Chapter 21 #2
Lady Morton pursed her lips and nodded knowingly.
Anne turned her attention back to the crowded ballroom, smiling with satisfaction.
She knew she could count on Jemma Morton to flutter about the ton, repeating her comments with delicious embellishments.
Anne’s pale blue eyes came to rest on the gaunt frame of Lord Rothwell, and she glided off in his direction.
Rothwell was comfortably set up, she reflected, and while he might expect her to pay nominal attention to his flourishing brood, at least he wouldn’t be after her for an heir.
Alix stood before the mirror in the retiring room trying to coax a loose strand of hair back into place.
Damn Rafe for the confusing man he was, she thought as the strand tumbled loose from its pin.
Just when she thought she had him figured out, he’d change.
Yesterday he’d had Anne Dinsmore hanging on his arm like some great pastel shawl, and this evening he’d been dancing attendance on her as if she were the only woman in the room.
When she looked into his eyes she thought she saw something that might pass for love, but he had said nothing to her about his feelings.
She worried that what she saw might be simple possessiveness, or worse, nothing more than a reflection of her own emotions.
She didn’t want to be the one to raise the subject, and it was more than a matter of pride.
If she asked, and he said he loved her, she’d always wonder if he’d said it only to soothe her into marriage; if he said he didn’t, she’d be destroyed.
Damn the man, she thought again, why couldn’t he behave more like the swains in those poems about courtly love?
A ripple of sharp-edged laughter caught her attention.
Three women stood before the mirror, patting their hair and straightening their gowns as they chattered.
They were elegantly clad and coifed, and they carried themselves with the slightly bored assurance of women who had seen and experienced all that the London season had to offer.
Fragments of their conversation distracted her.
They were laughing at some dandy’s choice of waistcoat and jacket, some other man’s obsession with horses.
And then she heard them mention Elizabeth Harcrest.
“I understand the earl is going to have his hands full presenting that one,” said a tall woman with auburn hair in a deep green gown.
“They say she’s been a terror since she laced up her first corset,” said a blonde in peach.
“Well, I saw her the other night at the Kensington’s assembly,” the third woman said knowingly and the other two turned from the mirror to listen more closely.
The woman lowered her voice confidentially.
“She looks sweet enough, but she was dancing just a bit too close with Lord Slane. And later, why you could hear her laughter clear across the supper table.”
Alix finally managed to pin the rebellious strand back into place, and without looking at the women said clearly, “I’ve met Lady Elizabeth on several occasions. She’s quite charming really, quite refined—for an English girl.”
A tall slender blonde who’d been sitting in the corner of the room stitching at the hem of her sapphire gown, lifted her head. “Indeed, I know Lady Elizabeth as well. Such sweetness and beauty, I’ve no doubt she’ll be one of the great successes of the season.”
The three women drew up like a flock of startled geese. Straightening their heads, and flipping open their fans, they departed in hiss of rustling skirts and scandalized whispers.
“That should do it,” the blonde in the sapphire said rising and shaking out her repaired hem.
“I know I should have asked a maid for help, but I hate people fussing about me. Does it look straight to you?” When Alix nodded affirmatively she continued, “We may have laid it on a bit thick; Elizabeth is charming, but refined?” She wrinkled her nose.
“Not the best description of the Elizabeth Harcrest I know.”
Alix smiled ruefully. “I’ve never met Elizabeth, but I couldn’t stand there and let those harpies tear her to shreds.” She shook her head. “I confess, I used to think myself an honest person, but since I’ve arrived in England the falsehoods have been tripping off my tongue in frightful quantities.”
“Those weren’t exactly falsehoods, more like lovely embellishments,” the blonde said. “Though it may have done more harm than good. The praises of a French émigré and a rustic colonial are hardly the nod from the patrons of Almack’s.”
As the woman joined her at the mirror, Alix noticed that she was very tall, very striking, and that her eyes were an amazing shade of deep blue. The blond woman laughed. “Though there’s no doubt Moreham will have his hands full this season, between Elizabeth and you.”
Only Madeleine’s training kept Alix’s jaw from dropping. Before she could think how to respond the woman extended her hand. “I am Phoebe Davenport and you are Alexandre de Rabec de La Brou.”
Alix smiled back, confused. “Alix, if you please, but how did you know my name?”
Phoebe’s smile widened. “As Jervis would say, I’ve been tracking you. I wanted to meet the woman who breached the walls of the very-self-contained, ever-so-responsible Earl of Moreham.”
“You know Rafe?”
Phoebe nodded. “He and my husband, Cole, are close friends. We’ve been waiting patiently for an introduction, but Rafe seems to want to keep you all to himself.” She reached out a hand. “Shall we return to the ballroom and tell him the game is up?”
Alix took Phoebe’s hand, curious to get to know more about this outspoken woman and her husband, wondering too why Rafe hadn’t introduced them.
“You should know I’m terribly forward,” Phoebe said.
“That’s because I’m an American. Rafe was probably worried I’d corrupt you with my wild colonial ways.
He can be such a stick sometimes.” She leaned close to Alix as they made their way through the crowded salon.
“Cole and I are so grateful you’ve distracted him from that awful Anne Dinsmore. ”
Alix took the opportunity to ask a question that had been preying on her mind. “I’ve heard they were nearly engaged.”
Phoebe shook her blonde tresses. “She’s awful, simply awful. Rafe watched her grow up and I think he must have decided that since Elizabeth would be leaving home soon enough, it was time to start a nursery and that Anne would suit as well as any.”
“They weren’t in love?”
“Heavens no,” she gave a mock shudder. “I’m not sure she’s even capable of love, except maybe for her brother James. And Rafe certainly never looked at her the way he looks at you.”
So Rafe hadn’t been in love with Anne Dinsmore.
But he had been looking for a wife. Was she simply another suitable fit?
Was he one of those men who enjoyed the chase?
She shivered as she thought of his hands on her body.
He certainly didn’t lack for experience.
Perhaps the rumors she’d heard that he spent his time in France in pursuit of sexual pleasure were true?
But then why had he been posing as a cloth merchant?
What, she wondered with rising frustration, was the truth about the man she had married?
“So Moreham has been looking for a wife to stock his nursery?”
Phoebe chuckled. “Not exactly. It’s just that Rafe has a way of thinking that if he plans his life carefully enough everything will fall into place.
” Phoebe flashed a smile at Alix. “Thank goodness you came along to knock that nonsense out of him. I was beginning to worry I’d be spending our annual holidays with the Harcrests trying to make pleasant conversation with Lady Anne Dinsmore.
The woman looks at me as though, at any moment, I might put feathers in my hair and dump her tea out the window. ”
Phoebe shrugged. “Still I suppose all his planning is understandable, when you think of all the unexpected things that have tossed his life about: becoming the earl, having to take care of Elizabeth and Louisa, to rebuild the family fortune. That’s what he’s really been doing in France— working—though rumor would have it he spends so much time on the continent to enjoy the women. ”