To Protect An Heiress (Zebra Historical Romance) (6 page)

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Authors: Adrienne Basso

BOOK: To Protect An Heiress (Zebra Historical Romance)
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“Did you say ten minutes, Lady Meredith?” the duchess inquired, tapping her fan rapidly against her palm.
“At the very least,” Meredith replied smoothly.
“Perhaps it would be best if we went on without you,” the duchess decided.
Meredith inclined her head graciously, pleased to see the pursed expression on the duchess’s face. The pair bowed and left her, but Meredith knew her fate was sealed. She could not possibly leave without entering the ballroom, or else the duchess would believe she had somehow managed to force her away.
Still, Meredith was determined to make a her initial entrance as quietly as possible. She waited a full fifteen minutes and then quickly climbed the stairs to the second floor.
With a deft movement, Meredith was able to avoid the pompously garbed majordomo loudly announcing each guest’s arrival. Thus she slipped into the crush, scarcely noticed by anyone.
Her brothers had escorted her to the party, but she knew she would not find them in the ballroom, dancing attendance on any of the females. Instead they would be barricaded in the card room. Meredith decided she would find them at the first opportunity and insist they each engage young Alice Fritzwater in a dance. It was the very least they could do.
For once Meredith was not averse to her brothers’ great regard for gambling. She was nervous enough about this evening. Having the twins scrutinizing her every move would be most unsettling.
Meredith began a slow circuit on the perimeter of the ballroom, positioning herself so she had a clear view of most of the guests. An odd shiver marked its way down her back as she suddenly spied the marquess across the room.
Trevor had always had a certain style of dress that was distinctly his own. Though garbed similarly to the other gentlemen in a black evening coat, embroidered silk waistcoat, and knee breeches, there was a certain casual elegance about the marquess’s attire that eclipsed those around him.
He was engaged in conversation with Lady Ann Towers, a leggy brunette who was rumored to have been his mistress last year. Or was it the year before? Meredith couldn’t remember. Dardington’s name was linked with so many different women it was difficult to keep them all straight.
It seemed as though nearly every married and widowed woman in Society beneath the age of forty had been thought to be his mistress at one time or another.
Meredith inwardly grimaced. If only half the gossip were true, the marquess would undoubtedly be the most exhausted man in all of England.
Yet he did not look exhausted. He looked fit and trim. Certainly older than the last time she had seen him, but that was to be expected.
She continued to observe him from afar and noticed his eyes darting about the room. Poor Lady Ann. Though possessing both a lovely face and figure, she clearly did not have the necessary wit to keep the marquess entertained for any length of time.
To her credit, it did not take much longer for Lady Ann to apparently reach the same conclusion. With an aristocratic tip of her chin, she turned on her heel and stalked away from the marquess. He barely seemed to notice.
The moment he was alone, Meredith made her move.
Four
Trevor had deliberately positioned himself on the left side of the ballroom with a clear view of the grand staircase. Though he tried hard not to make it very obvious, his eyes were constantly drawn to the staircase as each guest was announced.
The marquess had arrived at the ball unfashionably early, hoping his father would do the same. He had sent word to the duke this morning, informing his father he would be in attendance at Lady Dermond’s ball. There had been no reply to the message, but Trevor had not expected any.
He still could not say for certain whether a moment of madness or guilt had brought him here this evening. Although he was at a loss to explain his motives, Trevor acknowledged he was now committed to the endeavor and must see it through.
“... and that is when I told the fellow he was all wet,” the Earl of Kendale declared loudly.
There were titters from the ladies and bellows of laughter from the gentlemen who stood within the circle of conversation. Trevor turned his head away from the milling scene in the ballroom and attempted to look interested in the discussion.
There had been many surprised looks sent his way when he first entered the room. He had ignored them and intentionally joined a small group of males and females brought together by a single bond—their love of gossip.
Trevor reasoned his unexpected appearance would make him the natural topic of whispers and speculations. And so it had. Yet by ingratiating himself within the group that thrived on it, he had managed to shift some of the attention away from himself.
This select group might be a rude, stuffy, and possessing an inflated opinion of their importance, but there was not one among them, male or female, who possessed the courage to repeat any unsavory speculation about the marquess while he was standing in front of them.
“The earl can be most tedious at times,” the woman at Trevor’s side remarked as she leaned into him. “But he does tell the most amusing tales.”
She spoke in a flirtatious whisper that Trevor found oddly annoying. Though accustomed to female attention, this young matron surprised him with her boldness, for her husband stood directly across from them.
