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She stopped dancing and cast a worried glance down at her chest. Though fashioned with a délletage nowhere near as deep as the style favored by Lady Ardith, the dress was still much lower cut than any she’d worn during her brief Season. Perhaps she should have protested more strongly when Lady Elspeth absolutely forbade Jane to sew a lace tucker into the bodice.
Nonsense, she reassured herself. With Lady Ardith present in all her scandalous finery, who would spare a look for little Laura Martin?
Nonetheless, her disquiet increased after she left the secure cocoon of her chamber. Since her near-miraculous recovery from the fever that had almost killed her, she’d worn naught but the mud-brown camouflage of her new identity. Daring to appear in public without it made her feel even more unclothed than the gossamer gown.
Still, if she meant to put off for an evening garments guaranteeing obscurity, nowhere in England could she do so in more safety than in Squire Everett’s drawing room. The only guests present would be neighbors who’d long ago accepted Laura Martin, or relatives of the boy whose life she’d help to preserve. None of those, she believed, would consciously seek to do her harm.
Honesty forced her to admit that her unease at descending to the drawing room was directly related to the tall, commanding earl about to gather there with the assembling dinner party. A man who inspired in her this perilous swing of emotion from attraction to avoidance, the man she’d felt impelled to give, for one brief evening, a glimpse of the woman behind the mask.
A man who, should he decide to tempt her out of sanity into temporary dalliance, would tryst with her and forget her the moment his carriage passed beyond the gateposts of Everett Hall. In truth, no matter how glorious such an interlude would prove—and every inexperienced but acutely sensitive nerve shouted that it would be glorious indeed—she could not afford for him to remember her longer.
Laura Martin, you’re an idiot, she concluded as she reached the floor on which the main bedchambers were located. As she started past the door to her patient’s room, she paused. Perhaps she should check on Kit.
Glad to have a responsible reason to indulge her cowardly desire to dawdle, she knocked on the door. When Kit’s valet, Peters, answered it, instead of standing aside to let her enter, he simply stood for a moment, jaw dropped, staring. “Cor, ma’am,” he breathed, finally remembering to step back, “but you do look fine.”
“T-thank you,” she stuttered, not sure whether to be alarmed or flattered.
“Who is it, Peters?”
“Mrs. Martin, master—I think.”
Kit Bradsleigh lay propped against his pillows, face pale and drawn. Only in the past two days had her patient been conscious and coherent enough to converse, though his lung ailment perforce limited speech. Still, she’d already come to appreciate the young man’s unpretentious charm.
As she approached, his pain-shadowed eyes brightened with interest. “Fine indeed! Excuse my bad manners … not rising … to kiss the hand … of a lovely lady.”
She smiled. “After all the hours Dr. MacDonovan and I have expended the last week to bring you to this evening, should you attempt so reckless a feat I’d be more tempted to bash you with the hand than let you kiss it.”
“Then I am safe.” He gave her a rueful grin. “Already attempted it … when Ellie stopped by. Found movement … most unwise. Must lie here … and admire from afar.”
“It is a lovely gown and I do thank her for it. Shall you fare well here? I feel somewhat guilty going down to join the company, leaving you alone but for Peter’s care.”
He waved a hand. “If anyone deserves … an evening off … ‘tis you, ma’am! Afraid I’ve not … been in right frame … to express appreciation … but I want—”
“None of that,” she interrupted. “Just praise heaven, as I do, that Dr. MacDonovan’s skill and your own strong constitution were sufficient to bring you through.”
He nodded, his thin face serious. “No more, then. But an evening … of Peter’s company … is small recompense … for my debt …” His words trailed off, lost in a fit of coughing. Concerned, Laura leaned to press firmly against his bandaged shoulder, trying to immobilize the wound until the coughing subsided.
“Hush, now,” she said when at last he took a gasping, cough-free breath. “Enough pretty speeches, though I do thank you for them. Peters, make sure he finishes the broth I send up, and no more conversation! You will call me on the instant if you feel I’m needed?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
“Good. I’ll bring up an herbal tea later.” She squeezed Kit’s hand. “‘Twill ease your breathing and help you sleep.” After he nodded acknowledgment, she looked with reluctance to the door. “I suppose I must go down.”
