Chapter 7
Elf spotted Walgrave the moment he appeared at the entrance to the duchess’s crowded ballroom.
Of course, in this glittering company, anyone dressed in funereal black would stand out. There was no question of some sixth sense alerting her to his presence. Of course there wasn’t.
She couldn’t deny, however, the disturbing flutter in her stomach, and that her hands were suddenly slick with sweat on her fan.
Oh dear. This was becoming ridiculous.
She forced her attention toward young Lord Northrop and smilingly accepted his invitation to join the next set. As he led her forward she refused to allow herself to watch the earl.
Some of the flutters in her stomach were nervous ones, however. She wasn’t accustomed to bumping into Walgrave all over town. What if he recognized Lisette?
As the music struck up and she curtsied, she assured herself that his identifying her was next to impossible.
Tonight, turned out to perfection by Chantal, she was completely Lady Elf.
Her sandy curls were unpowdered and scattered with tiny blue flowers to match her pale blue watered-silk gown.
No gaudy black-and-gold trimming here, but instead a cobweb-fine confection of white and silver, trimmed with seed pearls.
For jewels, she had chosen a pearl-and-sapphire parure which Lisette could never afford if she saved for a thousand years.
Though this outfit was exactly the sort she found boring, she knew society thought it elegant and perfect.
She knew, too, that she was a pleasing companion well liked by nearly everyone.
Yet Fort, who had been kind and sometimes charming to silly, gaudy Lisette, would sneer at Lady Elfled Malloren as if she’d slithered out of a marsh.
Despite her good intentions, her eyes flickered around in search of him.
He was talking to Minnette de Courtances. No, not talking. Flirting! Minnette was a charming young woman, but how unfair that he flirted with her when he never did anything but glare at Elf!
“Is something the matter, Lady Elf?”
Northrop’s words made her realize she was frowning. She hastily smoothed it into a smile. “Nothing of moment, my lord. Just one of those fleeting concerns.”
He raised their arms so she could pass beneath them, then turn. “Is there any way I may assist you?”
Elf smiled. “Thank you, my lord, but no. Now tell me, what do you know of Nova Scotia? My brother is posted there, you see.”
That settled him comfortably off on another track.
Northrop was one of the men who would make her an offer of marriage if she gave him the slightest encouragement. As they chatted and went through the movements of the dance, she wondered why she did not. He was young, well set-up, intelligent, courteous . . .
He did not, however, make her flesh tingle when he touched her, and he never made her think of sex. In fact, she thought, rather shocked at herself, try as she might she couldn’t imagine lying naked in a bed with him, something she found all too easy—and too stimulating!—to envision with Fort.
When had she started thinking of him as Fort?
The set ended and she asked Northrop to take her to sit by her Aunt Kate. Otherwise, he would be obliged to keep her company until a new partner appeared. Having thus liberated them both, she chatted to her aunt while keeping a hunter’s eye on Fort.
She wanted to be with him—she didn’t try to lie to herself about that. But she had an altruistic purpose, too. This unreasonable enmity between the Mallorens and the Wares was dangerous and she intended to put an end to it.
Tonight.
Minnette was stolen by another gentleman and Fort stood alone, his dense black making him seem apart from the company. It could not be pleasant to be so alone, Elf thought in sudden awareness. Not pleasant at all.
On the other hand, his decision to continue in black so long after the funeral was his own choice. For the first time she wondered why he chose to dress so. Yet another problem to be solved.
With an excuse to her aunt, she rose, gathered her nerve, and set off toward him.
Partway, however, she was intercepted by Lord Bute, extremely grand in white powder, red satin, and the blue ribbon of a showy Order.
She wondered if he were consciously sporting such patriotic colors.
The handsome Scottish lord was Prime Minister of England, but everyone knew he’d obtained the post simply because the young king was fond of him.
Or perhaps because the king’s mother was even fonder.
“Lady Elfled, how charming you look tonight.”
Even as Elf smiled and curtsied, she knew his smile was false. He did not care for Mallorens, for Rothgar was one of his rivals for the affection of the young king.
He took her hand, making it impossible not to walk with him for a while. She cast a cross look in Fort’s direction and saw him chatting to some male friends.
“Now,” said Bute, “tell me how your family goes along, my dear lady. I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing the marquess for some time.”
