The Incomparable Miss Compton Page 3

  Sarah sighed again. “Three besides Count Rogan. She claimed the Marquis of Atwich was too old and stodgy. She threw away Lord Sombly because he only had eight thousand pounds per annum. And she rejected the Russian ambassador because she was certain no one would ever see her in St. Petersburg.”

  “Well, the duke is hardly old or stodgy,“ Norrie countered. “He is rumored to be worth twenty thousand pounds per annum. I will grant you he prefers his estates to town, but surely he will come up for the Season each year. She must accept him.”

  “I wish I could be certain of that,“ Sarah replied. “She needs to marry well, Norrie. Aunt Belle will suffocate her, and her father hasn’t much use for single females at home. He all but told me to look for a position while I was here in London, as he cannot be expected to care for me indefinitely.“

  “Nipfarthing,“ Norrie complained. “As if your keep cost him anything, the way he worked you as a servant.“

  “Be that as it may,“ Sarah replied sternly, although her heart was warmed by her friend’s loyalty, “Persy must wed. We must find a gentleman who is handsome, charming, and wealthy enough for Persy’s taste, but sensible enough to curb her tendency toward self-absorption. Given Persy’s girlish nature, he had also better be kind and not too intelligent. To my mind, the duke is perfect.”

  Norrie bit back a smile at that. Sarah watched His Grace bow to her cousin as the dance ended. The warm smile and glow in his eyes told her he was entranced, like nearly every other man in the room. While Persy did not look nearly so delighted, still the girl had to be mindful of the opportunity the duke presented. If only the girl would settle on the fellow!

  It was then she noticed a handsome blond fellow moving toward the parting dancers. He was accompanied by an imposing gentleman with hair nearly as black as Lady Prestwick’s, although much less tidy.

  “Who is that?“ Sarah asked with a frown, watching as him stride across the polished floor, legs long and strong.

  Norrie frowned as well, following her gaze. “The charming blonde is Lord Prestwick, our host. And the dark-haired brute beside him is, if I am not mistaken, Lord Breckonridge.”

  “Really?” Sarah looked closer, noting the powerful build, the determined carriage. “He looks more like the town bully than the orator I fancied. I’ve read reprints of his speeches in The Times. He’s quite brilliant. What on earth could he want with Persephone?”

  Norrie shook her head. “What do any of them want with Persy?”

  Sarah started. “You don’t honestly think he could be interested in courting her?”

  “I doubt he wants her to vote on an act of Parliament,“ Norrie countered.

  Sarah watched her cousin dip a graceful curtsy as Breckonridge bowed over her hand. He certainly did seem to be taking an interest. And Persy was simpering.

  “But he cannot be serious,“ she protested. “She couldn’t be more than a bon bon to him. He’d have her for lunch and still be hungry.”

  “Perhaps the gentleman is fond of bon bons,“ Norrie said darkly.

  She seemed to have the right of it, for the gentleman in question was now smiling over something Persephone had said. The duke beside her was glowering. Lord Prestwick was grinning. Sarah felt a chill crawl up her spine.

  “Do you think Lord Breckonridge could possibly be the man Persy needs, Norrie?” she asked.

  “I wish I knew,“ Norrie replied. “Justinian has only spoken of him a few times, mostly in regards to some doing in Parliament. From what little I know, he appears to be a good man at heart, loyal to his party. Yet he is a determined man, used to power. He appears to be absolutely devoted to his career. Persy would never take first place in his affections.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “Persy, take second place? The match is doomed.”

  “Yet if she dallies with him,” Norrie pointed out, “she may lose her chance with the oh-so-eligible duke.”

  Sarah knew the signs by now. Already Persy had turned so that the duke was behind her, as if she had dismissed him. Her warm smile was all for Breckonridge. The duke had paled.

  “I must stop this,“ she murmured to Norrie.

