winded. The sight before him made his heart stall in his tight chest.
Oh, this was worse.
Far worse.
