Bound By Temptation (22 page)

“I never said—”

“Believe me, you don’t need to, and at this point it would be impossible to deny. Lord Wainscott saw you, and was most clear in his identification. He is less sure of your companion, but gossip has already centered on the likely choices. Miss Thompson is leading at the moment—it is much more interesting to despoil the young and pure—but at some point soon it will be realized that she is most decidedly not a brunette, and then it will be
too late. There are plenty who will be all too ready to believe this of Clara. I am probably the only one who cannot believe that she was foolish enough to become involved with you. Her other choices have been much more sensible. I’ve been afraid of this since I first saw you together, but I really did think she had much more sense.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Don’t glare at me like that. You know exactly what I mean. You are hardly the choice for either a woman who likes fun or one who wishes a peaceful home. And I believe Clara desires both.”

He drew himself up stiffly, setting each vertebra of his spine in perfect alignment with the one below. He did not need this after the evening he’d had, but he could tell Violet was not about to desist. “I might be pressed to argue with the first, but the second? I can assure you that I intend to maintain a home of utmost tranquillity.”

“As long as she does exactly what you say. And if she doesn’t? How quiet will your home be then?”

“I can assure you that we will manage with great agreeability.”

“Gads, you sound pompous. I take it from your reply that you have asked her.”

“Yes.” Not that this was any of her business.

“Ah.” Violet suddenly lost her waspish tone. “She refused you. That is why you did not come down together. I thought at first that you would feel above marrying a woman of her reputation, despite the circumstances.”

He turned and walked away from her to stare up
at one of the grim-faced paintings. Why did people never choose to look happy when posing for immortality? The man in question stared back out of the canvas with steely eyes and a decided downturn to his lips. Although perhaps it was only the weight of his jowls that kept his mouth at such an angle.

Masters grimaced; he was sure that his own expression was not far different at the moment. “I had actually asked her before events turned—difficult. Foolish man that I am, I let her turn me down twice—and I argued with her, trying to persuade her of my wisdom.”

Violet came up and laid a soothing hand upon his shoulder. “That must have been unbearable for you. And you say you argued. I can’t imagine that you didn’t just tell her what was to be.”

“I tried that, but the bloody woman refuses to see sense. She always wants to debate everything. I am constantly forced to defend my view.”

Violet laughed then, a whisper-light but genuine laugh. “And I bet you don’t always win. That is what really has your goat. This is not the first argument you have lost. I did wonder to see a woman—or a man, for that matter—who could stand up to your bluster.”

“Oh, she more than stands up to it. She pushes back just as hard, and I cannot always persuade her. I fear this may be just such a case.”

“Poor you.” The comment was sincere. He could hear it in the melody of her voice.

“Why can’t she understand that there is no choice? We must wed now.”

“Give her time. This has been as much a shock to her as to you.”

“I am not sure that eternity is enough time to make her see reason, and we certainly cannot wait that long. Every minute we delay only makes matters worse.”

Violet answered, her voice turned serious. “I know that it feels that way to you, but society is more forgiving than I ever imagined, as long as one pretends to play by their rules. Once you are wed, it will only be months before invitations start to reappear. And then another scandal will replace this one. It becomes ever so boring to discuss the same matter again and again.”

He wanted to grumble at her lightheartedness. This was his life. He needed control of it. His sister’s smiling face stared back at him, and for a moment he was tempted to ask if this was what it had been like when she first wed Dratton. Had she felt so little power?

Was this what Clara felt, what she complained of?

He pulled away from Violet’s touch, wanting to stand alone. He was a man who always knew the answers. Why now did they desert him?

He turned back to Violet, wishing he had the confidence in a happy outcome that her smile conveyed. “What do I do now? How do I persuade her?”

“Perhaps you don’t.” Her voice was calm.

“But I must—”

“I merely mean that perhaps you let her persuade
herself. Clara is not a fool. Give her time, perhaps only a few hours, and she will see the necessity of marriage. But let it be her decision.”

“Her decision.” He tried to understand the full import of those words.

“Yes, her decision—and not just because you think it is the best way to get her to come round, but because you truly think she deserves to—no, more than deserves, is entitled to—make her own decision. Do you think you can do that? If you cannot, I would advise that you run from this place and never think of her again.”

“I can hardly run off, leaving her to face this alone.” What sort of man did his sister think he was?

Violet strode back to him, her previous mirth forgotten. She caught his face between her hands and forced him to look at her. “I know you don’t think you can, but I promise you would both be happier living in scandal than being forced together in unhappiness. Clara needs a man who can let her be herself. Can you be that man?”

Violet dropped her hands and did not wait for him to form an answer. “Just think on it. I don’t think there is anything else you can do this night besides stand tall. Peter and I will stand with you, and I am sure Wimberley and Marguerite also.” Violet stepped away then, and for a moment dropped her face from his view. Her voice became quiet, and it was almost as if someone else spoke. “And, brother, know that I do this as much for Clara as for you. I must admit there is some part of
me that feels you deserve this and more.” Then she raised her head again, and it was as if the words had never been said. Instead, she continued in her earlier tone, “Now the best defense is to pretend that it was nothing. I must go and find my fiancé. He will surely have more to tell me.”

Violet swept out of the room, her skirts swirling majestically about her. He stared after her blankly. Her words had left him more confused than ever.

Combing his fingers through his hair, he caught himself and scowled. The blasted woman was driving him to all sorts of unseemly habits. His life had been far more manageable without her.

So why did being without her seem so impossible?

Clara paused at the edge of the ballroom. She had a choice to make. Oh, she had many choices to make, but this one was simple. Did she enter or did she flee?

It would be easy to leave now and put off until tomorrow the consequences of this night, to wait until she knew what her mind wanted—she was afraid that she already knew what both her heart and body wanted.

