The Madcap (4 page)

Alasdair knew his request was most unorthodox. He
was putting the young lady in the position of having to
reject him outright if the slot was already taken, not a
position in which a gentleman put a lady. After all, the
whole point of dance cards was to avoid a scenario such
as this. She tilted her pretty head and gave him a considering look. “I would love to dance, but I must decline
since my dances are all spoken for.” She held up her
dance card. “A Lord Brantley has the next dance”

“Then I shall have to hope for better luck another
time,” Alasdair said politely. The girl needed to be more
discerning, he thought privately. Simply putting a title
in front of a man’s name didn’t make him respectable,
and that was definitely the case with Brantley, who was
as thorough a reprobate as any and barely received by
decent families. The girl’s mother should know better.
English mothers did. But that was the difference between the English girls and the American ones. Alasdair had met American girls before. For all their
forthright behaviors, they were incredibly naive when it
came to navigating the intricacies of the British peerage.

Beside him, Audrey was saying something to the
mother about coming to call, but Alasdair was eager to
get away. He suddenly had a public service to render.

He used his height to scan the ballroom, looking for
Brantley’s blond head. Alasdair spotted him by a cluster of potted palms, deep in conversation with a group
of men. He approached the group casually, catching
snippets of the current conversation. Brantley and his
group of inveterate gamblers were arguing the merits
of the various horses racing at Ascot in a few weeks.
A consummate gambler, Brantley was always on the
prowl for the next big payoff to line his usually empty
pockets. Those who knew his reputation best knew
that the next big payoff wasn’t only a gamble at the
track or the tables but was often a gamble of a truly
dangerous type, through more disreputable venues. It
was oft whispered that he had engaged in some unsa vory swindles a few years back on the Exchange and
even in a few attempts at blackmail.

Alasdair grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing footman and easily insinuated himself into the conversation, offering opinions here and there on the
different horses. He heard the music strike up for the
next set of dances. Next to him, Brantley stirred.

“I’ve got to go and do my duty with the American
chit.” He gave a sigh, indicating he was less than
pleased at having been corralled into the obligation.
“She’s a pretty little heathen, at least, and there’s rumor
her fortune is large enough to compensate for any other
deficiencies.”

Alasdair stiffened at the callous remarks, suddenly
filled with chivalrous indignation. Brantley turned to
leave the group and then something terrible happened.
He bumped into Alasdair’s right arm and Alasdair’s
nearly full glass of champagne spilled down the man’s
shirt front. Alasdair reached quickly for his handkerchief and offered it to Brantley, the very picture of a
contrite apology.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. It was so incredibly clumsy of
me” Alasdair said the words, all the while thinking the
only thing clumsy about it was that he hadn’t the foresight to take two glasses of champagne off the trayone for his ploy to garner a dance and one for the cad’s
comments about Miss Addison.

“No harm, Pennington.” Brantley dabbed at the large
wet splotch. “Deuce take it, though. I can’t very well go collect my partner with a wet shirt and smelling of
alcohol.”

“I’ll be glad to stand in for you,” Alasdair offered,
stepping into the breach.

Brantley’s eyes narrowed dangerously with speculation. “I am sure you would, Pennington. We all know
that it’s bad form to break an engagement with a lady.
Give her my regrets, would you?” Brantley drawled
in an ambiguous tone that only just hinted at hostility.
Perhaps he had misjudged the man’s supposed regret
over dancing with Miss Addison. Perhaps Brantley’s
original attitude had been feigned. If so, Alasdair was
more than glad to have thwarted the man’s efforts to engage the unsuspecting Miss Addison.

“With pleasure,” Alasdair said, slipping back into
the crowd and wending his way back to Miss Addison’s
court. Within minutes, he explained how he’d carelessly spilled a full glass of champagne on her upcoming dance partner. Oh yes, he’d been most apologetic
when he’d claimed Miss Addison for the dance, a
lively polka, but he knew he wasn’t sorry in the least.

“How kind you are, my lord, to come to my rescue,”
Miss Addison said while they took their places on the
floor. “Is Lord Brantley a friend of yours?”

“No, we’re not particularly close” Alasdair didn’t
bother to think about his answer. He was more interested in the intent blue gaze with which she fixed him, a
whisper of a smile playing at her lips. Did she suspect?

The music started and the fast pace of the dance,
while invigorating, left little opportunity for conversation. Alasdair didn’t care. Miss Addison was light on
her feet and threw herself into the energetic dance with
all the vivacity she possessed. His spirits soared and for
a few minutes, Alasdair felt free. All thoughts of Sarah
Stewart and penniless estates eased from his mind and
he lost himself in Miss Addison’s joy.

The dance ended, leaving them breathless from their
exertions, but she was still smiling, a coy, nuzzling
smile that provoked his curiosity. “What is it?” he
asked, cupping a hand beneath her elbow to guide her
back to her mother.

“It all makes sense now.”

“What does?” Alasdair replied, perplexed.

“Why you came to dance with me when Lord Brantley became indisposed,” she said bluntly. “You’ve admitted not being friends with the man you replaced. It
seems odd that someone who is not a friend would fill
in for a mere acquaintance. I can only conclude that
you spilled the champagne on him purposefully.”

There it was in all its vaunted glory: American free
speaking. By rights, he should have been offended.
Such an accusation was hardly ladylike nor did the
lady’s bringing it up show him in an honorable light.
But the only thing Alasdair could do was laugh.

“And if I did? Will you keep my secret, Miss
Addison?”

“Will you come to call tomorrow?” she teased in
return as those blue eyes of hers danced with mischief.

“Is this how blackmail is done in America?”

“Blackmail is such an ugly word,” she bantered
easily. “This is merely a reciprocal exchange of commodities between friends.”

