Chapter 3
Three
“Ye gods, Sebastian. I never expected to see you at a gathering like this one.”
Lord Henry Ashton made his way to the corner of the ballroom where Branford stood all alone, dressed entirely in black, save for the snowy white of his starched shirt and elegantly tied cravat.
“Cecilia is an old friend of Lady Worthington, otherwise wild horses couldn’t have dragged me to such a frivolous crush,” continued Ashton, raising an eyebrow in question and then beckoning a passing footman to bring them both a glass of champagne. “I can’t imagine why you would bother.”
Branford gave his longtime friend a brief smile, then continued to survey the crowd. “I have my reasons, Henry.”
“Ye gods, you sound as if you’ve stepped out from some horrid Radcliffe novel.” Ashton added a snort. “And don’t give me that basilisk stare for saying so. It may make your other acquaintances quake in their boots, but it has no such effect on me.”
Branford chuckled, appreciating Ashton’s frank humor. “I thank you for the set-down, my friend, else I’d be in danger of becoming puffed up with the sense of my own consequence.”
Ashton grinned. “Nonsense.” He paused, his expression becoming more serious. “Though I’ve never understood why you allow people to think you are the Devil Incarnate…”
The earl drew in a measured breath. “Henry …” he said softly, though the note of warning was clear.
Ashton ignored it. “Damnation, Sebastian! I’ve become concerned about you of late.
You’re drinking far more than is good for you, not to speak of having affairs with half the wives of the ton.
” He shook his head in puzzlement. “Even more disturbing, you’re neglecting Riverton. And I know how much you care for—”
“You are a good friend,” interrupted Branford, his fingers tightening on the stem of his champagne glass. “But even friends may go too far.”
Ashton let out a sigh. “Very well, I’ll hold my tongue,” he muttered. “For now.”
Branford swept the room with his gaze once more. “Do you know a Miss Chilton?” he asked abruptly.
Ashton looked puzzled. “Why, yes. Her aunt is a close friend of my mother. But why do you ask?”
“Introduce me.”
“Whatever for? She’s not at all your type.”
The earl was curious as to what his friend was implying. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“She’s not a beautiful young widow or a stunning countess bored with her elderly husband,” answered Ashton frankly. “In fact, Alex—she prefers to be called Alex—is rather plain, and a bluestocking to boot. And given that’s she well past the age of twenty, she’s already considered on the shelf.”
He tugged at his cuff before adding, “Lady Beckworth is her guardian. According to my mother, the family has come to Town from the country in order to give her younger brother some polish.” A shrug.
“They haven’t got much blunt, though. So it’s not likely that either of them will be able to make much of a match. ”
Branford felt a pinch of surprise as he mulled over the information but then reminded himself that appearances could be deceiving when it came to the ladies of the ton. “Nonetheless, introduce me.”
His friend’s brow furrowed. “As you say, you must have your reasons. I consider Lady Beckworth a family friend … but I know you well enough to be sure that you wouldn’t dream of toying with an innocent.”
The earl didn’t deign to respond.
“Very well, come with me.” Ashton worked his way through the crowd to where a cluster of matrons sat gossiping among themselves while keeping an eagle eye on who was dancing with whom.
There was a much younger lady at the edge of the group, her expression indicating that her thoughts were anywhere but the ballroom.
“Miss Chilton.” Lord Ashton bowed politely as the young lady shifted in surprise, her gaze betraying a brief flash of annoyance.
“Good evening … Lord Ashton.” Her tone was hardly welcoming.
“May I have the honor of presenting my friend, the Earl of Branford?”
“How do you do,” replied Alex with a singular lack of enthusiasm as Branford inclined a polite bow in greeting.
“May I have the pleasure of a dance, Miss Chilton?” he asked.
The musicians were striking up a waltz.
“Perhaps this one, if you are not taken,” he added, having already noticed that the dance card dangling from her wrist was empty.
She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then rose slowly and placed her hand on his arm.
Ashton was right, noted the earl. She was no raving beauty. Her hair was an ordinary shade of brown, and her mouth was a touch too wide, though undeniably expressive. She was also too tall, and her curves were not rounded enough for the tastes of most gentlemen.
