Lord Margrave's Secret Desire (Gentlemen of Intrigue Book 4) Page 6

  He interrupted. “You said you tried to catch me in the ballroom.”

  “I know what I said,” Lady Van Middleburg replied with an inelegant sniff. “There is nothing wrong with my memory.”

  Gads! She was a cantankerous woman. Setting aside his inclination to leave her in the corridor to rant to the wall coverings, he crossed his hands at his waist and assumed a non-threatening stance. “How might I be of service, Lady Van Middleburg?”

  She drew herself up to her full height and jabbed a finger toward his chest. “You can stop haranguing my family and honor my cousin’s memory. Old Stanhurst was a good man, and he does not deserve to have his name besmirched by a worthless—”

  Crispin held up a hand to signal she should stop where she was. “I heard what you think of me the first time, and I, too, have an excellent memory. Allow me to reassure you that I have no interest in sullying your cousin’s name.”

  Old Stanhurst, as she had dubbed her deceased cousin, required no help in that area. He had been an infamous hothead and brutal master to his family, servants, and mistress alike.

  “If you intend no harm,” she snipped, “then stop coming to his heir’s door and bothering the servants with your prying questions. I heard you were there again today. You are worse than the pox.”

  “If your cousin’s heir would allow me an audience, I am sure he could satisfy my questions quite well. There would be no more need for me to make inquiries of his servants.”

  With a glare that would sour grapes on a vine, she took a step toward him. “What is it you want? Did Old Stanhurst owe you a debt? Have mercy and allow his family to mourn in peace.”

  “I had little contact with your cousin or his deceased son, and I have no desire to disrupt a grieving family. Nevertheless, I believe the current duke might have information to assist with another matter. I will speak with him.”

  “Leave well enough alone,” she said through gritted teeth, “or you will regret being rash.”

  “It would not be the first time I’ve regretting acting without forethought, my lady.” His jaw firmed. “I will speak with the duke.”

  He anticipated the crack of her palm across his cheek. Her strike was weak and her glove cushioned the blow.

  “Egads,” a male voice called from the direction of the ballroom.

  It was the Earl of Ramsdell, and once again, Crispin had been caught unawares. He was losing his skill.

  Lady Van Middleburg snarled at the poor earl before storming toward the ballroom. Ramsdell quickly shuffled aside to allow her to pass and turned to watch until she disappeared from sight. When they were alone, the earl glanced over his shoulder at Crispin.

  “Dare I ask what that was about?”

  “Apparently, she took issue with my face.” Then because the situation was too ludicrous to believe, Crispin burst into laughter.

  Six

  While Sophia and Octavia waited for Lord Ramsdell to do his part to advance The Matrimony Mission, as Octavia had dubbed her plan to bring Crispin up to scratch on Sophia’s behalf, they moved toward the small orchestra of twenty. Several pairs of eyes followed their progress. Sophia’s would-be suitors, emboldened by Crispin’s retreat from the ballroom, hadn’t given her a moment’s peace since her arrival. If not for her friend’s insistence that they required a moment alone, Sophia’s dance card would be full already.

  The musicians were taking up their instruments for the first set when she and Octavia reached the large dais. Sophia’s friend sighed heavily. “At last we are afforded a little privacy. No one will interrupt us now.”

  From the curious stares they were receiving from bystanders, Sophia wasn’t so sure. “How do you—?”

  An earsplitting quadrille drowned out her question.

  “Clever,” she shouted. “Who could compete with this noise?”

  “What did you say?”

  Sophia laughed and waved her hand to indicate it was unimportant.

  Her friend giggled, seeming to understand the gist of Sophia’s comment. Octavia pointed toward the ceiling and yelled, “Would you look at that chandelier? Have you ever seen anything as elegant?”

  “Never.”

  The splendor of Hillary House was without rival, if one excluded the royal palace. At least a hundred candles graced the massive gold French Ormolu chandelier lording over the ballroom. Lush gardenia garlands draped the arms, filling the room with a dreamy fragrance. But it was the teardrop crystals as big as Sophia’s fists, dripping from the chandelier like tears from heaven that captured her imagination. The ballroom was magical.

