Secrets of a Proper Countess (8 page)

I
f the sharp smell of fresh paint and the new draperies in this small salon were anything to go by, then Phineas was willing to bet that his great-aunt had had every inch of her elegant town house done over for Miranda's debut.

He had arrived early for two reasons. He wanted to see his sister before she set sail on the turbulent seas of the marriage mart. And, his great-aunt did not want him to be seen arriving at her front door with “polite” society.

He eyed the whisky decanter across the room and considered having a drink. It was going to be a long evening, and a trying one. Being in the bosom of his family was like sitting naked in a nest of vipers. He was sure to be bitten before the night was over, and perhaps before it even began, if his grandfather teamed up with Augusta.

He turned as the door opened, but didn't recognize the slender blond beauty until she hitched up her shimmering skirts and came at him running. He opened his arms and caught her.

“Phin!” Miranda hugged him, and his heart constricted. She was all grown up. She was wearing perfume, and silk, and a fortune in jewels. He laid his chin against her artfully styled curls, crowned with the glittering Carrington tiara, and wondered what had happened to the soft yellow braids he used to tug.

He breathed her in. Rosewater, like his mother used to wear.

It wasn't until she stepped back and smiled at him, her blue eyes lit with joy, that he recognized his little sister in the woman before him.

Phineas held her at arm's length and looked at her. She simpered and batted her eyelashes, already a practiced debutante. He kept the smile on his face so he wouldn't disappoint her. She'd obviously been well coached in how to attract a husband. Everything from her gown to her gestures was perfect.

In an hour or so gentlemen would be looking at Miranda as a potential bride, and she would be flirting with countless suitors. She was beautiful enough to attract entirely the wrong kind of attention. He felt his smile slip, and forced it back into place.

“Well?” she asked. “How do I look?” She was practicing her fledgling wiles on him, he realized, and he didn't like it in the least. She shouldn't flirt with rakes like him.

He was tempted to say she looked far too grown up, and remind her that the last time he'd seen her, she was rolling in the orchard with a litter of puppies, her knees skinned, her freckled face sun-kissed and filthy. “You look beautiful,” he managed.

She smiled sweetly and smoothed a gloved hand over her white satin skirt. “Good. I have saved the second dance for you, right after Grandfather. I wanted it to be a waltz, but I have not yet been approved to waltz.”

The idea of Miranda waltzing made Phineas uncomfortable in the extreme. He pictured a man's hand on her waist, his eyes fixed on her fashionably exposed bosom as they swept around the dance floor. His hands curled, resisting the urge to snatch the handkerchief from his pocket and tie it around her neck like a bib.

“Really?” He wondered if she would be foolish enough in her innocence to consent to a walk in the garden, should someone ask.

He stepped closer to her, but she didn't notice the protective gesture. She drew off one elbow length glove and turned to fuss with her curls in the looking glass. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to redden them, then raised sultry eyes to smile coquettishly at her brother's reflection.

“Yes, really. The patronesses of Almack's must give each debutante permission to waltz. I know you are not allowed access to Almack's, of course, because of your reputation, but Great-Aunt Augusta says there are rules that must be followed. I've spent the last year learning them, and I still don't think I know them all.”

“Do you still like puppies?” Phineas asked.

“Puppies?” She accented the word with studied, elegant disbelief. She tossed her head, her eyes sparkling to rival the tiara. “I'm too old for puppies, Phin.”

“No one should be too old for puppies.” He wasn't going to let her out of his sight tonight. Any gentleman who came near her would have to go through him first. These men weren't puppies. They were full grown dogs.

She pulled on her glove with ladylike grace, smoothing the satin in place from wrist to elbow. “Do you know Richard Muir? Or Andrew Compton?”

He did. Their names on his sister's lips made him frown. “Why do you ask?”

“Because they are two of the most eligible gentlemen this Season.”

Phineas frowned. Richard Muir was too old for Miranda and too fond of bedding other men's wives. Andrew Compton gambled more than he could afford to lose and had vowels all over town. Phineas held one of them himself, for an eye-popping amount.

Miranda rattled off the names of other wealthy, titled, single men. “You've made a list?” he asked in surprise.

“Of course. It wouldn't do to waste my time on someone who isn't suitable.”

He scanned her face, read the seriousness there. She had all the tender sentiments of a banker recalling a loan. “How can you expect to fall in love with a name?”

“Love? How silly you are, Phin. What does that have to do with anything? I won't marry a title lower than earl, and he must have at least sixty thousand a year.”

