Seducing an Angel Page 4

“But I do agree with you, Nessie,” Stephen said. “I think we may discount the axe part of the story. Perhaps the rest of it too. One can only hope that her coming here uninvited is not going to ruin Meg’s ball.”

  “It will be talked about for weeks,” Elliott said. “What hostess could ask more of her entertainment? I would wager everyone has already forgotten about what they all think poor Sherry was guilty of. His perceived crimes pale in comparison with a female axe murderer. Indeed, I do believe we ought to thank the lady in person.”

  Vanessa eyed him suspiciously, and Stephen looked across the room again to where Lady Paget was standing, a small empty space all about her as if those in close proximity expected her to draw an axe from beneath her gown and commence swinging with it.

  He had glanced at her only once before, when the story had first reached his ears and she had been pointed out to him. He did not want the poor woman to feel that everyone was staring at her.

  Why had she been foolish enough to come? And to come alone. And without an invitation. Of course, she would probably sit at home for the rest of her life if she waited for one of those.

  She was a tall, voluptuously formed woman. And the gown she wore did nothing to hide her curves. It was of a bold emerald green and fell in soft folds from beneath her bosom. On a lesser figure, those folds might have hung loosely. On hers, they followed the curve of waist and hips and long, lusciously shaped legs. Its sleeves were short, its neckline leaving little of her bosom to the imagination. Apart from her elbow-length white gloves and a fan and dancing slippers, there were no other adornments on her person. She wore no jewelry at all and no plumes in her hair. It was a stunningly clever idea. For her hair was her crowning glory—and it surpassed all cliché. It was a glowing red and was piled in loose curls on her head, with wavy tendrils to draw attention to the creamy white, swanlike perfection of her neck. Her face was pure beauty despite its bored, haughty, slightly contemptuous expression—a mask if ever Stephen had seen one. He doubted she was feeing as poised as she looked. It was impossible to see the color of her eyes, but there seemed to be a slight, alluring slant to them.

  All this he had seen the first time he glanced at her. This time he saw immediately that she was looking directly back at him. He resisted his first instinct, which was to look hastily away. It was probably what everyone else was doing as soon as she glanced their way. He looked steadily back at her. And she did not look away from him, as he had expected she would do. Her hand slowly plied her fan. Her eyebrows arched arrogantly upward, and her lips curved into an expression that was half smile, half not.

  He inclined his head to her just as Carling and his lady joined them to inform them that the dancing was about to begin.

  Stephen went to claim the hand of Lady Christobel Foley, who had just happened to stroll past him with her mama when they entered the ballroom earlier and had stopped to bid him a good evening. Before they strolled away again, it had been arranged that the set he had reserved with her yesterday in the park would be the opening set, and that he would dance another with her later in the evening.

  He glanced toward Lady Paget again when he and his partner were standing in the lines waiting for the orchestra to begin playing. She was standing in the same place, though she was no longer looking at him.

  And he felt a sudden jolt of recognition. Not that he knew beyond all doubt that he was correct. Nevertheless, he was as sure as he could be that Lady Paget was that widow all in black he and Con had seen yesterday when they were out riding.

  Yes, it was surely she, though she looked quite startlingly different.

  Yesterday she had worn a heavy disguise.

  Tonight she stood exposed to the shock and censure of the ton.

  Tonight she wore only the disguise of her cool indifference, even contempt for everyone’s opinion.

  3

  THE second set would have to be the one, Cassandra decided. She could not stand here all night without looking ridiculous—and without making this whole painful exercise pointless.

  But when the opening set ended, the Earl and Countess of Sheringford came to speak with her. She saw them coming and raised her fan again. She half smiled and half raised her eyebrows. If they were going to ask her to leave, she was not going to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her embarrassed.

  “Lady Paget,” the earl said, “despite all our efforts to keep the ballroom cool by having all the windows opened, it is overwarm in here after all. May I have the pleasure of fetching you a drink? Wine, perhaps, or sherry or ratafia? Or lemonade?”

  “A glass of wine would be very welcome,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Maggie?” he asked his wife.

  “The same, please, Duncan,” she said, and watched him walk away.

  “Your ball is very well attended,” Cassandra said. “You must be gratified.”

  “It is a great relief,” the countess admitted. “I hosted a number of events for my brother before I married and felt no more than a twinge of anxiety each time. It never occurred to me in those days that some massive disaster might occur to spoil the event. This is the first entertainment I have hosted in London since my marriage three years ago, and everything feels different, most notably the level of my confidence. Perhaps we ought to have returned sooner, but we have both been so happy in the country with our children.”

  She was the massive disaster that was threatening to ruin this particular evening, Cassandra understood. She pursed her lips and said nothing.

  “I have been terrified,” Lady Sheringford continued, “that no one would come to the ball except my brother and sisters and mother-in-law, though it was a comfort to know that they would all at least bring their spouses—except my brother, of course. He is not married yet.”

  “You need not have feared,” Cassandra said. “The notorious always draw attention to themselves. People are incurably inquisitive.”

  The countess raised her eyebrows and would have spoken, but the earl had returned with their drinks.

