The Bridal Quest

CHAPTER THREE

IRENE WATCHED HER mother as she moved gracefully through the steps of a country dance with her cousin Harville. Sir Harville, whose party this was, was one of the few people with whom Lady Claire felt it was appropriate for a widow such as herself to dance. He was also one of the few people who could always bring a smile to her mother’s face.

For those reasons, Irene always looked forward to Lady Spence’s birthday ball. And since Sir Harville, instead of his penny-pinching wife, arranged the ball, the affair was also beautifully decorated and offered a midnight supper that would tempt even the faintest of appetites.

“Such a sweet little dance,” Irene’s sister-in-law said beside her, glancing about the ballroom with an expression that mingled approval with condescension. “Not nearly so grand a ballroom as we have at Wyngate House, but they have done it up very well.”

Irene suppressed a sigh. Maura was the mistress of the insult wrapped in a compliment. However, Irene had promised her mother that she would not quarrel with Maura tonight, so she made no comment.

“Lady Claire is in good looks tonight,” Maura went on. “Don’t you agree, Humphrey dear?”

She turned a sugary smile on her husband, standing on her other side. Humphrey smiled back, pleased at his wife’s comment, “Yes, she does look lovely. So like you to point that out.”

It never ceased to amaze Irene that her brother, so intelligent in so many other ways, never saw through Maura’s pretense of sweetness to the sharp claws beneath.

“No matter what others may say, I think it is wonderful for her to dance.”

Humphrey frowned a little. “Say? What does anyone say?”

“Nothing,” Irene assured him firmly, shooting Maura a daggerlike look.

“Of course not,” Maura agreed smoothly. “Why, there is nothing at all wrong with a woman of her age dancing with her cousin—even if it is such a lively dance. And while one would be quite correct in presuming that some women would do it to call attention to themselves, of course your mother would never do that.”

“No, never.” Humphrey blinked, looking at his wife with some concern. “Do people say that?”

“No,” Irene interrupted flatly. “They do not. There is nothing wrong with Mother’s dancing, even if it were not with her cousin, and no one of any consequence would say so.” She shot a fierce look at Maura as she spoke the last few words.

“Indeed not,” Maura agreed, assuming a prettily determined expression. “And so I shall tell anyone who has the audacity to say so.”

“Yes, quite.” Humphrey smiled down at his wife, though his eyes remained a little troubled. He turned to look at his mother again.

“And I beg you will not say anything to Mother about it,” Irene went on, iron in her voice. “It would be most unkind to make her worry in any way over doing something that she enjoys so much.”

“Oh, indeed.” Maura nodded. “Though one cannot help but wonder whether Lady Claire, with her sensibilities, might not decide that she would prefer to stand up to one of the more sedate tunes.”

“That is true,” Humphrey agreed, casting a fond look at his wife. “You are always so solicitous of Mother.”

“Humphrey!” Irene said sharply. “If you or Maura say anything to destroy Mother’s happiness in taking an innocent dance with her cousin—”

“Irene!” Maura looked shocked. Tears welled up in her blue eyes. “I would never hurt Lady Claire. Why, she is as dear to me as my own mother.”

“Irene, really,” Humphrey said, exasperated. “How could you say something so cruel? You know how Maura feels about Mother.”

“Yes,” Irene replied drily. “I do.”

“Sometimes your tongue is just too sharp. You know how sensitive Maura is.”

“Now, Humphrey, darling,” Maura said before Irene could speak, “I am sure that Irene did not mean to hurt me. She is so much stronger than other women. She does not understand how words can wound a softer nature.”

Irene curled her fingers into a fist by her side, willing herself not to lash back at Maura with cutting words. That would be playing right into her hands. For all her silliness, Maura was amazingly clever at manipulating a situation to her advantage.

As Irene swallowed her words, Maura cast her a maliciously triumphant look, then turned her head away. “Oh, look, Irene, here is Lady Haughston coming toward us. Now might be your chance to talk to her, as we were discussing the other day.”