The shrewdness in her blue eyes gave Phineas chills. “You don't marry a title, Miranda. You marry a man. What if you fall in love with a mere second son? Or a vicar?”

She tilted her head like a seasoned flirt. “Don't be ridiculous! Grandfather would reject his suit, of course. As would I.”

Before he could argue, his great-aunt swept into the room, resplendent in emerald silk and diamonds. Even at sixty, Lady Augusta Porter-Penwarren was a handsome woman. “Miranda, your guests will be arriving soon. It's time to go downstairs and prepare to greet them.”

She looked down her aristocratic nose at her great-nephew. “I see you've arrived, Blackwood. I trust you'll remember who and where you are and behave yourself tonight. This is not a brothel.”

He hadn't seen Augusta in more than three years, but the coldness in her eyes hadn't changed, nor had the unmistakable expression of distaste that a rake like him should be tied to her by blood. He bowed, resisting the temptation to horrify her by kissing her cheek.

“I promise I will not seduce a single debutante,” he said with the roguish grin he used to charm older ladies and make them feel like girls again. It had no discernable effect on Augusta.

“You are the worst sort of rake, Blackwood. Unrepentant.”

“Thank you, Great-Aunt.” He stepped forward to offer his arm. “May I escort you downstairs?”

Augusta drew back as if the fine black wool of his sleeve was poisoned. “Certainly not! I expect you to slip in quietly once everyone else has arrived, and not disrupt the evening!”

She turned her back on him as Carrington entered the room, leaving Phineas standing with his arm extended. He lowered it and clasped his hands behind his back, taking care not to let his irritation show.

His grandfather's face lit with pleasure at the sight of Miranda. Phineas's jaw tightened. He had never seen even a vague shadow of the approval that now shone in Carrington's eyes. He reminded himself it was merely a hazard of his profession, of the illusion he had created. He stood apart from his family, like an unwelcome ghost in perfectly tailored evening clothes.

Miranda kissed Carrington's wrinkled cheek, completely unafraid of the old curmudgeon. “Grandfather, you look so handsome tonight. I shall feel like a princess on your arm.”

Carrington smiled down at her, and Augusta adjusted the pleats at the back of Miranda's gown, making a loving family circle that Phineas was not part of. He cleared his throat and watched Carrington's joyful expression harden into the familiar harsh lines as he turned to regard his heir.

“I suppose I should be pleased you're on time, Blackwood.”

“Actually, I'm early.”

“I've warned him to stay out of sight until there's a proper crowd,” Augusta said. “Perhaps no one will notice him.”

Carrington looked surprised. “What? No, I think he should be downstairs. There are several eligible young ladies coming tonight. Do you recall what I told you, Blackwood?”

He didn't bother to reply, and Miranda looked up at her brother. “He thinks it's time you married, Phineas,” she prompted. “Imagine it. We could have a double wedding.”

Phineas looked at her fresh, virginal face and suppressed a shudder. They expected him to choose a girl like his little
sister, a chit right out of the schoolroom with no experience of the world at all. That kind of wife held no appeal. He tried to recall the women he'd known in the past, the many bedmates and mistresses, searching his memory for someone whose conversation he had enjoyed as much as the pleasures of her body. Only one came to mind. A passionate lady in a dark garden.

“I haven't made my list, I'm afraid,” he said, grinning at Miranda, who laughed aloud.

“Miranda!” Lady Augusta admonished. “Ladies do not laugh like horses.”

Miranda clapped a satin-gloved hand over her mouth. “I'm sorry, Great-Aunt. I'll help you make a list of potential brides, Phineas,” she said more demurely.

“A list? There's no need of a list,” Carrington said. “The Duke of Welford's girl is making her come-out this Season. She would be suitable. Good lineage, and a very generous dowry. She has thirty thousand a year, as well. She'd make a fine marchioness, and an excellent duchess.”

Augusta snorted in disbelief. So much for ladies not sounding like horses, Phineas thought. “Welford isn't going to countenance a scapegrace like Blackwood as his son-in-law! If he's to have a chance at the girl at all, he'll have to learn to behave.” She sized him up with a soul-searing glare, as if she doubted such a transformation were possible.

Phineas couldn't resist the challenge. He held her gaze, slowly raising one eyebrow as he let a slow smile spread over his face. A practiced rake was irresistible to
any
lady when he set his mind on seduction, and he played his role well.

He watched two crimson spots rise like twin suns in Augusta's cheeks. She snapped open her fan and flapped it before her flushed face.

“I shall arrange an introduction to Welford's girl this very evening,” she said to cover her confusion. “God help her, though. Come, it's past time we were downstairs.”

