Seduced by the Scoundrel (18 page)

‘T
he reception went very well,’ Lady Kingsbury pronounced as they drove back to Bruton Street. Averil could still not think of it as
home.
‘You have already made a number of most suitable acquaintances. We will attend the Farringdons’ ball tomorrow night, I think. Brandon, I trust we may count on your escort?’

‘Of course, Mama.’

‘Unfortunately it is a Wednesday, but we will visit Almack’s next week. There are certain to be several of the Patronesses at the ball. I will secure a voucher for you.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. Is the fact that it is Wednesday relevant?’

‘Of course. A ball and supper every Wednesday during the Season. Do you not know about Almack’s?’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am. My friend Lady Perdita Brooke told me about it on the ship, I just did not understand about Wednesdays.’

‘Perdita Brooke? You know her well?’

‘Very well. She is my particular friend. You may imagine my relief when I discovered that she, too, had survived the wreck. She was saved by Viscount Lyndon.’

‘He is now Marquis of Iwerne. That is not an acquaintance I would wish you to pursue. The man is a gazetted rake and as for Lady Perdita, there was considerable talk before she left for India. Shocking behaviour. She eloped and was some time in the company of a most unsuitable young man.’

‘But, ma’am, she is my friend! And Lord Lyndon, I mean, Iwerne—I have something of his that was washed up after the wreck. I was going to write and send it to him.’

‘I forbid you to correspond with either of them,’ Lady Kingsbury said. ‘We cannot be too careful under the circumstances.’
So she does know her son believes I lost my virginity.
‘You will promise me, Averil.’

It was the first time the other woman had used her first name. ‘I will not write to Dita, if that is what you wish, ma’am.’

‘Then that must be the end of it. Yes?’

‘I promise.’ But Dita would come to London soon; she had not promised not to meet her, only not to write. And somehow she would return Dita’s gift to Alistair, that would not be
corresponding.
She could do that without breaking her word.

Averil was enchanted by the Farringdons’ ballroom with its swags of spring flowers, fountains and little sitting-out alcoves created with the cunning use of striped canvas. The whole room resembled a
fête champêtre
on a sunny day.

‘How delightful! I do not think I have ever seen anything so fresh and pretty.’

‘Hush, my dear. One should not appear gauche and over-excited. Do try for more decorum,’ Lady Kingsbury reproved as they made their way from the receiving line into the throng in the ballroom. Arriving too early was another fault to be avoided, apparently. Averil felt decidedly provincial.

There were scarlet jackets in abundance amongst the severe black and midnight-blue tailcoats, and several groups of naval officers as well. Averil scanned them and then tried to decide whether she was pleased or not that Luc was absent.

‘Ah, there is the dear Duc de la Valière,’ Lady Kingsbury said, nodding towards a group on the far side of the room. ‘In fact, half the
émigrée
community appears to be here this evening.’

With tacit permission to stare, Averil studied the dozen or so people in conversation around the plump figure with his chest covered in decorations and orders. The ladies were all dressed in what she had come to recognise already as the latest stare and she looked with envy at one particular gown of pale sea-green with azure ribbons.

Its wearer was deploying her fan with her eyes fixed on a tall, dark gentleman next to her. The group shifted a little and Averil found herself staring at Luc wearing civilian evening dress.

Every good resolution to forget him promptly flew out of the window. Averil let out a long breath and tried to understand how she was feeling. Happy, apprehensive, aroused—oh, dear, he still made her ache when she saw him and there were flutters of wicked sensation
in the most embarrassing places. Her nipples hardened against the muslin of her chemise. But most of all, seeing him made her happy in a strange, painful way. She wanted to be with him.

‘What lovely gowns the French ladies have,’ she remarked, searching for a reason for her close interest.

‘Smuggled silks and lace,’ Bradon said. ‘Come, I will introduce you to the
duc.
One meets him everywhere, you know—a great crony of Prinny’s.’