  “Sarah to the rescue,“ Norrie muttered, but Sarah ignored her to hurry across the ballroom. Couples were once more lining up for the next set. She must stop Breckonridge before he took the floor with her cousin. Ahead of her, Persy was tittering and batting her lashes to effect. Lord Prestwick was regarding her bemused, and the duke’s jaw was a tense line. Malcolm Breckonridge wore the slightest of frowns, but he bent his dark head closer as if to hear what Persy was saying.

  Sarah stepped boldly up to the group and laid her hand on Lord Breckonridge’s arm. Beneath the black evening coat, she could feel the hard muscle. She swallowed.

  “My lord,” she said over brightly.

  He turned to face her, and she found herself being regarded by eyes nearly as black as his hair. Up close, his face was as strong as his carriage. He was a handsome man, she decided, watching the play of light and shadow across the craggy planes. The black hair held a hint of silver at the temples, but the gleam in his dark eyes belied any lessening of youthful energy. Power, held firmly in check, seemed to coil through him like heat from a carefully banked fire. He would never be noted for the tragic glory of Lord Byron or the quiet command of Wellington. No, this man would be a silent power, more subtle, more deadly. She had a feeling that he carried his thoughts deep, and woe betide the one who made him display his passions openly. She forced a smile to remain on her face.

  “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, my lord,” she warbled, while Persephone frowned at her and the duke and Lord Prestwick eyed her curiously. “I am ready for that dance you promised me.”

  She held her breath as Breckonridge’s sharp eyes narrowed. His gaze raked her from top to bottom, and, despite herself, she felt her color heightening. Just as she thought he would give her the cut direct for her audacity, he snapped a bow.

  “Your servant, madam,” he intoned.

  Her hand still on his arm, her pulse pounding in her ears, she let him lead her out onto the floor.

  Chapter Three

  Malcolm watched the woman on his arm with a mixture of annoyance and amusement as they formed part of a set for a country line dance. As blatant as she had been, he should have depressed her notions immediately. Yet something about her intrigued him. For one thing, she was considerably older than most of the ladies who had sought his interest. While her dark blue dress with its modest neck was neither fast nor fashionable, he wondered fleetingly whether she might be a doxy. She had the curves to put a French courtesan to shame. Yet surely Anne Prestwick would never allow anyone less than a lady to enter her ballroom. No, there must be some other explanation.

  She looked a bit embarrassed by his scrutiny as she took her place across from him, her porcelain complexion tinted a charming pink. She kept her head high as if to deny her embarrassment, but as he took her hands to start the dance, he found that they trembled in his grip. Others would have hastened to set her at ease, but he was too used to putting his enemies in their places, he supposed, to let her off easily. Accordingly, he said nothing as they moved through the figure of the dance, even when the motions brought them close enough that conversation might be expected. She likewise said nothing for the first few turns, giving him ample opportunity to look his fill.

  What he saw only intrigued him all the more. She was a tall woman, standing almost eye to eye with him, yet her hands were small and delicate. Her hair was the color of honey and just as thick. It was knotted at the back of her head to allow a tantalizing curl to hang over one shoulder.

  As they crossed the set, his gaze held hers. With surprise, he found it impossible to tell the color of her eyes. It was very much like looking in some crystal ball -- gray, blue, and green swirled in various shades in equal measure, pulling him into the depths. As he was forced to break the spell, he noticed that her eyes tended to tilt up at the outside corners, enhancing the impression tha
t there was something mysterious about them. Otherwise, she had a pleasant face, cheeks rounded and lips generous. She carried herself well, even under the present circumstances, as if sustained by some inner strength. He caught her gazing back at him again and wondered what she saw.

  He had never considered himself handsome, but he was aware he was considered striking. He was also aware he was fully capable of intimidating people. That would have been a curse to many, but he had found the trait useful. Still, it didn’t seem to be helping him learn the reason this woman had brazened her way into a dance with him. He could not see her as the conniving debutant. He took her hands again for a promenade and surreptitiously squeezed the left hand. He could feel no ring beneath the silk of her long gloves; certainly none was visible outside. She was unmarried then, and not a wife seeking support for a law her husband wanted to enact. He’d met those types before as well. Could she be someone’s sister or cousin then?