But her eyes …
Her eyes were an unusual hazel color flecked with hints of mellow gold, and they had a depth to them that was intriguing, hinting at hidden facets.
However, observed Branford, if her aunt hoped to marry her off, she had better employ another modiste.
The dress was a disaster. The insipid mauve color clashed with Alex Cilton’s lovely eyes, and the cut made her look gawky and ill-proportioned.
Girlish ruffles and bows were overused, and the effect was more appropriate for a female of twelve rather than past the age of twenty.
Branford, whose taste in fashion was acknowledged to be impeccable, nearly winced as he turned to face her.
However, Alex—not that he would ever be friendly enough with her to use such intimacies—danced much better than he expected, moving with a lithe grace and matching his steps effortlessly.
As he was deciding to forgo the usual compliments on her dress in favor of another less egregious social lie, she spoke first.
“As a matter of fact, milord, I have been very much been wanting to meet you.”
Branford closed his eyes for an instant. Now would come the usual outrageous compliments or silly simperings that every unmarried girl felt obliged to offer up to a rich, titled bachelor. He had forgotten how much he loathed all the rituals of Polite Society.
How the devil had he allowed himself to be drawn into such a stupid, senseless bet? Ashton had been right at least on one thing—he had been drinking too much of late.
Despite such thoughts, he replied in a neutral tone. “Is that so? And why is that, Miss Chilton?”
“Because in the paper you sent to the London Botanical Society on the gardens at Riverton, you were mistaken in thinking that the purple flowers planed along the stone wall of the south terrace are Petrea volubilis,” replied Alex.
“They do not grow in this climate. They are no doubt Clytostoma callistegiodes, which look very similar. Of course, it is a reasonable error to make when one is a novice in botany.”
It was not at all what he had expected to hear—and he nearly trod on her foot. “What?”
“The flowers bordering the south terrace,” she explained with a touch of impatience. “I take it you are the only Earl of Branford in England?”
Branford stared at her, momentarily speechless.
“Mr. Simpson was too afraid to correct you, but I said that was utter nonsense—any sensible person would want to know of his error.” Alex paused and regarded his stony face.
“Oh dear,” she murmured, half to herself.
“I had looked forward to talking about the gardens with you, but it appears that like most gentlemen, you disapprove of ladies who wish to have an intelligent conversation.”
Branford quickly recovered his wits. “You’re mistaken, Miss Chilton,” he answered dryly. “On that topic I have formed no opinion, since I have precious little experience in having a lady seek to have an intelligent conversation with me.”
Her eyes widened for an instant … and then she smiled. “Touché, my lord.”
In spite of himself, Branford found himself smiling back. The young lady appeared to have a sense of humor as well as a backbone.
“You do not look half so dragon-like when you smile,” she said after a moment’s pause. “Or do you prefer to frighten people with that black scowl?”
Branford unconsciously drew his dark brows together.
“There, you see,” she murmured. “You are doing it again. It is quite intimidating, you know.”
“And you, Miss Chilton—are you always so outrageous? Or are you just hoping I will take you back to your chair so you can resume your own private thoughts and not have to be bothered with mouthing polite platitudes?” He watched a wave of surprise wash over her face.
“You are not the only one capable of observing people,” he added softly.
Her eyes met his for a moment, the gold flecks alight with some unfathomable emotion, before she dropped her gaze in some confusion.
“Now, about my gardens,” he added, “what would you like to know?”
She immediately responded with a thoughtful question …
Before he realized it, the music was drawing to an end and the surrounding couples were beginning to leave the floor.
Branford found himself irritated that the dance was over so quickly.
“It appears we will have to wait for another waltz to continue our conversation. Shall we say the one after the supper break?”
“If you wish, milord.” answered Alex, her chin thrust up slightly as if to indicate that she was not in the least bit intimidated by him.
“Excellent.” He delivered back to her aunt and it was only as he was walking away that he realized that he had utterly forgotten the real reason for why he had asked her to dance in the first place.
Drat. How had he become so distracted? His purpose had been to confirm the girl’s availability for a dalliance and figure out a plan of seduction …
and yet, what had he done but begin a conversation on botany!
No matter, Branford reminded himself. He would guide the conversation to suit his own desire during the next dance.