It was hard not to look at Luc as they crossed the floor. Averil made her curtsy to the
duc,
salvaged enough of her unreliable French to reply to his rather effusive compliments and stepped back while Bradon continued to talk to the older man. The effort not to look at Luc was making her feel awkward. In fact, she thought, as she felt her whole body stiffening up, she probably looked as though she was too shy, or perhaps too stand-offish, to look at any of the others in the group.

‘Miss Heydon?’

Averil gasped, dropped her fan, reticule and dance card and felt herself blush peony-pink as she bent to scrabble them up. ‘Ouch!’ Her head made contact with another and she sat down, hard, on the floor.

‘Miss Heydon—’

‘Averil!’

Hands seized each arm and she was pulled to her feet feeling like a cross between a rag doll and a small child. On one side Bradon was a picture of disapproval, as well he might be. On the other Luc was biting the inside of his cheek in an effort not to laugh. At least the irritation with her that had gripped him last time they
met appeared to have gone. She smoothed her skirts while she fought for composure.

‘Miss Heydon, I do apologise.’ At least he was speaking English, thank heavens. She did not think she could cope with this in French. ‘First I make you jump, then I almost knock you out. May I fetch you some lemonade, or help you to a chair?’

‘Miss Heydon will be quite all right with me, Captain d’Aunay,’ Bradon said, cutting across her own response.

‘Thank you both, I am fine, I assure you.’ She spoke to a point in the air midway between the two men. ‘It was the merest bump.’

‘In that case, Miss Heydon, might I ask for a dance?’

Beside her she felt Bradon shift as though he was about to intervene, then he relaxed and she breathed out. He could not have it both ways, she thought with a spurt of amusement. Either she was his betrothed and he could legitimately bristle at any man wanting her attention or she was merely a guest and, provided she was not accosted by an undesirable partner, he really had nothing to say on the matter.

‘I would be delighted, Captain. Or should I say Monsieur le Comte, as you are out of uniform?’ she asked as she proffered her rather crumpled dance card. Of course, if Bradon only knew it, Luc was absolutely the most undesirable partner for her.

‘Captain is less of a mouthful,’ Luc said, his eyes smiling into hers as he looked up from filling in the card in a way that brought the blush back to warm her cheeks. ‘I have taken the liberty of marking two sets including the supper dance.’

Bradon stiffened again, then remarked, ‘Your very
first partner at your first English ball’, in such an insufferably patronising tone that she wanted to hit him.

‘Oh, no, not my first partner,’ she said, smiling wide-eyed at him. ‘See.’ She turned the card so he could see Luc’s initials against the third set and the supper set. The first two sets were free.

‘Then allow me.’ Bradon whipped the card from her hand, frowned at it, then put his initials against the first set and another after supper. Luc lowered one eyelid in what might have been the ghost of a wink and turned back to the young lady in sea-green, who was, of course, speaking French.

She had auburn hair and was quite lovely. She also appeared to find Luc fascinating. In fact, it seemed mutual, judging by the intensity with which they were making eye contact. Something tightened inside Averil, an uncomfortable twist of what was almost apprehension.

For goodness’ sake! Why should Luc not enjoy talking to a pretty young woman? He was, she reminded herself, looking for a wife. A French wife. It would be foolish indeed of her to expect him to reject the company of other women simply because she was not going to become his mistress.

He had probably already taken a new mistress, she thought, sliding even deeper into gloom at the thought. He was not a man to stay celibate for long, she was sure.

The scrape of bowstrings caused the chattering guests to turn towards the floor and the first chords from the orchestra on the dais brought the dancers on to the floor to make up the first set, the country dance that was opening the ball.

Bradon took her arm and steered her into the line
of ladies before taking his place facing her. Lady Farringdon, a sprightly blonde, took the head of the line, called the first figure, and they were away. Averil was too occupied in concentrating on her steps to do more than follow Bradon’s lead for at least the first fifteen minutes, then they were safely down the line, had executed a complicated figure without her falling over and disgracing herself again and she began to relax a trifle.

Luc was halfway down the line, partnered by the girl in sea-green, who was, of course, dancing with grace and confidence and managing to talk at the same time.