She’d moved several steps away when his voice halted her. “Mustn’t … be afraid.”
Startled, she stopped short and turned back to him.
He managed an encouraging smile. “Beau intimidating … but kind. Never … hurt anyone good.” He paused to put a hand to his chest, grimacing through another short cough. “Smile. You have … a lovely smile.” He fluttered his fingers at her in a gesture of farewell and then closed his eyes, slumping back against his pillows.
Laura descended the stairs, more pensive still. Was her agitation when around Lord Beaulieu so obvious? Or had Kit, knowing the reaction normally evoked in underlings by his lofty brother, merely been trying to encourage her?
Too late now to debate the wisdom of coming tonight. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the parlor door.
A din of massed voices rolled over her. Startled by the noise after years of self-imposed social isolation, Laura halted, alarm skittering across her nerves. Forestalling the butler from announcing her arrival with a short, negative shake of her head, she slipped in, her eyes scanning the room to identify the company.
Lady Winters sat in her customary spot, several neighborhood ladies gathered around her, Lady Elspeth and another guest on the sofa opposite. The squire and his son held forth by the sideboard, glasses of spirits in hand. By the window, surrounded by most of the men of the company, Lady Ardith sparkled in low-cut golden splendor.
A shiver passed through her as she recognized the tall figure toward which Lady Ardith was leaning her impressively bared bosom. The shiver magnified to a tremor as Lord Beaulieu, as if cued by some invisible prompter, turned toward the doorway and saw her.
His look of mild annoyance vanished and his body tensed. While she waited, unable to breathe, his gaze swiftly inspected her—his frankly admiring gaze. And then he smiled, a warm, intimate message of welcome, as if she were the one person for whom all evening he’d been waiting.
He thought she looked pretty. She tried to stifle her guilty pleasure at the realization and swiftly bent her head before he could see the answering smile that automatically sprang to her lips. Both gratified and alarmed, she hurried to Lady Elspeth’s comforting presence.
Beau shifted restlessly, a polite smile in place while he tuned out the drone of Lady Ardith’s speech as effectively as he blocked out the quite attractive but entirely untempting display of cleavage she insisted on continually thrusting beneath his nose. Blast, did the woman think him blind?
Had this whole evening been for naught? Despite his sister’s assurances and Kit’s offer to help if necessary, would Laura Martin fail to appear?
Just as, reining in his raveling temper with an effort, he was about to come to that conclusion, he felt a change in the room, a rush of cool air.
He turned toward the door—and saw her. For a moment he quite literally forgot to breathe.
Her thick auburn hair, twisted at the top of her head into a mass of ringlets, was obscured from his awed glance by only the smallest of lace caps. And to his enthralled eyes, Ellie’s luscious green gown revealed with vivid clarity every curve and even more of the glorious ivory skin he recalled from lovingly tended memory of the Vision.
Her restive glance finally collided with his in a connection that was almost palpable. For a timeless moment they simply stared at each other, oblivious to the other occupants of the room.
He wanted her at his side, where she belonged. At the last moment sanity returned and he stopped himself from calling out to her. Instead he smiled, trying to imbue in that silent gesture all his unspoken urgency. Come to me.
But though her eyes widened and her lips responded with a smile she quickly bent to hide, she turned to walk not to him, but to his sister.
Beau gritted his teeth to keep from gnashing them in frustration. Go easy, he cautioned himself. He must not crowd her in front of this crowd of people. Not make her nervous by singling her out, or conspicuous by drawing down on her the rancor Lady Ardith would surely display if that calculating lightskirt decided the richest potential lover present was taking undue notice of some other lady.
He must wait, in short. And so he would. But sometime, somehow, he vowed, before this evening ended he would find a way to steal her to himself. After the other guests had departed, for a walk in the garden, perhaps. Just the two of them, alone under an embrace of moonlight.
Mollified by that pleasant thought, he was able to tear his eyes from the fetching silhouette of her slender form before Lady Ardith, presently toying with a portly knight who was Sir Everett’s nearest neighbor, noticed his lapse in attention. Fortunately, that lady had so monopolized the other male guests that it seemed none but himself had noticed Mrs. Martin enter.