Phineas followed his family down the polished oak staircase, two paces behind.

“Blackwood, you will stand at the end of the receiving line, next to Westlake,” Augusta instructed. “I want you as far away from Miranda as possible.”

Phineas ignored the insult, took his place at the entrance to the still-empty ballroom and glanced at his sister. He watched her adjust her posture, thrusting her bosom forward to best advantage, pouting moistened lips, and he cringed. They had turned a happy, loving child into the perfect debutante, ready to become the perfect society wife.

He knew the consequences of marrying for position instead of passion. Such matches were as cold as the cash boxes they were founded on. Bored husbands quickly turned to other women once an heir was born. Lonely, unhappy wives turned to men like him, settling for meaningless affairs in place of love. Surely if she knew, Miranda would want more than wealth to comfort her at night.

The guests began to pour down the marble staircase into Lady Augusta's elegant ballroom. The sibilant swish of silk and the trip of dancing shoes almost drowned out the sound of each exalted name as the butler announced the arrivals.

Phineas scanned the faces of the ladies waiting to enter. Yasmina had not yet arrived, but if she set one delectable toe into the room, he'd know. He bowed over the hand of a disapproving dowager who snatched her fingers away and hoisted her nose in the air as she sailed away on the tide of good society. He looked back at the crowd milling in the doorway.

Yasmina would be here. Every person of consequence in London was here.

All he had to do was wait.

“H
as your mysterious lady made her appearance yet?” Adam asked, taking two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and handing one to Phineas as they stood in the receiving line, waiting for the last guests to arrive. “I suppose she hasn't,” he concluded when his brother-in-law didn't answer. “You're still staring at the door and watching every woman who enters like a hungry dog scenting meat. That's when you're not glaring at any man who dares to look at Miranda, of course. Quite out of character, Phin.”

Phineas didn't appreciate the reminder that he was still expected to play the charming idiot and spend the evening collecting information and secrets, regardless of his family's presence.

“No, Adam, I haven't seen her yet,” he snapped.

“Odd that the only place you've ever seen her is Renshaw House, and now she's the one woman in London you can't find. If she's connected with Renshaw's plans to kidnap the French king, we need to know.”

Phineas watched Sir Harold MacKenzie bow over Miranda's hand, assessing both her bosom and the value of her jewels in a shrewd glance. The man was nearly as old as Carrington, and not nearly as well preserved. From her place next to Miranda, his great-aunt raised her lorgnette and
glared at Phineas suspiciously. He forced himself to smile.

“Are you certain she wasn't foreign? French, perhaps?” Adam suggested in a low voice, dragging his attention back. “Perhaps she's left the city. Or the country.”

Phineas shook his head. “No, she is as English as I am.”

“Why, because she didn't scream
‘mon Dieu'
in the moment of passion?” Adam asked sarcastically.

Phineas gave his brother-in-law a roguish grin. “They all scream
‘mon Dieu,'
Adam. The English ones loudest of all.”

Adam sipped his champagne. “The lady your grandfather is speaking with doesn't look familiar,” he offered.

“That's Lady Morton. Too old, and much too short,” Phineas said.

“And the lady in the yellow gown, there, with the Duchess of Welford?”

Phineas frowned. “That's her daughter, Lady Amelia. We just met her, if you'll recall.” And he had discarded her as a potential bride in the same moment. The simpering, spoiled, horsey type of woman did not even appeal to him as a dinner companion, let alone a wife.

“And next to her?” Adam persisted.

“Miss Anna Charles. Too thin.”

“The one with the lacquered fan in the corner?”

“Not her,” Phineas said firmly. “Stop trying to be helpful.”

“Are you sure you only saw her in the dark?”

Phineas sent him a look of irritation. “I'll know her when I see her.”

“I must remind you of the urgency of doing so, Blackwood. You have a job to do, and—”

Marianne reached around her husband and poked Phineas. “Look, Phin, Isobel Maitland has arrived. And you said she wouldn't come!”

He hadn't said any such thing, Adam had. Phineas watched the widow coming down the stairs. She wore a
gown of brownish-red bombazine that rustled like dry leaves in a graveyard. Her hair was pulled tightly back from her pale face in a severe style twenty years too old for her, and her huge hazel eyes flicked around the room like a pair of nervous hummingbirds before coming to rest on him. He watched her lips part as her face flushed almost as purple as her hideous outfit. She stumbled on the last step, and he reached out to catch her, gripping her elbows to steady her. The soft skin of her upper arm was warm, and he felt the flutter of her breath on his cheek for an instant.