  “How sad the Hillarys have no more sons in need of a wife,” Octavia said into her ear.

  “Poor Lord Ramsdell.” Sophia clicked her tongue in sympathy, teasing her friend. “Tossed aside for an elegant chandelier.”

  Octavia grinned. “You know I would choose Ramsdell any day, but it is an exceedingly beautiful piece. Oh, there he is!” She linked arms with Sophia to pull her toward the set of double doors Lord Ramsdell had used to re-enter the ballroom. “Let’s discover what he learned from Lord Margrave.”

  “Now?”

  “Of course now.”

  “I do not want to appear desperate.”

  “You seem nothing of the sort.”

  Octavia tugged Sophia’s arm and whisked her along the outskirts of the dance floor to intercept the Earl of Ramsdell. One stern look from Sophia’s friend aimed at a gentleman as he approached kept him at bay. Octavia was fierce like her mother—tall, blazing eyes, and descended from Norsemen—and she had mastered her father’s withering stare. But as a friend, Sophia couldn’t ask for a more loyal, kindhearted ally.

  “Lord Ramsdell was not gone long,” Sophia said. “Perhaps he couldn’t find Margrave.”

  Octavia tsked. “Sophia Darlington, give Ramsdell credit. How difficult could it be to locate a man of Lord Margrave’s stature and pleasing visage?”

  “Yes well, I do not know how pleasing Lord Ramsdell might find him, appearance or otherwise. The viscount behaves like an ill-tempered headmaster with a severe case of gout and a plaque over his desk that reads, ‘Spare the rod; spoil the child.’”

  Octavia slowed her step to fix an incredulous stare on her. “That is an impressively detailed description. Given it a lot of thought, have you?”

  Heat spread up her face. “Only a little.” She hadn’t been feeling very charitable after their run-in earlier nor had she found it easy to concentrate on anything else.

  When Sophia and Octavia reached Lord Ramsdell, he invited them to the terrace. Octavia linked arms with him, and they headed for the bank of glass doors at the back of the great room. Sophia had no qualms about accompanying the couple since they were as good as married with a formal betrothal agreement. The earl led them to a less populated corner, leaned against the railing, and scratched his head.

  “Well?” Octavia prompted. “Did you speak with him?”

  “Not exactly.” The earl frowned. “It seems I interrupted him.”

  A lump formed in Sophia’s throat. Crispin’s name had been absent from the gossip sheets for months. No mention of him attending scandalous parties in Marylebone or sightings of him leaving the theatre with an actress on his arm. She’d had cause to hope he had abandoned his rakish ways.

  “Was he with another woman?” Sophia whispered.

  Lord Ramsdell fidgeted with his cuff link, avoiding eye contact. He needn’t answer. She read the truth on his face.

  Her friend’s brown eyes overflowed with sympathy, but just as quickly sparked with ire. “Answer her, Ramsdell.” Octavia shook his arm. “What did you interrupt?”

  His frown deepened and lines appeared on his forehead. “I am uncertain what I stumbled across, but Margrave was not with a woman. Correction, he was with a lady, but it was harmless—at least, harmless in the sense there was nothing to suggest I interrupted a rendezvous. I came upon him and Lady Van Middleburg engaged in conversation outside the card room.”

  Relief w
ashed over Sophia, leaving her slightly weak. She sank onto one of the marble benches placed around the terrace and laughed breezily over her vivid imagination. Lady Van Middleburg was a paragon of virtue and polite manners, certainly not the type to engage in a liaison with a man almost half her age.

  “Did you overhear anything useful?” Octavia asked.

  “I’m afraid not. The baroness accused Margrave of harassing the Stanhurst family and demanded he leave them alone. Then she slapped him.”

  Sophia gasped.

  “Havers!” Octavia gripped Ramsdell’s hand, her face eagerly tipped toward him. “What did he do after she slapped him?”

