To Make a Match (A Scandal in London Novel) Page 2

  “Fair enough,” he said, shrugging as though her reticence did not matter in the least. “Your personal business is your own, after all.”

  With a final flare of color, the sun kissed the tops of the trees and then cast them into shadow.

  “Will you favor me with a dance?” he asked. “Your adversary cannot accost you while you are dancing, after all.”

  With a smile, she acquiesced.

  The candlelight shone on the silk of her gown as they progressed through the slow, stately steps of the loure, giving the fabric a strange rippling effect that put Julius in mind of clear, running water. When they rejoined, he looked up to see her smoky gaze, and a thirst that had nothing to do with water swept through him.

  THOUGH INEXPERIENCED, VICTORIA knew enough to translate Cavendish’s admiring expression into what it really meant. But desire wasn’t enough on its own. Cavendish had to belong to her in order for her plan to work. Amelia would have to fight for him, woo him away from a woman he thought he loved. And inspiring that kind of devotion took time.

  The music ended and they moved aside to make room for the next group.

  “May I offer you some champagne?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” she replied, though champagne was something Papa had strictly forbidden.

  He immediately stopped a passing servant and relieved him of two glasses, handing one to her.

  Spotting one of Amelia’s friends, Victoria turned away, putting a pillar between herself and the enemy. Blast her sister and her network of spies! She needed privacy to implement her battle strategy. “I believe I should like to go somewhere a bit less crowded,” she told her escort, taking a naughty sip from her glass.

  “My father has arranged a number of entertainments in the library. Would you enjoy a game of chess or cards?”

  While his suggestion was tempting, she knew better. Several of Papa’s friends would likely be there. “A walk in the gardens might be more pleasant,” she suggested. And safer! Neither Amelia nor any of her prudish friends would be caught dead there. She’d have to make sure Cavendish didn’t misconstrue her intent, however. It wouldn’t do for him to think her less than a lady.

  “I expect your escort will soon be looking for you,” he said as he led her out onto the terrace.

  She smiled and responded to his underlying inquiry: “I am unaccompanied this evening.”

  “Tsk,” he replied, though clearly pleased by her answer. “A woman so beautiful should be plagued by admirers. How is it you’ve escaped the attention of the young bucks in yon ballroom? Have you been hiding in the powder room?”

  She inhaled in surprise and nearly choked on a mouthful of champagne. “You flatter me, my lord,” she croaked at last, clearing her throat.

  “Not at all, my lady,” he said, his gaze warm.

  Get back to business! she told herself sternly. “My sister is the one with all of the admirers. I am not half so lovely as her. Amelia is by far the acknowledged beauty in our family.”

  Stopping short, he stared down at her with an intent expression. “Is she?”

  Though it galled her, she knew these seeds had to be planted. He would deny her claim, of course, as any gentleman would. But once he saw Amelia, the words she spoke now would sprout and take root. “Oh, yes, my lord. Amelia is tall and golden and possesses the face and bearing of a queen. I am her exact opposite: small, dark, and irreverent.”

  “Have you considered that perhaps not every man wants a tall, stuffy queen?”

  His response caught her off guard. “I’ve yet to encounter that extraordinary gentleman,” she shot back before thinking better of it. Seeing his brows rise, she softened her tone at once. “What I mean to say is that most males are blind to all else when she is in the room.”

  He moved closer and stared down at her with smiling eyes. “Do you know, I think you’ve been meeting the wrong sort of gentlemen,” he said softly.

  Somewhere deep in her midsection, a butterfly began panicking. She took another swallow of champagne to make it stop. A big one. “Perhaps that is so. But one cannot blame anyone for worshiping her on sight. Amelia really is perfection incarnate.”

  “By whose standard, I wonder?” he countered. “One man’s idea of perfection might not be the same as that of another. But tell me, what does small, dark, and irreverent enjoy for entertainment? Painting? Poetry? Music? Or is embroidery your secret passion?”

