Never Miss a Chance (Kellington Book Two) Page 3

  “There are some things in life, Lady Elizabeth, that one simply cannot experience in books alone.”

  He looked at her with his mesmerizing blue eyes and the hand at her back seemed to burn a hole through the silk. Was he flirting with her? Surely not. This was Riverton. Liam’s oldest friend. A man who’d once thrown tadpoles at her. In truth, he had only been flinging them back at her, since she was the one to place them in his boots in the first place while he and Liam had been swimming in the pond. But it wasn’t the type of thing you’d do to someone you’d ever have romantic thoughts about.

  Was it?

  Yet, in spite of the long ago tadpole war, warmth continued to seep from his hand through her body, settling in heretofore unknown places.

  “And how did you find it, my lord?” she asked. “Dancing with an instructor?”

  “Well, seeing as I was in a class with a dozen other lads at school and the dancing instructor looked to be above three score in years, I learned as much as I could from watching others and hoped for the best for when I finally danced with a lady of my age.”

  “And how did you find it when that day finally arrived?”

  There it was again. That quick flicker of emotion behind his eyes.

  “At the moment, I find it wholly to my liking.”

  She thought there should be a response to that provocative remark, but had no idea what it would be. Funny that. She was rarely at a loss for words. She licked her suddenly dry lips and hoped she didn’t appear as flustered as she felt.

  * * *

  Riverton watched her tongue dart across her lips and the ache in his loins intensified. What madness had possessed him to ask her to waltz? Holding her in his arms was becoming more agonizing by the minute. And why on earth was he flirting with her? He knew it had something to do with seeing her dance with that ass Stalford and wanting the smiles she’d bestowed on the earl to be turned on him. But with each revolution he pulled her incrementally closer. Soon the evidence of his arousal would be pressed into her, she’d faint and Lynwood would run him through on a field at dawn. Followed by Ned, Arthur and Hal.

  All with just cause.

  The madness had to end. He most reluctantly eased back from her, then when the dance finally drew to a close, he escorted her back to Aunt Prue and made some hapless excuse about being needed elsewhere – which alerted Prue Hamilton’s confoundingly acute senses that something was afoot.

  He’d come to the ball to protect Lady Elizabeth, yet all he really wanted to do was kiss her senseless. He decided to reinforce that first thought and bury the latter with a large snifter of Tarlington’s best brandy.

  * * *

  “Lady Elizabeth, I’m certainly surprised to see you here tonight,” said Lady Gwendolyn Bossert. An earl’s daughter known for her waspish tongue, Gwendolyn had debuted the same year as Lizzie, but they’d never been friends. If Lizzie had known she and the half dozen young ladies who followed Gwendolyn around were near the refreshment table, she never would’ve left her aunt’s side. She wasn’t afraid of the woman. It would be a sorry day indeed when Lizzie was unable to stand up to Gwendolyn’s bullying. But she just wasn’t in the mood to tolerate her tonight.

  As if sensing Lizzie’s reluctance, Gwendolyn continued.

  “I would’ve thought you’d be home working feverishly on your next treatise, with ink-stained fingers and, dare I say it, beads of perspiration on your brow. All of which will serve you well as you continue your journey into trade. Perhaps you can find work as a printer’s assistant, when you tire of bringing shame to the distinguished house of Lynwood.”

  Three of the ladies standing near Lady Gwendolyn tried – quite ineffectively – to hide their giggles behind their hands.

  “I confess myself surprised that you read the treatise,” said Lizzie. “I didn’t know you even realized there were sections of the broad sheets unrelated to gossip and fashion.”

  “Oh, but I didn’t actually read the treatise,” said Lady Gwendolyn, speaking louder so the people nearby wouldn’t have to strain so much to hear. “No true lady should ever pollute her mind with such disgraceful thoughts. But simply everyone is talking about it tonight. And, needless to say, not in a favorable way.”

