Read The Conqueror's Dilemma Online
Authors: Elizabeth Bailey
The Conqueror's Dilemma
THE CONQUEROR’S
DILEMMA
Elizabeth Bailey
©
2012 by
Elizabeth Bailey
All rights reserved.
The moral right of
the author has been asserted.
No
part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing
of the author. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All
characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the
public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental.
Published
by Elizabeth Bailey 2012
www.elizabethbailey.co.uk
Cover Art by David Evans Bailey 2012
Original print used in cover
illustration kindly loaned by Louise Allen of www.louiseallen.com
ONE
The face was appealing rather than
pretty, distinguished by a pair of impish eyes that danced away from the
Conqueror’s fixed gaze. He caught them peeping at him from beyond the safety of
a fluted pillar as he returned to the ballroom with a glass of lemonade he had
set out to obtain for his thirsty hostess. Intrigued, if faintly irritated, Mr
William Westerham slowed his pace, pausing as the girl nipped out of sight. Was
this cat and mouse game designed to attract his attention?
It was not his practice to notice
an unknown debutante. Nor was it politic. She might be impossible for all he
knew, and to bring her into fashion could set a disastrous precedent.
The reappearance of the peeping
eyes piqued his curiosity. He cast a hasty glance around and found the anteroom
deserted. If he was swift, none need take note of what he did. Grimly
satisfied, he approached the pillar.
‘If you are proposing to waylay
me, it is not much use hiding the moment you manage to catch my eye.’
His tone was
amiable, but edged with his habitual touch of irony. Not much to his surprise,
the girl’s eyes—of a clear blue, he noted in passing—failed to meet his. They
darted this way and that under brows of pale hue, which matched the short sandy
curls escaping from under a velvet bandeau and rioting onto her forehead.
William allowed
his gaze to flit down to the muslin gown. As one might expect, it was simple in
style and of the ubiquitous white appropriate for a debutante, although not of
the first stare. The embellishment of a lilac vest trimmed in velvet and closed
in front with silver lacing met with his approval.
He tired of the maidenly reserve.
This was not why he had addressed her. Perhaps a prompt was in order.
‘Well?’
If his tone was satiric, it was
yet gentle and her gaze fluttered to his face. There was no devilry in the
youthful countenance, only dismay. Had he mistaken it earlier? Disappointed, he
was preparing to bow himself away when she spoke, a flurried note in a somewhat
breathy voice.
‘I’m sure I should not speak to
you. I know we have not been introduced, for I must have remembered it. You are
handsome enough to have commanded my attention.’
Considerably taken aback, William
was betrayed into laughter. ‘You flatter me, ma’am.’
But
consternation had entered the blue gaze. ‘Oh, drat. I should not have said
that, should I?’ A quick little sigh escaped her. ‘How difficult everything is.
I’m sure I shall never get used to it.’ Then, to William’s reluctant delight,
the impish look returned. ‘Might you contrive to forget I spoke to you so? I
shall be quite undone if Eva were to know of it. She would scold me dreadfully
and I have enough to contend with as it is.’
It was borne in upon William that
his first accusation might have been unworthy. The chit apparently had no
notion of his identity. Unless it was a ploy? Against all instinct and caution,
he lingered, curious again.
‘Who is Eva?’
‘My chaperon. Lady Drumbeg, you
know.’
Worse and worse. William did not
know. Was this why the child had not come to his notice before this? If Lady
Drumbeg had been acquainted with his circle, she would undoubtedly have moved
heaven and earth to accomplish an introduction for her charge.
Another little sigh drove the
mischief from those blue orbs. ‘I had best return to her protection, or I shall
be falling into yet another scrape.’ A fleeting smile was cast at William. ‘I
can’t think whether I ought to beg you to go away or instead thank you for
speaking to me, though I know you should not have done. But the truth is I am
quite glad of it, for my acquaintance here is negligible.’
Hardly surprising, if she was
under the care of a woman who had no entrée to the fashionable set. How in the
world this Drumbeg female had gained access to an exclusive event given by the
Queen of Society was a mystery—which William instantly determined to resolve.
What a fortunate chance he had Juliana’s ear.
‘The fault was mine,’ he returned
in his suavest manner. ‘I should not have spoken to you without having first
been presented.’ Despite every desire to remain aloof, he could not repress a
grin. ‘Only if you will peep around pillars at people, what do you expect?’
The mischief reappeared and the
girl smiled. ‘Oh, but I had only just escaped, you see. I had hoped to remain
unseen, and then you came along and most unfortunately spotted me, so that I
was put into a wretched quandary.’
‘But why did you wish to escape?’
William cut in, ignoring the rest. ‘Are you not enjoying the ball?’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘I
never do, though I do try. Poor Uncle Matt has gone to so much trouble to send
me here I feel I ought to be enjoying it. It seems so ungrateful not to, don’t
you think?’
