‘As long as I don’t spoil it by appearing sulky and disagreeable,’ Allegra replied, a touch wearily.
‘As you so often do,’ Mrs Constantine shot back. ‘You might have a greater choice of suitors if you did not. But I have observed that the ones you have don’t seem to mind in the least. Perhaps they regard it as a perverse challenge of some kind, perhaps even they like it; men are so odd. And so I shall no longer waste my breath saying,donotscowl,since you never pay me any heed.’
Allegra was simmering with resentment as she climbed intotheir shabby carriage. Her mother always knew how to outmanoeuvre her, and did it deliberately; if she couldn’t rely upon her forbidding looks to drive the men away, if her dark glowers perhaps even attracted them, where did that leave her? Exactly where she had been before, she supposed – trapped, forced to watch, listen, and in the end to choose. But not tonight, surely.
It was a come-out ball at a private house – a coveted invitation that Mrs Constantine had obtained by her usual mysterious means – and the evening as it progressed grew so sultry that the tall ballroom windows were thrown open to allow welcome currents of cooler air into the room, along with the heady, dangerous scents of summer. The chaperons would have their work cut out for the next few hours – it would be all too easy for couples to slip out unnoticed into the warm night and conceal themselves in the shadows of the terrace, or the garden beyond. There was no moon to betray them; it was all too tempting.
Allegra did dance twice with Lord Milton, since he chose to single her out so markedly, but he showed not the least disposition to take her outside into the darkness and further their acquaintance in such a scandalous manner. Sir Harry didn’t suggest it either; obviously such a shocking idea hadn’t so much as occurred to him.
But Mr Englishby did.
5
Mr Severin strolled out into the garden, his soft evening shoes making no sound on the paving stones, and stood on the terrace, looking casually about him. It was stifling in the ballroom; he needed air. A less cynically self-aware man might have left it at that, but Max Severin did not make a habit of comfortable self-deception, or tried not to. And so he admitted freely to himself that he had been drawn here by Miss Allegra Constantine, who’d just slipped out through the French windows with that young cub Englishby, and now was nowhere to be seen.
He was reasonably sure nobody had noticed their departure but him – the ballroom was preposterously crowded – and they’d hardly been the first to sneak away, nor would they be the last. Before the night was done the shrubbery would be near as packed as the dance floor. And why should he care if half the debutantes in London were debauched on this lovely evening, if he did not have a hand in it and bore no part of the blame, this time? But still, here he was.
It was none of his business, of course, what Miss Constantine did, even if she chose to ruin her reputation forever, or landedherself in a position where she was obliged to marry her seducer. And again, another man might have shrugged the whole affair off, putting on a hypocritically disapproving face. It was all too easy to imagine what they were about, or soon would be, two young people alone and unchaperoned in the dark: shocking. But he wasn’t shocked. Nothing shocked him, and few things surprised him. Perhaps he was simply envious. Perhaps that lay at the root of it.
Miss Constantine was by way of being a fortune hunter, of course; but then, all women were. They had no option. Their lives in this so-called polite society were a struggle as vicious as anything in nature. He hadn’t always been rich himself, he’d been born into very different circumstances, and so he didn’t criticise them; like most people in this world, they did what they must in order to survive. Therefore it was undeniable that Allegra Constantine’s mercenary qualities alone didn’t make her stand out from all the rest. He wasn’t sure what did.
He could have said that she was beautiful, but that was nonsense. She wasn’t; by conventional standards she was hardly more than tolerable. And there was no need to settle for the merely tolerable when true beauty of every kind was on display inside the mansion: dark and fair and Titian red and every shade in between. Of the dark women, most were taller and many were lovelier than Miss Constantine, showing a much more pleasing symmetry of feature and – God knows – far greater amiability of expression, since she had in general the appearance and manners of a sulky brat.
