“Apology accepted, Doctor,” she said as she drew on her gloves. “But I suggest we return to town, before our charming interlude descends into farce.”
“A charming interlude,” he repeated in a flat voice.
She steeled herself, then lifted an eyebrow with disdain. “What else would it be?”
His eyes, no longer blazing, grew as hard as the stone that had served as their bed.
“I expected it would mean more than an opportunity for you to bed the nearest available man.”
She gasped. “How dare you?”
“Forgive me, your ladyship, but I think it a little late to fall back upon your honor. Either you're lying to me for some reason, or I have misread you. I hope it is the former, because I would hate to think you really are the shallow jade the rest of the world believes you to be. But since you refuse to talk to me, I'm forced to draw my own conclusions.”
Her gut clenched as if he had kicked her there. It was anger, she told herself as she swallowed the ice-cold pain that threatened to swamp her. Not despair. She was done with that emotionâa long time ago. Now it was time to be done with
him
.
“Really, Dr. Blackmore,” she said in a brittle voice. “Whatever were you thinking? I'm the Countess of Randolph, not some innocent maiden yearning to be swept off her feet. Can you really imagine me as a physician's wife?”
His eyes narrowed to silver slits. “Until I actually ask you to marry me, no,” he said in a hard, dismissive voice.
Shock fused with humiliation, and heat flooded her cheeks. Misery froze her into immobility as he shrugged into his waistcoat. His movements were clumsy and stiff, nothing like his usual, graceful self.
Bathsheba summoned up all her willpower, forcing herself to move.
“You'll forgive me, but I must return to the Unicorn to meet my cousin. He'll be expecting me. Shall I wait for your escort, or would you prefer we part company here?”
He paused, tailcoat in hand, regarding her with a baffled, furious gaze. She waited for a reply, but he remained silent.
She managed a twisted smile. “Then I'll bid you good day, my dear sir. Thank you for a most enjoyable afternoon.”
Turning her back on him, she headed for the path out of the glade. She flinched when he uttered a truly foul curse, but she didn't look back. As she hurried through the trees, she strained to hear his footsteps behind herâpraying he would follow, and praying just as hard he wouldn't. When she emerged from the wooded path onto the road, she turned back to look. But the path remained empty.
Bathsheba drew in a shuddering breath, shook out her skirts, and settled her bonnet more firmly on her head. Then she paced up the street toward the market square.
Alone, as always.
Chapter 10
Bathsheba knew she looked her bestâstunning, in fact, in jade green silkâbut that didn't prevent her from feeling as skittish as a debutante at her first ball. According to Sarah Ormond, the first whispers of rumors were beginning to circulate that Bathsheba's pockets were growing thin. If those rumors grew, her chances of landing a rich husband might evaporate in a matter of days.
“Come along, my dear,” murmured Sarah. “We can't stand around in Lady Fancote's hallway all evening, can we? Even if it is the most luxurious hallway in London.”
Her best friend smiled at her and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. Bathsheba managed a weak smile in return, then forced herself to release Sarah's hand. Things were bad, but she needn't act like a frightened child longing for her mother.
Sarah glanced around the ornately marbled entrance hall. “Now, where is that husband of mine? Oh, naturally,” she said sardonically. “Where else would he be?”
Richard Ormond had barely escorted them through the front doors of Fancote House before abandoning them to buttonhole one of the more important members of Liverpool's cabinet. Sarah's husband, a relatively new MP, was brilliant, principled, and addicted to politics. And although he adored his wife, eager to grant her every wish, he never missed an opportunity to cozy up to a potential political ally.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Typical. I can't tell you how many times he's deserted me before we even step foot in the ballroom.”
She sounded exasperated, but the love that shone from her big blue eyes told a very different story. And Richard clearly felt the same about his wife. He glanced across the room, obviously noting the wry expression on Sarah's face. Although he didn't break from his conversation, the heat in his gaze as he let it drift over his wife's delicate face and her trim, graceful figure practically scorched the air between them.
Bathsheba clenched her teeth, hating how jealous she felt. Sarah was her dearest friend, standing loyally by her side through the worst years of her marriage, always defending her against Reggie's vicious gossip. Aside from Boland, only Sarah knew the ugly truth of her relationship with her husband. After all, Reggie had done his best to get Sarah into his bed, even after she married Richard. In fact, the bastard had wanted Sarah and Bathsheba in his bed together, driven by a sick passion to have two of the most beautiful women of the ton in his sexual thrall.
That had been the moment when she realized once and for all what a cruel jest her marriage had become.
