Fortune's Lady (4 page)

They had only proceeded a few paces, however, when the marchioness grasped her arm and whispered loudly in her ear. “I do have rather a favor to ask of you, Lavinia. When Gareth approaches us, as he will fairly soon, no doubt, I beg you to think of some excuse to leave us.”

Lady Edgcumbe loved intrigue as much as any other dowager who spent her evenings gossiping about the matrimonial prospects of those in their first Season and the indiscretions of young matrons who, having made their respectable alliances, were now intent on enjoying themselves, so she asked no questions, but smiled knowingly at her friend. The marchioness was an
intrigant
of the highest stature, and to watch her in action was worth the price of admission. Whatever her game was, it undoubtedly involved her son and money, two things that always seemed to be in short supply for the Marchioness of Harwood.

Gareth’s mother had caught sight of Althea and her grandmother heading in the direction of the card room some time earlier, and she was relieved to discover that they had established themselves at a table with the Marchioness of Barlow and Lady Dalrymple, with whom she could claim some slight acquaintance.

Assuming an air of polite concern, she approached the table exclaiming, “My dear Lady Dalrymple, how glad I am to discover you here, for not five minutes ago I encountered your daughter and I must say, she does not look at all the thing. I suggested to her that I look for you, but she insisted it was nothing, a mere headache brought on by the closeness of the ballroom. I begged her to sit down by one of the windows and take some fresh air, for indeed, she was looking far from well.”

Lady Dalrymple rose in some alarm. “In that case, I ...”

“Do not distress yourself.” The marchioness laid a comforting hand on the other lady’s arm. “She assured me that she was not in the least need of assistance though she did appear to be remarkably pale.”

By now Lady Dalrymple looked thoroughly alarmed and Gareth’s mother, directing a meaningful look at Lady Edgcumbe, continued. “Well, if you insist on going to her, and I must say I think it is best. Lady Edgcumbe and I will take your places here at the table so as not to deprive your opponents of their game. No, my dear Marchioness, I do not blame you in the least for accompanying Lady Dalrymple. I am sure these ladies will excuse you, and Lady Edgcumbe and I will do our poor best to make up for your departure.”

And with the most sympathetic and helpful expressions the Marchioness of Harwood neatly ousted the two women and took their places at the table with Althea and her grandmother. “I do beg your pardon for intruding, but as a fond mother myself, I know the agonies one suffers if one’s child is unwell, even if that child is fully grown. I am delighted to see Your Grace looking so well. I remember, though I am sure you do not, being introduced to you my first Season. My mother pointed you out as someone whose dignified air and exquisite manners were well worth copying. ‘A beautiful face can count for nothing, Sally,’ she told me, ‘if one’s manners are not equal to the distinction of one’s countenance. And for manners you could do no better than to observe closely and emulate the Duchess of Clarendon’s.’ “

Too bemused by this unexpected effusiveness to react, Althea’s grandmother could do nothing but nod graciously. Before she could even open her mouth to acknowledge her thanks, the marchioness rattled on. “And this must be your granddaughter, Lady Althea.” Directing a conspiratorial smile at Althea, she lowered her voice to an intimate whisper. “A young woman whom I would not presume to embarrass by acknowledging as the incomparable of incomparables, except that it is a fact so widely known that everyone must acknowledge it. No, do not blush, my dear, for you certainly deserve such a reputation. Great beauty is a gift of the gods, but the notoriety it brings can be an enormous burden. No one knows that better than I, and I do sympathize, believe me. Now”—she laid a finger on her lips and smiled again—“I promise to keep silent and speak of nothing but the game.”

And thus, with a skill that even Lady Edgcumbe was forced to admire, the marchioness not only succeeded in maneuvering the two of them into a game with the dowager duchess and her granddaughter, she managed to ingratiate herself with the two women as well.

It was some time later, and just as the marchioness had planned, that Gareth finally located his mother in the card room. They were in the middle of a game when the marchioness, who had been keeping close watch out of the corner of her eye, exclaimed, “And there is my Gareth now. Such an attentive son. I knew it would not be long before he came to see if his mama was in need of her shawl.”

