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 am already the object of ridicule,” she told him frankly, withdrawing her hand from his, flipping open her fan and giving him the signal to leave her alone. “Go, find another to tease who will at least earn you points for originality.”
He inclined his head. “Certainly no ridicule intended, my lady. I merely ask to be considered. I have some trouble in that quarter as you have no doubt heard.” He cast a pointed look at her overfed companion, who promptly blushed and hurried away.
Morleigh returned his attentions to Grace. “Will you not grant me a small favor, at least, and take a turn about the floor?”
Perhaps this was an arranged jibe, compliments of her uncle. “Do you know Wardfelton?”
“I have not met him yet, but I shall seek him out immediately if you will give me leave to ask him for you.”
“For my person? Not only a dance? How droll.”
“For your hand in marriage,” he said without equivocation.
A short laugh escaped in spite of her dismay. The man was either woefully desperate, quite mad or downright cruel. “I should give you that leave, my lord, and hold you by law to your word. It would serve you right for carrying this jest too far.”
Amazingly, he stretched his hand closer, his expression totally devoid of sarcasm, his deep voice rife with sincerity. “Please do. I would be forever grateful. Perhaps we could dance and discuss it further?”
His madness must be contagious. Whatever he had in mind could hardly lower her any more in public estimation than did the way she looked tonight. And why should she care if it did? None of her former friends were in attendance, not that she had ever had many who would be here in town.
She had hoped at first to appeal to someone she knew to give her some respite from her uncle, but he had warned her no one would. In fact, she had nothing provable to complain about except his clearly implied hatred and her suspicion that, for some cause unknown, he wished her to wither and die. She could not run away again, for even if he were disposed to let her, where would she go and what would she do?
Revealing her fears to anyone and asking their interference might imply hysterics on her part. Wardfelton had accused her of that himself, cleverly attributing it to her martyring grief and self-induced illness. No doubt he had already broadcast that diagnosis to anyone willing to listen. Secluding her in a madhouse was a distinct possibility, and perhaps tonight was meant to set the stage for that.
Damn the man and his threats! This was no way to live, and she was sick of it. Why had she stood it for so long?
Let him do his worst. She probably would die soon one way or another. Sad, but that fact seemed oddly freeing at the moment. It wasn’t as if she stood any chance of ever making another match or doing any of the things a young woman of means might undertake. She had no means. No prospects at all. Why not do as she pleased tonight and damn the consequences?
Without thinking any more about it, Grace placed her gloved hand in the captain’s again. He swept her onto the dance floor and into a scandalously close waltz.
She was not so familiar with the steps, but he held her firmly and guided her as if they had practiced daily for weeks. Grace found it exhilarating, being held so near and whirled about so expertly.
After one turn around the floor, she looked up at him. “Why do you do this, really? You have already made us a spectacle, so honesty will lose you nothing.”
His expression smoothed out. “Honestly? I need a wife. And I am guessing that you need a husband. That is why we are here, is it not?”
“You do know Wardfelton. He has put you up to this.”
“We have never met, I vow it on my life. I will admit I sent Lord Trent as my emissary to ask Wardfelton’s leave to court you.”
“Oh, he would never agree to that,” she stated, quite sure of it. Who knew what her uncle would do to her simply for having this dance and conversation?
“Well, he did not refuse, either. Probably too deep in his cups. I can only hope he’s drunk enough to let me have you. Assuming you are willing, of course. Are you?”
She laughed a little. “What idiot steered you in this direction, I wonder? I’ve not a farthing to recommend me. I would come with nothing. Surely he made that clear enough.”
“I come with everything you will need. Make your demands and I shall meet them.”
Grace shook her head