  “Perhaps, Lady Paget,” he said as Cassandra sipped her wine, “you would do me the honor of dancing the next set with me.”

  She smiled at him and at his lady, then back at him.

  “Are you sure,” she asked, “you would rather dance with me, Lord Sheringford, than beg me to leave Claverbrook House?”

  “Perfectly sure, ma’am,” he said, smiling and exchanging a glance with his wife.

  “We are sufficiently acquainted with … notoriety, Lady Paget,” the countess said, “to be happy to ignore it in others. Especially when the other person is our guest.”

  “Your uninvited guest,” Cassandra said, drinking more wine.

  “Yes, even then,” the countess agreed. She laughed unexpectedly. “I met my husband at a ball to which he had not been invited. I have always been thankful that we were both there anyway. I might not have met him otherwise. Please enjoy yourself.”

  Someone had touched the countess on the shoulder and she turned to see who it was. It was the devil, Cassandra could see—Mr. Huxtable.

  “Oh, Constantine,” the countess said, smiling warmly, “here you are. I was afraid you had forgotten that you were to dance this next set with me, and I would be left a forlorn wallflower on the sidelines.”

  “Forgotten?” he said, slapping a hand to his heart. “When I have lived all day in eager anticipation of just this moment, Margaret?”

  “Oh, foolish!” She laughed. “Have you met Lady Paget? Constantine Huxtable, Lady Paget, my second cousin.”

  He fixed her with a steady look from very dark eyes, and bowed.

  “Lady Paget,” he said. “My pleasure.”

  Cassandra inclined her head and fanned her face.

  “Mr. Huxtable.”

  She read speculation in the polite stare of his eyes. But he would definitely not be the one, she decided. For those eyes also looked somewhat hard and dangerous, as if he were warning her without the medium of words that if she had come with the
intention of casting some cloud over this ball of his second cousin’s, she might find herself answering to him. He would be too much of a challenge. She might have been intrigued by him if this were merely a game she was playing. But it most certainly was not.

  “Your ball is a grand success, Margaret,” he said. “As I predicted it would be.”

  He continued to look at Cassandra as he spoke.

  Cassandra drank the rest of her wine.

  “I believe the dancing is about to resume,” Lord Sheringford said, taking her empty glass from her hand and setting it down on a table close to the wall. “Shall we, ma’am?” He offered his arm.

  “Thank you.” She set her hand on his sleeve and let her fan fall on its string from her other wrist.

  She wondered if the earl and countess were merely trying to control the potential damage her presence at their ball was likely to cause or if they were simply being kind. She rather suspected the latter but was thankful to them either way.

  Cassandra looked at the earl curiously as they took their places in the set. How could he have abandoned his poor bride on her wedding day? But her lips twitched with something like amusement when she thought that perhaps he was looking just as curiously at her, wondering how she could possibly have killed her own husband. With an axe, no less.

  The orchestra began to play and they danced while Cassandra looked about. They were the focus of much attention, she and the earl. The two notorious ones. But why watch them? What did people expect to happen? What did they hope would happen? That she and the Earl of Sheringford would suddenly clasp hands and make a dash for the ballroom doors and freedom and a reckless elopement?

  The mental image caused her to smile openly, though with a contemptuous curl of the lips. And she met the glance of the Earl of Merton at the same moment. He was dancing with the lady with whom he had been talking before the first set began.

  He smiled back at her.

  It was definitely at her he smiled. He looked at no one else before returning his attention to his partner and bending his head to listen to something she was saying.

  Stephen danced the second set with Vanessa. He would have danced it with Lady Paget if he had not already reserved it with his sister. He was very glad to see that Meg and Sherry had gone to speak with her at the end of the opening set and that Sherry had led her out for the second.

  Stephen felt sorry for her.

  That was doubtless a foolish waste of sympathy. Where there was smoke, there was usually some fire, even if just a tiny spark. He really did not believe the axe murder story—though it was more description than story, as it came without supporting details. He was not sure he believed the murder story at all, in fact. She would be in custody if it were true. And since a year or more had passed since her husband’s death, she would probably be long dead herself by now. Hanged.

  Since she was very much alive and here tonight at Meg’s ball, either she was not her husband’s murderer at all or there was sufficient lack of evidence that no arrest had yet been made.

  She looked bold enough to fit the part of murderess, however. And that startlingly glorious hair of hers suggested a passionate nature and a hot temper. Despite what Nessie had said about a woman’s ability to heft an axe, Lady Paget looked strong enough to him.

  All of which were thoughts and speculations that were unworthy of him. He knew nothing about either her or the circumstances of her husband’s death. And none of it was any of his business.

  He did feel sorry for her, nevertheless, knowing that almost everyone else in the ballroom was having similar thoughts to his own but that many would not even try to rein them in or allow her the benefit of any doubt.

