Rogue in Red Velvet (30 page)

Connie grinned. It was just as if someone had told the sender what she’d be wearing. Which, of course, they must have done. Because she wore a gown of ivory and lilac, the base color ivory, with a pattern of vines, grapes and here and there a small, colorful bird adding to the effect. The birds had brilliants for eyes but they were sprinkled randomly over the pattern, so when she moved, she glittered. A new amethyst necklace, bracelet and hair ornament made a modest parure but a pretty one. She had insisted on paying for her ensemble this time. She would stand before society tonight as her own woman with her own estate and expectations. They could snub her or accept her on those terms.

She took the flowers from her maid and buried her nose in them. Only to draw back with a sharp, “Ouch! These flowers are hard!”

Nestled in their depths was a brooch. Amethyst, surrounded by diamonds, glittering with the ferocity of the brilliant cut. The amethyst was magnificent, too, a deep, rich purple that meant it was a very fine stone indeed.

“Oh, Mrs. Rattigan, ma’am.” Saxton’s awed tones brought her back to the present. There was no note with the flowers, merely a card, one of Alex’s embossed calling cards. Not even his initials scrawled carelessly at the bottom.

If she didn’t wear it, he’d think she’d rejected him. If she wore it, then what? And if he’d told other people about it, they’d be looking for it, too. It could be a family piece. She turned it over. No, she didn’t think so. It was too new, the gold gleaming, no sign of wear that would come with an older piece. She couldn’t even say it wouldn’t go with her dress, because it did, superbly.

Sighing, she gave in and let Saxton pin the brooch to the center of her neckline, where her cleavage swelled above the tight stays. She flicked the lace half over it, so it would flash and tease, rather than blaze. The diamonds on it outshone anything Connie owned.

At least, as the Dankworth heir, she could pay the Wintertons for the clothes. Or rather, Alex. When Helena admitted he’d paid for them, she’d asked Connie not to think too badly of him. For all the indignation Connie could muster, now her temper had subsided, she couldn’t. Everything he’d done, everything had been for her. Which was the problem. She didn’t want to be cared for so much that she never had to think for herself. To be an object, rather than doing.

Even though she’d powdered her hair tonight Connie looked well enough. Saxton had used a very pale grey-blue shade that suited her creamy coloring much better than stark white, which tended to make her appear sallow and left a few curls nestled teasingly against her neck.

She put on her long evening gloves and picked up the flowers and her fan. Flicking it open, she held it in front of her face as if flirting with an imaginary admirer.
Yes.

She’d allowed Saxton to apply a tiny patch just above the corner of her left eye. She laughed at the effect, saucy and flirtatious. Clothes should never be deadly serious, Julius had told her and she found him proved right. Julius always had something on his person, a snuffbox with an odd design, something unusual in the embroidery of his waistcoats, or even just a quizzing glass that would make the observer smile.

Perhaps that was her problem. She took life too seriously. Until recently, she’d had no reason not to.

She’d smiled a lot more recently and that was despite the worry that had kept her awake at night. Life just seemed to have gone up a gear, like a cog moving to a larger cog, the same but more.

She was smiling when she went downstairs and met Helena in her ballroom glory. Helena wore blue, the moiré silk rippling over elegantly embroidered white silk and a sapphire and diamond parure.

Connie exclaimed, “Goodness, looking at those for too long could blind someone.”

Helena laughed. “Julius bought them for me.”

“A small apology,” her brother remarked, coming out of the book room at the back of the house and joining them

His clothes never ceased to astound Connie. Tonight was no exception but he didn’t linger to let her get more than an impression of rich, dark blue, enriched with crimson and rubies, before he led the way to the carriage.

Kirkburton House was, Julius told her, a remnant of an earlier time when the great London houses of the rich had lined the Thames. Few remained, the wealthy moving out to smaller houses near the park. Kirkburton had an elegant enfilade of staterooms and these were all open tonight.

