Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Your Grace, we really must stop meeting like this,” said a low-pitched and rather sultry woman’s voice, its tone as calculated as the forced laughter that followed. “People will talk.”
From the shadow of the doorway through to the dimly lit conservatories, Ambrose Clarke, Duke of Westall, took a deliberate step further towards the brightness of the main ballroom.
He did not laugh. This was the fourth time tonight that he had crossed paths with Miss Annabelle Sinclair, daughter of Baron Chedwidden – largely because she appeared to be following him around Morgan House.
“Good evening, again, Miss Sinclair,” the duke acknowledged her with a small bow, his body stiff and his manner formal.
If this woman had not been standing directly in his path, Ambrose would immediately have added a farewell excuse and strode away to the ballroom.
Lovely as Annabelle Sinclair was acknowledged to be, with thick black hair, violet-blue eyes, and vivid pink lips, she had always repelled him, as a beautiful poison flower might have repelled him.
Ambrose had hoped that the single dance he offered early in the evening would be enough to dampen Miss Sinclair’s interest in him. His intentionally flat conversation, indifferent dancing and unsmiling face seemed only to have encouraged her curiosity, however.
Tall, dark and broad-shouldered with ruggedly handsome features and midnight-blue eyes, the Duke of Westall was accustomed to a certain amount of attention from unmarried young ladies, but this woman was taking matters too far. Much too far. Her persistent shadowing was becoming intolerable.
The duke vaguely remembered Annabelle Sinclair from social events last season – indeed it would be impossible not to have noticed such a striking woman, even though she did not attract him.
This season, he had found himself noticing her more and more, gradually realizing that this was because she had intensified a personal pursuit of him.
Miss Sinclair was a young woman with whom the Duke of Westall certainly did not want to be found in a compromising position in a poorly lit conservatory without any chaperone. If she tried to set up such a scene, she might be disappointed to find he offered her family money rather than marriage.
Or would she? Hadn’t Baron Chedwidden been in the press over some failed investment scheme in recent years, allegedly close to bankruptcy..? Perhaps the Sinclairs would welcome the pay off, as nothing more was likely to be gained from the Duke of Westall.
Ambrose had been married once, and assumed at the time that this union would be for life. He and Charlotte had wed from family duty and mutual respect rather than passion on either side. Still, her early death had shocked and shaken him to the core.
He had envisioned a long life of calm, companionable marriage with his even-tempered and kind-hearted wife.
Good friends, with similar tastes in books, music and theatre, the only thing they rarely shared was a bed, due to Ambrose’s restless sleeping habits and Charlotte’s need for twelve hours rest. Still, they would have liked a brother for little Winifred, to carry on the family line. It was not to be.
Now, whatever his nearest relatives and society at large might think right for a widower of one-and-thirty, especially for the sake of his motherless young daughter, Ambrose felt done with marriage. He would only marry again if he had no other choice.
It might well come to that in the end, he reflected grimly, thinking of the terms of his father’s will and the ticking clock it contained.
At least he had the power to ensure that his next wife was not an insidious, scheming creature like Annabelle Sinclair.
He would rather wed a stranger off the streets than be captured by her.
“There is to be another waltz, Your Grace,” said Miss Sinclair, raising her violet-blue eyes to him under long fluttering lashes. “Don’t you love the waltz?”
“It is a dance that makes me dizzy,” Ambrose said shortly and took a step forward and to the side, which she anticipated and blocked.
This maneuver left them closer together than they had been before, but at least nearer to the bright lights of the ballroom than the shadows of the conservatory.
“The trick is to look into your partner’s eyes,” Miss Sinclair told him flirtatiously. “If you keep your eyes on hers as you waltz, you will not grow dizzy at all. At least, not from dancing…”
“It might be better if I simply avoided waltzing,” the duke suggested, declining to even smile. “If you will excuse me, Miss Sinclair, I must…”
“There will be a quadrille after the waltz,” she interrupted him with a demure but seductive smile, looking down and then up at him again through those thick, black lashes. “Might you like that better, Your Grace?
No, he would not. Such charms as these might work on other men but they left Ambrose cold. He had once read of female spiders who consumed the male spiders after mating. When Annabelle Sinclair tried to draw him in, she only put him in mind of these wretched arachnids.
