A Rogue for Miss Prim (Friendship Series) Page 15

  The urge to weep welled up. She conquered it with the knowledge that this evening would eventually come to an end and she could escape to the sanctuary of her rooms.

  Since Agnes adored her mother, she hadn’t been able to say nay when she begged Agnes to keep the usually sour Mrs. Marston occupied. In other words, away from the guests and where her commentaries and opinions were least likely to be overheard. Agnes knew herself to be too reticent to confront or contradict unless forced. Placing her with the belligerent Mrs. Marston seemed the best possible solution.

  Because she had never been talkative, everyone thought she was shy. She had been as a girl, painfully so. Now, her silence and withdrawal came from the hope to not agitate emotions caused by her own imprudence. If left alone, she could avoid the errant reminders. She’d learned the many ways to block out the world. The slightest memory of what she had done, what she had lost, often smothered her breath, rendered her speechless. Someday, it would be better, but not yet.

  She suppressed a wince brought on by a piercing voice and had to wonder if the woman seated beside her could read minds, when Mrs. Marston said, “We are so relieved that you were able to return in time for this evening’s festivities, Miss Bradford. London again?”

  “Sussex.”

  “And you have done something unusual with your hair.”

  “A lemon rinse was suggested.”

  “Continue to do so, Miss Bradford. One day you might almost achieve a becoming flaxen. You do have the Blayne eyes to recommend you, of course. Quite unusual. So many colors in them that one cannot decide on a description.”

  Agnes picked up the dance card from the cream silk covering her lap and threaded its tasseled loop over her wrist. “Merely hazel.”

  “The effect is quite striking in your brother. That gown does you very well, the figured silk quite cunning in its design. Although I do find the constant use of white unbearably tedious and the insistence on no jewelry. In my day, we sparkled! Mr. Marston lavished on me the rubies I am presently wearing as a bridal gift.”

  “They are lovely, ma’am.”

  Satisfied by the compliment, Mrs. Marston nodded and said in a congenial tone, “It is said that there is nothing quite so pleasing as a soft-spoken, retiring female, and that in order to designate a party a success, at least three must be in attendance. One must admit that you could be designated as such, Miss Bradford, but I have always held the opinion that the victuals and music must be the necessary ingredients.”

  Agnes couldn’t look at Mrs. Marston, whose small, pinched mouth was made to look smaller due to a broad face with heavy jowls. “How discerning of you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Marston absorbed that as her due and unfolded her fan. “Your mother has gone to prodigious lengths to welcome the long lost heir to Loverton Grange. It would have been devastating and excessively ill-mannered had you not been here to finally meet him. Distant relative though he is.” She raised her fan to veil her next comment. “But I vow, it is most decidedly vexing that the title must go to a foreigner. Your brother, our dear Sir Cameron, would have made a marvelous Baron Loverton.”

  Agnes turned slightly to respond to Mrs. Marston’s remark, but paused when that lady lowered her fan to reveal a tight, smug smile. The smirk lifted her heavy jowls, but did nothing for the spiteful glitter in her dark eyes, at one time hailed as the prettiest in the county. Mrs. Marston had gone to seed after twenty years of marriage to the richest squire in the neighborhood. Agnes might think it, but would never say so. Still, something inside balked at the idea of letting an unfair comment go without clarification. Anxiety overwhelmed her typical reticence and urged her to speak up.

  She molded her reply in the gentlest timbre. “I must point out with apologies, ma’am, that my brother was not in line. We are related to Lord Loverton through marriage into the Camerons and Gillespies, my mother’s side, so he never came into consideration.”

  Mrs. Marston languidly waved her fan. Her face glowed from perspiration, her coarse complexion flushed under the circles of rouge on plump cheekbones. The air in the room felt stifling from the company and fires lit to counteract the constant damp of early spring rains.

  “It is indeed a sad thing,” Mrs. Marston went on to say, a malicious gleam in her narrowed glare trained on the drawing room entry, “when we must accept the encroachment of foreigners into our midst, especially when we have a perfect candidate here in your brother, a naval hero, and so kind. Such sweetness of character. Everyone remarks on it, you know.”

  Agnes mentally agreed, but since she didn’t wish to appear proud, she merely smiled, which gave Mrs. Marston leave to continue. “Where is your delightful brother?”