She stared up into his eyes for a frozen moment before she pulled free, looking positively horrified as she stepped back out of reach.

So the widow thought a rake's touch would dishonor her, soil the memory of her dead husband, did she? What did she expect, that he had intended to ravish her on the spot? He'd have to be extremely hard up for that. He felt her newest insult keenly.

He let his disdain show in his eyes, but she didn't look at him again. The toes of her shoes seemed to be fascinating in the extreme. He pasted a carefully bored look on his face as Marianne leapt forward to fawn over the miserable woman.

There was worse to come. Hard on the countess's flat, sensible heels, a portly matron in a ruffled lavender gown descended upon him. He made himself smile charmingly and reach for her hand as she approached, but she pulled back with a gargantuan gasp. Her jaw dropped into a vast set of rippling chins that went all the way down to the overstuffed confines of the low neckline of her gown. She stared at him in horror, effectively blocking the staircase for everyone else.

“Charles, it's
him
!” she cried, her voice surprisingly high-pitched for such a large woman. Phineas had expected a tone like a low note on a pipe organ. She had the frame for it.

“Good evening, Blackwood,” Charles Maitland said
sourly from behind the lavender behemoth, not bothering with any kind of smile at all. “Didn't think
you'd
be here tonight. This is my mother, Lady Honoria, the Dowager Countess of Ashdown.” He joined Phineas in regarding the frozen woman, standing with her hands clutched against her bosom as if Phineas were a rat in her pantry instead of a marquess in a ballroom. “Make your curtsy, for pity's sake, Mother. It won't do to be rude to him.”

Honoria Maitland dipped, and let her eyes wander over him again. Every one of the lady's chins flushed pink. “My my,” she murmured. Charles frowned, and led her on to greet Carrington.

Phineas noted that Charles didn't bother to introduce his sister-in-law. The countess outranked her relations and should have been introduced first, but she trailed behind them like a shadow.

“I see Charles Maitland is here,” Adam said with sarcastic brightness.

“Unfortunately,” Phineas replied. Maitland would no doubt be in the card room for most of the evening. Once Charles had a few glasses of champagne and several tots of brandy, he would ask the man a few subtle questions about Robert Maitland's untimely death. Phineas glanced at the widow, wondering what it would take to loosen
her
tongue.

She moved to make her curtsy to Carrington, only to be knocked aside by Lady Honoria.

“Good evening, Your Grace!” Honoria shrieked at Carrington, dipping so low that Charles had to haul her back up.

Lady Isobel took a step backward and stood apart from her family, her eyes on her mother-in-law's broad backside. Her hands were clasped demurely, her arms white against the darkness of her dress. She looked delicate and dignified, unlike the other Maitlands.

“I suppose Lady Honoria thinks a man of Carrington's
years must be quite deaf,” Adam whispered. “Won't be hard to overhear
that
conversation.”

“Good evening, madam,” the duke said, with the politely blank expression he reserved for people he considered social inferiors. Phineas knew that look well. He watched his grandfather's features harden to full ducal haughtiness as the vast lavender figure before him grinned like a pirate.

“Grandfather, this is Isobel, Countess Ashdown,” Marianne said, but had to catch Carrington's arm and lean around Honoria to point out the slender widow. “Her son is a great friend of Jamie's.” Phineas hid a smile as the old duke reddened at the impropriety of the awkward introduction.

Lady Isobel was jostled by people moving past her, as if she were invisible. But of course she was, Phineas thought. She was hardly the kind of woman to command attention in a crowd, or engender any emotion other than pity. She curtsied again to Carrington as her mother-in-law continued to stand like a wall between herself and the duke.

“Countess Ashdown,” his grandfather murmured, his eyes roaming over her dowdy gown. “And where is the Earl of Ashdown this evening?”

“At home in bed, of course, Your Grace,” Honoria put in before Isobel could speak.

Phineas watched Isobel blush. She didn't move a single submissive line of her body, but he didn't miss the flare of heat in her eyes before she lowered them. Her pulse hammered against the white skin of her throat in agitation, or fury, or embarrassment. Her hands were clasped so tightly her black satin gloves were wrinkled.

“Is he ill?” Carrington asked, looking from Honoria to Charles to Isobel, his brow furrowing in concern.

“Who?” Honoria asked, distracted. Her narrow little eyes had found Miranda. Phineas bristled. She looked like she was considering dining on his sister.

“The Earl of Ashdown, of course,” Carrington said, looking at Isobel. “Your husband, madam?”

“He's dead,” Charles said flatly, also staring at Miranda, who flushed uncertainly as Charles leaned toward her, all but drooling on her, his expression openly lecherous. Phineas started forward, but Adam grabbed his sleeve.