He was courting her, it was obvious in the way he moved, the way he looked at her, the way she coyly avoided looking at him. The sensation in Averil’s stomach stopped being a vague discomfort and became a pain she recognised, even though she had never felt it before. It was jealousy. Full-blown, green-eyed, savage jealousy. She should be ashamed. But she was not.

I love him,
Averil thought, and turned blindly to follow Bradon’s lead through the next figure.
I love him.
It was not simply desire, or gratitude for her rescue. She wanted him body and soul and heart, even if he never touched her or kissed her again. She wanted him as the father of her children. She wanted to grow old with him.

Appalled, Averil looked at Bradon, the man to whom she would be tied for life, who would be, if she was blessed with them, the father of her children. And she could feel nothing except a vague pity for his coldness.

He was well-enough looking, there would be nothing to actively repel her when he came to her bed. He seemed intelligent enough. Until a few minutes ago the fact that she did not love him had not mattered
one iota—she had not expected ever to experience that emotion. Now she was dizzy with despair because she knew what it felt like to love a man and she could never have him.

‘Are you quite well, my dear?’ Bradon bent to murmur in her ear as the measure brought them to stand side by side. ‘You have gone quite pale.’

‘It is very warm in here,’ she lied. Her limbs felt numb with cold.

‘I would have thought that after India you would be accustomed,’ he said with a frown. ‘You are not … unwell?’

‘No, I am not,’ she almost snapped back. ‘And I have been out of India’s heat for months now, my lord.’

‘We had best sit out the remainder of the set, I think.’ He took her arm to guide her out of the line, but Averil resisted. She did not want to have to sit with nothing to do but think, nothing to look at but Luc and the French girl, so absorbed in each other.

Somehow she got through the set, and the next, a cotillion where she was partnered by a shy young man who hardly managed to articulate his request for the dance. Without any need to converse Averil was left to work her way through the complex figures and to brood on Luc.

Even if he knew she loved him he would not marry her. He had made his requirements in a bride quite clear. She must be French and even Averil’s spoken French was inadequate. She must be of aristocratic breeding and Averil’s grandfather had been a shopkeeper. There was nothing except a physical attraction to make him want her and she had a sinking suspicion that once he had made love to her fully and satisfied
that urge, then she would hold no further attraction for him. She was hardly skilled in the arts of love. How long, she wondered gloomily, would he have kept her if she had yielded to his desire and become his mistress? A week, a month?

Shy Mr McCormack delivered her back to Lady Kingsbury with mumbled thanks. The orchestra stopped to retune, the volume of conversation rose. At any moment Luc would come to claim her for the next set and she had not the slightest idea what she would talk to him about, or even if she was capable of conversation.

She was so lost in painful thought that when he appeared in front of her in the flesh she gasped.

‘Am I startling you again, Miss Heydon? I do apologise.’ Luc stood there, elegant and groomed, a thousand miles from the piratical figure who had hauled her naked from the beach on St Helen’s. But that man was still there with the dangerous fire in those deep grey eyes, the jut of that arrogant nose, the set of the determined chin. And the lean figure, all hard-toned muscle and long bones that made her mouth dry with desire when she looked at him. Those were the same.

And so was the mouth that could thin into a hard line of anger or curve into a smile that made her want to follow him into sin and back, that could bark orders in one breath and breathe promises of those sins with another.

‘I was momentarily distracted, Count,’ Averil said. She got to her feet without a stumble by focusing every ounce of concentration on her deportment.
I stand just so, my hands like this, my back straight and shoulders
down. Head up. Fan and reticule—both under control. Chin up. Smile. Put out my hand to him …

She thought she was succeeding admirably until they took their places for the quadrille. ‘What is wrong, Averil?’

‘A headache, that is all.’ The smile became brighter.

‘You no more have a headache than I have. Is it your thoughts that are painful?’

‘Perhaps,’ she admitted. ‘It is not such an easy thing as I thought it would be, to travel so many miles and to learn to live with strangers on such terms of intimacy.’

‘Do you think Bradon will become easier with acquaintance?’

‘He is not a man who finds it easy to give expression to his feelings,’ Averil said, choosing her words with care.