  A snort of derision escaped her, and her cheeks heated. So much for portraying a delicate, polished female! “Amelia excels at such things, but I prefer riding my horses,” she said boldly, watching him closely for signs of disapproval. “When the weather prevents being outside, I enjoy playing at cards. I’m learning a new game called whist. It’s somewhat similar to ruff-and-honours.”

  A crease formed between his brows. “You don’t like music or art?”

  “Oh, I do,” she insisted. “But I’m afraid I simply haven’t an artistic bone in my body. My efforts to become proficient at anything requiring an ear or a steady hand have always resulted in disaster. As such, I prefer to admire the talents of others, like my sister. She is quite the accomplished—”

  “I’m not interested in your sister.”

  Something in his voice made the region just below her navel feel all queer again. “I—I suppose I do speak of Amelia rather often. It’s just that she and I are very close,” she lied. “She is the only family I have besides Papa and a few distant cousins I’ve only met once or twice. Ever since Mama died, Papa has been reluctant to let us out of his sight. In fact, tonight is the first time I’ve been allowed to attend a ball without being tied to his coat skirts.”

  She winced and turned away, pretending to watch the lamplighters as they progressed along the path. Damn, but she’d made it sound like she’d only just come out of bloody pinafores!

  “Forgive my harshness,” he said, coming to stand behind her. “I only meant to compliment you, not bring you distress.”

  If she was distressed, it was for an entirely different reason. Her body was thrumming in the most peculiar manner. It was terribly difficult to think with such strange sensations running amok. I do wish he would not stand so very close…

  She turned with every intention of telling him she was ready to return to the ballroom, but when she looked up, the words refused to come out. His leaf-green gaze bored into her, and a melting, paralyzing heat began to infuse her as a vision arose in her mind’s eye—a shocking vision of herself in his arms.

  “Lady Victoria? Are you well?”

  No. She was not well. Not at all. The corset she’d thought not tight enough earlier now did not allow enough air into her lungs, and all throughout her body the gentle thrumming had risen to a steady hum.

  “My lady?”

  With great effort, she forced her mouth to move. “I’m terribly sorry, my lord. I don’t know what came over me. I think it—it must be the champagne. I’m not used to it.”

  “I’m sure it’ll pass in a few moments,” he said, a smile creasing his lips. “Perhaps we should find a place to sit and rest.”

  She nodded and, without thinking, took the hand he extended. As his warm, dry fingers touched the bare skin of her palm, something like lightning ran from the point of contact all the way down to her toes. Before she could so much as blink, however, he’d tucked her hand beneath his elbow to place it on his arm.

  Really, champagne had the most unsettling effect. Now she knew why Papa had forbidden it.

  They returned to the ballroom, and Cavendish led her to a relatively quiet corner. With the wave of his hand, he summoned a footman and in short order two chairs were brought over, as well as a glass of water.

  Victoria sipped the cool liquid, grateful for the relief to her parched throat. She’d just begun to feel composed again when a face appeared over Cavendish’s shoulder—a mischievous face topped by a mop of sandy hair. It was the same fellow he’d been conversing with earlier, Withington.

  “Julius?
Thank God! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Small wonder you’ve hidden yourself away,” he murmured to Cavendish while staring at her. “I would’ve done the same, had I managed to capture the attention of the prettiest young lady in the room.”

  In spite of herself, Victoria felt her lips begin to quirk. This one was a practiced flirt, and no mistake.

  “Allow me to introduce Marquess Withington,” said Cavendish, his distinct lack of enthusiasm bringing forth the smile she’d been struggling to hide.

  Withington stepped around him to bow before her. “A pleasure, Lady…?” He looked askance at Cavendish.

  He answered with resignation, “Lady Victoria Lennox.”

  “Lady Victoria,” said Withington, speaking slowly as though tasting the words. “How enchanting.”

  Cavendish cleared his throat. “You were saying?”

  The other man’s eyes widened. “Ah, yes! Chadbourne is waiting for you in the library. He thinks you’ve backed out of your little wager, but I told him you would never do such a thing. In fact, I told him that you’d probably just lost the time whilst wooing some incredibly beautiful woman.” His merry brown gaze slid over her. “Apparently, my fabrication was prophetic.”

