Chapter Three #2
“I see no reason why you should not,” Francesca responded, widening her eyes.
“I do not know his reasons, of course. I did not think it my place to quiz him regarding his motives. However, I find that is commonly the reason why a gentleman wishes to meet a certain lady. Surely you do not count yourself so low that you think no man would find you worthy of his notice.”
Irene regarded Francesca thoughtfully. Lady Haughston had rather neatly boxed her in. Finally she said, “’Tis not false modesty. It is more that I have found I have a certain reputation among the ton that makes gentlemen disinclined to pursue my acquaintance.”
Francesca’s eyes danced with amusement, and her smile broadened. “A reputation, Lady Irene? Indeed, I cannot imagine what you mean.”
“I thought you believed truth was the best course,” Irene shot back. “We both know that I am regarded as something of a shrew.”
Francesca shrugged. “Ah, but while you are not fresh from the country, this gentleman is.”
“What?” Irene, puzzled, started to say more, but Francesca’s attention had focused on something over Irene’s shoulder, and she smiled. Irene dropped the rest of her words as she turned to see what had claimed Francesca’s attention.
It was a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, he strode toward them with purpose, and it seemed to Irene that those around him were dwarfed in comparison.
It was not that he was so much larger than the other men, but there was a certain aura about him, a sense of toughness and strength, that set him apart.
His hair was jet-black, thick and a trifle long, giving him the faint look of a ruffian, despite the quality and cut of his clothes.
His face was all angles and lines, with high, sharp cheekbones and a firm chin.
The straight slashes of his eyebrows were as dark as his hair, and the eyes below them were an intense green.
She did not recognize him and yet there was something about him that tugged at her, some sense of familiarity that she could not place.
Irene was aware of a peculiar sensation inside her, a dancing of nerves through her midsection that seemed both excitement and trepidation, mingled with another, unknown feeling that coiled down into her abdomen, hot and disturbing.
Who was this man?
“Ah, Lord Radbourne,” Francesca said, holding out her hand in greeting.
“Lady Haughston.” He bowed perfunctorily over her hand, and then his gaze slid past Francesca to Irene.
His eyes were not leering or bold, simply watchful, but there was a directness in them that was slightly unsettling.
There was something different about him that intrigued her.
She realized that she wanted to know more about him, that she wanted to talk to him, and the fact that she felt that way both surprised and annoyed her.
“Pray, allow me to introduce you to Lady Irene Wyngate,” Francesca went on smoothly, turning from him to Irene. “Lady Irene, I would like you to meet Gideon, the Earl of Radbourne. Lord Radbourne is Lady Pencully’s great-nephew.”
It dawned on Irene then exactly who their visitor was.
He was the long-lost heir to the Bankes family fortune and name, around whom so much gossip had swirled over the last few months.
Though she knew no one who could say they had actually met the man, she had heard a great deal about him.
She had been told that he was a criminal, found in prison and hauled out of it by a powerful family member.
Others had declared that he was mad, still others that he was simple-minded.
A few had hinted at perversions the depths of which they could not even name in front of a lady.
A number had held that he was deformed, hideous to look at.
Obviously the ones who had made the last assertion were wrong, Irene thought. She extended her hand, schooling her face into a polite expression that she hoped masked the leap of interest she had felt when she realized who he was. “How do you do, Lord Radbourne?”
“Lady Wyngate.” He took her hand, giving her the same brief sketch of a bow that he had given Francesca.
Irene felt a little frisson of excitement run through her hand at the brief touch of Radbourne’s fingers upon hers.
It was absurd, of course, she told herself—the merest of touches, nothing more than a polite exchange that had happened on countless occasions.
It meant nothing, indicated nothing…yet she could not deny that what she had felt was different from all the other times she had given her hand in greeting.
Irritation welled in her—with this man, with Francesca for manipulating her into meeting him, but most of all with herself for feeling this hitch of excitement and interest. It was most unlike her, and Irene found it decidedly annoying.
She was, after all, a woman who always knew what she was about.
There was a moment of awkward silence as the earl looked at Irene and she returned his gaze coldly.
