Company Of Rogues: A Shocking Delight Part 10

"Would have a fit of the vapors and your father's not here."

Lucy tried to think of some other gentleman to help her but found none. She'd not involve any of her unwanted suitors in this.

"Take me there-and stop looking like a rabbit heading for the pot."

She needed to hurry, but made sure she and Jeremy moved around the room at a pace in harmony with the glittering crowd, waving away any suitor who came close. She tried to look as if she hadn't a care in the world, but she was seething. A duel could ruin her.

Jeremy led the way into a quiet corridor. "They've gone," he said with relief.

But Lucy could hear a raised voice from a room and went that way. Jeremy grabbed her again. "That's the gentlemen's smoking room!"

"I won't choke on the fumes." She pushed through the half-open door snapping, "Gentlemen, stop this madness!"

But then she realized three men were present, not just two, and that it was the third who was speaking.

Who was . . .

Could it really be?

The man from the bookshop? There was nothing of the country about him now. He'd glanced at her once, but not interrupted his reprimand.

". . . can only bring a lady's reputation into question, as well as risking both life and liberty for the most foolish of reasons. Be grateful this has gone no further."

The two rivals took the implied dismissal like schoolboys. Sir Mallory slipped out of the room sheepishly, even murmuring an apology to Lucy as he pa.s.sed. Stevenhope stalked out, trying to pin her with one of his fierce, Byronic looks. But he went.

Lucy was tempted to scurry after them, but her pride wouldn't permit it-and she was transfixed by it being him.

The honey-brown hair was now impeccably barbered, and his dark evening clothes were in the latest style, but she recognized those blue-gray eyes in that tanned face, even though they were now fixed on her coldly.

"The Gilded Aphrodite, I believe," he said.

She flicked open her fan in defense. "Please, sir, if I must be a G.o.ddess, let it at least be a golden one."

"Appropriate, Miss Potter, given the size of your dowry."

"Which you know because you consulted a list of the largest dowries available and then lurked near my home. A despicable hunt, wouldn't you say?"

"Gold endures whilst other attributes crumble." She was about to let loose another cutting comment when he looked her over. "Quite a transformation, ma'am."

The wretch! She looked him over in exactly the same way. "Are you in any position to complain of it, sir? You were dressed simply in Winsom's."

"I had a reason. Had you?"

"Yes!" She took a steadying breath. "Given that you're after my fortune, sir, I'd have expected at least an attempt at courtesy."

"I a.s.sure you, Miss Potter, I have no designs on your thirty thousand pounds."

"When you know the exact sum?" Beneath her sneer, she was hurt. She didn't want to marry him, but hadn't expected to be dismissed like a leaf stuck to his shoe. "I can't imagine why you're being so unpleasant, sir, but I'll take my leave." She paused at the door and turned back. "In courtesy, I suppose I must thank you for preventing an embarra.s.sment."

"You see men risking death over you as merely embarra.s.sing?"

Lucy's cheeks were flaming and she hated it. The heat was fury, but he might see it as shame. "Dueling is ridiculous. Such madness should have died with the periwig."

"Or ladies should resist dressing in a way designed to drive men mad."

"By that argument gentlemen should wear smocks and gaiters. As I suppose you do, when tramping your boggy acres!"

His lips twitched, and a dangerous brightness flickered in his eyes.

She fled.

Jeremy was hovering outside, open-mouthed. She grabbed his sleeve and steered him back toward the ballroom. "Why didn't you tell me someone else was involved?"

"I didn't. . . . He wasn't. . . . Who was he?"

"I don't know."

"Sounded as if you knew him."

"Nonsense, and you're not to speak of this, Jeremy. Mind my words."

"Don't know why my mother and sister think you're such a sweet little thing," he muttered.

Oh, Lord.

She'd smashed Silly Lucinda to smithereens. She could only hope Jeremy would put her lapse down to temporary insanity.

David watched Miss Lucinda Potter leave, banners flying, taking his hopes and plans with her.

He'd intervened because those idiots were about to make a scandal of the lady he already considered his. When someone had burst in he'd registered only glittering gold. When he'd finally seen that it was the lady from the bookshop, he'd been shocked into anger.

She accused him of deception? Why had she been in that bookshop dressed like an impoverished dowd? Why was she now trying to convince the world she was a feather-witted chit? She was bold, clever, and apparently devious to the bone.

Nicholas Delaney walked in. David noted crossly that he was allowed to wear evening clothes that were comfortably years out of date.

"I heard there was a contretemps," Nicholas said.

"Is the story burning through the place already?"

"Only some wisps of smoke, already being smothered. Miss Potter?"