  “I’m flattered that my writing is the focus of so much attention,” countered Lizzie, aware of their ever expanding audience. “Because you can’t effect change without illuminating the problem. So I thank you, dear Gwendolyn, for your part in spreading word of my work. I shall be sure to let your parents know of your assistance to my cause.”

  Not wanting her parents to think any such thing, Gwendolyn blanched. “Now see here, Elizabeth. That’s not what I meant at all.”

  “You might want to be clearer with your thoughts then, Gwen. Perhaps write them down before you speak. I can give you tips, if you’d like, including the proper way to remove ink stains from fingers and perspiration from brows. The latter tip you could quite definitely use right now, since it appears you’ve broken out into a – please pardon the expression – sweat.”

  One of Gwendolyn’s acolytes swooned at the term, while two others turned to see that the mere threat of telling Lady Gwen’s parents anything related to the treatise had indeed turned her brow rather damp.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me,” said Lizzie, “I must return to my aunt.”

  And with that, she turned on her heel and walked away, but not in the direction of Aunt Prue. She needed time alone to regroup. Gwendolyn Bossert’s friends had actually laughed at her. In front of her. It was a unique and unsettling experience. Most ladies of Lizzie’s acquaintance were usually at least somewhat in awe of her station in life, or, more to the point, so intent on snaring a Kellington as a husband that they ingratiated themselves with Lizzie at every opportunity. It’s not that Lizzie liked the toadying – she loathed it, really – but if those women were willing to laugh openly at her, it meant her reputation truly was in danger.

  It disconcerted her more than she cared to admit.

  Fortunately, Rosalind appeared and took her hand.

  “I saw you talking to Lady Gwendolyn. What did the cat want?”

  “To try to shame me for my lamentable lack of shame. The evening is growing tiresome. I suddenly find myself in the rather unfamiliar position of outsider. Perhaps this will finally instill that elusive sense of humility in me, though it’ll probably turn out to be indecently fleeting.”

  Rosalind squeezed Lizzie’s hand. “If anyone can turn this to an advantage, it’s you. You put into words what so many of us have been thinking. But even more importantly, you put your name and reputation on the line to back it up. Very few would be so brave.”

  Lizzie came close to tearing up at Rosalind’s words of support. Good Lord she was becoming maudlin. The evening was not getting better.

  They were interrupted by Rosalind’s tiresome brother, Calvin Carson, Viscount Worthington. Of middling height, he had a receding hairline, which was beyond any man’s control. But he didn’t do himself any favors by combing it to the side, which made him look several years older than his true age of three and thirty. He was known for impossibly high starched collars and gaudy waistcoats that wouldn’t stay buttoned due to his ever expanding girth.

  “Lady Elizabeth,” he said while looking her up and down, then letting his eyes fixate at bodice level, “how lovely it is to see you again. I hear tell you published something in the papers. Of course, if it ain’t in the sporting section or the gossips columns, I have scant chance of reading it. Perhaps, I might have the pleasure of your reciting it to me?”

  “Calvin, go away,” said his sister.

  “But I’ve been sent here on an urgent matter by Stepmama. Your partner for the next dance awaits.”

  “I’ve promised no one this dance.”

  “Yes, but Stepmama did. And his grace is waiting.”

  Rosalind turned with dismay to see the Duke of Fallmoor speaking to her stepmother across the room. The duke, who’d already buried five wi
ves, was a man in his 70s and had been, according to him, one of the greatest matrimonial prizes of the mid-to-late 18th Century. Father to thirteen legitimate children – all of them daughters – and any number of natural offspring, it was said he still wished to provide the dukedom with an heir. Rosalind’s stepmother had been trying to engineer the match for the past eleven months, since the death of the duke’s most recent wife. Rosalind suspected that her stepmother’s campaign had begun even before that. In another month, he’d be out of mourning and Rosalind knew she’d likely face the choice of either getting engaged or being thrown out of her home.

  Lizzie looked on helplessly as Calvin steered Rosalind to the duke. She was well aware of the machinations of Rosalind’s family, but all offers she’d made to help her friend had been politely but firmly rejected.

  She was interrupted from her morose thoughts by a thin, nasally male voice.

