Lord Rathbone's Flirt Page 11

  Perhaps it might have sufficed and her life would have re­turned to normal, except that it had come too late. The conse­quences of Lord Rathbone’s attentions had already had their inevitable result. She and his lordship had become the subject of talk. She knew it to be so, for more than once lately when she had entered a room, the conversation had broken off and she had become the object of speculative scrutiny.

  The second danger, of course, had been far more insidious. She had felt an overwhelming, shocking attraction to Lord Rathbone the day that he had opened his flirtation with her on the stairs.

  Verity was a practical creature. She knew that situated as she presently was, she could not hope to aspire to honorable estate with a gentleman such as Lord Rathbone and she had re­signed herself to that reality. Then Lord Rathbone had inex­plicably insisted upon making her the object of his attentions. Verity had not dared to trust in his overtures. Despite her de­fenses, however, he had somehow come to occupy much of her thoughts.

  She thought dispassionately that she was in a fair way to falling in love with his lordship, and that would never do.

  “What will never do, Miss Worth?”

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  Verity looked round, startled. When she met Lord Rathbone’s cool, amused gaze, the color rose into her face. She had not heard the door open, nor had she been aware that she had spo­ken her last thought aloud.

  “My lord! I did not hear you come in,” she stammered, em­barrassed, but clutching at some semblance of composure.

  “I recalled that I had left a newspaper here earlier. I came to retrieve it,” said Lord Rathbone, smiling a little. He still stood in the open doorway, his hand on the knob.

  She was inordinately aware that he had entered the sitting room unaccompanied and that they were alone. Her heart was set to racing. Her one coherent thought amongst the whirl in her mind was that she had to exercise prudence, and at once.

  Verity gathered up her embroidery hoop and rose from the settee. “Pray excuse me, my lord. I have quite lost sight of the time. I was expected upstairs a quarter hour past.”

  “Do not run away on my account,” he said softly.

  Verity had started to step past him, but he shifted slightly so that she would have had to press against him to go through the doorway. She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. His eyes were glinting with laughter and a disturbing warmth. Her color rose once more. “Pray let me pass, my lord.”

  “Will you not grant me a few moments of your time, Miss Worth? It has been very flat since the rain started. I am certain that a taste of your wit would enliven this dull day for me,” he said, smiling.

  The inclement weather had ensured that the houseguests had been forced to seek their entertainment indoors. Verity was acutely cognizant that at any moment someone might come down the stairs or exit the library or the billiards room. She and the viscount were in plain view from any one of these van­tage points. It would do nothing but damage if they were dis­covered in this intimate pose.

  In a low voice, Verity said, “You choose to make game of me, my lord. I beg of you, do so no longer. Consider what you are about and the consequences. Already we have been re­marked.”

  Lord Rathbone leaned a broad shoulder against the door-jamb, effectively blocking the doorway altogether. “I choose when the game is over, my dear Miss Worth. But have no fear that I shall exact a cruel price for the pleasure of our mutual acquaintance.”

  “It has been of no pleasure to me, my lord,” she retorted, his arrogant manner finally driving her to expose more fully the extent of her anger and frustration.

  “Has it not, Miss Worth? Strange, I have found it far other­wise,” he said.

  Verity realized that his lordship was in a capricious mood and that there would be no reasoning with him. “Pray let me pass,” she said coldly.

  Lord Rathbone straightened and stepped aside. As she made to sweep past him without a second glance, he caught her elbow. She was perforce obliged to halt and look up at him. “Yes, my lord? You wished something else?” she asked with such elaborate civility that it was an insult.

  Twin devils danced in his eyes. “I shall expect you to save a dance for me at the ball,” he murmured.

  “Chaperones do not dance, as well you know, my lord. And even if it was condoned, I still would not dance with you,” said Verity evenly. The blood was racing in her veins. She did not understand why he affected her so.

  “I think that you would. Miss Worth,” said Lord Rathbone with a slow grin lighting his face. His gaze had dropped to the quickened pulse in the hollow of her throat. He raised his nar­rowed eyes once more to meet hers. “Yes, I rather think that you would.”