“Careful, Phin,” he murmured. “What would Carrington say if you started a punch-up at your sister's come-out ball before she'd even had her first dance?”

Carrington was regarding Isobel in horrified surprise. She smiled, and it transformed her features. Slightly.

“My
son
is the current Earl of Ashdown, Your Grace. As he is only five, he is indeed at home in bed,” she explained succinctly. Phineas didn't miss the furtive look of exasperation she sent Honoria and Charles, but they did, since it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

It was obvious the lady did not like her relatives by marriage. There was anger in the tilt of the countess's head, in the tight muscles in her jaw and slender neck, yet her face remained free of any emotion at all. Now that made her interesting, in his opinion.

If Isobel Maitland had a secret, he'd know it before the night was through.

Phineas glanced at his grandfather, still beset by Charles and Honoria. There was a dangerous tic starting under Carrington's right eye.

“Thank you for coming,” the duke said pointedly, but the Maitlands would not be dismissed.

“How soon will you be taking offers for Lady Miranda's hand?” Honoria asked, and Phineas felt every nerve in his body heat. He finished the champagne in a gulp and set the glass down with exaggerated care.

“Steady, old man,” Adam warned again. Phineas put his fist behind his back and watched Charles smirk at Miranda.
She swallowed nervously, the pearls around her neck bobbing.

Carrington's complexion reddened at the question, and Augusta snapped her fan open with a crack like a pistol shot.

“I will not be entertaining serious offers for some weeks yet,” Carrington replied, his tone brittle. Phineas felt a warm flush of family pride. It was nice to see that there was someone Carrington disliked as much as his own heir. He felt a smirk tug at his lips, and looked up to find Isobel watching him. She looked away at once, fading backward into the crowd like a ghost, instantly subsumed into the crush of living bodies.

“Perhaps we should invite Charles to dinner, and pick his brain for secrets. He seems quite taken with Miranda,” Adam mused, and Phineas shot him a hot glare.

“There are ways to get information that don't require torture,” Phineas said.

“Good lord, Phin, I wasn't suggesting torture!”

“What else would you call dinner with a boor like Maitland?”

At the top of the stairs, the footmen closed the doors to the ballroom with a decisive thud, signaling that all the invited guests had arrived.

Phineas felt his stomach sink.
She
hadn't arrived. Either that or he'd been so distracted by the damned Maitlands that he hadn't noticed her.

As the orchestra struck up the first notes, and his grandfather took Miranda's hand and swept her onto the dance floor, Phineas scanned the crowd. It had been days since Evelyn's ball, yet he remembered how Yasmina smelled, how she tasted, how she felt in his arms.

He just had no idea what she
looked
like. He racked his brain, trying to put scanty clues together and assemble a woman.

She was tall, since the top of the little cap she'd worn had
reached his ear. Several women present fit that description, but he knew all of them.

Yasmina had full, delicious breasts. They'd been hidden from view under her costume, of course, but he held them in his hands in the dark, heard her sigh, felt her nipples harden at his touch.

His hands curled against his sides as he stared at the ample and well-displayed breasts that filled his great-aunt's ballroom, trying to picture them naked, measuring them in handfuls.

He remembered her perfume, something exotic and unforgettable, but he could hardly prowl the ballroom sniffing ladies' necks. That kind of behavior would ensure he'd have more duels arranged for dawn than he could fight in a month, and he made it a rule never to be seen out of bed before noon. Rising early after a debauched night in the lowest gaming hells and gentlemen's clubs in London would hardly fit with the image of a carefree rake he'd so carefully cultivated. Nor would it do to be seen dueling for something as trifling to a rogue as a lady's honor.

He had no idea what color her hair might be, but he remembered her mouth. Her lips were full, and she'd tasted of champagne when he kissed her. There wasn't a single woman in view with a mouth full enough, or red enough, or mobile enough to be hers.

Phineas shut his eyes. He was standing in his aunt's ballroom, at his sister's debut ball, staring at the female guests with a very inconvenient erection.

Damn Yasmina!

He backed toward the nearest pillar, wondering if he could slip out of the room without anyone noticing. He needed some air. He needed—

“Eek!”

He stepped on something soft and turned. Isobel Maitland
stood in the shadows behind him, clutching the toe of her slippered foot awkwardly, her face furrowed in pain.

He instinctively stepped forward to shield her from the curious eyes around them as she recovered. It hardly seemed necessary. Her dull gown almost matched the heavy shadows that filled the corner she'd chosen. Her pale face floated in the gloom.