The question seemed innocent enough. Still, panic and an overwhelming sense of dread flooded her. Her gaze shot to the terrace doors again. She swallowed hard and resisted swiping her dampened palms down her dress a second time. How the devil was she supposed to answer?No, my lord. It’s just we’re terrified of being strangled in our beds.She had to say something. “Um…”
His implacable features eased into a sheepish smile, disarming her unease a smidge. “Well, as grand as one could attempt for a small country house gathering, I suppose.”
Ginny cleared her throat. “I’m sure it will be a grand ball, my lord.” Her hand fluttered to her neck, where she could feel her heart slamming repetitiously against her palm. She watched as his gaze settled on her hand. Flustered, she pasted on another wide smile and stepped around him. “I find having been out of society for a year takes a toll on me. I was just about to rest a bit before the evening festivities.”
His gaze raked over her with a half smile that didn’t reach his glittering eyes. A quaver of apprehension shot up her spine. If she’d been uncertain of his intentions before, she wasn’t now. She made a mental note to include a lace fiche in her bodice going forward. Whatever the event. “Of course, my lady.” He stepped aside, allowing her just enough room to squeeze past.
The urge to rush out was overwhelming, but Ginny quelled it, managing to sashay, even daring a coy glance over her shoulder. She stepped over the threshold and squelched a shudder at his implacable expression.
Thirteen
O
ver a hundred candles lighted the ballroom. Loren handed off a simpering Miss Martindale into her matchmaking mama’s claws despite her hands soliciting him for an opium dance of decadence. He’d imbibed no such thing. He shook his head when a shooting sensitivity to the light diminished the contents of his stomach.
Edging toward the open terrace doors for a bout of air, he had to swallow back roiling bile. The incessant mantra in the trees split his skull as if a lumberer had taken an ax to it. Cautiously, he surveyed the couples lined up for the country dance. Lady Maudsley had not yet appeared.
Maudsley moved alongside him. “I hope Lady Maudsley has not come down ill.”
“Ill?”
“She was sneezing this afternoon when I accompanied her from the archery field.” Maudsley brushed a hand across his shoulder.
“I suppose I should inquire,” Loren said. But his suspicions heightened in lieu of the Kimptons’ and the marquis’s absence. Too much of a coincidence for Loren’s liking.
At first opportunity, he slipped from the raucous noise of the ballroom.
The bout of nausea hit fast and hard. No way would he make it to the safety of his chambers. He darted into the nearest water closet, upending the contents of his stomach. He rested his head against the door to steady himself. What the devil was the matter with him?
After a few moments, he rinsed his mouth from a flask in his pocket then carefully darted up the stairs, down the hall toward the family wing. Within the depths of the house, the noisy trees couldn’t reach him.
Knob in hand, he paused, laying an ear against the door of the Lilac room instead of storming in. Nothing. He gave two sharp raps and waited. Again, nothing. He twisted the knob and pushed. “Lady Maudsley?” He shoved the door open.
Loren backed out of the room and grabbed a candle, lighting it from the closest sconce. He barged in the dark chamber and raised the light. The flickering flames created flickering shadows against the walls. He marched to the wardrobe and yanked back the door. Empty.
There was no need to check Brockway’s or the Kimptons’ chambers. Somehow they’d managed to depart with no one the wiser—
That was impossible. Someone would have seen them. Perhaps assisted. Someone on his staff? No. He feared the culprit was much closer to him than a servant.
Loren blew out the candle, tossed it on the table where he’d found it, and darted from the dark chamber, hell-bent for the ballroom. He scanned the room looking for the one person he was certain held the answers. Ah, there she was, rubbing elbows with another dowager, Lady Alymer’s matchmaking mother, Lady Ingleby. The woman was notorious in her efforts to remarry off her widowed daughter.
Hell, Loren wouldn’t have minded having her but for the fact that she’d already been married for years and hadn’t produced. Not so much as a miscarriage. His gaze found Lady Alymer’s, hers quickly shifting away. Perhaps his mother wasn’t the only one who knew something, he thought, working his way through the throng in their direction.
“Oh, there you are, Loren.” His mother flitted out a plump hand. “The dowager was just—”
“Lady Alymer, would you grant me the favor of this dance?”
Her mother’s hand clamped her arm with fingers tipped in blood red, effectively waylaying her attempt at an escape. “Of course she would be elated, my lord. Wouldn’t you, my dear? I believe they are beginning the first waltz of the evening.”
As if he couldn’t have them play a full slate of waltzes if he so chose.
Lady Alymer couldn’t quite hide her flinch. She dipped a short curtsy. “I’d be delighted, sir.”
Loren held out his arm, which she accepted with trepidation. “How are you enjoying the party, my lady?”
“How do you think I’m enjoying the party, sir, with my mother pushing me toward every available lord in the vicinity?” she said pertly.
A startled laugh erupted from him. “Yes, I, er, see your point.” He swung her in a turn. “Your friend, Lady Maudsley, has not made an appearance.”
