Secrets of a Proper Countess (9 page)

“Your pardon, Countess Ashdown. I didn't see you there,” he said sarcastically, irritated that it should be
her
of all people. “I don't know how I could have failed to notice you in the dark.”

She righted herself, leaning on the pillar, her bare, ungloved hand as white as the marble. “It's quite all right. I didn't expect you to back up, or I would have gotten out of your way, my lord,” she said in the same frosty tone he'd used.

Despite her polite words, her eyes glittered in silent reproof and her lips were pursed in disapproval. It annoyed him that this dowdy creature should find him repulsive. Women of her sort usually found his attentions flattering.

“Are you enjoying the party?” he asked, knowing she was not—could not—from the dark corner she'd chosen to hide in. She blushed, the added color a distinct improvement to her looks. Her long lashes swept downward over high, elegant cheekbones. He had a sudden urge to snatch the pins out of her matronly coiffure, to loosen both her auburn hair and the lady herself and see what Isobel Maitland
really
looked like. “Perhaps you'd like some champagne?”

Her mouth rippled in response, but she folded her lips between her teeth, pressing the color out of them. “No thank you,” she said primly.

He stood beside her awkwardly. It would be rude to walk away and leave her alone. He took the opportunity to study her as she stared at the tiled floor. Under purely masculine
appraisal, without any bias for her shrewish personality, the severe hairstyle and lack of jewels, the feminine body under the ghastly dress was surprisingly good.

“Marianne is pleased that you came tonight,” he said less harshly, but the comment merely earned him a sharp look of suspicion. “I am trying to make polite conversation, my lady. It would be helpful if you participated. You might say something about how many people my great-aunt has managed to cram into this overly warm room tonight, or mention the pleasantness of the weather. It needn't be witty, if that's a strain for you.”

He hadn't imagined she'd understand the biting comment, but her eyes shot to meet his, a fire kindling in their golden depths.

“It has been a cold, wet spring, save for yesterday,” she said, “and I understand that the number of people here tonight is due to the fact that there is a debut ball taking place. I would be surprised if there was an unmarried gentleman to be found anywhere else in London, given Lady Miranda's fortune and beauty. Marianne tells me that you are likewise seeking a wife, my lord, which possibly accounts for the vast numbers of ladies, wouldn't you say?”

He blinked at her, read the keen wit in her eyes. Marianne was right. She did have pretty eyes, he admitted grudgingly, molten pools of copper and gold, as if an alchemist had taken the lumpen lead of her appearance and transformed it into something precious. It annoyed him that this dull, difficult widow should have redeeming features.

“And you, Countess?” he asked coldly. “If I recollect, your husband died several years ago. Is it not time to come out of mourning and find another?”

The color in her face fled and she glanced around nervously. She met his eyes, her expression expectant for a brief instant, before she lowered her gaze to stare at his waistcoat.

Phineas felt a sharp jab of horror. Good God, surely she didn't think he meant it as an offer? Even if he did, it would have been a compliment to her, a marquess proposing to a peahen. It would hardly warrant the look of embarrassment on her face.

Perhaps she had loved Robert Maitland, and he had been boorish enough to remind her of her loss. He watched her sag under the cruel blow of his thoughtless comment. This was the moment to ask her a few questions about Robert, but he could not bring himself to flirt with
her,
of all women, to charm the information out of her.

“I did not mean to suggest—” he began, ready to console her, but she recovered instantly. Straightening her spine, she rose upward like a flower on a stem too fragile for the blossom. Her vulnerability fled and she regarded him with ferocity in her luminous eyes, pride clear in every elegant line of her body. Her breasts heaved under the hissing fabric of her dress as she glared at him.

“I believe the first dance has ended, my lord, and Lady Miranda is looking for you.” She turned her head away to look out over the crowd, her long neck a white column of indignation.

Phineas realized he'd been dismissed. He didn't like it. Not from her. She should be grateful he'd taken the time to exchange a few words with her at all. It would surely prove the highlight of her evening, since no one else was likely to come near her. He bowed stiffly and walked away, not bothering to bid her good evening.

 

Isobel dropped her gaze to the black and white marble floor so she would not see him walk away from her, but her eyes were inexorably drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. He was a very stupid man, possibly the greatest fool she had ever met, and that included Charles and Robert and her father
too. She also tarred him with the sins of arrogance and rudeness. He had no idea who she was, who she had been to him.