“Talk about what?” Humphrey asked. “I didn’t realize you and Francesca Haughston were friends.”

“We are not,” Irene began.

“Never mind, dearest,” Maura put in, smiling at her husband. “It was just girl talk.”

“Ah.” He nodded, looking pleased at the thought of his wife and sister sharing girlish confidences. “Then I shall not press you.”

He bowed to Francesca as she reached them. “Lady Haughston. How good to see you.”

“Lord Wyngate. Lady Wyngate. Lady Irene.” Francesca favored them all with a smile. “Such a lovely ball, is it not?”

They spent a few minutes on the usual niceties, discussing the lovely fall weather, the lack of entertainment in London now that the Season was over, and the health and happiness of Lady Haughston’s brother and his new bride.

At a pause in the conversation, Francesca turned toward Irene and said, “I was about to take a stroll about the room. Perhaps you would care to join me?”

Surprised, Irene looked at her blankly for a moment, then said, “Why, yes, of course.”

Francesca smiled and stepped away, and Irene followed her, casting a suspicious glance at Lady Maura as she did so. Had Maura arranged this meeting with Lady Haughston? The surprise on Maura’s face appeared quite genuine, yet…

They strolled toward the opposite wall, where a bank of French doors had been opened to let in the evening air. As they walked, they exchanged the same sort of small nothings that they had been bandying about earlier, and Irene’s curiosity grew with each step. It seemed too odd a coincidence that Francesca Haughston should make an obvious effort to meet her only two days after Maura had been urging Irene to talk to the woman.

Irene had assumed that Maura was simply using Lady Haughston as an excuse to needle her about her spinster state and her many deficiencies of charm and character. But perhaps Maura had been serious. Perhaps Maura was willing to go to any lengths to see Irene marry, given that it would mean that Irene—and perhaps her mother, as well—would leave Maura’s house.

Color flooded Irene’s throat as she thought about the embarrassing possibility that Maura had been talking to Francesca Haughston about Irene’s failure to marry. She could well imagine how Maura would have smiled sweetly as she spoke of how sorry she felt for poor, unwanted Irene.

Irene set her jaw and cast a glance over at her companion. Would Francesca Haughston have any interest in doing Maura a favor? She could not imagine that the two of them were friends. Maura had only been around Lady Haughston a few times, and only in large social settings. And it seemed unlikely that Francesca would have sought out Maura’s friendship. However much Irene regarded Francesca as frivolous, she knew that Francesca was not goose-ish. She was a sophisticated hostess, a light of the ton. Her favor was pursued by many, and she was knowledgeable about the world and about people. Francesca surely would not be fooled by Maura’s manner, nor would she be impressed by the fact that Maura was married to Lord Wyngate.

No, Irene thought it unlikely that Francesca would have been particularly interested in doing Maura a favor. And even though she and Irene moved in the same circle, Francesca was seven or eight years older than Irene, and the two of them had never been what Irene would have termed friends, so Irene did not think that Francesca would have been moved by Maura’s pleas into doing Irene a favor, either. Moreover, Irene could not forget that look of surprise on Maura’s face when Francesca had taken Irene away from them. Surely Maura was not that good at dissembling.

But that left the question of why Francesca had sought her out. Irene was not naive enough to think that it was simply because she was interested in Irene’s company.

“Lady Haughston…” Irene said abruptly, breaking into the amusing little on dit that Francesca was relating.

Francesca looked at her, somewhat surprised, and Irene realized that she had probably been rude again. It was a fault of which she was frequently accused.

“I beg your pardon,” Irene said. “I should not have interrupted you. But you have known me long enough to know that I believe in straight dealing. I cannot help but wonder why you asked me to promenade with you about the room.”

Francesca let out a little sigh. “I am aware of your preference for plain speaking. And while I am in general of the opinion that it is as easy to employ tact as to be blunt, I, too, find truth to be the best course. I asked you to accompany me because a longtime friend of my family asked me for a favor. I was asked to introduce you to someone who wishes to make your acquaintance.”

