Scandal At The Midsummer Ball. Marguerite KayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
full length of the house from front to back and opened out on to the large terrace, the ceiling twice the height of the other reception rooms. Painted alabaster white, with only the ornate Adam cornicing to relieve its plainness, the pilasters running down one side gave the room the look of a Roman forum. Three huge chandeliers blazed down, their flames reflected in the highly polished wooden floor. The centre of the space was taken up by the tightrope and poles, set about fifteen feet off the ground now, surrounded by thick mats. A stack of hoops and skittles were laid out neatly to one side, beside a shallow tray of chalk.
Marcus, the Duke of Brockmore, surveying the scene from his vantage point on the balcony, permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction and a flutter of anticipation. The welcoming party earlier in the day had been but a prelude to the main event. Tonight’s performance would set the tone for the rest of the week. A spectacle never before seen in England. The Vengarov siblings would be a symbol for his guests, a reminder of how they too could fly—with his assistance.
Marcus leaned over the balustrade to direct a footman in the more precise arrangement of chairs for the audience. He swept his mane of grey hair back from his forehead as he took in the bustling scene below. The Silver Fox, they called him behind his back, and he rather enjoyed his reputation. It was not as if any of the guests were unaware of the subtle games they were being invited to play here. The Brockmore Midsummer Party was well established now, as the stage for all sorts of alliances to be made—and in some cases unmade. He and Alicia did not manipulate, but rather facilitated these affairs—of the heart, of politics, of business. Yes, they greased the wheels of power, but they did not force those wheels to turn in any particular direction. Though more often than not, of course, they did. In their later years, they would be able to look back with pride and satisfaction on their achievements. The children of the marriages they had brokered would be consolation for their own tragic lack of progeny.
The customary pang this engendered in his heart made Marcus’s thoughts turn towards his wife, and as if on cue, she entered the room ahead of their guests, glancing up and smiling, that special smile she saved for him and him alone. She was looking splendid this evening, her pale-green evening gown carefully chosen to complement the darker-green stripe of his own waistcoat. His diamond-and-emerald cravat pin matched the magnificent set of diamonds and emeralds she wore around her swan-like neck. It was these little attentions to detail that were so important. No, he could have no regrets.
He watched his duchess making her graceful way through the throng of specially invited guests, admiring the way she gently manoeuvred each into their allotted place with the skill of an orchestra conductor. There were the obvious matches to be made—and by and large he left those in Alicia’s capable hands. Viscount Monteith’s daughter would be marketable enough, a shy beauty and therefore a desirable catch, but that dragon of a mother of hers was bound to interfere. The Kilmun twins—Marcus smiled to himself as he eyed those two ladies. Cecily and Cynthia, wasn’t it? Damned if he could tell which was which. It would be interesting to see if their intended bridegrooms could—or cared to. Brigstock, Earl of Jessop, and Jessamy Addington were lined up for them. Cynthia and Cecily. Jessop and Jessamy. Sound fellows with excellent connections. He had plans for both, and frankly an alliance with either twin would suit his purposes just as well. Let them sort it out between them.
Verity now—where was Verity?—ah yes, there she was, seated as planned beside Wellington’s protégé. Colonel Kennedy looked to possess a strong will, just the type to take his headstrong niece in hand. It was not a great match in the eyes of the world, not compared to some of the offers Verity had already rejected, but in some ways this man was likely more suitable. If Wellington was in the right of it—and his old friend invariably was—the colonel would very quickly make his mark abroad, giving the Brockmore family another string to their many bows. Mind you, that first meeting between the pair today had not been auspicious. It was to be hoped that Verity had indeed been merely out of sorts due to the heat in the crowded drawing room.
As for the rest of his guests? His Grace scanned the audience, now seated, and made a rapid inventory. Sir Timothy Farthingale would be easy enough to accommodate, all he desired was to be pointed in the direction of a generous benefactor with deep pockets, but Desmond Falkner might prove just a little tricky to bleed. A canny man, he had seemed at dinner earlier, and something of a prude, if truth be told. Farthingale’s flamboyant appearance had made quite the wrong impression. What possessed the man to wear a pair of Turkish slippers and a scarlet coat to dinner, Marcus could not fathom. Alicia had seated him in the back row, but he looked more like he should be performing in tonight’s entertainment. A quiet word might be in order. A task for Lillias, perhaps? By odd coincidence, the woman he and Alicia liked to think of as their eyes and ears was already seated by Sir Timothy in her customary scarlet. The duke winced at the clash of colours. Though the Titian-haired Lovely, Luscious Lillias Lamont was a stalwart of their Midsummer Party, her flamboyant taste in clothes was really almost as suspect as Farthingale’s.
‘Your Grace?’ He turned, to find the Russian duo whose services he had secured at great expense beckoning him from the doorway. ‘We are ready to begin the performance.’
Marcus fought the urge to inform the rather arrogant young Russian man that the performance would commence when he decided it could begin. He was paying a small fortune to hire the pair for the whole week, yet each time they spoke, he had the sense the man was looking down his nose at him. There were not many people who discomfited the Duke of Brockmore. Marcus couldn’t understand it, but there was something about Alexandr Vengarov that made him feel as if he should be doing the kowtowing.
Though the blasted man was right, it was high time to get the evening’s entertainment underway. Marcus nodded his assent and the Russian performers disappeared. Moments later, the pair of them appeared in the doorway of the ballroom.
His Grace leaned over the balcony and cleared his throat. ‘My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great privilege to present, for your delectation, the most extraordinary, the most talented, the most graceful and indeed the most flexible acrobatic performers in the civilised world. Prepare to be both astounded and amazed. I give you the Flying Vengarovs.’
Conversation stilled. Skirts rustled, painted fans were snapped shut and quizzing glasses prised open as the audience settled into their gilt-edged chairs.
The duke gestured to the performers. They were a striking pair, he so tall, and she so tiny in comparison. Both wore long cloaks, hers dark blue and his black, studded with paste diamonds that sparkled and shimmered in the candlelight. There were paste diamonds in her burnished auburn hair too. They seemed to float across the floor together like a walking constellation of stars. A hushed silence pervaded the ballroom as they stood in front of the tightrope, facing the expectant crowd. He had to admire their professionalism, the pair possessed real stage presence. The duke felt his own heart pick up a few beats. Catching his wife’s eye, they shared a smile, but his eyes were drawn, almost against his will, to the duo below. They did not look like siblings. Vengarov’s square-cut jaw, brown eyes and dark-brown hair were in stark contrast to his sister’s colouring and appearance, though they shared the same high Slavic cheekbones, and there was something about the mouth too.
They made their bow. Vengarov’s cloak dropped to the ground and there was a sharp intake of breath. The man was half-naked, wearing only a shockingly tight pair of knitted pantaloons. His muscled torso gleamed in the candlelight. The duke smothered a chuckle. Fans were being hurriedly opened, but he had no doubt that behind them the ladies were gazing with flagrant admiration at the chap’s sculpted physique. The men present, on the other hand, were bristling with purported indignation. Intimidated no doubt, rather than offended. Save Kennedy, who was smiling. And Farthingale who was looking like a dog salivating over a particularly juicy bone.
Another sharp intake of breath followed when the female acrobat dropped her cloak, and to this the duke contributed enthusiastically. She was virtually naked. A scant flesh-coloured tunic studded with more paste diamonds and little else clung to her perfectly proportioned body. It was indecent. It was also rather exciting. The rumours he’d heard regarding the exotic allure of the Vengarov siblings had not been wide of the mark. If anything, they had been understated, especially regarding the delicious Katerina. No bristling from his male guests now, that was for