Sarah, of course, had wanted to tell Richard, but Bathsheba wouldn't let her. They had argued long and hard, but Bathsheba finally prevailed. Richard would have challenged her husband to a duel, and Reggie was a crack shot. Even if Richard had survived, word of the duel would have leaked out and the scandal would have destroyed his political career before it began. Bathsheba refused to have his demiseâphysical or politicalâon her conscience. Reggie had made her life a misery for refusing to help lure Sarah into his bed, but she had survived it, as she had survived everything else.
She sighed and pulled her soft kid gloves firmly up past her elbows. Sarah's gaze switched back from mooning over her husband to settle on Bathsheba's face. A ready sympathy filled her eyes.
“I know, darling,” she said in a low voice. “I wish you could find a man who would truly make you happy. Goodness knows you deserve it.”
Bathsheba shrugged and gave her a rueful smile. “Perhaps I already have, and I let him get away.” The image of John's hurt, angry face on that last day in Ripon swam into her mind, and she blinked away a sharp sting of tears.
“Nonsense. I refuse to believe that.” Sarah reached her arm around Bathsheba's waist and ushered her to the gracefully curving staircase that led up to the Fancotes' ballroom. “The very man you seek may be here tonight. And you look so ravishing, he just might propose to you before the ball is over.”
Bathsheba laughed. “Oh, Sarah, how can you be so absurd?” But she felt lighter, the other woman's affectionate concern easing the melancholy ache that refused to release its hold on her.
As they climbed the staircase with the rest of the guests, quite a respectable number given the time of year, she leaned in close to murmur in Sarah's ear.
“You're sure no one beside Lady Devoning and Mrs. Marpleson said anything about the state of my finances?” Despite her friend's earlier insistence that the rumors were little more than vague whispers, she still couldn't help but worry. In fact, just thinking about all the terrible ramifications if the truth emerged almost made Bathsheba want to flee back to the safety of Matthew's ramshackle estate.
Almost.
Sarah shook her head so vigorously that the crystal beads entwined in her golden hair clattered against each other.
“You mustn't worry so much. Lady Devoning was simply repeating gossip started by her dressmaker, who is also your dressmaker.”
“Not for long,” muttered Bathsheba.
“As I was saying,” continued her friend with a quelling glance, “Lady Devoning then passed it on to Mrs. Marpleson. We did our best to scotch the rumor. Pretty effectively, I think. Richard told her that one would have to be delusional to think the Randolph fortune could be anything less than substantial. You know what he can be like when he puts on his MP voice. Thank God he happened to be at home yesterday when those two old biddies came to call. But, darling, you do realize better than anyone that it's almost impossible to squash that kind of gossipâat least not completely.”
Bathsheba met her friend's sympathetic gaze and gave a tight nod. For years she had danced around the rumors, always putting on a good show, able to control the situation as long as Matthew stayed away from London. But time was quickly running outâalmost as fast as her money. Faster, if Matthew was foolish enough to marry Miss Elliott.
They reached the top of the stairs and waited in the receiving line to greet Lord and Lady Fancote. A few minutes later, they strolled arm in arm into the magnificent ballroom. Bathsheba had always loved this room with its huge chandeliers, ormolu and rosewood side tables, and French-inspired chimneypiece and gilt doors. It was elegant, luxurious, and expensiveâjust the way she liked it. Her evening gown was a few shades darker than the color of the satin wallpaper, which was why she wore it. The colors set off the flame of her auburn hair to perfection.
Immediately, the two women were surrounded by a swarm of men, all begging for the favor of a dance. Sarah laughed and rolled her eyes at Bathsheba before allowing a very young and newly minted marquess to lead her into the next set.
For a few minutes, Bathsheba narrowed her eyes at her friend's dance partner, doing a swift appraisal of his potential as marriage material. He was handsome enough and rich, she knew, but he looked to be all of twenty-two. Not completely out of the question, and his youth might even be an advantage, making him easier to control.
But as she watched the young man lead Sarah through the figures, her hands grew damp within her gloves as she once again saw John's handsome, utterly masculine face in her mind's eye. She almost staggered as the dancers suddenly rippled and swam before her vision.
She pressed the tips of her gloved fingers to her temples, fighting despair. How was she ever to do what she must if all she could think about was a man she could never have?
“I say there, Lady Randolph. Looking a bit green around the gills, if you ask me. You might want to have a sit-down before you swoon right here in the middle of the ballroom.”
She jerked around, startled to see Mr. Nigel Dash inspecting her with wary concern. Her small bevy of admirers had wandered away to pursue other game, seemingly put off by her lack of attention.