  “Lady Elizabeth, may I….may I speak with you for a moment?”

  Lizzie turned to see the anxious face of a young man whose name she couldn’t recall, but vaguely remembered as a baronet enamored of farming.

  “Pray forgive me for not approaching you earlier, but I’ve been working up the nerve to speak to you.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive, Sir, uh…”

  “Sir John Matthews. I have a baronetcy at Somerset.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It’s most beautiful there at this time of year. The fields filled with crops, cattle grazing, the plucking of chickens.”

  “I’m sure it must be quite peaceful for all, except for the chickens, of course,” said Lizzie, with an eye on her escape. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Might I have this dance?”

  The young man was dreadfully eager.

  “While I am quite honored by the request, I’m afraid the evening has been rather tiring,” she replied. It was a bit of an untruth, but Sir John seemed all things amiable, if a bit dull, and she had no desire to be rude to one of the few people being nice to her.

  “I’m so sorry to hear you’re not feeling well, but it is understandable that the fairer sex should feel faint with all the excitement of a ballroom. Might I escort you to the balcony for some air?”

  Elizabeth was about to first refuse him , then correct his rather insufferable assumption that she should feel faint simply from being in the company of a ballroom of twits, when her eye was caught by the sight of Riverton dancing with Lady Willoughby, an unhappily married matron known for her many affairs. She was looking at him in a manner reminiscent of a cat and cream. For his part, he seemed quite eager to be lapped up. It was inexplicable that Lizzie should care. But she found herself annoyed, no doubt by the other events of the evening more than anything related to her brother’s friend.

  “I would love to take some air, Sir John,” she said, as she allowed him to escort her to the French doors.

  Sir John couldn’t believe his luck, as he guided Lizzie through the crowd.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The cool breeze was refreshing, and the relative quiet of the corner of the terrace she’d been escorted to gave Lizzie the opportunity to reflect upon the evening’s events. Well, it would’ve been quiet if Sir John hadn’t kept up a steady stream of conversation.

  “Lady Elizabeth, I have long been an admirer of your beauty, your elegance and your horsemanship.”

  “My horsemanship?”

  “You have an admirable seat and I have no doubt that you would take to country life as a great fat trout takes to a pond,” said Sir John, who was growing increasingly excited, although it was unclear if it was because of Lizzie or the great fat trout. “Never before had I ever dreamed that I might have a chance with you, but when I read your treatise, I realized you have no use for society. You care not a whit for tradition. I know now that a woman as singular as yourself would be my perfect helpmate, providing, of course, that you refrain from speaking of your rather scandalous views in front of my dear mama. They would likely overset her, and I go to great lengths to avoid upsetting her. But I’m sure she would welcome you as the one to marry her esteemed son and to oversee life on the farm.”

  Lizzie had received a number of proposals over the years, yet this was the first to mention a farm, anyone’s mama or trout. But the young baronet was earnest and sweet, if a bit daft. He deserved a gentle refusal.

  “Sir John, I am most flattered that you would consider me to be your wife and sincerely thank you for the honor. Unfortunately, I do not believe we would suit.”

  “Oh, but you’re wrong!” he said with the conviction of a lunatic. “We would suit admirably. My ardor for you is such that you would have no complaints. Let me prove it to you.”

  Before Lizzie could react, she was the recipient of a most arduous and soggy kiss. She tried to extricate herself from his grasp, but life on the farm had apparently given him great strength. Oblivious to her disinterest, he pressed her against the wall and grabbed hold of her cap sleeves.

  “Lady Elizabeth, you would make me the happiest man alive. And mama would be most pleased,” he said, before bringing his mouth down on hers again.

  “Sir, you must release me,” she said as she tried to squirm away from him. She could feel the stone wall scraping her back. “I insist you do so at once!”

  Caught up in passion, he seemed not to hear. Lizzie wrenched away and to her horror, heard a large ripping sound. Both sleeves were torn from her dress, sending her bodice plunging.

  That finally got the fool’s attention.