Night had not yet fallen but once it did the elegant torchères set in holders by the double doors at the front and at intervals around the courtyard would be lit, flooding the area with golden light. Connie stepped out, awed by the great house, light streaming on to the flagstones of the courtyard, liveried footmen standing by every door and wondering if she could bear the thrill of it, or would die of excitement well before the ball opened at eight.

They would serve supper at eleven and the ball would end in the early hours of the morning. And yet most of the attendees would be up and attending church in the morning, probably at one of the fashionable churches, St George’s or St. Martin’s, although many people tended to use the bottom-achingly long sermons as a chance to catch up on their sleep. One vicar had asked a gentleman in a pew near the front to stop snoring, for fear he would wake the king. Or so Julius had told her and Connie wanted to believe the story, so she did.

Julius’s parents greeted them, with Lord and Lady Downholland. Connie curtseyed to the formidable Duke and Duchess of Kirkburton, the duke a full-figured gentleman, the tiny duchess’s waist so nipped-in Connie thought she could circle it with her hands. Not that she’d dream of doing such a thing.

She dropped a curtsey to Lady Lucinda, Julius’s sister, younger than him by a good twelve years. She’d met pretty, lively Lady Lucinda before and enjoyed her company immensely. She embraced her godparents fondly, ignoring the duchess’s indignant sniff. At least the lady didn’t cut her again.

They went up to the drawing room, where the presence of at least thirty guests momentarily nonplussed her. She’d had no idea dinner would be so grand. Since this was Kirkburton House, they went in by rank, so although Connie got her first sight of Alex for days, she couldn’t talk to him. Women surrounded him, cooing and batting their eyes and Alex looked deeply bored, at least he did to Connie’s prejudiced eyes.

Why fight it? She loved him. She couldn’t hide from that simple fact.

They exchanged one swift look and he smiled and bowed and even from across the room, his expression softened, the lines around his mouth easing. He wore green figured velvet, with a waistcoat embroidered with purple and green. Of course, he would. It was like a message, the way they complimented each other, his clothes echoing hers but not too close for anyone to remark on it.

She wanted to cross the room to him there and then, the reason for her anger with him, if not forgotten, then forgiven. Let the world go hang, let the ball go, too. She’d go with him now, if he asked her.

He turned away and addressed a woman to his left. He was seemingly uncaring of her presence. Perhaps the brooch was a farewell gift. Perhaps he didn’t want her any longer.

* * * *

Alex couldn’t look at Connie any longer. If he did, he’d cross the room and drag her out of it. She looked beautiful, ethereal, like she’d stepped out of a portrait, crisp and new. The way she looked at him, her heart in her eyes, killed him. Would she reject him tonight? But no, she carried his flowers. And the glint when she moved indicated the presence of his brooch.

She wouldn’t reject him. At least she’d talk to him but he didn’t know what else she’d do. Thinking about her was driving him mad. Last night he’d rolled over in bed, reaching for her and woken up when all he’d found was a cold pillow.

He wanted her so badly he couldn’t think properly. Every time he set his mind to his plans for tonight or tomorrow, thoughts of Connie stopped him cold, hardened his cock and turned his mind into one aching mess of need. Eventually, he’d given up.

Turning his attention to the nearest person, he found Louisa Stobart gazing up at him with eyes as big as guineas. “You’re enjoying the evening?” he asked.

“Yes indeed, sir, my lord. I’m surprised not to find my fiancé here.”

“I believe he’s attending the ball tonight.” As he said the words, Dankworth strode through the door, like the proverbial bad penny. He wore crimson. Apt, or maybe black would have worked better. He just didn’t know it yet.

Julius had informed Alex of the change in Connie’s fortunes. Coldness crept into his veins when he realized the news would infuriate Dankworth, perhaps make him desperate enough to make another play for her, although if he came too close to Connie, Alex would kill him.

For once Alex was glad of the women who had homed in on him, one of the unattached men in the room, because Dankworth couldn’t get near him, especially when Miss Stobart slipped away to stand by his side. Dankworth greeted his godparents, who gave him a civilly cool reception and then the Kirkburtons.