“Friend.” Another reminder of her very-American
nature. Such a term was used more conservatively in
his circles. He was tempted to bring her attention to it.
Friends after only a dance? Such a thing was not
comme it faut in his circles. He elected to take a different tack. “A social call is the going rate for keeping
a secret?” Alasdair affected a look of consideration. “I
think I rather like this market”

It was time to give her back to her mother and the
court of men awaiting her return. Alasdair reluctantly
relinquished her, saying in low tones, “Until tomorrow.” But he walked away with a spring in his step.
At long last there was something to which to look
forward.

The hands of the long clock in the corner of the sitting room had hardly moved since the last time Marianne had discreetly checked them. Apparently, that had
been less than a minute ago. Her mother coughed gently, indicating that Marianne hadn’t been as discreet as
she’d thought. She redoubled her efforts to pay attention to the guests seated around her. Several of the
gentlemen she’d danced with the night before had
called this afternoon with their sisters or mothers. But
the only one she was interested in seeing again was
conspicuously absent. Viscount Pennington had promised he’d call and Marianne was mentally holding him
to it.

Dancing with him had been near magic. There was
no question about his quality as a fine dancer but there was more to it. She’d danced with others who were accomplished in that regard as well. There’d been a certain polish about the viscount that set him apart from
the others, a confident aura in the way he carried himself. Self-assurance had set well on his broad shoulders. He knew what he wanted and he’d wanted her.
Not lasciviously by any means, unlike a few of the
older men with whom she’d danced, who’d actually
leered at her. Nor had he been assessing her value down
to the last diamond and pearl in the necklace she’d worn
as the controversial Lord Brantley had obviously done
when he’d signed her dance card.

Truth be told, she was glad the viscount had ruined
the man’s shirt. She’d not been looking forward to
dancing with Lord Brantley. The man was attractive in
his way but his cold eyes had done nothing to veil his
calculations. Marianne had known what he was about
from the first.

Viscount Pennington, on the other hand, had given
every sign that he wanted her for herself, that he simply wanted to be with her. She’d thought he’d enjoyed
their dance immensely. It had been fun to match wits
with him and she’d been impressed that he’d gone to
so much trouble just to claim a dance when they both
knew he could have merely waited for another night to
dance with her. She had genuinely liked him and she’d
thought he liked her. But he’d not come and she was
more disappointed than she liked to admit.

Mr. Kentworth approached with his cousin Roberta and his aunt, Lady Farnwick, to make their farewells,
their fifteen minutes having come to an end. Marianne
murmured something polite, barely hearing what they
had to say. Others followed in his wake, making their
gracious good-byes. In a little while, it would be too
late. The clock that had moved so slowly throughout
the afternoon now moved too quickly, ticking off the
last ten minutes of their at home.

Her mother beamed as the drawing room of their
rented town house on prestigious Portland Square emptied. “You’ve done well, Marianne. The gentlemen
were so polite. Just look at all of the beautiful flowers
they sent this morning. They were very thoughtful to
bring their sisters and mothers today too.”

They knew, without speaking of it, what that meant:
invitations, which would allow them to claim another
rung on the social ladder of acceptance. It wasn’t
the men who decided who was invited where, it was the
women. Sisters and mothers and other female relations
were important in navigating the shoals of Society.

Marianne gave a halfhearted smile. She’d truly
thought that he would come. He’d seemed genuine and
he was the only one she was interested in seeing again.
It wasn’t that he was the highest-ranking gentleman
with whom she’d danced, nor was it his dark good
looks. It was that he’d spilled champagne for her. A
man willing to perform such contrivances for a chance
to dance with her aroused all sorts of curiosity on her
part.

Her mother reached over and patted her hand, divining Marianne’s disappointment. “I’m sure we’ll see
him again, my dear. I’m quickly learning London isn’t
that big after all.”

Just then the butler, a stuffy man named Snead, announced the arrival of one last guest. “The Viscount
Pennington,” he intoned.

Marianne smiled broadly and crossed the room to
greet the new arrival in spite of her mother’s hastily
whispered words: “Don’t appear too eager.” Marianne
held out her hand to shake, delighted that he was caught
off guard only momentarily by the forwardness of her
gesture. “I thought you’d changed your mind,” she challenged lightly. “You left it until quite late”

The viscount had the good form to bow his head in
deference to her scolding. “I am duly chastised, Miss
Addison. However, in my defense, I wanted you all to
myself.” There was a twinkle in his coffee brown eyes
when he met her gaze.

Immediately, Marianne saw his plan, how he’d
arranged his arrival to attain his wish. By coming at
the end of the at home, he’d ensured his being able to
spend more than the requisite fifteen minutes with her.
He was proving himself an ardent strategist. Marianne
flashed a coy smile. “First the champagne and now this.
How clever you are”

“How lovely you are,” he replied neatly, presenting her with an enormous bouquet of flowers. He
made a grand gesture toward the exquisite hothouse arrangements decorating various tabletops around the
room. “I see I’m not the only one who thought to complement your natural beauty with nature’s blooms.”

Marianne took the bouquet from him, studying the
flowers in delighted surprise. She noticed the difference
right away. “But you’re the only one who has brought a
bouquet with purple of Romagna flowers.” She inhaled
deeply, enjoying the sweet fragrance. “They’re grown
in California. How did you get these?” Marianne was
struck by the gesture. The flowers were thoughtful in
the extreme and most likely had been exceedingly difficult to acquire.

“I have a friend who specializes in exotic blooms.
He travels around the world on botanical expeditions.
Fortunately, he’d acquired a few of these plants on a
previous trip. I thought that with your being so far from
home, you’d appreciate a small reminder of it.”