One of her graceful, long-fingered hands accompanied her last question with a gesture and then hung in the air. Was she expecting him to offer a hand for the dance? Or might she actually reach out and lay a hand on his lapel?! Ambrose did not want to find out.
“You really must excuse me, Miss Sinclair. I see the lady with whom I am engaged for the next dance.”
She was not expecting this development, and the moment of surprise was enough for Ambrose to pass her without being detained. He carried on into the ballroom and looked around urgently. He must now find a woman to dance with, quickly. Otherwise, Miss Sinclair would latch onto him again.
He saw two elderly ladies, one leaning on a stick and the other on her companion; a well-upholstered matron of forty, sipping champagne and watching the young ladies on dance floor like a hawk; over-garrulous Miss Hawkins who always smelled slightly of peppermints and made him think of the nursery despite her seven-and-twenty years; silent, blank-faced Lady Eunice Frobisher who never spoke at all beyond yes and no…
Taking a deep breath as he regarded the only ladies nearby, the Duke of Westall steeled himself and began walking towards Lady Eunice. He would rather be bored and ignored than have to dance with Miss Sinclair again.
Then he saw her. A tall, willowy young woman in a cream silk ballgown drifted into his vision, strolling dreamily away from the dance floor. Her coils of smooth light-brown hair were set with pearls that matched the antique string at her throat and her gaze was light and clear.
This lady’s beauty was of a delicate kind that could be missed at first glance by anyone seeking the brighter colors of someone like Annabelle Sinclair. The Duke of Westall did not miss it, nor the fact that she appeared to be alone.
On the dance floor, the dancers in the previous measure were dispersing and the players nearby were checking the tuning of their instruments.
Glancing over his shoulder, Ambrose glimpsed Miss Sinclair in her green silk, all too near again already.
He must act now or risk an unpleasant scene where he must snub her publicly.
Striding up to the unknown lady with the pearls, he took her hand and bent his head over it respectfully.
“I think it is time for our dance,” he said very certainly and then looked up into very surprised and wary grey eyes.
“I do not think so,” she demurred, withdrawing her fingers. “Perhaps you are thinking of another lady.”
“I am the Duke of Westall, remember,” he said. “I dare say you are so in demand tonight that I have been easily forgotten. However, I have remembered you.”
“Sir, I mean, Your Grace, I have never seen you before…” the young woman began to protest, with startled expression.
Before Annabelle Sinclair could overhear and entangle him again, the duke took the unknown lady’s hand and drew her with him to the dance floor where the musicians now played the introduction to the next waltz.
Cutting off any opportunity for real objection, he had whirled her into the dance and a wide-eyed gasp escaped her lips as she found herself in his arms.
“Forgive me,” Ambrose said then, glad that this dance allowed couples the closeness to speak privately. “I never reserved a dance with you, as you say. I do, however, beg your help to escape from a very persistent young lady.”
At first, the young woman in his arms looked stunned and more than a little frightened, which gave Ambrose a twinge of conscience. He ought not really to have sacrificed her comfort for his own but the urgency of his situation seemed to demand it and he hoped his partner would understand.
“I am not holding you too tightly, am I?” he asked. “Let me know how you prefer to dance and I will do as you wish. Gentlemen must lead the dance, but the lady sets the tone and rules.”
“Ah, no, you are… This is… just right,” she said, after a moment’s consideration, relaxing a little at Ambrose’s earnest explanation and gentle reassurance, although the grey-blue eyes still flashed brief annoyance at the situation in which she found herself.
“I’m afraid I took you rather by surprise,” Ambrose added. “I don’t make a habit of this, you know. I hope you won’t think too ill of me. Consider me as a drowning man, who sees a spar of wood in the ocean and seizes it so that he doesn’t go under.”
Amusement now finally swept away the remnants of both fear and anger in the young lady’s expression.
“What you did was very ill-mannered, Your Grace,” she told him directly, but with the beginnings of a smile.
“I do understand, however. In fact, I only wish I could do the same to avoid unwanted attention. Sadly, ladies do not have the luxury of stealing dance partners to ward off too-persistent gentlemen.”