  Her betrothed shrugged one shoulder. “What any decent man would do. He turned the other cheek.”

  “And she slapped him again?”

  Ramsdell laughed and tweaked Octavia’s button nose. “No, you adorable girl. I meant it in the figurative sense. Lady Van Middleburg stormed off in a temper when she did not get a rise out of him.”

  “Oh.” Octavia’s shoulders slumped as if she was disappointed her lust for theatrics went unfulfilled. “Well, I am sure Lord Margrave has more important matters to attend to than harassing the Stanhursts. I hope he at least denied the charge.”

  “He did not utter a word.”

  Crispin wouldn’t defend himself if Lady Van Middleburg’s accusations were true. Earlier, Sophia had thought he was being overbearing and overprotective when he warned her away from Claudine and the theatre, but perhaps he had a real interest in what had occurred that night at the London docks. The only question was why. The Duke of Stanhurst and his son, Lord Geoffrey, died from a firearm mishap. All the newssheets said it was so.

  Sophia knew better, of course, and she suspected anyone with half a bucket of good sense would question the story. Two firearms misfired and hit unintended targets at the same exact moment? The scenario was ridiculous. Still, most people accepted the story for truth since it was in print. Knowing Crispin was not easily duped pleased her. She admired a man who could think for himself.

  Octavia snapped her fingers in front of Sophia’s face.

  She blinked.

  “You are doing it again,” her friend said, cocking her head to the side. “Traveling to some enchanted world hidden in your mind.”

  Sophia chuckled. “Alas, you caught me. I was dreaming of a tart glass of lemonade.”

  Octavia’s eyebrow arched, suggesting she did not believe her, but Lord Ramsdell came to her rescue. “I would like a glass of lemonade myself. May I suggest we all retire to the refreshment room?”

  “You may, sir.” Sophia accepted a hand up from him.

  Her friend’s gaze lingered on her; Sophia flashed a disarming smile as they headed for the refreshment room. Octavia did not reciprocate. She often voiced the suspicion Sophia was not completely forthcoming with her, which was an unbecoming trait in a best friend.

  Sophia agreed friends should be open with each other, but she also believed Octavia deserved to maintain her innocence for as long as possible. Sophia’s friend woke every morning secure in the knowledge good things came to good people. Her parents and siblings were alive and well, her betrothed adored her, and she felt pretty when she wore pink.

  Sophia would have held on to her own naivety a little longer if she had been given a choice, but her parents had been killed in a riot when she was very young. Sometimes the world was a dangerous place.

  While Lord Ramsdell collected glasses of lemonade, Octavia pulled Sophia aside. “It sounds like Lord Margrave could be involved in one of Papa’s latest endeavors, although I never would have suspected they ran in the same circles.”

  “What do you mean?” Sophia asked.

  “Do you recall I told you about the time William and I stumbled across Papa and his companions in the stables?”

  Sophia chuckled. “How could I forget?”

  One evening last autumn, Octavia and her younger brother had interrupted a strange gathering during a house party at their father’s country estate. Lord Seabrook had been wearing a fox skin hat, complete with snout and ears, and was leading his guests in a chant Octavia later realized was part of a children’s rhyme. When she questioned him in his study the next morning and refused to leave well enough alone, he had confessed to forming a secret society dedicated to the hunt.

  “I must admit,” Sophia said, “I fail to recognize the connection between your father’s club and Lord Margrave’s recent activities.”

  “As it turns out, my father is terrible at keeping secrets. The other evening he admitted to having joined another club when I caught him sneaking from the house.” Octavia sniffed. “He told Mama he was retiring to bed, but he is a poor liar. He never retires before ten o’clock.”

  If he were any other man, Sophia might believe he was an excellent liar and Octavia had actually caught him sneaking out to see another woman. But Lord Seabrook seemed to live in fear of displeasing his wife. Lady Seabrook ruled the household without question, although Sophia had never witnessed her being unkind to her husband, children, or servants.

  “I knew he was up to no good,” Octavia said, “even before I spotted the hat behind his back.”