  “Lady Elizabeth!” he said, scandalized. “Cover yourself! What if my mama were to hear of this!”

  Lizzie grasped her bodice, then looked around for cover. “Can you lend me your coat to cover myself?” she asked him.

  “This is highly irregular,” Sir John protested, while unable to tear his gaze from her bared skin.

  “I know it’s irregular,” hissed Lizzie. “But I can’t very well walk around like this.”

  “I don’t know why not,” said a familiar female voice from not far away. “It’s obvious you’re doing everything you can to shock good society and disgrace yourself in the eyes of the ton.”

  Lizzie turned to see Lady Gwendolyn Bossert, her mother Lady Halliwell and Lady Tarlington staring at her.

  “And who was your friend, the one you asked to disrobe?” asked Lady Gwendolyn, moving aside to allow others to see the partially unclad Lizzie.

  Lizzie turned to see that Sir John had disappeared. With his jacket. She drew herself up with as much dignity as possible while still clasping her bodice about her.

  “I’ve had a bit of an accident with my gown and would appreciate any assistance you could offer. Lady Tarlington, might you have a wrap I could use?”

  It took a moment for the words to register with Lady Tarlington, but after an endless pause, she murmured something that sounded like an affirmative, then scurried away, anxious to tell others what had happened.

  Lizzie turned to a slack-jawed footman. “Do be so kind as to tell his grace that I wish to leave.” She certainly wasn’t anxious to draw Lynwood into this, but he was perhaps the one man who could get her out of this debacle

  Perhaps there was one other.

  “Lady Elizabeth,” said Riverton as he walked across the terrace toward her, looking for all the world like nothing was amiss and a lady wearing half a gown was the newest fashion. “The night has turned distinctly chilly. I would not want you to catch the ague.”

  He removed his jacket and placed it on her shoulders. A warmth immediately settled onto her that was about more than body temperature.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said as she covered up. She was beginning to shake from the humiliation, until he put a hand on the small of her back, gentling her.

  He continued speaking as calmly as if they were at Almack’s discussing the weather.

  “Lady Tarlington,” he said to their hostess, who’d just returned without a wrap, no doubt because she didn’t want to
miss another moment of the scandal of the season. “I must compliment you on such a sophisticated evening. As you know, I’m most selective in my entertainments. But I know I can always count on your skills as a hostess. You are the consummate lady who would never countenance gossip.”

  Lady Tarlington was obviously torn between the righteous indignation she should exhibit toward Lizzie’s scandalous behavior and the desire to appear the gracious hostess to the highly eligible Marquess of Riverton, given the three daughters she’d been unsuccessfully trying to marry off for years.

  Riverton might’ve sensed her indecision, because he continued. “I must beg a favor, Lady Tarlington. Please convey to your husband my sincere regret that I was unable to speak with him tonight. I was going to ask his opinion on some legislation.”

  Now that was a clunker, thought Lizzie. She hardly thought Riverton needed advice on anything from the man he and her brother described as “thick, drunk and lazy.”

  But the flattery finally worked on Lady Tarlington, as she began ushering Lady Halliwell and Gwendolyn back to the ballroom. “We should give the marquess some room to help Lady Elizabeth with her, uh, dressing mishap.”

  “Mishap? That bodice didn’t collapse on its own!” complained Gwendolyn.

  “Hush!” said her mother, who was also eyeing the eligible marquess. “My dear, say goodnight to Lord Riverton.”

  Gwendolyn made a shallow curtsy to the marquess, then practically flew into the ballroom, so she could give her account of finding Lizzie naked in the arms of a farmer.

  “Lord Riverton,” said Lady Tarlington, just as she was about to depart. “Please promise you will come to tea. I know my girls would love to see you and you may also wait upon Lord Tarlington for all the advice you need. Particularly if it pertains to family matters.”

  Riverton bowed eloquently until the lady at last disappeared into the ballroom, leaving him alone with a barely dressed Lizzie, who was clutching his coat to her bosom. He would, no doubt, entertain that vision in his head later. And in great detail.