She watched as he bowed gallantly to his sister and led her onto the dance floor. He smiled lovingly at Miranda as they danced. Isobel's toes curled and her breath caught in her throat. She remembered the warmth in his eyes at Evelyn's ball, eyes that never left hers, as if she were the most fascinating woman on earth. She felt her heart skip a beat, curl into a tight, hard knot inside her empty chest. It had meant nothing. The man was a heartless rake, an inveterate flirt and not worth another thought.

But she bit the inside of her cheek as he executed the dance's intricate steps perfectly, his athletic body moving easily in time with the music, all masculine pride and perfection.

Isobel licked her lips, suddenly dry, and longed for that glass of champagne, but knew she dare not indulge while Honoria was close by. She was forbidden to drink spirits at social functions, in case she became intoxicated and found herself contemplating an affair with an Italian musician, as her mother had. She glanced at the orchestra. Not one of them looked even remotely Italian. Nor was there a man among them she would consider giving up everything for.

Not one of them was Blackwood.

The dance ended and Blackwood handed his sister to her next partner and retreated to lean against a pillar near her own, his eyes on the crowd. He did not even glance in her direction, though she was not a dozen feet away. He took a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed. Her mouth watered, tasting the wine vicariously.

His eyes were on Miranda, engaged in the next dance, her smile bright and sweet and teasing. Blackwood's mouth by contrast was twisted, and his eyes were hot enough to
burn holes in the fine black wool coats of the gentlemen who danced attendance on his sister.

He was protective, she thought, feeling a frisson of unbidden jealousy skitter across her nerves. What a hypocrite he was. He preyed on women, seduced them, then discarded them. He'd likely forgotten his encounter with Yasmina altogether. He'd probably seduced ten women since that night, though it was only six days ago. Not that she was counting. The memory of his body on hers made her gasp, shiver, and she forced herself to stay placid and unconcerned, though her heart threatened to burst from her chest and fall at his feet.

She watched in dismay as a giggling lady in the most fashionable shade of pink taffeta beckoned him to dance, and he went, smiling that rogue's smile of his. Every fiber of Isobel's being yearned to be held in his arms, flying around the dance floor. He swept by her corner a dozen times and never even looked her way, and she held her breath as he whispered something in the lady's ear that made her blush as pink as her gown.

Isobel did not dare to breathe, in case it came back out as a scream. She stood very still and waited for him to lead his pretty partner through the open French doors, but he did not. He bowed and chose another lady to dance with. Only dance. The heavy weight of bitter relief nearly dragged her to her knees.

She raised a shaking hand to her mouth to hide the twist of her lips, and resisted the urge to sob. It hardly mattered. No one was looking at her. Not even Honoria. She didn't just blend into the shadows. She was becoming one of them.

“G
ood morning, Blackwood. Isn't it rather early in the day for you to be up? I can't recall the last time I saw you in full daylight.”

Phineas rolled his eyes at the jest and ignored the speaker, whoever he was. He was right, though. It was barely ten o'clock, and he'd been up for hours, but only because he hadn't been able to sleep. Yasmina still plagued his mind, and his body.

“I didn't get the chance to say hello to you at the ball last night. Your sister looked lovely, of course. Very lovely.”

That got Phineas's attention. He stopped what he was doing, which was running his hand over the silken fetlock of a particularly pretty mare, and glanced up at Gilbert Fielding, an old friend he hardly saw anymore. Gilbert was impeccably respectable, and rarely descended to the kind of low places he himself frequented. He scanned the man's pleasant face, pleased to see it free of any lewd innuendo with regard to Miranda. He relaxed a little, letting the grim edges of his scowl soften.

“Fielding,” he said by way of greeting, and stroked the mare's nose. She whickered her appreciation and buried her face in his greatcoat, searching for treats. Typical female.

“Looking for a horse?” Gilbert asked, and Phineas raised an eyebrow.

“Why else would a man get up at this ungodly hour and come to Tattersall's?” he asked. “I'm looking for a suitable riding horse for my sister. The nags in my great-aunt's stable are a trifle staid for Miranda.” She'd mentioned it at supper last night while flirting with some
ton
fop.
He'd
send flowers this morning, but Phineas intended to make a grander gesture. He couldn't recall the last gift he'd given her. That had been one of the problems that kept him awake, trying to imagine how he might protect Miranda from predatory suitors, or at least distract her. He decided to buy her a horse.