  Cavendish snorted. “Yes, well perhaps you ought to begin charging for your predictions.” A pained expression crossed his face. “I’m afraid I must excuse myself, my lady,” he told her. “Necessity requires my presence elsewhere.”

  A confusing mixture of relief and reluctance washed over her. At least she’d have an opportunity to gather her wits before Amelia or Papa saw her. And a chance to more carefully plan out her strategy—which would definitely not include imbibing any more champagne. “Please don’t let me delay you, my lord. I am perfectly well.”

  “I shall return as quickly as possible,” he promised with a bow. “Coming, Withy?”

  The gentleman shook his head. “I’ve seen you trounce Chadbourne enough times to find it completely numbing. I think I shall stay, if you don’t mind.”

  Cavendish hesitated only a beat before acceding. “Well then, since you’ve no desire to provide me with moral support, you may look after Lady Victoria in my stead. She was feeling a bit out of sorts earlier, and though she appears to have now recovered, I should not feel right leaving her without an escort.”

  “It shall be my pleasure,” said Withington. He waggled a finger at Cavendish. “Now don’t get lax with Chadbourne. I’ve a small fortune laid on you at White’s, and I expect you to give the old sot a good drubbing.”

  “I won’t lose your inheritance. Not all of it, at least,” said Cavendish with a quick grin as he turned.

  Victoria’s pulse skipped. Lord, but he’s handsome when he smiles…

  “Good man!” called Withington. “Give him my regards when you’ve thrashed him.” When his friend had gone, he turned back to address her. “Now, who is this ravishing creature that has so captivated my comrade? I never knew Richmond had two daughters.”

  “Indeed,” Victoria replied, resigning herself to the fact that she was practically a nonentity. “Speaking of Papa, I should like to find him at once. I’m not feeling at all well at the moment, despite your friend’s optimism.”

  “Too much dancing?” he asked.

  “Too much champagne,” she admitted with a weak laugh. “Only, please don’t mention it to anyone.”

  “I solemnly swear not to breathe a word, my lady. Your secret is safe with me.”

  The mischief in his eyes belied his serious tone, and she couldn’t help but laugh again.

  “I’ve heard that brisk activity can reverse the effects of too much drink,” he whispered, grinning. “May I escort you to your father by way of a dance?”

  He’s chock-full of beans, this one. She decided she liked him. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to befriend him—as a friend of Cavendish’s, he would prove a good source of information. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t do any harm to try your remedy.”

  “That’s the spirit!” he crowed. “Come, the next dance is a paspy. That should get you moving quickly enough to clear your head of any cobwebs.”

  Though she disliked the passepied immensely, Victoria’s upbringing wouldn’t allow her to groan aloud. The dance focused on the execution of fast, intricate footwork rather than fluidity of form, and it made her feel awkward and graceless.

  Her partner’s skill, however, was such that her concerns soon vanished. Withington made it easy, and before the music ended she’d actually begun to enjoy herself. Afterward, he led her to a chair and began telling her stories about Cavendish. In short order, she was laughing aloud.

  “Ooh, you should have seen the look on his father’s face when he found out!” said Withington with unconcealed delight. “And that is only one example. Julius bedeviled our poor parish priest nearly into Bedlam. I’m surprised the man didn’t petition to have him excommunicated.”

  “Victoria?” said a familiar voice from behind her.

  “Amelia! Thank goodness!” she said happily. For once, her timing could not have been better—Cavendish was still safely away.

  “Where have you been?” scolded her sister. “I looked all over for you earlier, but you’d simply vanished.”

  “Nonsense!” Victoria retorted, still smiling despite the fury in her sister’s eyes. “I’ve been right here talking with Withy for at least half an hour. Oh, I suppose I had better make introductions, hadn’t I? Amelia, this is Marquess Withington. Marquess, this is my sister, Lady Amelia Lennox.”

  He stood and bowed. “A pleasure, madam—and please, call me Withy. Only my parents ever call me anything else.”

