Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Neville stood on the balcony long after Kensingham marched off. Good God, had it come to this? A duel, and over Althea Ransome, no less.
Hard to believe he’d kissed Kensingham’s niece and not even recognized in her the ungainly eleven-year-old who’d been Isabella’s friend.
The two girls had traipsed after him and his companions, bedeviling them with incessant questions and sulking when told to go play with dolls.
He would never have guessed that the young slip of a girl who’d often stuck her tongue out at him would grow up so very well.
Desire knotted in his loins, reminding him how that slip of a girl had felt in his arms tonight.
By Judas, what a beauty she’d become. Her thin form had sprouted lovely curves, and her lips were full and pouting.
She’d grown tall, too, and although it was unfashionable for a woman, she carried it well.
Once he’d rescued her from that rosebush, she’d stood straight and regal, comfortable with her height as most women her age were not.
No slouching for Althea. No, she’d stared him right in the eye.
He smiled, remembering how she’d scoffed at his hints about marriage. Other young ladies would have flattered themselves he was about to choose them. A more experienced woman would have played verbal games laced with coy innuendoes. Yet coyness didn’t seem to be in her nature.
Nor was she very good at flirting. In a world where every female flirted, her candor was refreshing. She’d been straightforward, self-assured, and not the least cowed by him.
Except when he’d kissed her.
His smile deepened. Then she’d become as flustered as any young innocent, blushing to the roots of her honeyed hair. It had emphasized even more the changes in her from when she was eleven, for she’d rarely blushed back then.
But she’d often watched him with those ingenuous amber eyes, and if he hadn’t been so caught up in his own youthful importance at that age, he might have noticed her more.
Instead, he’d treated her as he’d treated Isabella, as all men in their early twenties treated their younger sisters, with impatience and mocking indulgence.
He snorted aloud. He couldn’t treat her as a sister now if his life depended on it. By Judas, who’d have ever guessed he’d be lusting after cheeky, sullen, inquisitive Althea. Now beautiful, quick-witted, compassionate Althea. She was something, wasn’t she?
And after tomorrow, she’d never speak to him again.
He rubbed his eyes wearily. What to do about Kensingham’s determination to duel?
The bloody idiot couldn’t hit the side of the proverbial barn and wasn’t all that adept at swordplay.
Neville’s only choice was to aim to wound and hope that satisfied the man’s foolish notions of honor.
Then again, there was a more attractive alternative. Since tonight’s contretemps had come about because Neville had manhandled Kensingham’s niece, an offer of marriage might solve the problem.
He let that thought sink in as a faint smile touched his lips.
Marriage. To Althea. What an enticing thought.
It would solve two problems at once, for despite what Althea believed, he’d come to this absurd ball in the first place because he was seeking a wife.
He’d been attending all the marriage marts for weeks now in search of a woman who would suit.
The rumors about his desire never to marry had been started by his father as a joke. The late marquess had said it was as good a way as any of protecting Neville from scheming matrons and their daughters while he sowed his wild oats.
It was the kind of thing Neville’s father had been wont to do in his later years.
The marquess had only become a rakehell after Neville’s mother had died birthing Isabella, but once he’d immersed himself in the life, he’d loved it.
He’d introduced Neville to London’s delights when Neville was only fifteen.
But Neville had fast rivaled his father in the enjoyment of sensory pleasures.
Eventually, however, Neville discovered that he differed from his father, who’d remained a charming rogue until his death six years ago. Neville grew tired of having mistresses, of dallying with married women and merry widows.
He’d been old enough to remember the pleasant home his mother had created before her death, a home his father had found tedious even then.
More and more lately, Neville wanted that kind of home for himself, especially now that his sister was married, leaving him alone at Foxworth Manor.
He wanted a wife, children . . . a son to carry on the title. He wanted it very badly.
But he’d found no one who appealed to him, no one with whom he could endure more than a few minutes conversation. He’d despaired of ever finding someone who suited him.
Until Althea. She would be perfect. Daughter to the late Earl of Kensingham and niece to the new earl, she certainly had the breeding to be his bride. Although money was of no concern to him, she probably had that too. She was young and beautiful and—
And he wanted her. God, one kiss had made him want her with a fierceness that surprised him.
