He hasn’t been in the country for forty years, I should think. At outs with his father, for which no one could blame him. Now the old reprobate is dead they have come home.
‘The wife, so they say, is the child of an Indian princess and a John Company nabob. Interesting to see what society makes of her!’
‘Or she of society.’ The marchioness looked like a panther in a room full of domestic cats. A perfectly well-behaved panther and a collection of pedigree cats, of course, but the fur would fly if they tried to tweak her tail, Phyllida decided, admiring the lady’s poise.
Then the couple came further into the room and she gasped. Behind them were the man from the dockside and his companion from the shop. His sister. No wonder the older couple had looked familiar. Their son—for surely he could be nothing else—had his father’s rangy height and broad shoulders, his mother’s dark brown hair and gilded skin. The daughter’s hair was the gold her father’s must once have been and she moved with the same alluring sway as her mother, a panther cub just grown up. The moonstone pendant she had bought from Phyllida lay glowing on her bosom.
Her shock must have been audible. Beside her the dowager chuckled richly. ‘Now that will be the viscount. The heir to a marquisate and those looks to go with the title—there is a young man who will cause a flutter in the dovecotes!’
‘Indeed,’ Phyllida agreed. Indeed! ‘The daughter looks delightful, do you not think?’ She felt momentarily dizzy. She had dreamt about this man and here he was, in all his dangerous splendour. Dangerous to a spinster’s equilibrium and even more dangerous to a spinster with secrets.
‘Pretty gel. Got style. They all have. I doubt it is London style though, which is going to be entertaining,’ the old lady pronounced. ‘I shall make myself known. Coming, my dear?’
‘I do not think so. Excuse me, ma’am.’ Phyllida disengaged her arm and began to sidle backwards into the throng, all gaping at the newcomers while pretending not to.
Oh, my heavens. Phyllida sat down in the nearest empty alcove and used her fan in earnest. He—the Viscount Whatever—was a member of the ton after all and, with a sister obviously ready to be launched, the family would be here for the Season. He would be everywhere she went, at every social event.
Was there any hope that he might not recognise her? She strove to collect herself and think calmly. People saw what they expected to see—she had proved that over and over again as she served society ladies in the Cabinet of Curiosity. He had never seen her wearing anything other than the drabbest, most neutral day dress, and never with her hair exposed.
Phyllida studied her reflection in the nearest mirrored surface and stopped herself chewing her lower lip in agitation. That was better. There was nothing to connect the elegantly gowned and poised young lady who moved so easily in fashionable society with either the flustered woman he had kissed on the dockside or the French shopkeeper.
And going into hiding for the rest of the Season was not an option, either, there was a match to be made. Phyllida unfurled her fan with a defiant flourish and set out in search of Miss Millington and her substantial dowry.
She would circulate around the room in the same direction as the Eldonstone party and that would ensure she never came face to face with, as her alto ego Madame Deaucourt would doubtless call him, Le Vicomte Dangereux. At least he hadn’t brought his devil-bird to the ball—that would have caused a stir, indeed.
‘There would not appear to be any difficulty in attracting young ladies to you, Ashe,’ his mother said with her wicked chuckle.
‘I fear I am only getting the attention of Father’s rejects,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘You are going to have to do something soon or he will be carried off by saucy widows and amorous matrons.’
‘Nonsense, Nicholas can look after himself.’ Anusha Herriard put her hand on Ashe’s forearm and nodded to where Sara was the centre of an animated group of young ladies with an attendant circle of hopeful men. ‘As can your sister, I think.’
Lady Richmond had begun the introductions, but the Herriards had soon found themselves absorbed into the throng with one new acquaintance introducing them to the next. ‘This is a crush,’ Ashe grumbled under his breath. ‘At least at Kalatwah all one had to deal with was the odd assassination attempt and treacherous French diplomats.’
‘You go and flirt with some young ladies, darling,’ his mother said. ‘That will cheer you up. I will rescue your father and keep an eye on Sara.’
Ashe grinned at her and began to stroll along the edge of the ballroom. As an unaccompanied male he was unable to approach any lady to whom he had not been introduced, which was curiously restful. There had been few ladies on their ship and he had been recalled from Kalatwah with too much urgency to reacquaint himself with European society in Calcutta, so he was finding the presence of so many highly sociable women strange.
Pleasantly strange, he thought, allowing his gaze to skim over white bosoms exposed by low-cut gowns, unveiled faces, unmarried girls talking uninhibitedly to men not of their own family. He’d be used to it soon enough, he thought, making eye contact with a striking blonde who held his gaze for a daring second too long before lowering demure lashes over her blue eyes.
A flash of clear green, like leaves unfurling beside a waterhole, attracted his attention. The unmarried girls were all wearing white or pastel gowns, the matrons strong jewel colours for the most part. That green gown was unusual, delightful in its freshness. Ashe propped one shoulder against a pillar and watched as its owner stood and talked with another lady.
The backs of these gowns were almost as intriguing as their low-cut fronts, he was coming to think. With their wearers’ hair piled high, the columns of white necks, the vulnerable napes, the tantalising loose curls or dangling earrings all had a subtle erotic charm.
It was definitely too long since he had lain with a woman. Ashe shifted against the pillar, but did not take his eyes off that particular neck even though it made the tension in his groin worse. The lady in the green gown had a mass of shiny brown hair caught up in a knot with a single ringlet left to fall on her shoulder. He imagined curling it around one finger, feeling its caress like raw silk. He would pull each pin from her hair and the whole mass would come down, spilling over his hands, veiling her breasts as he freed her from the verdant silk…
A tall young man joined the two ladies and Ashe saw a resemblance between him and the brown-haired charmer at once. High cheekbones, straight noses, that dark hair. She seemed to be introducing the man to her companion and after a moment they walked on to the floor together to join the next set that was forming. The brunette watched as the dance struck up and then strolled away.
Ashe narrowed his eyes as she wandered along the edge of the dance floor, stopping now and then to chat. Three years in an environment where women habitually covered their faces with their dupattas, long semi-transparent scarves, had left him able to identify individuals by their walk, by their posture, their gestures. And he had met that woman before somewhere.
But where? Intrigued, Ashe began to shadow her along the opposite edge of the ballroom. Despite her fashionably languid progress she had an air of suppressed energy about her, as though she would rather run than walk, as if there was not quite enough time in the day for all she wanted to do. He was becoming fanciful, but her quick, expressive gestures when she stopped to talk, the direct way she resumed her trajectory when she parted from each acquaintance, attracted him. He liked energy and purpose.
‘Clere.’
He