  Victoria noted with humor that Withington’s eyes had taken on that glazed look—the same look she’d seen on countless men’s faces when confronted by her sister’s beauty.

  “A pleasure, my lord,” replied Amelia. “Victoria, we must find Papa. Immediately.”

  “Whatever for?” Victoria asked with wide eyes, knowing full well that the modifications to her gown had been cataloged. “He’s probably up to his eyebrows in political debate by now, and you know how he hates to be disturbed.”

  “Nevertheless, I must insist.” Amelia flashed Withington a beguiling smile. “My apologies, my lord. If you will excuse us?”

  Victoria’s heart sank as he turned to her.

  But instead of bowing and wishing her a fond farewell, he offered his arm. “As I said earlier, my lady, it will be my honor to escort you.”

  Amelia’s eyes narrowed, threatening dire retribution should she accept.

  Victoria took Withington’s arm, silently thanking the Lord that he hadn’t abandoned her. The thought sparked another, and another, until her mind was a maelstrom of possibilities. By the time they located Papa, she had it all worked out.

  To firmly entrench herself in Cavendish’s affections would require time. Time alone with him, if at all possible. She needed a decoy to throw her bloodhound of a sister off the scent—and Withy was the perfect decoy.

  “Completely preposterous!” scoffed her father to his peers. “We simply don’t have the manpower to enforce it. I don’t have to tell any of you how thinly spread we are already, what with the damned French and Spanish both giving us trouble—and now rumors of more brewing in Austria.” His jowls quivered as he shook his head in denial. “We cannot afford another war.”

  “Hello, Papa!” Victoria exclaimed the moment he paused for breath, effectively cutting her sister off. She stretched up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek in a blatant parody of Amelia’s action earlier that evening.

  He frowned. “You know never to interrupt me when I am in discussion. This had better be important.”

  She smiled prettily. “I wanted to ask you if we might—”

  “I apologize for the intrusion, Papa,” interrupted Amelia smoothly, talking over her. “I grew concerned for Victoria when I couldn’t find her earlier. When I finally managed to locate her, there was a feverish look about her. I was worried that she might be takin
g a chill.”

  Victoria’s temper flared as her sister coughed and proceeded to stare pointedly at the front of her formerly modest gown.

  Their father’s scowl grew positively thunderous as the reason for their impromptu visit became clear. “Ah. Yes. You did complain of a chill earlier, Victoria. I trust you’re not taking ill?”

  His solicitous tone didn’t fool her one bit, though it appeared to deceive everyone else. “I’m perfectly well, Papa,” she cooed. “Sweet Amelia has kept watch over me like a guardian angel, and Lord Withington has been most chivalrous, as well—a veritable knight in shining armor. Oh! But how dreadfully rude of me! Papa, this is Marquess Withington.”

  “At your service, Your Grace,” said Withington.

  “So you see, there is no need for concern,” Victoria cut in. “I’m delighted to say that I am quite my hale and hearty self.” She breathed deeply and smiled, the action eliciting several chuckles of appreciative agreement from her father’s associates, whose gazes were glued to her chest. She knew she was the picture of robust health—especially from the waist up. As bosoms went, hers was quite nice and she knew it.

  The chuckles died out into sputters and coughs as her father’s face bloomed with angry scarlet patches. “Well, ahem. Just see to it that you do not overly exert yourself, daughter. I should be greatly distressed if you were to take ill. I was of half a mind not to even allow you to attend tonight, but you asked so prettily that I hadn’t the heart to refuse. Pray, do not make me regret my leniency.” He dismissed her with a fierce glare.

  She knew she’d come very close to crossing the line with him, and pressed no further. Instead, she looked to Withington who, based on his expression, was now wondering what the devil he’d gotten himself into. “Lord Withing—oh, I mean Withy,” she said, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “I should very much enjoy another dance. If you don’t think it would be looked upon as improper, that is?” Please, please, please…

  After a tense moment, he acquiesced. “I would be most honored, Lady Victoria.”