She told herself that he was no doubt used to any unmarried woman he met fawning over him.
Whatever the rumors about him, he was, after all, an earl and reputedly quite wealthy.
She had no idea why he would want to meet her, but she was determined that he see that she had no interest in him.
Francesca cast a glance from Irene to the earl and back, then said, “A lovely ball, isn’t it? I do hope that you are enjoying the party, Lord Radbourne.”
The earl barely spared her a glance. Looking at Irene, he said, “May I have this dance, my lady?”
“I do not care to dance,” Irene responded bluntly. From the corner of her eye, she could see Francesca’s eyebrows vault upward at this bit of rudeness, but she ignored her.
Lord Radbourne, however, did not even flinch at her set down. To Irene’s astonishment, amusement flickered for an instant in his face, as he replied, “That is good, then, as I am not at all proficient at dancing. Why don’t we simply take a stroll and talk?”
His effrontery left Irene speechless. But Francesca, a trace of laughter in her voice, spoke up beside her. “That sounds like an excellent idea. While you two are occupied, I shall pay my regards to our hostess.”
With those words, Francesca turned and hurried away, leaving Irene alone with Lord Radbourne.
There was little she could do except take the arm he extended, for she could see that they were the object of several interested gazes.
If she gave him the direct cut now and stalked off, ignoring his arm, it would be gossiped about all over Mayfair tomorrow.
So she gave in with a regal nod, laying her hand on his arm.
As they turned and began to stroll around the edge of the dancers, Irene nodded at one or two of the women watching them.
She could feel Lord Radbourne’s muscles like iron beneath the sleeve of his jacket, and it startled her to find that the fact stirred a warmth in her.
“Lady Haughston intimated that you wished to meet me,” Irene began in her usual direct way.
This approach, she had found long ago, was the easiest method of deflecting any man’s interest in her.
It was unladylike, with none of the flirtation and deception that marked the common course of interaction between men and women.
“That is true,” he replied.
She shot him an annoyed look. “I cannot imagine why.”
“Can you not?” He looked at her again with an expression of faint amusement, an expression that Irene realized she quite disliked.
“No, I cannot. I am twenty-five years of age and have been on the shelf for quite some time.”
“You assume my interest in you is matrimonial?” he countered.
Irene felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “I just told you, I cannot imagine what your interest in me is. However, I have rarely found that men had any interest in spinsters.”
“Perhaps I merely wished to renew our acquaintance.”
“What?” Irene turned her head to look at him, startled. She had thought there was something familiar about him, and the feeling tugged at her again. “What do you mean?”
“We have met before. Do you not remember?”
Her interest was thoroughly caught now, and she studied his face, scarcely noticing as they stepped through one of the open doors onto the terrace.
“Let me refresh your memory,” he said, leading her toward the hip-high stone wall that edged the terrace. “At the time, you tried to shoot me.”
She dropped her hand from his arm and turned to face him. “What in the world are you—”
Suddenly the memory fell into place. It had been years—surely almost ten. She had heard a fracas downstairs in the entry and had gone to look into it. She had found this man punching her father, and she had stopped the fight by firing a shot from one of her father’s dueling pistols into the air.
“You!” she exclaimed.
“Yes. Me.” He looked back at her levelly.
“I did not try to shoot you,” Irene told him caustically. “I fired over your head to get your attention. If I had tried to shoot you, you would be dead.”
She expected him to turn on his heel and leave her at that remark, but to her surprise, he let out a short bark of laughter.
His face shifted and changed, his eyes lightening with amusement, and he was suddenly so handsome that her breath caught in her throat.
The heat that flooded her cheeks this time was not from embarrassment.
“Well, I am glad to see that you bear me no ill will,” she said tartly, to cover her odd and unsettling reaction. She turned and strolled away from him along the stone wall.
A little to her surprise, he kept pace with her, saying, “It was natural, was it not, for a child to protect her father? I could scarcely blame you.”
“Since you apparently knew my father, I imagine you know that he was little deserving of protection.”
Radbourne shrugged. “What one deserves has little to do with the relationship between parent and child, I would think.”
“My father would have told you that I was an unnatural child.”