Just as well. Let them gape at the high flyer—and leave the refined elegance of Mrs. Martin to him.
The dinner gong sounded. Despite her change of attire, Beau noted with an inner smile, Mrs. Martin still managed to remain reclusive, slipping away from his sister as the guests rose from their seats, retreating toward the Squire and Tom before Beau reached her.
As they caught sight of Mrs. Martin, both men uttered exclamations of surprise and delight. Beau gritted his teeth once more as the squire’s tone abruptly changed from bluff to coyly gallant. Squire Everett and Tom would not be the only gentlemen captivated tonight by the widow’s swanlike transformation, he realized with irritated resignation. However, he promised himself again, regardless of how many gentlemen fell under the spell of her charm throughout dinner, the widow would end her evening in his company alone.
He was less pleased once they arrived in the dining chamber to discover that Mrs. Martin, whom he’d instructed the butler to seat near him at the head of the table, was instead positioned at its foot. He turned to his hostess.
“Lady Winters, this will not do! We’re gathered here to honor Dr. MacDonovan and Mrs. Martin, the two individuals responsible for saving my brother’s life. We cannot have one of them banished to the end of the table.”
His hostess gave him a startled look, but before she could stutter an answer, Mrs. Martin said, “Marsden told me you’d requested that, my lord, but not considering it fitting that I be seated above the more distinguished guests, I had him change the cards, as I knew Lady Winters would wish.” She fixed her gaze carefully on the fluttering figure beside him. “Though I am, of course, much flattered by his lordship’s kindness.”
Her reply attracted to her for the first time the general notice of the entire party. Beau watched with ironic amusement as the faces around the table reflected, first interest in the newcomer in their midst, then puzzlement, then varying decrees of shock, astonishment—and admiration as they finally identified the speaker.
By the time she finished her explanation, all other conversation had ceased and the attention of everyone present was riveted on Mrs. Martin. Finding herself suddenly the focus of every eye, the lady swiftly dropped her gaze to her lap, her cheeks pinking.
A gasp sounded in the silence, followed by a “By Jove!” The vicar, across the table from Mrs. Martin, sat with mouth agape, while the knight seated next to her exclaimed, “Mrs. Martin, what a capital rig. Capital!”
Lady Ardith stared at the widow with a look of shocked indignation, as if one of the stone spaniels that flanked Squire Everett’s drive had just turned and bitten her. Nonetheless, she was first of the ladies to recover.
“What an … interesting gown, Mrs. Martin. A hand-me-down from the family of a grateful patient, no doubt. When one is forced to earn one’s crust, I suppose one must accept all manner of payments.”
Ellie gasped, indignation flashing in her eyes, and though a matching anger flared in Beau, he reached out swiftly to put a warning hand on her elbow.
The high color in Mrs. Martin’s face paled. Before Beau could intervene, she raised her gaze to Lady Ardith. Her coolly amused gaze. “Indeed, my lady.”
Bravo, Beau thought.
“I hope,” Ardith continued, sublimely oblivious, “you’ve expressed your humble thanks to the squire and his lordship for permitting you to be included in this gathering. I daresay you’ve never dined in quite this sort of company before.”
Did he observe an instant’s quiver in her lip? Before he could decide, Mrs. Martin, her expression blandly meek, replied, “You’re quite right, my lady.” Her eyes dipped briefly to Lady Ardith’s jutting bosom before she continued, “I’ve never dined in such company before.”
Beau choked back a laugh, then shot a glance at Ellie. His sister gave him a tiny nod, her eyes full of mirth.
“I do thank his lordship, Squire Everett and Lady Winters for including me tonight,” Mrs. Martin concluded.
The vicar gave Lady Ardith a sharp look. “‘Tis not so unusual for us to dine with Mrs. Martin. We have on several occasions been blessed with her excellent company.”
“Country parties, of course,” Lady Ardith replied. “Given the unfortunate lack of numbers often obtaining in country society, ‘tis quite amazing the odd parties one is occasionally forced to make up.” Noting the vicar still frowning, Lady Ardith leaned toward him, gifting the reverend with a full view of her generous endowments. “Though you, of course, Mr. Blackthorne, would be welcome at any party. And how is your mama, the viscountess?”