"Two young idiots coming to pistols over her."

"I doubt Outram and Stevenhope are any younger than you."

"They acted it."

"Did your intervention help or harm your cause?"

"Killed it. It won't do."

"Why not?"

"She's sharp as a thorn and blunt as a cudgel."

"Brings to mind a spiked mace. How are your hopes dead?"

"Would you marry a spiked mace?"

Nicholas's lips twitched. "Eleanor wouldn't like the description, but quite possibly. There's nothing amiss with a forceful wife."

"Is there not? You know my requirements. Miss Potter wouldn't miss an ant on the floor, never mind a husband oddly missing on moonless nights. And once she knew, she'd wield that cudgel."

"Rather extreme for an ant. I keep telling Eleanor that she should create a Society of Lady Viragos. Miss Potter sounds like a prime candidate."

"It's no laughing matter. She's an ardent opponent of smuggling."

"You discussed that?" David could see all kinds of speculation on his friend's face. When he didn't respond, Nicholas said, "Back to the ballroom with you. You need to scotch any rumors and pursue other honey pots. Lady Maud Emberley is present and doubtless available to dance."

David had already seen poor Lady Maud, seated beside her grim mother, looking as if her mind was completely vacant. He felt a strong desire to punch Nicholas Delaney in the nose.

When Lucy approached the ballroom, Outram pounced.

"I am most terribly sorry, Miss Potter. Got carried away by my ardent devotion."

Remember Silly Lucinda.

"You distressed me most terribly, Sir Mallory. I have rejected your offer and must beg you to respect my decision."

"You must marry someone, Miss Potter. Why not me?"

"You know we would not suit." When Outram looked ready to persist, she held up a hand and murmured, "Please," in a manner worthy of the most distressed heroine. "There are many young ladies here who are more worthy than I. Ladies who'd walk on air if you asked them to dance."

"But it's you I love!" he declared, grabbing her hand.

"It cannot be!" she exclaimed, s.n.a.t.c.hing it free and escaping, aware of people nearby sn.i.g.g.e.ring.

"Outram's not too bad a fellow," Jeremy said.

She unclenched her hands before she ruined her fan. "I don't love him. It wouldn't be fair."

"He wouldn't mind. Needs to marry money. Pockets to let."

She was saved by Lord Stevenhope stepping into her path, if "saved" was the right word.

He took his poetic stance.

My Aphrodite, here I stand to make my plea.

If you desire I will do so on my knee.

If I transgressed, 'twas only from my heart, Compelled to blood by my desperate lover's part.

Lucy heard someone choke on a laugh.

When Stevenhope reached for her hand she stepped out of reach. "Please, my lord, your behavior distressed me greatly. I fear I was to blame."

Instead of protesting, he nodded. "There is perhaps a flightiness in you, Miss Potter. I'll say no more for now except, be mine!"

Lucy would have loved to vent every angry thought in her mind on him, but instead she turned her head away, letting it droop a little on her neck-an action she'd noted in other young ladies and which seemed to signal admired spinelessness. Hesitant breathiness worked, too.

"I must ask you to desist, my lord. . . . Perhaps in time . . ." She went all the way and put a hand to her head. "But you must not press me now. . . ."

It worked. He spoke in a hushed tone. "I understand you, my G.o.ddess. Your frailty becomes you. I will compose a sonnet in its honor."

He bowed, retreating as he did so, as if she were royalty. Lucy struggled with giggles, bringing up her fan as concealment, but the amus.e.m.e.nt of others killed any urge to laugh. Her suitors' behavior would be on everyone's lips, but some of the sn.i.g.g.e.ring would spread to her.

Worse, their apologies would have everyone wondering about the offense. That could lead to gossip about the duel, and like the Winsom man, the ton would decide it was all her fault.

For being pretty.

For having a rich father.

For sporting a low bodice.

For breathing!

A convent in Italy was beginning to appeal. The wilderness of Canada might be even better. She couldn't endure the speculating eyes and hurried in search of the ladies' room. There must be one somewhere and she could hide.

Clara caught up with her. "You can't run away, Lucinda. Will they be out at dawn?"

"Is Jeremy blabbing it all over?"

"He only told me. But I think Outram said something. You look upset."

"Of course I'm upset! How can everything become tangled so quickly?"

"Perhaps a fairy's taken a hand, like Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream."

"I certainly feel like poor Helena, bewildered recipient of unwelcome devotion."

"Jeremy said you marched in on the duelers like a battles.h.i.+p."

Lucy wanted to protest the scrambled metaphors, but she was more concerned with what Clara made of her scrambled personality.