Chapter Seven #2
Although laid out off-kilter, the courtyard still presented an air of dignity as the carriage inched its way to the covered portico.
Wrought-iron lamps blazed off of the glossy varnish of each vehicle, and illuminated a row of boxed shrubs set around its perimeter.
Fairy lights glowing in the greenery added to the festive air as they descended from the carriage and mounted the steps up to the immense main door, now thrown open wide to admit guests.
Strains of music greeted them before they entered, for the comtesse had engaged a quartet to play near the entrance.
She herself chose to greet her guests at the arched doorway to an antechamber to one side of the vestibule, out of the drafts of the cool night air.
To one side of her stood the current Comte de Pontrevault and his wife, to the other Sabine and her husband, Baron Serreux, in whose honor she gave the ball.
Footmen glided forward to take their wraps as soon as they stepped inside. Allowing her wrap to fall gracefully from her shoulders, Diantha smoothed the lace of her overskirt and dared a glance at Kieran.
Her husband stood frozen in the act of handing his cloak to an attendant, his gaze riveted on her. Triumph bubbled inside, but she took care only to lay her furled ostrich feather fan on his arm. “Shall we proceed?”
He continued to stare at her.
“Kieran?”
He collected himself and offered her his arm.
Several minutes later the comtesse, resplendent in deep blue watered silk and black pearls, kissed her cheeks in greeting. “It would appear to be going well. He looks stunned.”
Diantha glanced over to see the comte and her husband conversing. “I believe the word is ‘poleaxed.’”
“What a dreadful sounding phrase.” Sabine inclined her strawberry blond curls toward them as she giggled. The gold embroidery on her gown and the diamonds at her throat glittered in the candlelight.
“I suspect it is one of your grandmother’s trenchant phrases.” The lines around the comtesse’s eyes wrinkled in amusement. “I shall have to tax her with it next time I write to her.”
“Do! Mama strongly disapproves of it.” Diantha gurgled with laughter as she moved away from them.
Kieran’s ears pricked up at the sound of his wife’s amusement.
She paused to speak with another acquaintance as he bowed over the hands of his hostesses and shook hands with the baron.
Placing his fingers under Diantha’s elbow, he appraised her appearance out of the corner of his eye while they continued to greet other guests.
He had come to think of Diantha as somewhat plain except for her excellent figure.
Tonight, she looked like an exotic bird as she moved among the crowd.
The rich color of the lace flattered her dark blue eyes, and the material itself frothed about her shoulders and low neckline in a way that made a man want to tug it down farther.
As she strolled through the room ahead of him, the whisper of her train along the parquet floor enticed him to follow. He ran an appreciative eye over the way the pale satin material of her bustle flowed as she walked, until he looked about and saw several other men examining her covertly.
When she halted in the doorway to the next anteroom, he took his place beside her, placing a possessive hand on the small of her back.
She looked over her shoulder at him and raised an eyebrow at the gesture but said nothing.
Then, with a disinterested shrug, she stepped away from him.
For the second time in the space of an hour, he stood dumbfounded.
Then his brows snapped together. He did not know what she was up to but he had no intention of stepping aside.
Diantha, it seemed, had other ideas.
He caught up with her as the ballroom opened out before them. She smiled up at him impishly. “I believe I see your marquise, my dear.” She gestured to the lovely widow who had thrown countless lures out to him since he had arrived in Paris.
Without another word, Diantha extended her hand to a lanky young cavalier who hurried over with a flowery compliment. Laughing, she slipped away into the crowd without a backward glance.
A light touch on Kieran’s arm claimed his attention. Beside him, Solange de Tourelle cocked her head and observed his wife’s departure. “She’s much prettier than I expected.” Her low voice purred into his ear. “But as you said, a trifle wet behind the ears. Come dance with me, mon cher.”
Watching out of the corner of his eye, he did not think Diantha looked remotely wet behind the ears as she tapped the fan against her boyish escort’s shoulder. With her cheeks flushed she looked prettier than he had ever seen her before.
“My dear Lord Rossburn.” His would-be inamorata tapped her foot as she waited for him.
Without another word, he swung her out among the waltzing couples, but not without a last glower over his shoulder.