Him.

Why could he not have said simple words, told her that he cared, told her that he wanted to be with her forever? Why had it all sounded so cold, so final? Why could he not have pushed aside her arguments with declarations of affection?

Why could he not have spoken of love?

Love
.

She wanted to scoff at the word. He did not love her, and she most assuredly did not love him.

Only—perhaps she did. She hated herself for it—she needed a man who realized that her opinion held—but she had long recognized that the mind did not control the heart.

She was delaying.

Did she enter the ballroom or not? Did she face public disgrace now or on the new day?

Would anything be better in the morning? Be easier?

No. If she was going to brave this out, she would do it now.

She closed her eyes for one moment, granted herself one brief second of relief, and then placed a mask upon her face as surely as if it had been a masquerade. She would be confident and seductive, act like nothing had happened. She would be the coquette they all imagined her, but one far more powerful than they could have dreamed.

She ran a finger over her lips, feeling their tenderness. Swollen and red—it drove men crazy and made women jealous. Pinching her cheeks hard, she tried to draw color into them. Their pallor would be a certain mark that she was worried, and worry would betray all.

Strong. Confident. Unashamed.

Those were the qualities that would make them stop, make them question. She could survive questions if they were unsure, but wondering if she could have done this. It was only if they were positive they knew the answer that disgrace would fall.

So let them wonder.

She swallowed, pushing away the lumps that formed in her throat—her voice must be husky, but clear.

She started to pull her shoulders back, but softened them instead. This was not the moment for the warrior. She must act as if there was no battle to fight, act as if she had already won.

A slow, easy grin spread across her face, and she sashayed into the room. All society turned and stared, and she kept her smile fixed, the mask truly in place.

Nobody looking at her would have guessed her internal devastation. She was a woman returning from a stroll, nothing more.

She flashed a grin first at a man, then at a woman, letting all understand she would not be conquered.

She stepped forward and felt them part around her.

There must be a friendly face here, one she could count on. Her glance passed over Mrs. Struthers. She would be a help, but not quite what Clara needed.

Ah, it was almost as if the heavens had sent an answer to her prayer—the Duke of Brisbane. He stood on the far side of the room staring at her along with the rest of the crowd. His look was kind rather than condemning, however.

If Clara had been asked how he would react, she would not have been sure. They’d had a brief liaison at the start of her wild years, but had parted
on good terms. She had always considered him a friend, but had been aware what a stickler he was for propriety. He would never have dallied with her if she had been anything but a rich widow.

The possibility that he would condemn her for her actions was real, but as she met his dark eyes across the room, she felt no doubt.

She fixed him in her gaze and walked toward him, refusing to look to either side.

“Lady Westington.” His voice was cool and deep.

“Brisbane.” She could only hope she betrayed no tremor of uncertainty.

He continued to look at her, appraising, his mind still not made up. She could only stand and wait.

He held out his hand. “Would you care to accompany me in the country dance that is beginning?”

She grasped his hand in welcome.

Maybe she really could survive this.

Brisbane’s arm was hard beneath her grasp as she let him lead her to the floor. The murmur of whispers followed her with every step.

He paused at the edge of the floor and leaned his head toward her, creating a moment of intimacy between them, an island of quiet in the storm. “Has he asked you to marry him? Do you need me to do some persuading?”

Did every single person think there was only one answer to her dilemma? “He did. I said no.”

She could feel his shock. Those dark eyes widened and then grew tight, his lips tensed. “You will have to rethink that or not even I can help.”

“Cannot or will not?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He drew in an angry breath. “Does it matter? I am here. I am your friend, but there are limits.”

“Of course. I am sorry. I am amazed that you even risked this dance. I know how you value your reputation.”

“Tonight the jury still deliberates. Few will risk a direct cut until they see in which direction the tide flows. I suggest that you make sure that it flows in your favor.”

She could only nod as he led her onto the floor and they began the intricate moves of the dance, the pace and changing of partners allowing no further conversation.

Focusing solely on the music and the movement of feet and hands, she tried to block out everything else. Step, turn, step. Smile, nod, bow, smile. If she thought of nothing the world would keep moving and she could pretend for a few brief seconds that all was right.

Then the music slowed and stopped, and Brisbane was leading her to the edge of the floor. The murmur of gossip met her ears and she could hear her name whispered. Brisbane gave her hand one firm squeeze and then released her.

“Do the correct thing,” he murmured.

She only wished that she knew what that was.

He did not walk away, but even with him standing next to her, she could feel that magic circle that surrounded her once again.

“You don’t need to stay with me,” she whispered to Brisbane while keeping a smile plastered on her face.

“I know,” he said as he peered about the room, catching anyone who looked askance with a heavy glare. One unfortunate was even treated to the lifted monocle and narrowing of the eyes.

It was almost enough to cause a hysterical giggle to rise up in her throat. The whole world seemed askew.

“Oh Clara, how could you?” Violet’s voice asked from behind. “I thought better of you.”

Brisbane coughed. “I believe that is my cue to find another drink.” He nodded politely at Violet and faded into the crowd.

“Why on earth would you have thought better of me? I would have thought we have been friends long enough for you to know there are few things I wouldn’t do,” Clara answered, trying to pretend she was lighthearted about the whole matter.

“Oh, not disappointed about that. You were merely unlucky to be caught—although perhaps you should have locked the door. No, I refer to being involved with my brother. I thought you had better taste.”

“I thought a few weeks ago you were on the point of encouraging such a relationship. I seem to remember discussion of a dinner party invitation. And there is nothing wrong with your brother. Masters is a wonderful man. It is not his fault that things turned out as they did.” She found herself
rising to his defense as naturally as a mother protects her young—although she certainly had not the slightest maternal feeling about the man.