“Ah, well, I was at Lady Campbell-Lockhart’s musical evening,” began Lady Scovell, successfully diverted from her previous course.
As Helen Harcourt told her story, Frances wondered how best to repulse any suitor who came to the house. It would be easier that way than letting anyone get to the point of proposing to her.
Chapter Two
“Your Grace, we really must stop meeting like this,” said a low-pitched and rather sultry woman’s voice, its tone as calculated as the forced laughter that followed. “People will talk.”
From the shadow of the doorway through to the dimly lit conservatories, Ambrose Clarke, Duke of Westall, took a deliberate step further towards the brightness of the main ballroom. He did not laugh. This was the fourth time tonight that he had crossed paths with Miss Annabelle Sinclair, daughter of Baron Chedwidden – largely because she appeared to be following him around Morgan House.
“Good evening, again, Miss Sinclair,” the duke acknowledged her with a small bow, his body stiff and his manner formal.
If this woman had not been standing directly in his path, Ambrose would immediately have added a farewell excuse and strode away to the ballroom. Lovely as Annabelle Sinclair wasacknowledged to be, with thick black hair, violet-blue eyes, and vivid pink lips, she had always repelled him, as a beautiful poison flower might have repelled him.
Ambrose had hoped that the single dance he offered early in the evening would be enough to dampen Miss Sinclair’s interest in him. His intentionally flat conversation, indifferent dancing and unsmiling face seemed only to have encouraged her curiosity, however.
Tall, dark and broad-shouldered with ruggedly handsome features and midnight-blue eyes, the Duke of Westall was accustomed to a certain amount of attention from unmarried young ladies, but this woman was taking matters too far. Much too far. Her persistent shadowing was becoming intolerable.
The duke vaguely remembered Annabelle Sinclair from social events last season – indeed it would be impossible not to have noticed such a striking woman, even though she did not attract him. This season, he had found himself noticing her more and more, gradually realizing that this was because she had intensified a personal pursuit of him.
Miss Sinclair was a young woman with whom the Duke of Westall certainly did not want to be found in a compromising position in a poorly lit conservatory without any chaperone. If she tried to set up such a scene, she might be disappointed to find he offered her family money rather than marriage.
Or would she? Hadn’t Baron Chedwidden been in the press over some failed investment scheme in recent years, allegedly closeto bankruptcy..? Perhaps the Sinclairs would welcome the pay off, as nothing more was likely to be gained from the Duke of Westall.
Ambrose had been married once, and assumed at the time that this union would be for life. He and Charlotte had wed from family duty and mutual respect rather than passion on either side. Still, her early death had shocked and shaken him to the core.
He had envisioned a long life of calm, companionable marriage with his even-tempered and kind-hearted wife. Good friends, with similar tastes in books, music and theatre, the only thing they rarely shared was a bed, due to Ambrose’s restless sleeping habits and Charlotte’s need for twelve hours rest. Still, they would have liked a brother for little Winifred, to carry on the family line. It was not to be.
Now, whatever his nearest relatives and society at large might think right for a widower of one-and-thirty, especially for the sake of his motherless young daughter, Ambrose felt done with marriage. He would only marry again if he had no other choice.
It might well come to that in the end, he reflected grimly, thinking of the terms of his father’s will and the ticking clock it contained. At least he had the power to ensure that his next wife was not an insidious, scheming creature like Annabelle Sinclair. He would rather wed a stranger off the streets than be captured by her.
“There is to be another waltz, Your Grace,” said Miss Sinclair, raising her violet-blue eyes to him under long fluttering lashes. “Don’t you love the waltz?”
“It is a dance that makes me dizzy,” Ambrose said shortly and took a step forward and to the side, which she anticipated and blocked.
This maneuver left them closer together than they had been before, but at least nearer to the bright lights of the ballroom than the shadows of the conservatory.
“The trick is to look into your partner’s eyes,” Miss Sinclair told him flirtatiously. “If you keep your eyes on hers as you waltz, you will not grow dizzy at all. At least, not from dancing…”
“It might be better if I simply avoided waltzing,” the duke suggested, declining to even smile. “If you will excuse me, Miss Sinclair, I must…”
“There will be a quadrille after the waltz,” she interrupted him with a demure but seductive smile, looking down and then up at him again through those thick, black lashes. “Might you like that better, Your Grace?
No, he would not. Such charms as these might work on other men but they left Ambrose cold. He had once read of female spiders who consumed the male spiders after mating. When Annabelle Sinclair tried to draw him in, she only put him in mind of these wretched arachnids.
One of her graceful, long-fingered hands accompanied her last question with a gesture and then hung in the air. Was she expecting him to offer a hand for the dance? Or might she actually reach out and lay a hand on his lapel?! Ambrose did not want to find out.
“You really must excuse me, Miss Sinclair. I see the lady with whom I am engaged for the next dance.”
She was not expecting this development, and the moment of surprise was enough for Ambrose to pass her without being detained. He carried on into the ballroom and looked around urgently. He must now find a woman to dance with, quickly. Otherwise, Miss Sinclair would latch onto him again.
He saw two elderly ladies, one leaning on a stick and the other on her companion; a well-upholstered matron of forty, sipping champagne and watching the young ladies on dance floor like a hawk; over-garrulous Miss Hawkins who always smelled slightly of peppermints and made him think of the nursery despite her seven-and-twenty years; silent, blank-faced Lady Eunice Frobisher who never spoke at all beyond yes and no…
Taking a deep breath as he regarded the only ladies nearby, the Duke of Westall steeled himself and began walking towards Lady Eunice. He would rather be bored and ignored than have to dance with Miss Sinclair again.
Then he sawher. A tall, willowy young woman in a cream silk ballgown drifted into his vision, strolling dreamily away from the dance floor. Her coils of smooth light-brown hair were setwith pearls that matched the antique string at her throat and her gaze was light and clear.
This lady’s beauty was of a delicate kind that could be missed at first glance by anyone seeking the brighter colors of someone like Annabelle Sinclair. The Duke of Westall did not miss it, nor the fact that she appeared to be alone.