He sighed. But Kensingham would never allow her to marry him.
Not after what had happened eight years ago.
Neville slammed his fist against the balcony rail.
It was all so bloody unfair. He’d assumed Kensingham’s anger would fade with time, but obviously that hadn’t happened.
And there wasn’t a damned thing Neville could do about it.
Kensingham was itching to find some vengeance for Neville’s youthful error. The fool.
With a groan, Neville turned away from the balcony rail. It did no good to think on it. The duel was set. He’d best find his seconds, then get a good night’s sleep, so his aim was true enough tomorrow to make sure he only clipped Kensingham’s wings.
He maneuvered through the crush in the ballroom, easily finding friends willing to second him. Then he headed for the door. He had no more stomach for society tonight. Especially now that he’d had a few moments with a woman who had the courage to speak her mind.
He had his coach summoned, then told his coachman, “To Foxworth Manor.”
“Yes, my lord. But I think you should know there’s a woman waiting for you inside.”
Neville scowled. “A woman?”
“Aye. Said she wanted to talk to you.”
He groaned. That was the last thing he needed, some overly forward female with a penchant to see if “The Fox” was as good in bed as his reputation warranted.
Opening the door, he tried to keep his temper in check. The woman’s face was in shadow, so he couldn’t tell who she was.
“I believe you’ve stumbled into the wrong carriage, madam,” he said through gritted teeth.
“No, my lord, I have not. I must talk to you.”
He recognized the anxious voice instantly. And couldn’t believe his ears. “Lady Althea?”
“Aye. This was the only way I could manage to speak with you alone. I knew you could send your carriage to take me home when we are done.”
He made a quick decision. Climbing into the carriage, he knocked on the roof to tell the coachman to drive on. The carriage shuddered into a start.
As he stared at his unexpected guest, her face shielded from him by the darkness, he murmured, “Where is your angry uncle?”
“He sent me home, but I persuaded our coachman to let me out at the corner and keep silent about it.”
“Your coachman must be a fool.”
“He merely thinks it wise to placate me since one word to my uncle about his dalliance with my maid would lose him his position. He’ll keep silent. And if Uncle Winston asks for me, my maid will make my excuses.”
The sudden steely tone in her voice reminded him that Althea was no ordinary eighteen-year-old.
She’d lost her parents at eleven, then been entrusted to a young bachelor who’d doubtless been unhappy to be saddled with a child to raise.
By all accounts, Kensingham’s method of child-rearing had been to stash Althea at his newly inherited country estate and then go on about his business as if she didn’t exist. She’d been forced to take charge of her life earlier than most.
Still, it was a wonder Kensingham didn’t fight duels over his niece’s honor every day. “Now that you’ve gone to all this trouble, do tell me why you’re here.”
She straightened against the cushioned seat. “To ask you not to duel with my uncle.”
No surprise there. He settled back to cross his arms over his chest. “I suppose it was too much to hope you were here to give me a kiss for good luck.”
Although he couldn’t see her face, he knew his words had probably made her blush, which pleased him inordinately.
“I care for Uncle Winston, Lord Foxworth. I don’t want to see him die.”
Stung by her concern for a hothead like Kensingham, he quipped, “What makes you think he’d be the one to die?”
Her tone grew bitter. “You know quite well my uncle is no match for you. He’s a poor shot and a terrible swordsman. If you fight him, he’ll lose.”
That had been Neville’s own assessment, but it surprised him coming from her. Few women were so objective about the men they cared for. “Losing and dying aren’t the same.”
“You know as well as I that duels are unpredictable. Even a crack shot like you can’t determine the outcome.” When he remained silent, she went on, “I know I’m asking a great deal. Refusing Uncle Winston’s challenge would brand you a coward.”
“Yes, it would.”
“But if you don’t refuse, he could die, and I wouldn’t wish to have that on my conscience. I-I’m afraid I’ve been enough of a trial to my uncle without adding that to my account.”
They passed a manor with gas lamps ablaze which lit her face long enough for him to glimpse her pain before darkness shielded her once more.