Some of the diamonds of the ton – though not so many – had more splendid figures than Miss Allegra did. Most of these temptingly statuesque women were married, or safely widowed, and their downcast lashes and flirtatious smiles held enticement without danger; their glances signalled that they could be had, inmutual pleasure, enjoyed, and left. This was far from true of a little squab of a debutante, if one was not inclined to marry. So Englishby was playing a dangerous game tonight, if he was thinking he could taste the peaches without buying the shop. But perhaps he didn’t have any such hope – perhaps to compromise Miss Constantine irrevocably and make her his was exactly what he wanted. Or maybe – and here Mr Severin really should sympathise – he was merely blinded with lust and lost to all rational thought.
Was Max himself in as bad a case? He feared he might be. It was all most curious and unwelcome, this new fixation of his. He could so easily have chosen to look elsewhere tonight, or any night, and let his lascivious gaze linger in relative safety. Married women were permitted a greater display of deliciously tempting flesh – the current Grecian mode for thin, clinging gowns, low bodices and almost non-existent sleeves meant that a lady who was established in society and had caught herself a husband already could reveal more than at almost any previous time in history, if she wished. And so many of them did wish. Unmarried girls must be more discreet, and so Miss Constantine’s gowns never had anything exceptionable about them. He had no idea why the near-transparent muslin slipping languorously over the thicker silk of her under-gown affected him so deeply. When she had trodden the steps of a vigorous country set with that young puppy Eager, and her flimsy sleeves had flown back in motion to reveal her bare, rounded shoulders, he’d been pierced with a sudden pang of wanting so sharp it had taken even him by surprise. He was suddenly hard for her. He’d almost gasped. It was sadly out of character, to be so ambushed by fierce desire for an unobtainable woman; thank God it was his secret and would remain so.
She was out of breath by the time the dance ended, flushedand laughing, her bosom heaving under the thin muslin, showing tantalising glimpses of delectably ample flesh beneath it with each exhalation. If he could have done anything in the world in that moment, if he’d been ruler of the universe and free to act without consequences, if he’d been Napoleon Bonaparte, say, he’d have seized her, lifted her off her feet and buried his face in her. Ignored the shocked cries from those around her. Kissed her damp skin. Freed her lovely breasts and pressed his lips urgently to them. Pushed her up against a wall – everyone else in the ballroom, most decidedly including her mother, would have conveniently disappeared by this point. Plundered her eager mouth. Thrust up her skirts…
It was a quirk of nature, he supposed, that she should affect him so when others more obviously and conventionally appealing did not. She was a passably attractive female with no particular accomplishments – he didn’t give a fig for accomplishments, but he’d heard her play on the pianoforte and had no desire to repeat the experience – no fortune, and a large and inconvenient family. He must admit, she had an appealing figure, but so did many another. Most people would consider her brows far too heavy for beauty, and her mouth, the whole set of her countenance, unforgivably ill-tempered. Nobody would write poetry to her, and if they did they wouldn’t be comparing her eyes to limpid pools, or any fustian of that sort. They were dark and stormy and all too often flashing with indignation at some poor fool or other who’d offended her. And yet it delighted him beyond reason to see her so often furious and so entirely unable to conceal it.
He knew this because her emotions were almost always written plainly on that sulky little face for anyone to read. For him to read, certainly. Often she was bored, as well she might be. Usually she was angry to some degree. Irritated. Annoyed. Vexed.Most of all she was vexed when she saw him watching. He knew she’d noticed that; whatever else she was, she wasn’t stupid.
It had become a sort of game to him, to provoke her without a word spoken between them, and it was making this Season far more entertaining than any other he could recall. She’d been enraged this afternoon, when her two young swains had been making cakes of themselves in trying to instruct her how to wield a bow and nearly calling each other out over it, Milton had loitered uselessly by like a marble statue of one of the more languid Greek gods, doing nothing to prevent them, and Max himself had set the cherry on the top of the cake by standing rudely close and letting her see how damned amusing he found it all. She’d sent the pair of them about their business in the end and deftly engineered that she should be alone with Milton, but he hadn’t profited by it, sapskull that he must be, taking her back instead to her fearsome mother and immediately abandoning her there.
Ifhe’dbeen given that golden opportunity, fifty dragon mothers could not have stopped him. He’d have had her nestled cosily in against his chest, his arm about her, helping her draw the bow – with her left hand – whether she needed aid or not, his lips brushing her ear, her curls tickling his cheek, his other arm snug about her waist. If he put his mind to it, he could almost feel the soft pressure, the delectable warmth, the growing heat, so well could he conjure it.