  A mewl of inarticulate anger sounded in her throat. If Verity had believed that she could have gotten away with it, she would have slapped him then and there. But she could not. Their separate social positions in this house would not allow her even that much latitude. Her eyes expressed everything that she felt. “You are insulting, my lord!”

  He laughed, very softly.

  Verity snatched herself from his detaining hand. It was all part of his persecution of her. She had no idea why his lord­ship was so intent on oversetting her, but that he was succeed­ing far better than he should was galling.

  Verity crossed the entry hall quickly to the stairs and mounted them at speed. She scarcely noticed one of the house-guests who was paused on the landing.

  But the lady noticed Miss Worth. Her sharp eyes took par­ticular note of the high color in Miss Worth’s face. The lady’s glance returned to Lord Rathbone, who was turning back into the sitting room with a satisfied smile on his face.

  The lady pursed her mouth. She had been too distant to have been able to hear what had been said, of course, but Miss Worth’s flight was quite telling, she thought, as had been Lord Rathbone’s obvious interest. It was all very intriguing and no doubt would prove even more piquant in the telling.

  * * * *

  The rain stopped a few hours before dinner. It was felt by all to be a good omen for the success of the ball. Spirits rose in anticipation, even the keenest of sporting gentlemen grum­bling less than usual at the prospect of putting on fancy dress. After all, the morrow promised to be cold and clear, and they would be able to get out in the fields with their guns and dogs. It was a simple thing, therefore, to cater to the wishes of the ladies tonight.

  In light of Lord Rathbone’s arrogant assumption that she would stand up with him, Verity was reluctant to attend the ball. She was anxious that his lordship might continue his importunities at the function. It would be difficult to rebuff him without causing an abhorrent scene, she thought.

  However, she also felt that to cry off because of her own foolish fears was cowardly. So she dressed with care and put in her diamond earrings and a matching diamond-studded comb in her upswept hair. She wore a gown that had been made up from a blue satin discovered in a trunk at Crofthouse. It was one of three new gowns sent to her by her mother. The gown looked exceedingly well on her and she reflected that she need not be anxious for her appearance, at least.

  The coach was called for and Mrs. Pettiforth set forth with Miss Pettiforth and Verity. They were without benefit of male escort, Mr. Pettiforth having cried off at the last moment. The rest of the house party also took to their coaches, most with every expectation of being well-entertained.

  Lord Rathbone was among those who set out to enjoy the squire’s hospitality. He did not, however, anticipate the evening as thoroughly as his companions. As he stepped down from the carriage he glanced up at the clear night sky. It was the full moon and chilly.

  Lord Rathbone sighed. It was perfect steeplechasing weather. How unfortunate that for the next several hours he would be cooped up in a too-hot ballroom doing the pretty with a crowd of ladies who held not the least fraction of inter­est for him. The only reason that he had come was on the chance that Miss Worth meant to make one of the company.

  His bore
dom quickly dropped away when he turned in time to see his aunt and Miss Pettiforth descend from their carriage, followed by Miss Worth.

  Miss Worth’s eyes chanced to meet his own as she stepped down to the walk. She turned quickly away and accompanied the Pettiforths into the manor house.

  “So you came, after all,” murmured Lord Rathbone, look­ing after her appreciatively. All of a sudden the evening had taken on a pleasant aspect.

  “What was that, Rathbone?” inquired Mr. Herbert Arnold, emerging from the same carriage that his lordship had used.

  Lord Rathbone shook his head. “I was but admiring the night, sir. I was thinking what a pity it is that we do not have a steeplechase.”

  “By Jove! That is a capital notion. I shall bruit it about and we shall see whether we do not get one up. Good fellow, Rathbone! You are a gentleman after my own heart,” exclaimed Mr. Arnold jovially. He turned then to give his hand to his wife, saying, “What do you think, my love? Lord Rathbone wishes to get up a steeplechase.”

