The Naked Baron. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
she’d kept her tongue between her teeth when her aunt had arrived and proposed this hare-brained trip, she’d be home now, curled up with a good book in the drawing room, pretending to listen to Papa discourse on crop rotation and drainage issues.
The thought didn’t give her the feeling of contentment she expected.
She suppressed a sigh. Of course it didn’t. Life at Standen had been comfortable while Papa had mostly ignored her. Now, however…for the last year he’d become obsessed with the need to marry her off.
The elderly ladies had managed to navigate the first step. Now they were struggling with the second. Was it going to take them all evening to reach the floor?
Grace swallowed her annoyance. If only she’d done the same at Standen, but how could she have kept her temper in check when Papa had gone on and on about what a laughingstock she’d be if she appeared at the Season’s events? She couldn’t. So she’d let her temper slip its rein, and it had bolted, taking her good sense with it.
She blew out a short, impatient breath, causing the tendrils that had worked themselves free of her coiffure to float briefly in front of her eyes, and glanced back down at her aunt.
Aunt Kate looked as if she would like to wrap her elegant fingers around her neck in exasperation.
“You are in a pucker over nothing, Grace. Didn’t you notice in the receiving line that Miss Hamilton was almost as tall as you? And I’m sure there are other ladies present as”—Aunt Kate blushed and coughed slightly—“well endowed.” She patted Grace’s arm. “Your father is an idiot. There will be plenty of gentlemen eager to pay you court.”
That was highly unlikely, but there was no need to argue the point. “You know I’m not here to find a husband, Aunt Kate. Papa has already arranged everything with Mr. Parker-Roth. I just came to attend a few parties and see the London sights.” And enjoy my last gasp of freedom before I give my life over to John.
“But do you truly want to marry this neighbor, Grace?”
“Er…” She didn’t, but she was resigned to her fate. She couldn’t live at Standen forever—and marrying for love was a fairy tale reserved to Minerva Press novels. “I’m content with Papa’s choice. After all, didn’t he choose Oxbury for you? And you had over twenty years of marital harmony.”
Aunt Kate’s face suddenly assumed the oddest expression, almost as if she’d taken a bite of stewed eels and couldn’t decide whether to swallow or spit it out.
“Ah…er…yes.” Aunt Kate cleared her throat. “But I do think you might wish—you really might wish—to look around, Grace. Mr. Parker-Roth may be a pearl beyond price, but how will you know unless you see what else is available? I, at least, had a brief Season.”
“Well…”
“You can’t go home like a beaten dog with your tail between your legs and give your father the pleasure of saying he told you so.”
“True.” This was her only chance to see London. She should enjoy the experience. She would think of the male population as simply another sight to see, like London Bridge or Westminster Abbey. “I suppose there would be no harm in looking.”
“Exactly.” Aunt Kate smiled. “And there is so much to look at.” She made a small, graceful gesture encompassing the ballroom. “You have all of society at your feet.”
“Until these ladies finally move and we descend to join the crush.” There was hope. The women had reached the final stair.
Kate’s smile widened. “Indeed. So take a moment to survey the scene. I see a number of tall gentlemen, don’t you?”
“Perhaps.” There did seem to be one or two men above average height, though it was difficult to be certain from this vantage point.
“Perhaps? Of a surety. Look at the man by the ficus over there. Or the one by the windows. Or those two gentlemen by the…by the—oh, dear God.” Aunt Kate turned as white as a sheet and gripped Grace’s arm hard enough to leave marks.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
Aunt Kate was staring at one of two men standing by a clump of potted palms. The fellow was tall with dark hair, graying slightly at the temples. Distinguished looking—not alarming in the slightest. What could be the matter with—
Grace’s gaze traveled to his companion.
Oh.
Her heart began to thud; heat flooded her face. For a moment she forgot to breathe.
This gentleman was even taller and roughly twelve years younger. His black coat stretched tight across impossibly broad shoulders, and his hair, dark blond and slightly longer than fashionable, waved back from a broad forehead. He had deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, a straight nose, firm mouth…and was that a cleft in his chin?
He was staring at her, but not in the highly obnoxious fashion of the other men. Oh, no. She met his gaze and felt a jolt of…something. The feeling fluttered down to lodge low in her belly.
What was the matter with her? Could the sooty London air be affecting her constitution? She’d never before felt this heat, this heaviness in—
She flushed. Could he tell?
A corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. He could tell.
Aunt Kate’s fingers dug farther into Grace’s arm and her voice sounded slightly strangled. “I…I need to go to the ladies’ retiring room,” she said. “Now!”
“Damn, this ballroom is crowded.” David Wilton, Baron Dawson, grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and retreated to the relatively quiet spot he’d found by some potted palms. “I can hardly breathe or hear myself think, there are so many people.”
“Welcome to London and the ton.” His uncle plucked one of the glasses from his hand and took a hearty swallow. “Now you know why I abhor the place, though this gathering may be even more of a squeeze than usual. The on dit is everyone’s here to see Alvord’s American houseguest—and to see how Alvord’s cousin reacts to her.”
David grunted and sipped his champagne. Gossip! London must be as bad as—no, worse than—the country. This was his first trip to Town for the Season—and his last, if he had anything to say to the matter. He wouldn’t be here now if he didn’t need a wife. But he did, and he couldn’t choose a woman from the country. He’d grown up with all the females around his estate; he wasn’t able to conjure up the slightest spark of desire in his heart—or other organ—for any of them.
He surveyed the blushing debutantes in their virginal white gowns. Faugh! What a collection of silly young geese.
“See anything—I mean, anyone—you like, nephew?”
“No.” David swallowed, trying to rid his voice of annoyance. “Not yet, at least. But we’ve just arrived. Perhaps the more attractive ladies—the somewhat more mature women—have yet to make their appearance.” He bloody well hoped these fluttering young girls weren’t all society had to offer this Season. He didn’t have forever. Yes, he was only thirty-one and had been a baron for just a year, but life was fragile and death too unexpected. He knew his responsibility. He needed to see to the succession.
Even his devil-may-care father had attended to that before splitting his head open on a rock.
“What about that girl? She’d be a pleasant sight over the breakfast table—or over rumpled bed sheets.”
David looked at the young woman in question—a blonde in a crimson gown with an exceedingly small bodice. The girl noticed their attention and fluttered her fan.
“I don’t think so.” The chit was far too short and thin for his taste. “Do you suppose her mantua maker ran out of fabric before she finished that dress?”
“Perhaps.” His uncle Alex’s voice