The other problem was that Yasmina had not come to the ball. He was beginning to think he'd imagined her after all. A bitter mix of frustrated lust and disappointment brought the scowl back again.

“May I say that this lovely lass would be a perfect match for such a beauty as Lady Miranda?” Gilbert said as he ran a gentle hand along the horse's side, looking at her with clear admiration. Phineas wondered if he was thinking of the horse or the lady.

Phineas nodded to the trainer, and the lad moved off at a run to show the potential buyer the mare's paces.

“So what brings you here, Gil?” Phineas asked, strolling over to lean on the fence, his eyes on the mare.

“I've come to find a horse suitable for an army captain,” Gilbert said morosely.

Phineas took note of the grim set of Gilbert's mouth. “Your father will have his way after all?”

Gilbert sighed. “So it seems. He insists I buy a commission in the army. He won't have his second-born son living a useless life. He has, bless his heart, given me reprieve until the end of the Season to find a rich wife if I can.” He looked at the sky, which was threatening an icy spring downpour at any moment. “At least Spain is warm, I hear.”

“Have you any prospects?” Phineas asked.

Gilbert pointed. “That gray stallion appeals to me. I like the wary look in his eyes, as if he's sensible enough to run the minute danger threatens, and take me out of harm's way along with him.”

“I meant prospective brides, actually,” Phineas said.

Gilbert's smile slipped. “No, not yet. The Season is young, however. Unfortunately, I am even more selective of potential brides than I am of horseflesh.”

“Good teeth, strong legs, twenty thousand a year?” Phineas supplied.

“Twenty thousand? I'd settle for three, as long as we had some regard for each other. I want a
wife
, not just an income. Of course, a very wealthy wife could be just as easy to love if she were the right woman, don't you think? Take Lady Miranda, for example.” He shot Phineas a glance, half hopeful, half teasing.

Phineas felt his lips twist bitterly. “Forget it, Fielding. Carrington expects her to marry a title, and you haven't got one.”

Gilbert looked away, following the mare's progress from walk to trot. She was parading prettily, like a debutante making her way down Bond Street before an admiring crowd of gentlemen. “Poor devil, whoever her husband turns out to be. Anyone married to Miranda would also find himself related to you.”

He said it lightly, without malice or insult, a jest to ease the awkwardness, and Phineas took it as such.

Gilbert gestured at the far paddock. “I think I'll go over and have a look at that stallion. I like him. His coloring will look well with a scarlet captain's tunic, don't you think? There's no use waiting until the last minute to choose a good cavalry horse.”

Phineas watched him stride away with his head high. There was pride in every step he took over the muddy ground.
Gilbert was well aware of his lowly status as a second son and unlikely marriage prospect for any lass with a fortune, and he had callously reminded him of it.

He hadn't meant to offend Fielding. He was a decent fellow, Phineas thought, and in truth he liked him. Gilbert gambled, but never to excess. He drank, but was never unruly or mean when in his cups. He treated every woman—even whores and servant girls—with courtesy. He was a thoroughly likable chap, despite being born out of the money.

Phineas squinted at him. He supposed Fielding was good looking, though only a woman would be able to judge for certain. He'd make a respectable woman a decent husband, but he would make a dreadful army officer, in his opinion. Gilbert was too quiet and too polite.

Of course, he could put the matter in Marianne's capable hands. She'd find Gilbert a suitable lady, or die in the attempt. He racked his brain to think of a woman with money who just happened to need a husband.

Isobel Maitland sprang to mind. She was wealthy, and still young, and she was—He frowned.

Was what? Pretty?

He pushed the image of her fine eyes and sharp tongue out of his mind and pulled the collar of his greatcoat higher. She wasn't right for Gilbert.

It was starting to drizzle. He had hoped to take the mare to Miranda this morning, ask her to go riding with him in Hyde Park. The old Miranda would've gone no matter what the weather, just to try the horse. This Miranda would probably be afraid of getting her new handmade riding boots wet.

If only he could find a man like Gilbert Fielding for Miranda. It really was a pity he didn't have even a minor title, or a manor house, or even so much as a small dower farm of his own.

Phineas nodded to the winded groom as he ran up with the mare. The animal's fine dark eyes twinkled at him coquettishly, and she tossed her golden mane for him, arching her strong, supple neck to best advantage. She was a born flirt, and perfect for Miranda.

“I'll take her,” he said.