Bathsheba and Nigel stared at each other for long seconds, the silence between them growing awkward. He was a close friend to Simon, the Earl of Trask, the man Bathsheba had tried to blackmail into marriage. It was a testament to Nigel's impeccable manners that he not only noticed her lapse, but actually offered to help her.
She gave him a warm smile, genuinely touched by his consideration. “Thank you, Mr. Dash. I am rather feeling the heat. If you would be so kind as to escort me to a chair, I would be in your debt.”
He looked surprised, but then his jovial social mask slipped back into place. She wasn't fooled. Nigel Dash dressed like a fop and acted like a rattle, but she had always suspected him of having more brains than most members of the ton gave him credit for.
“My honor, your ladyship.” He offered her an arm and politely steered a path through the crowd, leading her to a small but comfortably padded chair set by a tall window wreathed in gold velvet swags.
“There,” he said as she sank down gratefully onto the seat, “it's a bit cooler here.” He peered at her. “Not that you look flushed, if you don't mind my saying so. Pale, more than anything else. Sure you ain't coming down with something?”
She stifled a bitter sigh. If only he knew how bad things really were. He would probably laugh, as would all her enemies, thinking that justice would finally be meted out to the Countess of Randolph.
“I must admit to feeling rather parched,” she said. “Perhaps I might prevail on you to fetch me a glass of punch.”
He frowned, looking confused. “Punch.”
“Yes, please,” Bathsheba replied, feeling confused herself.
“Not champagne?”
Ah.
No wonder he was puzzled. Everyone knew she never drank anything but champagne at parties. But since recovering from her illness, she seemed to have lost the taste for it.
Before he could answer, a tall, broad-shouldered man emerged from the crowd to loom in front of them.
“Nigel, you old dog. Leave it to you to hide away in the corner with the most beautiful woman in the room.”
She looked up and opened her eyes wide with surprise. The most handsome man she had seen in agesâexcept for John, of courseâstood before her, his sapphire blue eyes fixed on her with great interest. Dressed in regimentals, he was obviously an officer of some rank. Bathsheba felt a pang of regret. He was handsome and didn't look stupid, but military men rarely possessed the kind of fortune that would serve her purposes.
“Stanton,” cried Nigel, “didn't know you were back in London. Thought you were still abroad on some diplomatic business or other.”
A Stanton.
Bathsheba perked up, interested now both in the man's parentage and the expression that flashed across his face. For a moment, the hard angles of his sculpted features reflected a combination of cynicism and resentment.
But only for a moment, and then an easy, quite devastating smile took its place.
“No, I'm back,” he said. “I'll be cashing out in a few weeks and joining the rest of you poor sods in a life of unending pleasure.”
He turned his magnetic blue gaze back to Bathsheba.
“Speaking of pleasure, Dash, why don't you introduce me to your lovely companion?”
Nigel looked uneasy, but he could hardly refuse. “Lady Randolph, may I present Major Lucas Stanton, nephew to General and Lady Stanton, and just lately returned from the Continent.” Bathsheba couldn't fail to miss the warning note in his voice.
“I'm delighted to meet you, Major,” she responded with a seductive purr. “I have, of course, heard of your military exploits, even though I've not had the honor of meeting you until now.”
Nigel turned as stiff as a hitching post beside her, and she could practically hear him repressing a groan. Not that she could really blame him. After all, to Nigel she was the dastardly vixen who had nearly destroyed Sophie Stanton's reputation, and now he had accidentally thrown another Stanton into her spider's web.
The major was most certainly not the average, impecunious officer. He was a wealthy viscount's heir, and all the gossips swore the current holder of the title was not long for the world. That, no doubt, was the reason Major Stanton was selling his commission. His aunt and uncle, General and Lady Stanton, would surely object to him falling into her clutches, but he hardly seemed the kind of man who worried about what his relations might think.
She flashed another quick gaze over his face and physique. Handsome and clearly rich and, judging by the way he was looking at her, unattached.
In a word, perfect.
He gazed down at her, his blue eyes heating with amusement and interest. She smiled back, leaving no doubt about her intentions.
“Dash, old man,” the major said, turning his attention briefly to Nigel, “I'm sure her ladyship could do with a drink. Why don't you run along and find her something suitable.”
Nigel opened his mouth, ready to object, when Bathsheba jumped in.
“Mr. Dash had just offered to fetch me a punch before you came up, Major.” She fanned herself languidly. “It's so close in here, don't you think? I would be so grateful to have something cool to drink.”