“I should be delighted,” she said, her smile widening.
As they moved through the forms of the dance, Rafe continued to search the crowd for Alix. Where could shebe? Had the prospect of facing a large social gathering with her limited English skills proven too daunting? He dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it came to him. His Alix had faced far worse.
His Alix, Rafe mused, it was the way he had come to think of her. Cole thought he was in love, but he doubted it. Love was an emotion for impulsive men like Davenport. What he felt for Alix was... he paused unsure of how to describe what he felt for Alix. It was, he decided, an urge to wring her neck for leaving him and then to kiss her senseless so that she would never do so again.
Anne drew close, speaking archly about the goings-on among the ton. He nodded politely as she related who had come to town and who had yet to arrive.
He wondered if Alix had fallen ill. She’d looked pale that last day he’d seen her. The crossing, he knew, had been rough on her. He thought of all she’d been through before, her father’s death, the flight from France. If she’d fallen ill, it might explain why he hadn’t heard from her.
But then Jervis had said he’d seen her riding in the park.
Anne took Rafe’s hand as she turned. “I suppose all the gatherings this year will be littered with émigrés seeking to bolster their impoverished fortunes with a bit of English lucre. It’s disgraceful. Not that I’m unsympathetic to their misfortunes, but still you’d think a more sensible people would have been able to keep a better rein on their commoners.”
Lady Anne, he noticed vaguely, had changed subjects.
“And their sense of fashion, well, I know it’s supposed to be wonderful, so much more clashing than the English, but I think it’s a tad vulgar. Take Lady Melbourne’s friend, the Comtesse de La Brou.”
Suddenly Anne had his complete attention.
“The woman wears black to everything, and while she may, indeed, be in mourning, those necklines seem to beplunging with something other than despair.” She gave a mock shudder. “And her daughter, well, you can judge for yourself.” Anne tilted her neck almost imperceptibly towards a couple dancing to their left.
Alix was gracefully circling her partner just a few feet away from him. She was wearing a gown that matched her smoky eyes, a shimmering blue-gray trimmed in silver. Her hair was unpowdered and the lights from the chandelier danced along its russet waves. She wasn’t ill. She showed no signs of decline. She looked, Rafe thought with a growing sense of outrage, absolutely beautiful.
She was laughing and smiling up at a man whom Rafe immediately recognized as Lord Rothwell. He frowned; Rothwell was old enough to be her father and had buried two wives already. The man no doubt was on the lookout for a third to mother his brood of unruly children. Rafe fought the urge to reach out and pluck the man’s thin fingers from Alix’s slim waist.
Only experience kept him moving through the final steps of the dance. When the music ended, Anne dipped her head and murmured softly. “You seem distracted, my lord, would you prefer to stroll along the gallery?”
“Forgive me, Lady Anne, but I’ve promised Louisa I would keep an eye on Elizabeth. If you will excuse me?” He slipped away unmindful of the waspish look Anne Dinsmore cast at his departing back.
Alix was nowhere to be seen. Rafe caught sight of Elizabeth with Louisa at her side chatting with two earnest-looking country squires and a fortune hunter. Louisa waved her red-and-black fan as if to beckon him over, but Rafe kept moving. He’d check on Elizabeth and Louisa later, he told himself, his eyes riveted on a flash of silver and blue weaving through the crowd.
Not so fast, my Lady Moreham, he thought as he quickened his pace, the beating of his heart drowning out theconversations swirling around him. He barely avoided colliding with an outstretched hand holding a glass of champagne as he mentally reviewed the speech he would give Alix. He ignored an attempt to hail him. He’d explain in a calm, rational manner that the marriage had been consummated and there was nothing left for her but to come home with him. Sidestepping the flounce of a young lady’s skirt, he caught sight of her. She was standing with a striking woman in black, whom he had no doubt was the comtesse, and the elegant figure of the Duchess of Melbourne.
Forcing himself to slow down, Rafe took a step toward the three women and found himself trapped by a red-faced man in a gray powdered wig. “Moreham, old boy, been searching for you everywhere,” said the Honorable Elias Penworthy. “Didn’t you see me wave? Framingham and I were just having a debate over whether white or ecru waistcoats will be the rage this season. You simply must come and decide it for us.”
The Comtesse Madeleine de Rabec de La Brou stood perusing the Kensington’s guests, her black lace fan drifting idly back and forth. Her dark eyes narrowed, and she snapped it closed, wrapping Lady Melbourne lightly on the wrist. “That one, there in the apple green silk with the white powdered wig, who is he?”
Lady Melbourne followed the path of Madeleine’s gaze, shook her head ever so slightly. “No, no Madame, not that one. He’s terrifically dull, can’t start or end a conversation that doesn’t include horses. You’d have to wear horseshoes and a wreath in bed to get his attention.” She twisted an elbow draped in blonde lace toward her right. “See the one in the dark blue coat with the red-and-gold waistcoat, now there’s a gentleman on close terms with the Bank of England.”
Madeleine frowned. “The one with the stooped shoulders,who looks like he might possibly be several months gone beneath his waistcoat?”
Lady Melbourne pressed two fingers to her lips to hold back her laughter and nodded. “The very one.”
Madeleine gave a mock shudder. “Mon Dieu, satin sheets and velvet coverlets are lovely, but not when they come with sagging flesh between them.”
“You are simply awful, Madeleine de La Brou, simply awful... you must promise you won’t leave Melbourne House before the end of the season.”
Madeleine flipped open her fan. “Mais certainement, if your season does not offer better than this, you may find me still with you in your dotage.” Her fan froze in mid-flutter. “Regardez-ça. Who is that delicious man there, all in black with the golden brown hair?
Lady Melbourne smiled. “I see you’ve noticed the Earl of Moreham. Now there’s a prize. Not a bit of sawdust in his stockings, no padding in his jacket, and his fortune’s just as solid. Quite elusive though. Over thirty and never married. Last season it looked as though the Duke of Dinsmore’s daughter, Lady Anne, might finally have caught him in her nets.” Lady Melbourne gave a slight shrug. “But before she could reel him in, the fish slipped away... to France, in fact.” She cast a conspiratorial glance at her friend. “They say, he has a taste for French ladies... perhaps you or Mademoiselle Alix might have better luck.”
Madeleine nodded thoughtfully, the black plumes in her dark curls wafting in Rafe’s direction. “Alix,ma petite, what do you think of that handsome fellow all in black?”
Alix looked and almost dropped her glass of lemonade. “I beg your pardon,Maman?” she sputtered. “Did you say something? I confess I was caught up in the music.”
“Alix, don’t be ridiculous, the violas are quite out of tune; they sound like cats with their tails cut off. How canyou possibly be distracted by them when such an attractive gentleman is looking our way?”
Alix looked again and saw that Rafe Harcrest was, indeed, looking at them over the heads of two stout gentlemen who looked to be in the midst of a heated debate.
