Ross nodded. “Well, word has it that this young, personable lady’s father is heir to a fortune.”
“Her name?”
Ross jerked his head in that direction. “Miss Kershaw’s father is apparently the Marquess of Berwick’s heir.”
Hugh’s eyebrows rose. “Miss Lucy Kershaw?”
Ross raised his heavy, pitch-black eyebrows, a startling contrast to his pale-blue eyes. “You look surprised. Has she escaped your notice? Well, I suppose a betrothed fellow hasn’t a great deal of interest in other women.” His lips quirked in a smile. “But I must say, she has adroitly avoided the gossip pages and arrived unannounced.”
“Have you met Miss Kershaw?” Hugh asked, interrupting him.
“Lady Forester introduced us. Why?”
Hugh gripped his arm. “Please introduce me to her.”
Ross walked with Hugh as he crossed the ballroom floor with a purposeful stride. “You seem in a rush,” he said. “Well, dashed if you’re not as intrigued as the rest of us, Dorchester.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t keep her to yourself,” Hugh said wryly.
“You do me an injustice,” Ross said with a laugh. “Debutantes do not interest me, even heiresses.”
Hugh supposed they didn’t. A large part of Ross’s life was a mystery, but one thing Hugh knew was his preference was for willing widows and even married ladies, not sheltered innocents.
Several fellows stepped aside for them. Miss Kershaw, looking delightful in white silk and pink silk roses with rosebuds tucked into her glorious blonde locks, turned her head and saw him. Her eyes grew enormous, and twin spots of crimson painted her cheeks.
When a member of the orchestra announced a waltz, Hugh nudged Ross, who cleared his throat. “I’d like to introduce the Earl of Dorchester to you, Mrs. Grayswood.” They both bowed to the sharp-eyed-eyed, older lady who sat beside Miss Kershaw and seemed to be enjoying herself rather more than her charge.
Mrs. Grayswood gasped and rose to her feet, pulling Miss Kershaw up by the arm. They curtsied. “Viscount Hereford. Lord Dorchester. May I introduce you to my niece, Miss Kershaw? Lucy hails from the country and has only recently come to London.”
“Would you honor me with this dance, Miss Kershaw?” Hugh asked her, aware of the chorus of objections from the gentlemen behind him.
With a glance at her aunt, who nodded vigorously, Miss Kershaw murmured her assent and, resting her gloved hand on his arm, allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.
Hugh tried to make sense of his emotions. He usually had a good handle on them, but they deserted him tonight. Bitter disappointment in Miss Kershaw was uppermost, followed by annoyance that she and her aunt should attempt to dupe thetonin this manner. But even stronger was the need to hear her explanation, with the lingering hope he wrongly accused her. Perhaps it was her aunt, a social climber if ever he saw one, who’d persuaded Miss Kershaw to be part of this ruse. No, there was no way of getting around it. It was Miss Kershaw herself who’d started the rumor in Bath, though he feared she would deny it.
The music began, and she came stiffly into his arms. Miss Kershaw was small, he discovered with surprise. She was so fiercely determined, he’d thought her a taller woman. He took her dainty gloved hand in his and tried not to admire the arrangement of her blonde curls dressed in silk roses and soft, white feathers. How could someone who looked so innocent be capable of such fraudulent behavior? And how could she hope to get away with it? Someone would surely write to the marquess and advise him about it. Moreover, why was he dancing with her when he should have given her a wide berth? Let other foolish fellows fall into her trap.
She lifted her chin, and her anxious eyes looked into his. “You must be thinking badly of me,” she said in a low voice.
He hadn’t expected honesty. “You are not an heiress?” he stated with less vigor than he’d previously intended.
For a moment, he thought she would pull away from him. But she merely shook her head, stirring a delightful blonde curl. “I have tried to tell everyone it isn’t true. But no one will listen to me.”
“Then how did they come to hear of it here in London?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It might be Mrs. Vellacott. Is she here tonight?”
“Perhaps,” he said noncommittally, while suspecting the aunt had had a hand in it.
“You don’t believe me. I didn’t expect you would,” she said pragmatically. “Aunt Mary said as the gossip sheets had gotten hold of it, we should just ignore it, as it is likely to do more good than harm.” She took a deep breath, giving him a delightful glimpse of her delectable, alabaster-skinned bosom. “But itwilldo harm, won’t it? I want to go back to Papa in Bath. But I am not allowed to. I must stay here until I find a husband who has Aunt Mary’s approval.” She blinked. “And what man would want me when I explain? I can’t marry anyone with a lie hanging over my head.”
She must have been telling the truth. There was no way he could believe otherwise, while looking into her fawn-like brown eyes. Breathing in her sweet perfume, his hands settled closer, as if protecting her as he led her through the steps. He found himself making excuses for her. How many married with buried untruths? Both men and women, and yet some marriages seemed to prosper.
But he must keep a cool head. Miss Lucy Kershaw could lead any hardy male around by the nose if she so chose. Himself included. It was her lie and only that which had caused thisscandal to erupt, he reminded himself, while attempting to harden his heart.
“And why should you believe me?” she continued bitterly. “You heard me tell that awful fib.” She lifted her chin. “I must face the consequences of my actions.”
“What will you do?” he asked, worried for her, despite himself.