  He decided to give her his best smile in hopes of fostering conspiracy, but she only gave him back the tightest of responses, her pink lips barely curling. The dance parted them for a moment, and he found himself losing patience. It seemed after her initial bout of bravery that she was as timid as the others who had attempted to attract his interest that night.

  “You have nothing to say to me, then, madam?“ he demanded as the dance once more sent them past each other, shoulder to shoulder. As she took her place opposite him, her expressive eyes widened at his gruff tone. He waited for her to pretend he had actually asked her to dance, to say anything that would give him some idea of her game. She merely allowed the gentleman of the second couple in their set to take her hand and lead her out, as the dance demanded. When he approached the lady of the second couple to do the same, he could not help but notice that she quailed under the frown that had evidently formed on his face. He managed a grimace that would have to pass for a smile and found himself back opposite the mysterious lady. He was rather glad to see that they had reached the end of the line of dancers and would be standing out for a round.

  “Forgive my impertinence, my lord,“ she said as they waited to rejoin the set. Her voice was deep for a woman, seductive, surprising, and his mind tumbled once more to the doxy theory. “I must thank you for not giving me away. It was most kind of you.”

  “I hope you plan to reward my kindness with an explanation,” he replied. She blushed again, and he found the effect even more charming. Was she some kind of sorceress that he could not focus on his intended interrogation?

  “I shall try, my lord,” she said. “You had just been introduced to Persephone Compton, I believe?”

  He frowned, toying with the idea that she was bent on usurping the lady in his affections. As he had not had time to form any affections, and she was not in the lady’s league in looks, he threw the idea off as preposterous. “Lord Prestwick had performed the introduction as you arrived,” he confirmed.

  “May I ask why you wished to be made known to her?” she persisted.

  His frown deepened. That ought to have been enough to cause the most ardent campaigner to desist, but she did not seem to be affected by it. “I am not in the habit of discussing my affairs with strangers, madam,” he said quellingly.

  She gazed at him. “I imagine you must get them to vote your way out of sheer intimidation,” she said wonderingly.

  Surprised, he could not think of an answer. Malcolm Breckonridge, speechless. His peers would laugh themselves sick. He was so appalled that the moment of silence stretched. As the dance ended, she dropped a curtsy, and he remembered himself and bowed.

  “Your servant, madam,“ he managed. “I wish you luck.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “I fear I have been forward. Would you take a turn about the room with me, my lord, so that I might explain myself further?”

  Malcolm stared at her. He had given her a set down calculated in look and manner to quell the most pretentious upstart and she remained focused on her purpose. Could she be the woman he sought? She certainly had the courage to stand up to him. One could not have asked for a more queenly consort. It was too much to hope that she be intelligent as well. He decided it only made sense to investigate further.

  “Very well, madam,” he replied, offering her his arm. They began a slow promenade about the room.

  He had never paid much attention to Almack’s, remembering only that chairs were spaced around the room for those who wished to watch the dancing. He paid the people ogling him less attention now, focusing on the woman on his arm. She strolled beside him, offering an occasional smile to other couples similarly engaged, and glancing every so often toward the next set of dancers, which included the Incomparable Miss Compton, now partnering Lord Rupert Wells. They would have made a striking couple, except that she was pouting and he looked bored by the entire affair. The Duke of Reddington, Malcolm noticed, looked on from the edge of the dance floor with ill-disguised annoyance. Malcolm had thought when Prestwick had introduced him to Miss Persephone that the usually suave and sophisticated Reddington was besotted. He felt nothing but pity for the fellow.

  “I should start by introducing myself,” she said when he had began to wonder whether she would be silent after all. “I am Miss Sarah Compton, Persephone’s cousin and her chaperone for the Season.”