“What?” It was Irene’s turn to look astonished. “But who—Why—”

“I can only assume it is because he admires you,” Francesca answered, and smiled in that small catlike way she had, a little secretive and yet at the same time alluring.

Her words so took Irene aback that for a moment her mind was blank. Finally she rallied enough to retort, “Really, Lady Haughston, I am not fresh from the country. Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I see no reason why you should not,” Francesca responded, widening her eyes. “I do not know his reasons, of course. I did not think it my place to quiz him regarding his motives. However, I find that is commonly the reason why a gentleman wishes to meet a certain lady. Surely you do not count yourself so low that you think no man would find you worthy of his notice.”

Irene regarded Francesca thoughtfully. Lady Haughston had rather neatly boxed her in. Finally she said, “’Tis not false modesty. It is more that I have found I have a certain reputation among the ton that makes gentlemen disinclined to pursue my acquaintance.”

Francesca’s eyes danced with amusement, and her smile broadened. “A reputation, Lady Irene? Indeed, I cannot imagine what you mean.”

“I thought you believed truth was the best course,” Irene shot back. “We both know that I am regarded as something of a shrew.”

Francesca shrugged. “Ah, but while you are not fresh from the country, this gentleman is.”

“What?” Irene, puzzled, started to say more, but Francesca’s attention had focused on something over Irene’s shoulder, and she smiled. Irene dropped the rest of her words as she turned to see what had claimed Francesca’s attention.

It was a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, he strode toward them with purpose, and it seemed to Irene that those around him were dwarfed in comparison. It was not that he was so much larger than the other men, but there was a certain aura about him, a sense of toughness and strength, that set him apart.

His hair was jet-black, thick and a trifle long, giving him the faint look of a ruffian, despite the quality and cut of his clothes. His face was all angles and lines, with high, sharp cheekbones and a firm chin. The straight slashes of his eyebrows were as dark as his hair, and the eyes below them were an intense green.

She did not recognize him and yet there was something about him that tugged at her, some sense of familiarity that she could not place. Irene was aware of a peculiar sensation inside her, a dancing of nerves through her midsection that seemed both excitement and trepidation, mingled with another, unknown feeling that coiled down into her abdomen, hot and disturbing.

Who was this man?

“Ah, Lord Radbourne,” Francesca said, holding out her hand in greeting.

“Lady Haughston.” He bowed perfunctorily over her hand, and then his gaze slid past Francesca to Irene.

His eyes were not leering or bold, simply watchful, but there was a directness in them that was slightly unsettling. There was something different about him that intrigued her. She realized that she wanted to know more about him, that she wanted to talk to him, and the fact that she felt that way both surprised and annoyed her.

“Pray, allow me to introduce you to Lady Irene Wyngate,” Francesca went on smoothly, turning from him to Irene. “Lady Irene, I would like you to meet Gideon, the Earl of Radbourne. Lord Radbourne is Lady Pencully’s great-nephew.”

It dawned on Irene then exactly who their visitor was. He was the long-lost heir to the Bankes family fortune and name, around whom so much gossip had swirled over the last few months. Though she knew no one who could say they had actually met the man, she had heard a great deal about him. She had been told that he was a criminal, found in prison and hauled out of it by a powerful family member. Others had declared that he was mad, still others that he was simple-minded. A few had hinted at perversions the depths of which they could not even name in front of a lady. A number had held that he was deformed, hideous to look at.

Obviously the ones who had made the last assertion were wrong, Irene thought. She extended her hand, schooling her face into a polite expression that she hoped masked the leap of interest she had felt when she realized who he was. “How do you do, Lord Radbourne?”

“Lady Wyngate.” He took her hand, giving her the same brief sketch of a bow that he had given Francesca.

Irene felt a little frisson of excitement run through her hand at the brief touch of Radbourne’s fingers upon hers. It was absurd, of course, she told herself—the merest of touches, nothing more than a polite exchange that had happened on countless occasions. It meant nothing, indicated nothing…yet she could not deny that what she had felt was different from all the other times she had given her hand in greeting.