She glanced in a most pointed manner at Lady Edgcumbe who, immediately recognizing her cue, put a hand to her brow and sighed gently. “The air is so close in here. My dear Sally, I do feel the most vile headache coming on. If you all will forgive me, I believe I shall seek some fresh air.” Smiling apologetically at Althea and her grandmother, she rose and hurried from the card room.

“Poor Lavinia. She is a perfect martyr to her dreadful headaches,” the marchioness chirped brightly. “But no matter. Gareth can take her place. Can you not, my dear? Gareth is a superb player. It is said that he has won a fortune at cards, though his poor mama has yet to see any evidence of it.” The acid tone of her voice was oddly at variance with the marchioness’s fond greeting.

Althea, her gaze riveted to her cards, could not help darting a curious glance at the marchioness and her son. The bitter twist of the marchioness’s rouged lips quickly smoothed into a doting smile as she presented her handsome son to her opponents, but not before Althea had seen her bitter look and wondered at it, as well as the angry tightening of the son’s lips, an expression that was also quickly banished as he acknowledged the Dowager Duchess of Clarendon and her granddaughter.

In fact, Gareth was doing his best to hide the fury that had risen within him the moment he had discovered the identity of his mother’s companions. The witch! As usual, she was bound and determined to have her own way. Not content with pointing out to him the most eligible young woman of the Season, she was forcing him into an introduction, and there was nothing, short of being brutally and inexcusably rude, that he could do to avoid it.

Gareth took his place in the fragile-looking gilt chair vacated by Lady Edgcumbe. Of course he could be brutally and inexcusably rude—he had been so before, and no doubt he would be again— but for some inexplicable reason, he did not wish to be so now. Picking up the cards Lady Edgcumbe had laid down he made a pretense of looking at them, but in truth he was examining the face opposite him. She was even more lovely up close than she was at a distance, and she refused to look at him.

Lady Althea sat proudly erect, her eyes riveted on her own hand, the beautifully sculpted face devoid of expression, any expression at all.

“We must deal over again.” Althea’s grandmother looking at him. “We certainly cannot expect Harwood to pick up in the middle of someone else’s game.”

“Thank you for your concern, but it is no matter.” Gareth waved her objection aside. “I still hope to offer you a creditable challenge.”

That got Althea’s attention. The dark blue eyes fixed him with a measuring stare that quite took his breath away. They were her finest feature in a face full of fine features. As dark as the most priceless of sapphires and fringed with thick dark lashes that contrasted with the pale smoothness of a flawless complexion, they were deep enough for a man to drown in. But it was the expression in them that took him by surprise. There was not an ounce of coquetry, nor the slightest flicker of flirtation. And it dawned on him that Lady Althea Beauchamp was not the least bit interested in the Marquess of Harwood as a man. If she were interested in him at all, it was only as an opponent.

A rueful smile tugged at the corners of Gareth’s mouth. Much as he hated to admit it, it was a rather lowering experience to be regarded in that light. He had become so accustomed to evading every feminine ploy, dampening matrimonial hopes in so many score of female breasts that, until this moment, he had begun to assume that he was irresistible to the entire sex.

Giving himself a mental shake, he stifled a grin and glanced back at his cards. If Lady Althea preferred a good opponent to a good catch, or even a good man, then, by God, she would not be disappointed. And ignoring the fact that he was breaking one of his cardinal rules—never cater to female expectations—he concentrated on giving her the best damn opponent she would ever have.

Chapter 5

I still hope to offer you a creditable challenge.
In spite of her resolve to have nothing to do with the man, Althea could not help glancing up in surprise. The man was either a fool, a braggart of incredible proportions, or very, very good. But as she looked straight into those clear gray eyes that returned her gaze just as steadily and calmly as if he were taking aim at some target in Manton’s Shooting Gallery, she could not detect even a hint of guile or unease.

Covertly, she studied the long, slender fingers clasping his cards, but could find no clue there either—not so much as a tremor or a nervous shuffling of his hand— that he was anything but supremely confident. Then, she concluded, and she did not know why it should have pleased her to arrive at this conclusion, he must be very good.