  Disappointment shot through him again. She was after a favor after all. “I see. You accosted me for the sole purpose of furthering your cousin’s case.”

  “Not in the slightest,” she assured him fervently.

  Malcolm frowned. “Is it my intentions you question, then? I assure you, madam, they are strictly honorable.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said with a sigh. As he looked at her in surprise, she hurried on. “That is, I’m sorry to hear you have intentions, my lord. You would never suit.”

  “Indeed,” he replied, glancing at the gossamer young lady on the dance floor with more interest than he had felt earlier. “May I say, madam, that you came to that conclusion on remarkably little evidence.”

  “Not at all, my lord,” she corrected him, obviously warming to her argument. “I have read and heard a great deal about you. You are obviously a gentleman of mature years, with a thriving career and every expectation of a glorious future. You will want a wife who can help make that future a reality, someone with intelligence, breeding, and a great dollop of common sense. My cousin is beautiful, cultured, and well-read, completely self-absorbed, and utterly lacking in common sense. She would attempt to lead you a merry dance, as she does the youth who cluster about her. You would see through her shortly. I merely save you that time.”

  He stared at her for the third time that night. “Thank you, Miss Compton,” was all he could think to say. She smiled at him, revealing dimples on either side of her generous mouth, and making her eyes appear the color of a southern sea at sunrise.

  “You are most welcome, Lord Breckonridge,” she replied. “If we are in agreement, I shall take my leave of you.”

  He had no choice but to bow, still stunned by her logic, her intuition, and her honesty. “Your servant, madam.”

  She dropped a curtsy and started to go. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. To his left, Prestwick was motioning frantically toward Sarah. The dance on the floor was ending, rather soon he thought, and he heard the musicians begin the strains of a waltz. He found himself smiling. Hadn’t he said always said Prestwick was a clever fellow?

  “Miss Compton,” he began. She turned to him. “How do you feel about the waltz?”

  “I have yet to give Persephone permission to dance it,” she said primly, casting a quick glance to the floor, where indeed her charge was suffering herself to be led away.

  “Do you find it so wicked?” Malcolm asked, waiting for her to confirm his fears.

  She eyed him for a moment, then a conspiratorial grin spread, bringing her dimples once more into view. “Truth be told,” she replied, “I adore it. I learned from my cousin’s dancing master. God bless Lady Jerse
y for bringing it back from Vienna. It is truly the only dance worth dancing.”

  He felt his own grin spreading. He held out his hand. “In that case, will you do me the honor?”

  She stared at his hand as if he had offered her a snake. “You are asking me to dance?”

  “I am asking you to waltz,” he corrected her. “Turn about is fair play, after all. Well?”

  She stared at him a moment longer, as if weighing the repercussions. Then she laid her hand firmly in his.

  “I would be delighted,” she told him, and he pulled her into his arms and out onto the floor.

  It was the finest waltz he had ever danced. From the moment he held her womanly frame against him, the ballroom receded to a soft gray blur, like a mist around them. She was attuned to his every movement, was reacting seconds before he even knew he had indicated her to do so. She moved so gracefully beside him that it heightened the feeling that they were dancing on air. He gazed down into those witch’s eyes, now a deep blue, and wondered whether he were under a spell he would ever care to break.

  Anne Fairchild would only laugh at him. Her charming husband had presented him with the Incomparable Miss Compton, and found he much preferred her chaperone.

  Chapter Four

  It was the finest waltz she could have imagined. From the moment he put his strong arm about her waist, the ballroom receded to a soft gray blur, like a mist around them. Any fear scattered in the warmth of his gaze. She was attuned to his every movement, was reacting seconds before she even felt his hand move. So light was his touch that it heightened the feeling that they were dancing on air.

  Gazing up into his eyes, darker than night, Sarah wondered whether she was bewitched. How on earth had she ended up dancing the waltz, of all things, with the most eligible bachelor in London, at a ball designed to find him his bride? Every unmarried female in the room must envy her at the moment. It was like something out of a fairy tale.