  Mrs. Arnold descended gracefully to the walk. She said laughingly, “I shall hold it against you, my lord, if this neck-or-nothing man of mine takes a tumble.”

  Lord Rathbone returned some sally, and in the company of the Arnolds, walked up the steps. When they had entered the manor and been divested of their cloaks, they were directed to the ballroom. Lord Rathbone moved up the stairs with the oth­ers to the ballroom, where they were greeted by the squire and his lady and their two daughters. Having said everything that was polite.,Lord Rathbone moved on past the receiving line. He paused to survey the bright, laughing company in the ball­room. None could have guessed from his lordship’s demeanor that he was searching for a particular lady’s figure.

  The ball was situated in a suite of rooms opening one into another. A crumb cloth had been stretched over the carpets. Mrs. Passenby had made certain as she greeted each of her guests that the gentlemen were made aware that more than dancing was offered. “At the other end of the room is the card room and a refreshment room is nearby so that the ladies will not get chilled passing down a staircase on their way for tea or lemonade. The supper room is downstairs,” she had said.

  Coming up beside Lord Rathbone, Mr. Arnold rubbed his palms together in contentment. “It is not steeplechasing, but it shapes up to be a jolly good function for all that,” he said.

  Mrs. Arnold put her hand through her husband’s arm. “I don’t mean to allow you to run off to the refreshment table until you have danced with me,” she said.

  “You see how a married man cannot call himself his own,” said Mr. Arnold with a broad wink.

  Lord Rathbone smiled and politely concurred. He moved away as soon as it was civil to do so. He had espied the Pettiforth party, but instead of immediately approaching the ladies, he sauntered about talking to various personages.

  The squire had a liking for punctuality and the ball had begun promptly at eight o’clock. A grand piano, a cello, and a violin constituted the orchestra and were placed at the end far­thest from the door where the hostess and her daughters still greeted incoming guests.

  Lord Rathbone, as one of the gentlemen of highest rank, led out the eldest of the squire’s sandy-haired daughters. The opening minuet was followed by several country dances. Be­fore many sets had formed, the ball was already accounted a huge success by the guests. The entire neighborhood appeared to have turned out, with every expectation of enjoyment, and not one young lady was left without a partner.

  The ballroom had been warm to begin with, but with the en­ergetic exercise, the heat steadily climbed to nearly an unbear­able degree. Wax began to drip from the melting candles in the chandeliers onto the dancers below. Several gowns were ripped when the hems were trod upon by male boots, and the ladies discreetly retired to the small cloakroom which had been supplied for this very purpose, to have the tears swiftly mended by waiting maids. It was all part and parcel of a suc­cessful function.

  Lord Rathbone had been patient in achieving his object for that evening. He had dutifully squired every maiden and every matron onto the dance floor. He had fetched lemonade and tea and, in general, made himself agreeable. Satisfied that he had left nothing undone, he then approached Miss Worth to claim her hand for a dance.

  As he had expected, she at once declined. There was a de­cided spark in her eyes as she said, “You should take out Miss Pettiforth, my lord. She is quite the belle tonight.”

  “I have already squired Miss Pettiforth twice, Miss Worth. I do not intend for the gossips to have us engaged by doing so for a third time,” said Lord Rathbone.

  “Oh! Of course, how silly of me. I suppose that I did not count properly,” said Verity, feeling all sorts of fool. Of course he would not transgress the unwritten rule. A third dance in one evening with a particular gentleman meant that it was in a fair way to being understood that the young lady had accepted a flattering offer. As she knew very well, if there had been any such offer in the wind, Mrs. Pettiforth would have shouted it from the rooftops.

  “What an odd companion you are, to be sure,” he said quizzingly.

  She started to retort, but caught back her hasty words when she saw the anticipatory gleam in his eyes. She laughed in­stead. “No, you shall not have ground to accuse me of discour­tesy so easily, my lord. I have learned my lesson at that.”

  “Good. Then dance with me,” he said.