  “He has gone to the Grange to bring his lordship here.”

  “Ah, yes. Lord and Lady Carnall gave up the lease on the Grange as soon as they heard that Loverton had been located.”

  Eager to insert a positive note, Agnes added in a whisper that was sure to garner Mrs. Marton’s attention, “Cameron was relieved the marquis did not take up his offer to have them stay on until the lease came to an end. Both agreed that it would be easier for Loverton to acclimate to his position if he were in residence. There is much to learn, I expect.”

  Mrs. Marston harrumphed and snapped her fan shut. “Even more reason the title should have gone to one of our own. How could a brazen Colonial know our ways? What do they call themselves? Americans? Dreadful. Taking our lands, sinking our ships. Why, one had the effrontery to invade our soil!”

  Agnes kept her viewpoint concealed behind evasive silence. It would do no good to point out that Lord Loverton’s parents were from Yorkshire and their son born in Canada. Mrs. Marston had clearly stated her opinions and was a guest. She’d already contradicted Mrs. Marston. A second time would constitute poor manners.

  She put a small, noncommittal smile on her face and vowed to remain silent. She glanced across the room and caught Vincent looking at her. To subdue the urge to flee, she continued to smile at Mrs. Marston, as if the woman had something interesting to say. It couldn’t be that much longer before the arrival of the honored guest. Perhaps then she could excuse herself, join her mother’s group across the room, and beg that someone else save the guests from Mrs. Marston’s acid tongue.

  A fan tip whacked her wrist, startling Agnes from troubled thoughts. Mrs. Marston’s clever gaze narrowed to a squint as she pried, “Miss Bradford, you never said where you were these last weeks. The rain has been nonstop, which must have made for onerous travel conditions. Was your journey of long duration?”

  “Not far. Only to Sussex again.”

  She didn’t explain that she’d gone there to complete a commission. Only her family knew that she painted. Many women did so, of course, but not for money. She did and often used another name to hide the fact that the artist was female. She’d accepted the commission for another reason, which led to her present misery, but the portrait had been successful.

  The suspension of conversation announced the arrival of her brother and Lord Loverton before the butler could make it known. The group followed her mother to the door, blocking the view. Agnes stood and Mrs. Marston did likewise after a cluck of disgust.

  As the introductions in the doorway commenced, Agnes decided to stay where she was until the commotion and excitement abated. Sensitive to change, she noticed that the air of anticipation had become one of ill at ease. Nothing too overt, but Agnes had always thought she had a talent for understanding the mood of a room and laid it down to artistic awareness. There was now a definite change, an unsettled discomfort. When the group by the entry thinned, she got her first glimpse of Loverton and understood why. She doubted everyone would be less nervous if a jaguar had been tossed through the door.

  Chapter 2

  The constant ache lodged under her heart ebbed as she sought to study the honored guest without appearing obvious. Loverton’s striking features, swarthy and strong-boned, made her fingers itch to take up a pencil and sketch. He scanned
the room with disinterest but stopped to stare, quite pointedly, at her. His penetrating observation pinned her in place. Her heart began to pound for no good reason. Perhaps this was his usual manner of looking at people, but she felt pierced through with the feeling that his regard was anything but impersonal.

  Her brother noticed Loverton’s regard and leaned closer to make a comment, undoubtedly identifying her as his sister. Even though not as tall as her brother, Loverton appeared in every way larger. It had nothing to do with height or weight. It wasn’t his strict, upright posture that made for a commanding air. His presence would have dominated the room without being the much-anticipated heir to the barony. At the moment, his attention stayed entirely on her, an ebony-eyed scrutiny that sent a ripple of apprehension down her arms. She caught herself in the act of tugging up the tops of her evening gloves. A nervous glance across the room assured her that Vincent had remained with his group of never easily impressed Londoners.

  The feel of Loverton’s examination made it impossible not to look back at him. He was nothing like the Blayne family portraits, austere depictions, some posed with languid grace, and all exuding the supreme confidence inherent in those of their birthright. This baron had their imposing manner, but under his urbane coating something prowled, something she could only describe as untamed. Loverton looked on the hunt. She set aside the bizarre impression that she was the prey.