For a brief second he debated walking away, but then realized he would just be forced to join another equally annoying group of individuals.
He blew out a breath and wished he was holding a tall glass filled with whiskey. It was a humbling and not altogether pleasant realization to admit how much he felt the need for a drink. He had limited himself to a half bottle of wine with his dinner and had downed only one glass of whiskey since his arrival. Clearly that was not a sufficient amount of alcohol to sustain him through the evening.
An elderly couple emerged from the crowd and strode toward him.
“Dardington? Is that you?” the gentleman called out in amazement.
Trevor smiled faintly in greeting. He recognized their faces, but could not for the life of him recall their names. Yet their timing could not have been more fortuitous. The flirtatious matron by his side whispered something vulgar under her breath and quickly took her leave.
“Good evening,” he said pleasantly, presenting a polite bow to his rescuers.
They chatted briefly, then left to greet other friends. Trevor felt a slight flush of embarrassment as they left, for he was still unable to recall precisely who they were.
Yet he was pleased to finally be alone. Restlessly the marquess observed the preening young ladies, blustering men, and scheming mamas who stood amongst the crowd, and concluded once again what he really needed was a large glass of strong spirits to deaden his brain.
Alas, that would not be possible until after he left the ball. Trevor was resolved to be on his best behavior this evening. He would ignore the smug smile that was certain to be on his father’s face when he greeted him, be charmingly polite to the woman the duke insisted he should meet, ask her to dance once and only once, and when that arduous duty was completed he would take his leave. Immediately.
Thus he would fulfill his familial obligations and perhaps avoid his father’s censure for a few weeks. Or maybe even months.
But where the devil was his father? He could hardly perform this act of generosity if the duke did not make an appearance soon. With the woman he hoped to marry off to his son.
Frustrated, Trevor again glanced at the main staircase. He saw a tall, curvaceous woman dressed in blue avoid being announced by cleverly stepping behind the majordomo and gliding down the stairs. Her reason for anonymity intrigued him, yet her breathtaking beauty kept his eyes upon her as she attempted to melt into the crowd.
Her pale lustrous skin glowed in the candlelight, her simple unadorned gown showcased full breasts and a lovely neck. She was taller than most of the women and many of the men in the room, so it took little effort to follow her progress, even though she kept to the edges of the ballroom.
Something about her seemed oddly familiar, but at this distance Trevor could not be certain he knew her. She seemed more like a dream conjured up from his adolescence, an ethereal beauty who was the very picture of grace, elegance, and raw sensuality.
“I heard a rumor you were here, but needed to see the proof of it with my own eyes before I could believe it to be true.”
Trevor turned to find one of his former lovers, Lady Ann Tower, standing beside him. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Ann was pretty and intelligent, a widow who enjoyed her independence. Their affair had been brief and torrid, and she was one of a select few Trevor chose to remember with affection.
But not at this moment. His eyes and mind had been captivated by the blond beauty. Fortunately Lady Ann was intelligent enough to realize that Trevor had other, more pressing matters on his mind. After exchanging polite greetings, she made no further attempt to invade his privacy and merely smiled at the distracted farewell the marquess bestowed upon her when she left.
Frustrated, Trevor once again searched the crowd for the blond beauty. He felt a surprising amount of regret when he could not find her, but she seemed to have vanished.
He turned to lift a glass of champagne from the silver tray of a passing servant and then, miraculously, unexpectedly, she stood before him. His breath caught. Odd that lately he felt indifferent to the charms of so many females, and yet the sight of this particular woman could affect him so completely.
She nodded regally in his direction, then dipped a low, graceful curtsy. As she regained her feet, her blue eyes flashed, and he suddenly recognized her. His back went stiff with shock. With painful clarity he recalled precisely who she was and exactly how he had come to know her.
Trevor’s need for a tall glass of whiskey increased tenfold.
 
 
Steadfastly ignoring the flitter of nerves in her stomach, Meredith approached the marquess. Her progress across the room drew little attention among the crowd, though several male heads turned as she glided gracefully past them.
He was not looking in her direction when she approached. For a moment she wasn’t certain how to best gain his attention. Meredith was about to loudly clear her throat when she realized her knees were shaking.
Good heavens, she had not felt this nervous when she had been presented at court.
As she struggled to control the knocking of her knees, the marquess lifted a glass of champagne from a passing servant, then turned toward her. His initial gaze of curiosity and delight turned to puzzlement, and then utter surprise.
“Meredith,” he whispered.
“Good evening, my ... my lord.”