  Verity looked around, rather helplessly. “Surely there is someone else, my lord. You must know that it will occasion talk if I should leave the matrons’ side and accept.”

  “Do you care so much? I confess that I do not.” He held out his hand peremptorily. “Come. I wish to dance with you. I shan’t stop importuning you until you accept.”

  Verity saw that he was perfectly serious. He wore that twisted smile that conveyed an obstinance and arrogance that could not be easily gainsaid. If she did not accept, his lord­ship was perfectly capable of seating himself down beside her and devoting himself so assiduously to her that it would occa­sion far more notice than a single turn about the dance floor.

  “It is only a round dance, Miss Worth. Surely your reputa­tion will survive,” he said softly.

  “Oh, very well,” she said crossly, rising from her chair.

  Taking her hand, he led her onto the floor and escorted her into their place in the set. Verity’s misgivings over being sin­gled out by Lord Rathbone were strong, but the lively steps and music made shadows of her lingering doubts. She became buoyed also by the reflection that he had indeed danced with every other lady; surely just this once his attention toward her would go relatively unnoticed.

  Verity managed to enjoy herself enough that she almost re­gretted it when the set ended. Smiling, she said, “Thank you, my lord. That was indeed pleasant.”

  He stared down at her. Her gray eyes sparkled, and her face was warmed with rose. He had retained her hand and now, as he heard the strains of a waltz, his fingers tightened. The light of deviltry entered his eyes. “We are not done yet. Miss Worth!”

  At once she understood his intention. “No—pray!” But he did not yield to her instinctive recoil. His arm swept about her waist and he swung her gracefully into the waltz.

  Lord Rathbone glanced down at his partner, amused by the rigidness of her body beneath his guiding hand. Her face was white and she stared straight at his cravat. “What, Miss Worth? Do you not delight in the waltz? I quite thought you might, as light as you are on your feet.”

  Her eyes rose to his face, humiliation and anger in their bright depths. “How could you, my lord? You expose me to the worst sort of scrutiny by this deed. Surely the sport is cruel, even for you.”

  Lord Rathbone’s hold tightened on her fingers so that she winced. “I told you once, Miss Worth, that the game will be over when I will it so. Do not look so despairing, my dear. Your fears are unfounded, believe me. I have yet to play fast and loose with a lady’s reputation.”

  She averted her face. “Then I can only suppos
e that you do not deem me worthy of respect.”

  “Miss Worth, were I to tell you what I thought of you, it would most assuredly astonish you.”

  There was something in his tone that made her startled gaze sweep up to meet his. He laughed a shade grimly. “I did not much like you in the beginning, Miss Worth. I shall leave to you to decide my feelings at this moment.”

  Verity felt no hesitation in doing so. She said hastily, “Surely you despise me, then, for you have done your utmost to overset my peace and to make a byword of me. You have persecuted me unmercifully, my lord!”

  Lord Rathbone was astonished by the shaking timbre of her voice and the glimpse of tears in her eyes. His conscience was dealt an uncomfortable check. What was he doing in forcing his attention on a female who had made it plain from the out­set that she wanted nothing of him? But he knew the answer to his own question. It had been his pride, and that damnable taste for revenge that he had inherited from his mother, that led him to this abhorrent pass.

  The last strains of the waltz had scarcely died away when Lord Rathbone abruptly stopped and led Miss Worth back to her chair. He stepped back. “You are right, Miss Worth. It was ignoble of me to take advantage of you. I shall stay at a dis­tance for the remainder of my sojourn here,” he said quietly.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  Lord Rathbone walked away to the refreshment room. His thoughts were in turmoil. His objectivity seemed to have been blasted. With hindsight he saw that what Miss Worth had said was true. He had persecuted her and for no other reason than to extort much the sort of confession that he had just wrung from her.

  Lord Rathbone picked up a wineglass. He moved into the shadows of a draped window embrasure. His position was such that he could watch the company and yet be far enough removed from the refreshment table that he would not be im­mediately noticed. The last thing that he wanted was to be drawn into idle conversation. Almost absently, he tasted of the wine.