The candid gaze searched his, as
if she truly sought William’s opinion. He was beset by a tantalizing curiosity
to know more. He quashed it firmly, and pulled back. By her own admission, the
girl was an outsider. He had no intention of being beguiled—or indeed to
beguile. He was not going to risk his carefully established niche in the social
order merely for a pair of dancing eyes. A realist, William was well aware of
the fickle nature of his world. One false move could bring him crashing down.
Movement in the immediate
vicinity of the ballroom decided it. He shifted back, lowering his tone.
‘We had best part, ma’am. I
should not wish to be guilty of bringing down a scold upon you.’
With which, he dipped his head in
a slight bow and walked quickly towards the archway leading into the ballroom.
A female of middle years was standing just inside the arch. No surprise she
should give him that odd look. Relieved her face was unfamiliar, he went in
search of his hostess.
The young lady watched him disappear into the throng,
conscious of a sinking at her breast. Had she been deplorably indiscreet? Oh,
not a doubt of it. However handsome he was, she should not have said so. And he
was extremely handsome. There had been an oddity of reserve in him, she felt,
despite the smile and the warmth of his brown eyes. She had caught a look
of—suspicion, was it? She tried to recall the rest of his features and could
not, although she visualised a luxuriant head of hair. Dark and waving, with an
errant lock or two falling onto a wide brow. He had a distinct air of elegance.
Was it the close-fitting clothes that showed off his figure to advantage?
Perhaps it was his stance, for his height was superior. But then she was herself
a trifle under the average and he might appear taller than he was. One thing
was certain. He was far too fashionable to seek acquaintance with Miss Tiffany
Felton.
Her mind roved over what she had
said to him, searching for further indiscretions. Impossible to recall which
she had violated of the do’s and don’ts jostling one another in her head. It
was bad enough she had spoken to him at all. Except he had addressed her first.
But did that excuse her?
The unwelcome sight of her chaperon
coming towards her interrupted her ruminations. Had Eva seen it? Tiffany braced
herself for a scathing reproof.
‘Tiffany, what did he say to
you?’ demanded Lady Drumbeg, coming up.
She sounded rather excited than
annoyed, but Tiffany, ever wary, chose caution. ‘Who, ma’am?’
The chaperon clicked her tongue.
She was a gaunt woman, pale in complexion, whose countenance wore a permanent
expression of discontent that Tiffany had seen deepen all too often to
peevishness. Unsurprising, when one considered the slights and indignities she
was apparently prepared to endure in pursuit of her objectives. Tiffany would
not have suffered a quarter of them without crumbling into a withered heap.
‘Mr Westerham, of course,’ she
uttered snappily. ‘I do wish you will try for a little intelligence, Tiffany.’
‘But I don’t know Mr Westerham,
ma’am.’
‘Of course you don’t know him,
little fool. Not before tonight. But you were only just speaking to him. What
did he want with you? I hope to heaven you haven’t said anything he could take
amiss.’
Tiffany hesitated. In truth, she
must refute the hope. But the gentleman—if he was this Mr Westerham—had
appeared more amused than otherwise. She prevaricated, and sought a way to
deflect her chaperon.
‘I don’t think he took it amiss. But
why is it important, Eva?’
‘Good God, girl, have I drummed
nothing into your head? William Westerham is the one man who counts for
something in this circle. He could make you, or break you. That’s why they call
him the Conqueror.’
And
Tiffany had addressed him with mortifying frankness. A memory nagged at the
edges of her mind, but it proved elusive. She shrugged it off and rallied her
forces.
‘Well, I
don’t much care about being made—’
‘For heaven’s sake, girl!’
‘—and as for breaking me, I fail
to see how he could when I am nobody at all in the first place.’
Lady Drumbeg glared at her.
‘Sometimes I believe you wilfully misunderstand me. Of all the girls I’ve
chaperoned, you show the least aptitude. But I don’t know as it ain’t sheer
recalcitrance on your part.’
Suppressing an inward sigh,
Tiffany maintained a prudent silence. Her chaperon’s genteel tones were apt to
slip when she was roused—a curiosity at first puzzling, but for which Tiffany
had discovered a reason. She was obliged to admit an element of truth in Lady
Drumbeg’s words. If she was honest, she found the shibboleths restricting the
movements of a debutante irksome. But it was less these that troubled her than
the myriad rules and regulations that greased the wheels of social intercourse
with which she was so little familiar.
Every day was a testing ground of
memory. Should her gloves be on or off? Which delicacy was she permitted to
eat? To whom might she speak—if she spoke at all? Supposing she was speaking,
was it acceptable to present anyone else who chose to approach? Woe betide she
who failed to present the higher ranked personage to the lower instead of the
other way about. Having little knowledge which was which or who was who,
Tiffany walked a constant tightrope of indecision.