Meredith wished she had the nerve to address him as Trevor, but it seemed far too presumptuous despite all they had shared in the past.
Though the years had wrought changes, he was still a commanding man. Handsome seemed too mild a word to describe his looks. He was like some golden god, spun from brilliant sunlight, created by magnificent sorcery. Yet for all the beauty in his face and form, it was his eyes that spoke to her. Despite his youth, they were old. Old and filled with a weariness buried within their depths she had never seen.
“Champagne?” he asked, lifting a second glass from a servant who stood silently near.
Though her mouth was dry, Meredith refused the drink. The marquess shrugged his broad shoulders. Instead of returning the untouched flute of bubbling wine, he lifted it to his lips, tilted his head back, and emptied it in one long swallow. He quickly repeated the gesture with the goblet he held in his other hand.
Meredith glanced at the silver tray the footman held. Among the empty glasses were three crystal flutes filled to the brim. The marquess placed his goblets on the tray. His hand moved fractionally toward one of the filled flutes, then hesitated.
As if sensing her intense regard, his head turned toward her.
Their eyes met. She lifted her brow fractionally, almost daring him to pick up another glass. A ghost of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
“No words of disapproval?” he asked in a daring tone.
“ ’Tis hardly my place,” she replied demurely.
“That rarely stops a female from commenting with a scowl of her brow and a click of her tongue.”
Meredith smiled. “I am not like other women, my lord.”
“I remember.”
She blinked at him, suddenly uncertain. For a brief second, there had been a glimpse of the man she had known, carefree, fun-loving, mischievous. The man Lavinia had loved so completely.
It hurt to remember. Meredith expected it would feel strange to see him again, but she had not known how hard it would be.
“It has been a long time,” he said, forsaking a third goblet of champagne.
“Eight years,” Meredith whispered. She looked over at him.
His face was carefully expressionless, but she had the distinct feeling he was about to rebuke her. With a start she realized he must be experiencing the same feelings of loss and regret and pain that she felt. It was as if this meeting had brought to the forefront a wealth of shared memories of Lavinia—tragic, sad memories.
Dimly Meredith heard the strains of music as the orchestra began to prepare for the next dance. She assumed the marquess would be most anxious to depart from her company, for she now understood why her unexpected presence could be considered unwanted and unwarranted.
She nearly let it happen. Yet before the back of her throat closed completely with emotion, Meredith blurted, “Will you dance with me, my lord?”
The marquess said nothing. His head tilted, his golden brows pulled together in puzzlement.
“I own I consumed a fair amount of wine with my dinner, a drink of whiskey upon my arrival, and two glasses of champagne, yet I am not so far gone I cannot remember the rules of polite society. Ladies do not ask gentleman to dance.”
His frown deepened. “Or has there been some cataclysmic event that has changed everything we know to be proper and correct? If that is true, I am damned sorry to have missed it.”
“Neither of us have ever subscribed to the dictates of polite society. Besides, you just said
damn
in my presence, proof positive you do not think of me as a lady. And if I am not a lady then I am not bound by any silly rules of convention.” She slowly let out her breath and slanted an amused look in his direction. “So, my lord, will you dance with me? I believe the next set is to be a waltz.”
“You always had a reputation for being unconventional, Lady Meredith, not scandalous. Shall I assume from your current behavior you plan on changing?”
“If you dance with me, sir, perhaps you will learn the answer.”
It was an invitation no man could resist. He extended his gloved hand. She placed her fingers lightly in his palm, and the marquess escorted her onto the dance floor. He chose a position on the far side of the room. Deliberately? So they would not be so clearly in view?
Meredith suspected that was his motive, but whatever the reason she was grateful. The extra steps provided a little time for her to compose herself.
They made their proper bow and curtsy just as the dance began. Meredith felt the marquess’s hand tighten around her waist, and her hard-won composure slipped fractionally. She rested one hand ever so lightly upon his broad shoulder and obediently linked the fingers of her other hand with his.
Meredith felt the warm contact through their gloves. She worried for a moment that he was aware of the tension that had gripped her the instant they touched, but Meredith had no time to ponder the peculiar sensations afflicting her, for the dance had begun.
She believed she was prepared for it, but her breath caught as they revolved and whirled down the floor. She kept her gaze fixed over his shoulder and her lips pressed tightly. The marquess held her at the proper distance, yet why did it feel so intimate?
They remained silent through the first part of the dance. Meredith could feel his eyes on her, studying her intently with a highly charged gaze. Her stomach knotted and twisted, and she chided herself for such a foolish reaction.

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