The stripling bowed and left his wife when she held out both hands and bestowed a dazzling smile on a craggy-faced man who looked vaguely familiar.
The marquise pursed her lips in distaste when she observed the encounter. “Mon Dieu, tell me that decrepit old woman did not invite Sir Harry Emerson.”
Kieran stiffened. “If you refer to the Comtesse de Pontrevault, I should point out that she is a connection of mine.”
Somewhat sulkily, his partner begged his pardon.
They reached the end of the ballroom, where a small orchestra played in an arched alcove.
Negotiating the turn to dance back up the room, a flash of jeweled buttons and white satin caught his attention.
The unmistakable back of Diantha’s gown flared out gently as she whirled in the arms of the man he had come to dislike already.
He broke in on Solange’s flow of inconsequential gossip. “Who is this Emerson?”
A look of annoyance crossed her face. “A compatriot of yours, although assuredly not of our class. He owns a factory of some kind and is nearly as wealthy as your new father-in-law. I believe he bought his title a few years ago.” She shrugged, clearly tired of the conversation, and they finished the waltz.
After obtaining champagne for the marquise and himself, he turned her over to her next dance partner with a sense of relief and went in search of Diantha. He found her engaged in an animated conversation with the factory owner and tamped down an unexpected flash of anger.
Forcing a smile to his lips, he strolled forward and begged to be introduced. As she made the two men known to each other, he sized up the other man.
Only a few inches shorter than he, Emerson possessed the rangy quality of a lean wolf.
Kieran put his age somewhere in his late thirties, judging by the sandy hair going to gray and the faintly lined forehead.
Although dressed in an impeccably tailored evening suit, the other man betrayed his background as soon as he opened his mouth, for he spoke with an unapologetic Yorkshire accent.
“Harry Emerson, North Riding Shipyards.” He held out his hand.
Despite Kieran’s hostility, he admired the man’s lack of pretentiousness and held out his own.
As they shook hands, he realized Emerson was assessing him closely, too.
“I’ve built a few steamers for Quinn over the years, known Diantha since she was a girl.
” He turned his head to watch the marquise dance past before regarding Kieran with cool green eyes.
“I’m sure your lordship knows what a lucky man you are to have married her. ”
His temper flared again but he replied smoothly.
“Indeed I do, Sir Harry. In fact, I came over to ask her ladyship if she cared to dance.” He did not exactly lie, for he had expected to dance at least once with her.
In the first place it was only proper, and also he had noticed during their engagement that while she was a graceful dancer, men often overlooked her.
This did not appear to be the case this evening. In the friendliest manner possible, she smiled and informed him that while one waltz remained open for him, the rest of her dance card was filled.
“In fact, here comes my partner now.” Handing her champagne glass to Kieran, she held out her fingers to the comtesse’s grandson. “Roch, your timing is perfect. The introduction is just starting.” As the first strains of the next tune played, she strolled onto the floor.
He could not take his gaze off her satin-covered derriere for several seconds. Looking around, his lips pressed together. Several other men in the room eyed her backside just as appreciatively.
While he did not precisely spend the rest of the evening dancing attendance on his wife, he did stay in her vicinity as best he could. By the time he claimed his waltz he had experienced a considerable sense of ill-usage.
“Why didn’t you save me the supper dance?” He frowned down at her as soon as the music started.
“You had apparently already asked the Marquise de Tourelle. Why are you in such a pet?” The diamonds in her aigrette flashed as she tipped her head back to look at him.
Like a burr under his skin, the justice of her reply only served to irritate him further. He had spent the supper interval watching her dining with Sir Harry, who had, in his opinion, hovered unnecessarily close when not waiting on her.
When he taxed her with this, she sighed. “You are exaggerating the case. While he is undeniably charming, and enjoys female company, his heart is unattainable.” Her face saddened. “He buried it when his wife died years ago.”
“You have treated him with particular favor all evening.” Even to his own ears, the accusation sounded petty, for Diantha had not passed the bounds of propriety.
She raised her eyebrows. “Why not? There was a plan afoot to marry me to him at one time. That’s why we came to London in the first place last year.”