CHAPTER ONE
The gaggle of giggling girls waiting their turn on the dais was thinning at last. Raoul Ruscoe, Marquis of Lynchmere, standing aloof from the noisy game, passed the remaining debutantes under critical review.
He had so far refrained from adding his voice to those of the enthusiastic bidders. Resigned irritation plucked him from the threatening tedium that dogged his life. He must either participate or endure an earwigging from his cousin. Trust Angelica to think up an idiotic charade of this nature.
If he had known about the auction, nothing would have induced him to present himself at the Latimer ball. Why in Hades had he not followed his instinct when Angelica pressed him to attend?
“You must go, Raoul. I shall not forgive you if you don’t.”
“Good God, why? You know I never attend such affairs.”
From under the pretty cap she wore, Mrs Summerhayes rolled her eyes. “Such a poseur you are, my dear, of course I know. But this time you will, if you please.”
“And if I don’t please?”
The accusation nettled. Angelica, a social butterfly, could not understand the intolerable boredom the pointless round induced in him. He had long abandoned any hope of persuading her that theposeshe complained of was real.
“It makes no matter.” She set a hand on his arm and dropped her tone to a confiding note he recognised. “You will not repeat this, I know, but the Latimers are in desperate straits. Margaret Latimer is my dearest friend and I must do everything I can to help.”
Raoul groaned in spirit. “By dragging me into the business?”
“You will lend a much-needed cachet. I have thought up such a scheme as will make this party the talk of the Season.”
Which was the point where Raoul’s instinct kicked in. He was all too well acquainted with Angelica and her schemes. If his cousin had set one trap to try to induce him into dropping the handkerchief, she had set a dozen.
“I’m having nothing to do with one of your schemes, Angie, I thank you. Consider me out of the picture.”
Her merry laugh had rung out. “You need not panic, Raoul. I’m not trying to marry you off to one of the Latimer twins. Not but what it is high time —”
“Angelica!”
The warning note had its effect. “Oh, very well, but if my dearest aunt had still been alive, you would have been wed long since.”
“Enough! Start on that and I’m off.”
She seized his arm. “No, don’t go. Pray, Raoul, do me this one kindness and I swear I will not ask you for another.”
He all but snorted. “Until the next time.”
“No, I mean it. In any event, I don’t intend to remain in Town once the Latimer do is over. Summerhayes is fretting to be gone, and Nurse sent to say little Sally is missing me and both Hugo and Nicky are driving everyone demented.”
Mention of his obstreperous godsons caused Raoul an inward shudder, but the prospect of Angelica’s departure from the metropolis induced him to relent. He regretted it now, eyeing the young females who had yet to engage a supper companion by means of Angelica’s ingenious ploy to raise the stakes for this confounded event. The Latimer twins were still waiting, presumably having held back to allow their guests to have an early bite of the cherry. If he did not make a move, he would find himself obliged to partner one or other out of sheer courtesy. Was this Angelica’s intention after all? Hell and the devil, had she tricked him?
He glanced from one to the other of the girls. They were alike, but not identical. One had a trifle the superiority in height and hair a lighter shade of brown. Silvestre, was she? An outlandish name for a girl. The other was Henrietta, if he recalled correctly, a shy female and less conversable than her sister. He had danced with both on occasion, to little effect. Would one of them do?
Raoul was conscious of a drop in spirits. Marry he must, no doubt, and in the not too distant future. If the Latimers were all to pieces, as Angelica seemed to suggest…
He was contemplating the unwelcome prospect, glancing from one to the other of the twins in hopes of discerning a preference, when his eye caught on a little redhead hovering at the back of the depleted group.
Who in Hades was that? He put up his quizzing glass, but she was too far away for it to help. Raoul skirted the edge of the crowd about the dais, from where several as yet unaccompanied gentlemen were gallantly bidding for the unprepossessing Maria Ambleside, in her third season and still not betrothed.
The fresh vantage point enabled Raoul to get a better look at the girl with a mop of ill-dressed red hair twisted into some kind of topknot. He could not recall seeing her before. A wispy creature with an elfin face, marred by a profusion of freckles. Had not her mama the sense to use some sort of cosmetic deterrent? He dropped his gaze to the low-cut gown, showing far too much freckled flesh for her scant bosom, and made up in ubiquitous white. Disastrous. She ought to be in jonquil or peach, perhaps green with those copper locks.
Almost as if she felt his critical gaze, the girl turned her head and glanced in his direction. He could swear her eyes widened briefly as they met his. Then she turned quickly away.
“Miss Ambleside is won!”
Lord Nalderwood, the bright young spark presumably inveigled by Angelica into taking the part of the auctioneer, invited young Tarporley to approach and claim his prize. The Ambleside wench was handed down and one of the Latimer twins pushed the little redhead forward. Was she reluctant, or did he imagine it? She certainly hesitated as Nalderwood came to hand her up. A whispered conference ensued and the murmurs of the crowd ceased as the girl took her place on the dais.