As the game wore on she was to amend that conclusion. The Marquess of Harwood was not only very good, he was very good indeed. Without betraying anything but the most casual interest in the game, he managed not only to hold his own against two practiced players, but rescued himself and his partner from several potentially disastrous blunders his partner had committed.

Oblivious to it all, the marchioness chattered on—London seemed particularly full of company this year, which was why it was especially plaguing that she was not ensconced in her own spacious town house in Berkeley Square, but positively exiled to the most inconvenient lodgings in Hanover Square, which, her tone implied, was as far away from the truly fashionable enclaves as to seem like Timbuktu or the Americas.

“And it is also why we are being paid an exorbitant price for the use of a house in Berkeley Square with rooms too numerous and too grand for a widow who does no entertaining and her son who has quarters elsewhere.” The marquess spoke so softly that for a moment Althea was not even certain he had responded, but the very softness of his low tone only added to its intensity.

His mother had sounded merely pettish and complaining, but he reacted in a way that suggested a far deeper and more serious antagonism, an antagonism that had been building for years. Althea recognized it in an instant as the response of someone who had been driven to it, someone who had been quietly putting up with a situation for years while resentment grew. She had suffered from that same slow, simmering resentment herself and was more than familiar with all its outward signs—the resentment of one whose interests were never recognized for they were considered unimportant or irrelevant in comparison to the desires of those who surrounded her, the resentment of someone who was not only expected to go along with these desires so totally contrary to her own, but to do so willingly and happily.

She stole another glance at the marquess, but the lean, angular features remained impassive. Only someone who knew what it was to stifle her own emotions time and again could detect the clenched muscles of his jaw and the tightening in the corners of his eyes that betrayed just how tightly he was holding his anger in check. It was another revelation to her. Until now, Althea had thought that it was only dutiful, unmarried daughters who suffered from the demands of rigid, self-centered parents, but apparently it was possible even for men, possessors of estates and ancient titles and considerable fortunes in their own right, who could be made to suffer as well, and she could not help smiling at the absurdity of it all.

It was the faintest of smiles, a mere tugging at the corners of her mouth, but it caught Gareth’s attention in an instant. Good God. Could it be that the Ice Princess had actually deigned to smile at him?

He studied her curiously for a moment. Not only did she smile, but there appeared to be a glimmer of understanding in those magnificent eyes and a hint of sympathy in the gently curved lips. Disbelieving what he saw, he quirked one quizzical dark brow and, to his amazement, was rewarded with the faintest of nods and a ruefully sympathetic lift of the lady’s own delicately arched brows.

Then she immediately focused her attention back on the cards in front of her and he was left to wonder if the silent communication had taken place at all or if he had just imagined it. However, Gareth de Vere was not given to flights of fancy where women were concerned and from what he had seen of this particular woman, she did not respond to anything unless she meant to.

And, he realized in some dismay, this woman and her partner had just taken the last three tricks. Taking himself severely to task for letting his concentration slip, even in such a trivial game as this, Gareth pushed all further speculations aside, tantalizing though they were, and concentrated on the game before him.

But it was slowly and unpleasantly borne in on him that wandering attention was not necessarily the reason for the three lost tricks, nor was it blind luck on the part of his opponent, he thought grimly as he surrendered yet another trick. Surprising as it seemed, the dowager and her granddaughter knew what they were about, or at least they knew enough not to give up the advantage of good hands easily.

Pay attention,
Gareth admonished himself as he focused on the cards in his hand and rapidly reviewed in his mind as many of the tricks as he could remember being played. That done, he struggled to identify the method Lady Althea and her partner were using to signal each other as to which cards to play. It was certainly not the obvious one of leading a long suit.

This preoccupation cost him the game, which, as the cards were dealt out for the next, he grimly resolved would be the only one he would concede to the two ladies. His opponents might be better than average players, but there was no need to add to their sense of consequence by losing to them. It was time to stop handing them their tricks and play in earnest.