  “Does your father’s club willfully ignore stories printed in the newssheet and harass dukes?” Sophia was only partly teasing. “Because that seems to be Lord Margrave’s goal. The Stanhurst deaths were ruled an accident, so why would he bother the duke’s family?”

  Octavia shrugged. “Who knows what the corkbrains are up to behind closed doors? Although Papa did say they fancy themselves modern day sleuthhounds.”

  Membership in the secret society might explain Crispin’s sudden interest in poking around in others’ affairs, but the scenario didn’t ring true. “Lord Margrave keeps to himself mostly,” Sophia said, “and I cannot imagine him wearing a silly hat.”

  “Fair point,” Octavia said.

  Lord Ramsdell returned with glasses of lemonade and handed one to Sophia.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  She chatted with her companions a few moments more then informed them she was returning to the ballroom. The first few spaces on her dance card were empty by design, but her first partner would be searching for her soon.

  “Ask Lord Margrave,” Octavia advised before she walked away. “The direct approach is always best.”

  Ramsdell looked back and forth between Sophia and her friend. “What should she ask the viscount?”

  “It is a secret,” Octavia said with an enigmatic smile.

  Sophia left them playfully bickering with one another and returned to the ballroom. Her first dance partner seemed to spot her immediately and came to claim his dance. After the end of their spin around the floor, the next gentleman was waiting to escort her back to the dance floor. And so, the set progressed, Sophia not being allowed a moment’s rest before being whisked back onto the parquet floor time after time. She was having such fun, she lost track of time.

  When Major Hughes joined hands with her to sashay around the floor, she caught a glimpse of Crispin standing at the edge, watching.

  “Is it time for the supper dance already?” she asked the dashing officer.

  “I believe so.”

  Sophia’s gaze kept traveling to Crispin as she and her partner circled the room. Instead of glowering like usual, he graced her with a rare smile. She gasped and tripped over the major’s foot. Her partner caught her around the waist when she stumbled and held her much too close.

  “Steady, Miss Darlington.” He slanted a smirk at her as if she had faked missing a step on purpose.

  Crispin narrowed his eyes, his smile long gone. Surely, he didn’t think she welcomed the man’s attentions. Heat flashed into her cheeks, and she elbowed the major to create distance between them. He grunted and loosened his hold.

  Crispin’s piercing stare never wavered from her any time she stole a peek in his direction, even after the orchestra played the last note of the song. She lost sight of him for a moment when she a
nd her dance partner entered the promenade, but he loomed into view as they neared the end of the line. Major Hughes must have noticed his menacing presence as well; his gulp was audible. The officer bade her a hasty good-bye and shot into the crowd before completing the promenade.

  Crispin smiled again—a deliberate, predatory, satisfied arching of his lips. Suddenly, she was overcome with shyness when he sauntered in her direction. His gaze remained locked on her; her knees wobbled.

  The man moved like seduction personified, his tailored black jacket skimming his strong shoulders. He took her hand as he reached her. “I’ve come to claim my dance.” His smoky voice rolled over her, filling her with breathless excitement.

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  His hand in hers was firm, his step confident as he led her onto the floor. They took position for the waltz. His touch on her upper back created tingles that rained down her body, touching her everywhere. It was as if she couldn’t tell where he stopped and she began. The sensation did not lessen when he led her into the first turn. They moved as one, their rhythm and timing perfectly matched.

  A whiff of his cologne teased her nose; she inhaled deeply, savoring the delicious hints of mint, vanilla, and a spice she couldn’t place. The fragrance was almost as bold and intoxicating as the man.

  When he spoke softly into her ear, his breath caressed her neck. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  She shivered with delight. “I am.” Now. How could he miss how perfectly suited they were for one another? It was as obvious to her as the fact that she possessed two arms and two legs. “I suspect you are not enjoying the evening as well as I am. I heard about your unfortunate encounter with Lady Van Middleburg.”

  He chuckled, his voice low and slightly husky. “Now who is the spy, Miss Darlington?”

  “As you are fond of saying, I was not spying.”