“Surely only for a week or so, my lord?” said Elf, resigning herself and putting on a smile. “He attended Court quite recently. But since then, he’s traveled to the coast with Lord Cynric, who is off to Nova Scotia. Rothgar planned to go on to Versailles.”
“And other places, I suppose.”
“Oh, doubtless. We have estates in France, you know.” As she chattered on about their vineyard near Bordeaux, Elf puzzled over his tone. It was almost suspicious. No, not suspicious. Insinuating. And he looked almost smug.
When she fell silent, he said, “The Mallorens are astonishingly prosperous, Lady Elf. When the marquess returns, the king must ask his advice on financial matters, I think.”
With that, he kissed her hand and departed, leaving Elf distinctly uneasy. Though always courteous, Rothgar and Bute were rivals, so why would Bute suggest that Rothgar become even closer to the king?
Fanning herself thoughtfully, Elf remembered Rothgar remarking that Bute would do him harm if he could. But, try as she might, she could see nothing in her recent conversation that warned of harm. Except that aura of smug insinuation.
Oh, hang it. She didn’t need yet more puzzles on her mind!
As she threaded her way back toward Walgrave, however, Elf couldn’t shake off the uneasiness. Other places in France? What other places? Astonishingly prosperous?
Good heavens! Did Bute suspect the source of the Malloren wealth?
What an arrant case of the pot calling the kettle black! Bute’s money came almost entirely from the public purse. Rothgar did not refuse the occasional gift from the Crown, but most of the family’s money came from well-tended land, trade, and shrewd investments.
The fact that Rothgar didn’t try to dip into the young king’s purse was doubtless one reason George found his company so pleasant.
Fort’s male companions moved away, and Elf slipped into place beside him before someone else could do so.
“Lord Walgrave, will you walk with me?” It was a bold request, but not unreasonable since many couples strolled about the room waiting for the next dance to start.
He turned slowly to face her, clearly considering refusal. That, however, would take matters between them into outright rudeness, which they generally tried to avoid. After sufficient pause to almost be an insult, he extended his hand.
She stared at it, unsure why she felt shocked. Then she realized that from his austere style she had expected his hand to be like her older brother’s, like Rothgar’s. Fine-boned and pale. Instead, it was square-nailed, solid, and brown. He clearly neglected gloves when out riding.
How strange that she’d not noticed his hands before. But then, during their most recent encounter she had been distracted by the whole of him.
Not an elegant hand, no, but astonishingly pleasing, especially when thought of in contact with her skin . . .
He raised a brow and she read his suspicions as clearly as if he’d voiced them. He thought she played some petty trick and was about to snub him!
Hastily, she placed her hand in his and they began a stately progress around the ballroom. Though suddenly nervous, Elf had achieved the first step of her plan. Promenading in this way, no one would try to join them.
So, if she could ignore the distraction of his flesh against hers, she had her chance to thaw the ice.
“Is it your plan now to surprise us all, my lord?” she asked in a playful manner.
“Surprise, Lady Elf?” Thaw was the right term. His voice could frost one of the nearby hothouse plants!
“We so rarely see you at these normal society affairs.” She plied her fan gently and stole a look at his cool face. Perhaps she could tease him into warmth. “If I were a vain woman, I might think you were pursuing me, Walgrave.”
“Because I arrived here tonight after you?” He turned to look at her, brows raised.
“But then, my dear sister-by-marriage, you must have pursued me to Sappho’s, mustn’t you, since you arrived second.
” He stared at her as if struck by a revelation.
“You did! There’s no need to be coy, dear lady.
If you lust after me, just say so and we’ll attend to it directly. ”
Thrown off balance, Elf snapped, “I doubt you have the nerve for that, my lord.”
He laughed, but it was not pleasant. “Try me. Oh, try me, Vespa. Here on the ballroom floor, if you want.”
Elf fled for the cover of a simple question. “Vespa?”
“It means wasp.”
“Then I wish you would not be so rude, Walgrave.”
“It suits you. You like to sting.”
He stopped their progress by a large plinth crowned with flowers and turned to face her.
Disconcertingly, he raised her hand for a flirtatious kiss.
“Well?” he asked, smiling, blue eyes completely without warmth.
“Many ladies like to pursue and torment the object of their adoration. Do you adore me, dearest Elf?”