Irritation welled in her—with this man, with Francesca for manipulating her into meeting him, but most of all with herself for feeling this hitch of excitement and interest. It was most unlike her, and Irene found it decidedly annoying. She was, after all, a woman who always knew what she was about.

There was a moment of awkward silence as the earl looked at Irene and she returned his gaze coldly. She told herself that he was no doubt used to any unmarried woman he met fawning over him. Whatever the rumors about him, he was, after all, an earl and reputedly quite wealthy. She had no idea why he would want to meet her, but she was determined that he see that she had no interest in him.

Francesca cast a glance from Irene to the earl and back, then said, “A lovely ball, isn’t it? I do hope that you are enjoying the party, Lord Radbourne.”

The earl barely spared her a glance. Looking at Irene, he said, “May I have this dance, my lady?”

“I do not care to dance,” Irene responded bluntly. From the corner of her eye, she could see Francesca’s eyebrows vault upward at this bit of rudeness, but she ignored her.

Lord Radbourne, however, did not even flinch at her set down. To Irene’s astonishment, amusement flickered for an instant in his face, as he replied, “That is good, then, as I am not at all proficient at dancing. Why don’t we simply take a stroll and talk?”

His effrontery left Irene speechless. But Francesca, a trace of laughter in her voice, spoke up beside her. “That sounds like an excellent idea. While you two are occupied, I shall pay my regards to our hostess.”

With those words, Francesca turned and hurried away, leaving Irene alone with Lord Radbourne. There was little she could do except take the arm he extended, for she could see that they were the object of several interested gazes. If she gave him the direct cut now and stalked off, ignoring his arm, it would be gossiped about all over Mayfair tomorrow.

So she gave in with a regal nod, laying her hand on his arm. As they turned and began to stroll around the edge of the dancers, Irene nodded at one or two of the women watching them. She could feel Lord Radbourne’s muscles like iron beneath the sleeve of his jacket, and it startled her to find that the fact stirred a warmth in her.

“Lady Haughston intimated that you wished to meet me,” Irene began in her usual direct way. This approach, she had found long ago, was the easiest method of deflecting any man’s interest in her. It was unladylike, with none of the flirtation and deception that marked the common course of interaction between men and women.

“That is true,” he replied.

She shot him an annoyed look. “I cannot imagine why.”

“Can you not?” He looked at her again with an expression of faint amusement, an expression that Irene realized she quite disliked.

“No, I cannot. I am twenty-five years of age and have been on the shelf for quite some time.”

“You assume my interest in you is matrimonial?” he countered.

Irene felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “I just told you, I cannot imagine what your interest in me is. However, I have rarely found that men had any interest in spinsters.”

“Perhaps I merely wished to renew our acquaintance.”

“What?” Irene turned her head to look at him, startled. She had thought there was something familiar about him, and the feeling tugged at her again. “What do you mean?”

“We have met before. Do you not remember?”

Her interest was thoroughly caught now, and she studied his face, scarcely noticing as they stepped through one of the open doors onto the terrace.

“Let me refresh your memory,” he said, leading her toward the hip-high stone wall that edged the terrace. “At the time, you tried to shoot me.”

She dropped her hand from his arm and turned to face him. “What in the world are you—”

Suddenly the memory fell into place. It had been years—surely almost ten. She had heard a fracas downstairs in the entry and had gone to look into it. She had found this man punching her father, and she had stopped the fight by firing a shot from one of her father’s dueling pistols into the air.

“You!” she exclaimed.

“Yes. Me.” He looked back at her levelly.

“I did not try to shoot you,” Irene told him caustically. “I fired over your head to get your attention. If I had tried to shoot you, you would be dead.”

She expected him to turn on his heel and leave her at that remark, but to her surprise, he let out a short bark of laughter. His face shifted and changed, his eyes lightening with amusement, and he was suddenly so handsome that her breath caught in her throat. The heat that flooded her cheeks this time was not from embarrassment.

