Caine nodded. “Ah, an earl’s daughter. Uncle should consider the match entirely acceptable. If she is willing and I could obtain a special license from the archbishop, we could marry this week.”
“You know what they say about marrying in haste.”
“Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today,” Caine retorted. He shoved his glass at Trent. “Hold this for me. Better yet, get me another with something more bracing than bubbles. Courting’s thirsty work.”
He left Trent standing there staring at the delicate crystal stem and went to ply his suit.
Chapter Two
Grace Renfair shifted her gaze elsewhere, determined not to look back at the man standing across the ballroom. His intense regard unnerved her. Why did he single her out so pointedly? Probably wondering who was so witless as to sponsor a creature such as herself.
She felt exposed, woefully underdressed and incomparable in the worst sort of way. No matter. She lifted her chin and paid only scant attention to the vile chatter of the girl beside her.
“I could never abide a man so tall and large as Captain Morleigh, even if he were handsome!” exclaimed Miss Caulfield. Grace did not reply, even to nod or shrug.
He was large, yes, but not frighteningly so. Grace thought he cut quite a figure when compared to the fashionably slender or the aging portly gents milling around him at the moment.
“He would frighten the life out of anyone! Belinda is well out of that match! She says he has turned unbearably cold and cruel since the war. Why, he probably slew dozens of people before he was nearly killed himself!”
Wasn’t he expected to do that when he was a soldier? Grace ignored Miss Caulfield’s comment. Would the girl ever change topics? No, she prattled on. “Look at his shoulders! All that swordplay, I should think. No padding there, I’d wager!”
Not a bet Grace would take. She had also noted that his features were well defined and rather stark above that square jaw and stubborn chin. The eye patch added a dash of interest, as perhaps it was meant to do, though if he had been wounded in battle, it probably was not simply for show.
The black evening attire topped by a snowy neckcloth looked impeccable, though his straight-shouldered military bearing was such that he might as well have worn regimentals. His height was remarkable, too, putting him at least half a head above the men around him.
“Yes, his looks are compelling,” Grace said, before remembering she should not speak at all.
So why should she mind if he caught her looking at him, since everyone else seemed to be? Perhaps she should thank him for drawing inquisitive stares away from her.
When she finally gave in to curiosity and shot another glance in his direction, she saw this Captain Morleigh heedlessly interrupting the progress of the quadrille by walking directly through it. Now, there was a man who did precisely as he pleased. She would give anything to be that bold.
She had been once, but had changed so much she hardly knew herself any longer. The face in her mirror seemed a stranger, as did her almost-lifeless form swathed in the dated ball gown her uncle had provided. There had been no maid to dress her, to help with her woefully straight hair or even produce pins for it.
Her uncle had brought her here to show her off, so he said. She believed that to be true in the very worst sense and wondered if perhaps he thought he must. He had kept her a virtual prisoner for well over a year. Did anyone question where she was keeping these days and what had happened to her? Or did anyone remember her at all?
She had never made her debut, having been betrothed so early on. Then her mourning had been extended much longer than usual. She had lost both parents and soon after, her husband-to-be. The comfort of his mother, Lady Barkley, had been such a balm, she had been loath to give
up the sweet lady’s company. Not one to intrude on her dear friend’s newlywed state, Grace had insisted on removing herself to the care of her only relative. Such a mistake that had been, and so irrevocable.
She and Wardfelton had gotten on quite well in the beginning. She even played hostess for several entertainments he had held at the country house. Then, literally overnight, things had changed. He suddenly turned into nothing short of a jailer, insisting she remain in her rooms except for a supervised walk about the enclosed gardens when weather permitted. Her meals were sent up. Her correspondence disallowed.
It seemed he thoroughly enjoyed humiliating and even frightening her in every way he could devise. She shuddered just thinking of the tales he had told of young English women disappearing, sold into white slavery, never to be seen or heard of again. Though not an outright threat, there had been warning in his eyes. Why, she could not fathom, but he obviously meant to keep her terrified and biddable for some reason or other.
Perhaps he feared being called to account for squandering her inheritance, if indeed she had ever possessed any such thing. She could not look into it herself and whom did he think would do so on her behalf? No one cared.
Well, her looks were gone now and she much doubted any foreign sultan with proper eyesight would want to buy such as her. What more could Uncle do to her other than offer her up to ridicule as he was doing tonight?
Murder was still an option, even though he would be the most obvious suspect. She had pointed that out to him when he deliberately had left out that book of poisons for her to see. He had laughed at that, but she had sensed his unease. More likely, he intended to drive her to suicide so he would look blameless.
If only she knew someone here, she would plead for escape. But would anyone believe her? Would anyone care?
“He’s coming this way!” Miss Caulfield announced. “Should we venture to speak to him?”
Grace knew she was being watched, for Wardfelton had told her she would be. He also warned rather adamantly that she was to hold no personal conversations with anyone present. She was only to been seen, not heard. Grace held her head high despite all that. He would not steal what little dignity she had left.
Nor would this man approaching with a patently fake smile upon his face. He stopped directly in front of her.
“My lady, please allow me to presume and introduce myself.”
“You would be Captain Morleigh,” she replied, to save him the trouble. She held out her hand and watched with interest as he lifted it almost to his lips. Damn Wardfelton. Let him do his worst. Damn them all. She was sick of living in fear.
“Lady Grace,” he said, holding her gaze, as well as her hand. “I see that our reputations have preceded us. Such a pleasure to meet you. Would you do me the honor of the next dance?”
Grace cocked her head to one side as she continued to peer up at him. He bore a few scars from the war, pinkish and still healing, random marks upon his forehead and around his uncovered eye. They did proclaim the validity of the eye patch he wore that lent him his roguish air.
Misses Caulfield and Thoren-Snipes were so wrong. The man was not hideous at all. More’s the pity. She had never trusted handsome men, especially arrogant handsome men who presumed too much, as he did now. She forced a half smile. “Not for all the gold in England would I dance with you, sir.”
His eye twinkled and he smiled more sincerely, a crooked expression that warmed something inside her. “I’m not offering all the gold,” he said, “but a significant portion could be yours if you’re amenable.”
“A proposition, sir?” She raised an eyebrow with the question. “Am I to run weeping at the insult or deal you a resounding slap? How do the bets go that I will respond?”
“No bets and no proposition. I have a very decent proposal in mind.”
“I