Alex guessed why Jasper Dankworth was present at dinner. Dankworth must see it as an advance in his societal ambitions but he would discover exactly the opposite.

They went into dinner, Connie escorted by Sir Frederick Masters, a good enough chap but a widower with children, ostensibly an excellent match for Connie. Not that the man would get a chance, if Alex had his way. His partner was the daughter of an earl, a lady whose name escaped him until she reminded him, which she did volubly and often, just in case it slipped his mind again.

Being in Connie’s presence again, however distantly, intoxicated him. Alex caught his father watching him at intervals through the meal. Lord Leverton had noticed his partiality. He had accepted Alex’s decision to pursue Connie with reluctance but accepted it.

The dinner went on and on, three courses with at least a two dozen removes for each course, the plethora of dishes leaving Alex bored with having to choose. He partook of the food closest to his place, careless of what it was, so he found himself eating stuffed pigeon, which he disliked and steamed broccoli with a white sauce, which he liked only a tiny bit more.

Conversation he found tedious, although similar to the usual dinner table conversation and since the country was heading rapidly into war, more vital than usual. The table was abuzz with the Duke of Newcastle’s failing hold on the Government and the consequent rise of rivals Fox and Pitt. Frankly, Alex didn’t care much one way or the other, although a month ago he would have taken intense interest in the turmoil in which Parliament found itself.

Now the only thing he cared about was the well-being of one lovely woman, one he could watch but not touch or talk to. She looked so beautiful, that shade of lavender perfect on her. He’d dress her in satins and velvets, furs and fine silk but first, he’d undress her, because she was loveliest in nothing at all. If she ever let him close to her again. She must.

At last, after several hours and much spirited debate, some of which he forced himself to speak about, because otherwise, everyone would notice how moonstruck he was, the resplendently liveried footmen cleared the covers and set out the dessert.

The Kirkburtons owned a wonderful set of dessert dishes and figurines. Dishes that represented melons, pears, apples, bunches of celery and asparagus were placed on the table, interspersed with figurines, tonight a set of rural figures, shepherds and shepherdesses, fauns and nymphs, their shapes reflected in the polished gleam of mahogany. Every dish contained a fruit or a sweet, all counter to the containers, so the melon might contain candied lemon slices, the celery a rhubarb compote. Alex took some nuts, which he found in a dish depicting an artichoke and offered some to his companion, who smiled and accepted. The servants brought champagne instead of the usual dessert wine and Lord Downholland got to his feet to begin the toasts.

The bubbles in his glass foamed and sparkled as he lifted it, the candlelight turning it to a bright shimmer., Alex leaned back so he could keep Dankworth in the compass of his gaze while he listened to Lord Downholland. This should prove
very
enjoyable.

The guests fell silent, waiting for the toasts to begin. Usually the ladies would join in a couple, toast the king and their hosts then move to the drawing room. Alex guessed they would prolong that small ritual tonight to include an announcement.

Lord Downholland got to his feet. “My lords, ladies, gentlemen, welcome to the ball tonight. My thanks to the Duke and Duchess of Kirkburton, who have kindly allowed me to lead you in thanks.” He toasted. Everyone drank.

Downholland stayed on his feet. “If I may tax your patience a moment longer, I have a small announcement to make. This ball tonight is partly to introduce my goddaughter to the ton and so it seems appropriate. My lady and I have recently made some adjustments to our will.” Dankworth smiled indulgently at his fiancée reaching out to touch her hand. He had done that frequently throughout the meal, his touches almost amounting to pawing.

Lord Downholland glanced at him and continued. “Our goddaughter and niece Constance Rattigan has been like a true daughter to us, especially since the sad demise of her father some years ago. We have always welcomed her whenever she chose to visit us. We have been considering how to show Constance how much we care for her and her happiness.” Jasper’s smile froze and he shot a sharp glare at Connie.Downholland gave Connie a fond smile, which she returned. “Consequently, we have decided that she should receive the bulk of our estate on my death, apart from a few personal bequests.”