Being human, the vicar did gaze for a moment at the display beneath his eyes, but to Beau’s grudgingly accorded credit, almost immediately raised his glance back to the lady’s face. His closed expression hinted he’d already assessed Lady Ardith’s character and found it, unlike her chest, to be somewhat lacking. “Quite well, Lady Ardith,” he said shortly, refraining from adding a comment that might prolong the conversation.
Lady Ardith eyed the vicar for a moment, then shrugged at the subtle rebuff. Apparently considering the man not worth the effort—or perhaps writing him off as unattachable—Lady Ardith turned once more to the squire, and conversation became general again.
Beau was too far away to be able to overhear Mrs. Martin’s comments to her dinner partners, but as she was seated on the opposite side of the table, at least he could turn occasionally and gaze at her. She sat quietly, speaking little, her head inclined in smiling deference.
Unlike Lady Ardith, who seemed unable to let her neighbors dine in peace. Scarcely had he taken a mouthful before, in a minor breach of etiquette, she waved across the table at him.
“Do you find the fish agreeable, Lord Beaulieu?” To reply, he was forced to dispense with the bite in one swallow. “Very.”
“Alphonse, our London chef, prepares a similar dish—much more elaborate, of course, as one would expect of a French artiste. You must stop by and try pot luck with us some evening when you are in town, mustn’t he, Asquith?”
Her husband, mouth full and focus fixed on the wine glass the footman was refilling, uttered a grunt that might be taken as assent. Scarcely waiting for her spouse’s reply, the lady turned to the squire with a flirtatious sweep of lashes. “How clever of you to procure so excellent a cook here in the country.” She leaned forward and stroked one finger slowly down his hand. “I so enjoy a clever gentleman.”
Having reduced the squire to goggling incoherence, Lady Ardith took another small bite and turned to Dr. MacDonovan. “Ah, delicious!” She slowly ran the tip of her tongue over her lips before saying in a husky voice, “Dr. MacDonovan, do they enjoy such delights in Edinburgh?”
After a sympathetic wink at Beau, Mac grinned at the lady. “To be sure, Lady Ardith. Such treats should be devoured wherever they are offered.”
She arched a brow at Mac and gave a soft, throaty laugh. “Naughty man! Though I believe you are correct, Doctor. Lady Elspeth, is he always such a rogue?”
“Always.”
“You must excuse me for neglecting you, Lady Elspeth,” Ardith continued. “I know the mama of so lovely and clever a daughter as Lady Catherine must want to be speaking of nothing but her offspring and alas, I fear I know little of children, his lordship and I not being so blessed. I try to console myself with the reflection that infants are quite ruinous to the figure. But then I am a silly, frivolous creature, as my lord is ever telling me. Ah, Lord Beaulieu, how do you like the shrimp velouté?”
And so, effectively shutting out the vacant Lady Winters, who seldom exerted herself to converse, and Elspeth, who was too polite to wrench the conversation back in her own direction, Lady Ardith continued to chatter through the meal, punctuating her running commentary with flirtatious glances and suggestive touches to the hands of the gentlemen closest to her, as if to keep them ever mindful of her physical allure.
Beau glanced from Lord Asquith, food-stained cravat askew, to where Lady Ardith was preening coquettishly before Mac, the knight Sir Ramsdale and his bedazzled son. He felt an unexpected flash of sympathy for the lady.
With her glittering blond beauty and siren’s body, she’d doubtless been the diamond of her come-out Season, accustomed to being the focus of masculine attention since the day she left the schoolroom. Shackled now to a prominent, wealthy peer who apparently no longer indulged appetites beyond the table, with no children to occupy her time, it was small wonder she felt compelled to practice her wiles on any reasonably attractive male within reach.
Especially since, he had to acknowledge, the majority of his sex would encourage her efforts. Given the lady’s alluring assets, few men would deny themselves the pleasure of seizing the several hours of harmless, mindless, full-body amusement her enticing glances promised. Brutal honesty compelled him to admit he might have been tempted to respond himself, had he not first encountered the more intelligent, complex and subtly attractive Mrs. Martin.