  Unable to look away, she watched Loverton abruptly cross the room in her direction, flanked by her brother and mother. He hadn’t bothered to excuse himself from the guests by the door and left them all but gaping. As he neared, she experienced the impression she’d had of him at the entrance. He bristled with latent intensity.

  She curtsied when he stopped in front of her. He bowed, unsmiling, taciturn. No wonder the guests were set on edge.

  Mrs. Marston accepted her introduction to the baron with an arrogance wholly unnoticed by Loverton, who all but ignored her to affix his attention on Agnes. A wave of unsettling nervousness urged her to escape, while a mesmerizing pull compelled her to remain. She couldn’t stop from imagining herself caught in the stare of a predator pausing to consider his options to mercifully relent or give chase. She sent a questioning gaze to her brother. Cameron displayed no hint of signs of apprehension. The saber slash scar along his cheek pulled up a corner of his mouth in a constant, partial smile. Tonight, the other side was curved up, beaming at her. The disfigurement never failed to give her heart a little twist she quickly ignored. It was better not to think about the years her beloved brother had been missing. Best to be grateful that he’d come home.

  Cameron and her mother glowed with happy pride as the words of introduction were exchanged. She’d never understood why they thought her so extraordinary but that never stopped her from relishing their unconditional love.

  Loverton had a startlingly deep yet dulcet voice that rolled over and through her. “I am honored to meet yet another relative. Your brother sang your praises the entire drive here this evening.”

  His vibrant bass sent a curious sensation down her spine that lingered, like the echo of a haunting note. Cheeks burning, she gave Cameron—who wore a silly, proud grin—an admonishing look. “Lord Loverton, please accept my apology for an overindulgent brother. Affectionate bias overrules his good sense. Disregard him, please. I assure you that no matter what he told you, I am entirely ordinary.”

  She was sorry the instant the words left her mouth. It sounded as if she sought a compliment by way of polite contradiction. Heat spread across her chest and up her neck. Oh, if only it were possible to sink through the floor or into the woodwork.

  Loverton’s well-defined lips curved in a half smile. He tipped his head in another bow, but this time, he reached for her hand. “Miss Bradford, I could disagree, but why waste one’s breath disagreeing with an obvious truth and the living verification of his adoration? If it is not already taken, would you do me the honor of accepting my hand for the first set?”

  Powerless to speak or withdraw her hand, she could only nod. He wore no gloves. Contact with him seared through the cloth of hers. His pause and a fleeting pressure on her fingers relayed his reluctance to release her. Unable to look away, she curtsied and watched him being led away by Cameron for more introductions.

  Her mother paused to press her cheek to Agnes’s and whisper, “You have impressed him, my dear girl. I knew you would.”

  Agnes blinked to reorient as her mother hurried away. Surely they didn’t think that Maxime Blayne, the new Lord Loverton, would become a suitor. That could never happen, but perhaps they refused to comprehend or didn’t care about her age.

  They might suspect but didn’t know about her reckless behavior. Reckless behavior she’d repeated when she’d gone to Sussex and Vincent had followed her there. She knew exactly what she shouldn’t let Vincent do and had allowed its repetition until it resulted in a brief pregnancy and the discovery that he was married. They couldn’t know about that which she could no longer designate as merely a mistake in judgment. She’d been so easy to fool and weak spirited. Neither could be used as an excuse.

  No one in Kent suspected the notoriety she’d barely escaped while in London. It helped that no one in the city knew her with the exception of Lord and Lady Asterly. The disastrous involvement with Vincent would eventually come to light. Such things never remained undisclosed, and even though Loverton was recently arrived and unaware of her secrets, he’d made it clear that he was a man who sensed these things. He had only to look at her to divine that she wasn’t pure, not the gem so blindly adored by her family.

  She discovered herself standing transfixed in thought. Mrs. Marston had sat down and continued to mutter more negative remarks about Americans inserting themselves where they weren’t wanted. Agnes sat and allowed the woman to complain while she struggled to sort through what had happened during the introduction. Loverton had a look in his dark-eyed gaze, one that made her feel directly in line with the trajectory of an amorous assault.

  Her poor brother and mother were so devoted that they didn’t notice what she saw so clearly. Loverton had sniffed out her weakness, made her an object of his attention and intentions. A future proposal was not in her future. Her seduction was. The problem this posed was beyond distressing, because she didn’t think she would be able to resist.