“Well, I am glad to see that you bear me no ill will,” she said tartly, to cover her odd and unsettling reaction. She turned and strolled away from him along the stone wall.

A little to her surprise, he kept pace with her, saying, “It was natural, was it not, for a child to protect her father? I could scarcely blame you.”

“Since you apparently knew my father, I imagine you know that he was little deserving of protection.”

Radbourne shrugged. “What one deserves has little to do with the relationship between parent and child, I would think.”

“My father would have told you that I was an unnatural child.”

He looked at her. “You stopped me from hurting him any further, did you not?”

“Yes. I did.” She did not look at him, instead turning her gaze out over the garden. She had no interest in discussing her father or her feelings toward him. “Still, I see little reason why you should wish to meet someone who held a gun on you.”

“I was finished with Lord Wyngate, anyway. I had made my point to him.” He paused, turning his own attention toward the garden. “But you seemed…interesting.”

Irene turned to him. “I fired a shot at you and you found it interesting?”

The smile tugged at the corners of his mouth again. “It was over my head. Remember?”

She frowned. “I am not sure what you are getting at.”

“You were correct in your first assumption, my lady. Matrimonial concerns are what brought me here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My family is interested in marrying me off to a proper young lady. I am, you see, an embarrassment to them. The facts of my life are, apparently, somehow a scandal, a reflection upon them. And an earl who cannot ride, and whose vowels are not rounded and plummy enough, is a disgrace. As for my business interests…well, they cannot even be spoken of.”

Despite his light tone, his words were biting and his eyes were hard. It seemed clear to Irene that the man had little liking for his newly discovered family—or perhaps it was simply disdain for the nobility in general. She could not help but feel a certain sympathy for him. After all, she had for several years been viewed by many of her peers and even some members of her family with disfavor, if not actual dislike, for her forthright manner and blunt speech.

Radbourne went on, “They have come up with a plan to cover my shortcomings by shackling me to a woman of good family. I think it is their hope that she will guide me into more appropriate behavior—or at least hide some of my inappropriateness.”

“You are a grown man,” Irene pointed out. “They cannot force you to marry.”

He grimaced. “No. Only talk me to death on the matter.”

Irene hid a smile. She knew the power of an incessant harangue all too well.

He shrugged. “But I know that I must marry and produce an heir. If I refuse now, I am only delaying the inevitable. I toyed with the idea of marrying an opera dancer or some such, just to put their noses out of joint. But it would be unfair of me to put someone else in that position. Nor would I want to doom my children to gossip and whispers. I will not make them pariahs among their peers. Therefore, I agree that I need to marry a suitable wife. You are, I understand, not yet married or betrothed, and according to my great-aunt, your family fits the requirements very well. Lady Haughston has apparently agreed to help Lady Pencully in this endeavor, so I suggested to her that you be considered as one of the possibilities.”

Irene gaped at him, so astonished that she was momentarily robbed of the ability to speak. Finally she blurted out, “You are considering marrying me because I once threatened you with a pistol?”

“I thought that you might be less dull than the simpering misses they have presented to me,” he replied, smiling a little.

She stared at him for a moment longer, then drew herself up to her full height, her eyes flashing. “Are you mad? Your words are insulting in so many ways that I scarce know where to start.”

He stiffened a little, his face settling into hard lines. His voice was silkily dangerous as he said, “The idea of marrying me is an insult to you?”

“Do you expect me to feel flattered because you decided to ‘consider’ me as a ‘possibility’ in your parade of brides? Am I to be honored that you picked me out from the others, like a mare at a sale? Because you deemed me somewhat less boring and unworthy of you than the other unmarried women of the ton?”

His mouth tightened. “It is not the way you make it sound. I am not purchasing a wife. It would be a practical arrangement, something that would be advantageous for you, as well. I assumed that you had passed the age of holding girlish fantasies about love.”