Certainly the gentlemen at table with Lady Ardith now were competing to claim that prize. Although her husband persisted in ignoring her, occupying himself solely with the replenishment and emptying of his plate and wineglass, the other men vied for Lady Ardith’s attention, responding eagerly to her suggestive banter. The knight’s adolescent son, to the neglect of his dinner partners, chewed his meal while staring at Lady Ardith in cow-eyed adoration.
In contrast, Mrs. Martin ate sparingly and spoke but little, though her soft-voiced replies to her neighbors’ statements seemed to foster a continuous and lively discussion at her end of the table. Not was she entirely lacking in admirers, Beau noted.
Despite the distracting presence of Lady Ardith at his elbow, the squire nonetheless occasionally sent an appreciative glance toward the lady at the far end of his table. And, Beau realized with an unpleasant shock, the vicar, who sat in privileged proximity just opposite Mrs. Martin, seldom took his eyes off her.
A man of the cloth, Beau thought with an immediate surge of indignation, should not be entertaining thoughts that, to judge by the heated intensity of the vicar’s expression, were obviously both covetous and carnal.
Beau turned to find Lady Ardith staring in the direction of his gaze, her eyes frosty as they rested on Mrs. Martin. With a glittering smile, she abruptly angled her head toward the squire’s sister, who sat absently picking at her food.
“Lady Winters, you had Mrs. Martin write out your invitation cards, didn’t you? Kind of you to offer her employment, which she badly needs, I imagine.”
Belatedly realizing she’d been addressed, Lady Winters focused out of her haze. “Employed?” she repeated, looking confused. “No, I don’t pay Mrs. Martin.”
“Nay, of course not, ‘tis as a friend of the family she does it,” the squire clarified.
“Well, I knew the moment I received the invitation that someone other than dear Lady Winters had copied out the cards. I vow, one can always distinguish the hand of a true lady. My own écriture is so precise, I cannot address more than a handful of cards at a sitting. Before a ball, I must spend the veriest week at it.”
That speech evaporated whatever tepid sympathy Beau had previously summoned for the acidic blond beauty. Squelching a strong desire to deal Lady Ardith a sharp set-down, Beau forced himself to remain discreetly silent.
“Quite a pretty hand she has, we think,” the squire said with a nod toward Mrs. Martin.
“Indeed?” Lady Ardith raised penciled brows. “Mrs. Martin is fortunate you and Lady Winters are so obliging. I was quite shocked when first I heard that a woman, of supposedly gentle birth, chose to live alone without even the vestige of a chaperone. Did you not, in your good nature, continue to recognize her, I daresay she might not be received by any good family in the neighborhood.”
While Beau choked back his outraged response, Lady Ardith leaned confidentially closer to the squire. “Though you might warn her to be more discreet. Appearing in such a—well, coming—gown, and living alone as she does, who knows what sort of thoughts she might inspire in some of the local men? Even the vicar looks quite … taken. Though perhaps that’s her intent.” Lady Ardith smiled slyly. “Still, she’d best take care. Exposed as she is, a very little gossip deeming her ‘fast’ would be enough to ruin her reputation. Where would she be if the common folk no longer sought her out for their pills and potions?”
Her “confidential” advice, uttered in a tone that must have carried halfway down the table, if not all the way to the ears of the lady it derided, was the final straw. Deciding to end the conversation before he lost control and strangled Lady Ardith, Beau abruptly turned to his hostess. “Lady Winters, is it not time for you to withdraw?”
Again looking startled, Lady Winters goggled at him. After fussing to find her handkerchief and reticule, she rose. “Brother, gentlemen, if you will excuse us?”
Looking forward to the freedom of the drawing room where at last he could approach his lady, and knowing she would probably seek an excuse to leave the party early, Beau maneuvered the gentlemen out of the dining room after a single glass of brandy. Though Lord Asquith grumbled about being separated from his cigars, the rest of the men, doubtless relishing thoughts of a closer view down the bodice of his wife’s dress, greeted Beau’s suggestion with approval.
As he followed his host to the drawing room, Beau rapidly developed a plan that, with a little help from Mac, would ensure Mrs. Martin wasn’t allowed to flee before the other guests departed. Short of storming her bedchamber—and he wasn’t completely sure he’d not resort to that extremity if pressed—he was prepared to do whatever it took to get her alone.
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