  He would dance the next set with her, he decided, before remembering that it was to be a waltz and that he liked to choose one of the very young ladies for the waltz—one who was more his ideal of feminine beauty than Lady Paget was. He especially wanted to do so this evening, as the third set was also the supper dance and he would be able to sit beside his partner during the meal. He had several candidates in mind, though all were much in demand as partners and all might already be engaged for the waltz. A few, of course, could not dance it anyway because they had not yet been granted the nod of approval by one of the patronesses of Almack’s Club. The waltz was still considered rather too risqué a dance for the very young and innocent.

  He would dance the set after supper with Lady Paget, then. Maybe some other gentleman would have the courtesy to dance with her or at least converse with her during the waltz. Perhaps she would not even still be here after supper. Perhaps she would slip quietly away now that she had discovered that her reputation had preceded her to London. It would be something of a relief if she did leave. He did not particularly want to dance with her.

  Miss Susanna Blaylock had already promised the waltz to Freddie Davidson, Stephen discovered when he approached her after the second set. She looked quite openly disappointed and told him that she was free for the next set. Stephen reserved it with her. It was, of course, the dance after supper.

  And then, before he could continue with his quest for a waltzing partner, a few of his male acquaintances drew him into their group to ask his opinion upon whether one of them ought to purchase a set of matched bays or matched grays to pull his new curricle. Which would look more sporting? Which would be more manageable? More fashionable? Faster? More suited to the colors of the curricle? Which would the ladies prefer? Stephen joined in the discussion and the bellows of amused laughter it occasioned.

  If he did not draw away soon, he thought after a couple of minutes, there would be no lady left to dance with him—and he hated not to waltz.

  “Why not one gray and one bay?” he suggested with a grin. “Now, that would draw you all the attention you could possibly desire, Curtiss. But if you fellows will excuse—”

  He was turning as he spoke and did not finish his sentence because he almost collided with someone who was passing close behind him. Sheer instinct caused him to grasp her by the upper arms so that she would not be bowled entirely over.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he said, and found himself almost toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye with Lady Paget. “I ought to have been looking where I was going.”

  She was in no hurry to step back. Her fan was in her hand—it looked ivory with a fine filigree design across its surface—and she wafted it slowly before her face.

  Oh, Lord, her eyes almost matched her gown. He had never seen such green eyes, and they did indeed slant upward ever so slightly at the outer corners. Viewed against the background of her red hair, they were simply stunning. Her eyelashes were thick and darker than her hair—as were her eyebrows. She was wearing some unidentifiable perfume, which was floral but neither overstrong nor oversweet.

  “You are pardoned,” she said in such a low-pitched velvet voice that Stephen felt a shiver along his spine.

  He had noticed earlier that the ballroom was warm despite the fact that all the windows had been thrown wide. He had not noticed until now that the room was also airless.

  Her lips curled into a faint suggestion of a smile, and her eyes remained on his.

  He expected her to continue on her way to wherever she had been going. She did not do so. Perhaps because—oh. Perhaps because he was still clutching her arms. He released them with another apology.

  “I saw you looking at me earlier,” she said. “I was looking at you, of course, or I would not have noticed. Have we met somewhere before?”

  She must know they had not. Unless—

  “I saw you in Hyde Park yesterday afternoon,” he said. “Perhaps I look familiar because you saw me there too but do not quite recall doing so. You were dressed in widow’s weeds.”

  “How clever of you,” she said. “I thought they made me quite unidentifiable.”

  There was amusement in her eyes. He was not sure if it was occasioned by real humor or by a certain inexplicable sort of scorn.

  “I do recall,” she said. “I did
as soon as I saw you again tonight. How could I have forgotten you? I thought you looked like an angel then, and I think it again tonight.”

  “Oh, I say.” Stephen laughed with a mingling of embarrassment and amusement. He seemed particularly inarticulate this evening. “Looks can deceive, I am afraid, ma’am.”

  “Yes,” she said, “they can. Perhaps on further acquaintance I will change my mind about you—or would if there were any further acquaintance.”

  He wished her bosom were not quite so exposed or that she were not standing quite so close. But he would feel foolish taking a step back now when he ought to have thought to do it as soon as he let go of her arms. He felt it imperative to keep his eyes on her face.

  Her lips were full, her mouth on the wide side. It was probably one of the most kissable mouths his eyes had ever dwelled upon. No, it was definitely the most kissable. It was one more feature to add to a beauty that was already perfect.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, stepping back at last so that he could make her a slight bow. “I am Merton, at your service, ma’am.”

  “I knew that,” she said. “When one sees an angel, one must waste no time in discovering his identity. I do not need to tell you mine.”

  “You are Lady Paget,” he said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

  “Are you?” Her eyelids had drooped half over her eyes, and she was regarding him from beneath them. Her eyes were still amused.

  Over her shoulder he could see couples taking their places on the dance floor. The musicians were tuning their instruments.

  “Lady Paget,” he said, “would you care to waltz?”

  “I would indeed care to,” she said, “if I had a partner.”

  And she smiled fully and with such dazzling force that Stephen almost took another step back.

  “Shall I try that again?” he said. “Lady Paget, would you care to waltz with me?”

  “I would indeed, Lord Merton,” she said. “Why do you think I collided with you?”

  Good Lord.

  Well, good Lord!