But he wasn’t a suitor, of course, unlike the other poor fools, merely an interested observer. Highly interested.
He didn’t think she cared a button for any of her admirers, not that rich young simpleton Eager, not even Milton, who was excessively eligible. She’d never shown any sign of particular interest in any of them before today. But here she was, throwing her cap over the windmill by going out into the shadows with Englishby.Maximilian grinned wolfishly, showing excellent teeth, and lounged down the steps and into the garden to see what he might discover there, and whether he might profit from what he found. If Miss Constantine was determined to be indiscreet, he could offer her a far better alternative, he believed.
6
Allegra knew it was reckless, to let Mr Englishby lead her out of the ballroom to take the air, as he so disingenuously claimed, and even more dangerous when she followed him down the terrace steps and into the garden, deeper into the darkness. Her mother would disapprove enormously, though she wouldn’t have minded nearly so much if it had been Lord Milton. Mr Englishby was Mrs Constantine’s least favourite of the suitors, since his fortune was not especially large and she harboured some serious reservations about his character. Allegra harboured them too, but then, she sometimes harboured reservations about her own character also. Being good was tiring, she found, and didn’t come naturally. She had no idea if others felt the same. Perhaps so, since some of the bushes were shaking curiously, and soft noises – whispers, moans – could be heard in the otherwise silent garden. She tried not to hear them, tried not to imagine what they might mean – but that was impossible.
She could, perhaps, try to tell herself that this adventure she had so rashly committed herself to was just a part of her important research. If she was considering marrying this man and hewanted to kiss her – he must surely be bringing her out here to kiss her – she should at least see if she liked it. After all, she easily might not; she couldn’t know. It would be ideal, of course, to kiss all three of her suitors without any commitment on either part, but that sort of thing was very definitely not allowed. There were rules. Conventions. It just wasn’t done. Unfairly, then, it seemed that this was the only chance that she was being offered. Out here in the warm night with a man she had no reason to trust, she was aware that there was something specious about her entire argument. But she didn’t care. Suddenly, she wanted to knowthis,atleast. Enough dalliance, enough fine words and guesswork. She wanted something real and solid.
Mr Englishby stopped and turned, and took her hand, raising it to his lips. She was gloved, of course, annoyingly, but still she shivered when his lips brushed her fingers. Taking this as encouragement, he put his hand boldly on her waist and drew her close. ‘Miss Constantine…’ he breathed. ‘Allegra…’
She would never know what he might have said next, and what her own reaction would have been. ‘Deplorable,’ a deep voice growled, so close it made her start and look wildly about her. ‘I don’t mean to set myself up as an arbiter of public morality – that would be quite ridiculous, you need not tell me so – but Englishby, I have to ask if this young lady’s chaperon knows you are here with her, or if, perhaps, you have her father’s permission to address her? Though even if you do, I doubt that gentleman would imagine you’d be going about it in a hydrangea bush.’
‘Whether I do or don’t, it’s none of your damn business!’ the man who’d been about to kiss her replied with instant belligerence. But quietly, she couldn’t help but notice. ‘Who the hell are you to poke your nose into my private affairs?’
Allegra had a sinking sense that she knew. It wasn’t Sir Harry or Lord Milton, but itwasa voice she recognised, for its sardonicquality as much as anything else, even though they’d never actually had a conversation before.
The man stepped forward so that his face was no longer in shadow. It was Mr Severin, of course. Who else? Englishby seemed to deflate a little in an instant, perhaps because Severin was a man of far more formidable build than he, and one who was famous throughout the ton as a skilled amateur boxer and regular sparring partner of Gentleman Jackson. Even Allegra had heard as much, despite her utter lack of interest in the man. Either man.
The new arrival said urbanely now, ‘This lady’s mother saw her depart, and sent me to fetch her, discreetly. I suggest you take yourself off, Englishby, and say not a word of the matter afterwards, unless you wish to answer to me for your loose tongue. After all, there is no harm done, is there?Nothinghappened.’
