Beauty in Black Read online

  “No, indeed,” Louisa agreed. “Why, in Bath, where they called me the ‘Comely Miss Crookshank,’ I was most careful whom I acknowledged. I can see that in London, one must be even more circumspect.”

  Marianne looked at the younger woman in astonishment. Louisa never boasted of her own charms, she was much more adept in Society than that. But of course, up to now, she had not had to. In London, no one knew her, as yet. And if—

  But Mrs. Mendall was still talking. “And speaking of odd creatures, you will never guess whom I met earlier!”

  “Who is that?” Marianne asked, less because she really wanted to know than in the hope of diverting Louisa’s mind. If the girl broke into tears right here, it would cause gossip. Louisa’s feelings for the young baronet must be deeper than anyone had suspected; Marianne must speak to her about this as soon as they had a private moment, but not now.

  “He has come to town for the first time in anyone’s memory, and he is—well, the poor man cannot help it—but really, he is hardly a sight for delicate eyes.” Mrs. Mendall fanned herself.

  Marianne frowned. She recalled that she did not care much for this shallow-natured woman. “What on earth do you mean?”

  “The marquess of Gillingham, of course. Gossip says he is looking for a bride, but with his looks so destroyed—”

  “The marquess?” Louisa interrupted.

  Really, Marianne was going to have to talk to her charge about proper manners. The girl rushed on.

  “He is here, tonight? Oh, where is he?”

  Mrs. Mendall raised her thin brows. “He’s wearing an ancient black morning coat and his cravat is untidy. He looks positively disheveled, and one would think he is on his last shilling, though I have it on good authority that he is wealthy as Midas. He talks to few people, but he is indeed here with his brother, Lord Gabriel Sinclair, who apparently got all the looks in the family. If Lord Gabriel were not so charming and his wife such a beauty, or, one might as well say, if Lord Gabriel were not so devilishly handsome and his wife so engaging, I cannot think that the marquess would have any hope of acceptance from the Ton, title or no. But if they bring him into Society, well, what can one do?”

  Louisa hardly seemed to hear the last part of the speech. She was scanning the crowd, obviously in hopes of detecting the mysterious marquess. Oh, dear. She was going to turn this poor man, who might be quite dreadful in character as well as appearance, into some fairy-tale prince, Marianne thought. Louisa was so naive that—

  Then she saw the girl brighten. “Is that him, there, at the corner of the crowd?”

  Mrs. Mendall nodded. “Indeed, that is the man. You cannot tell from here, but—”

  Marianne ignored the rest of the woman’s no-doubt unkind observation. From this distance, she could see no obvious disfiguration, but the man wore a hat with a brim wider than usual, and, his head down, he stood in the shadows at the very edge of the assembly.

  Louisa had already plunged into the mass of people, and her objective was obvious. Oh, dear, oh, dear.

  “Excuse me, I see someone I must speak to,” Marianne said hastily, then she hurried after her ward. What harebrained scheme was Louisa up to? One did not just march up to a man to whom one had not been introduced—Louisa was overdue for a strong lecture about propriety and correct social etiquette, Marianne thought grimly.

  Although she quickened her steps, she did not reach them soon enough. By the time she had caught up with Louisa, the girl had dipped a curtsy and was smiling up at the mystery man, whose response seemed to be to turn even farther into the shadows. With a sinking heart, Marianne heard the younger woman speak.

  “How do you do? You are Lord Gillingham? I am Miss Louisa Crookshank. I believe you know my aunt, Mrs. Harrington Hughes.”

  He hesitated, as well he might. Marianne found herself blushing, as Louisa—impudent child—should have been doing for her dreadful solecism and was not!

  “I beg your pardon, I fear my niece has mistaken—that is—” she murmured. “Come, Louisa, we must not trouble the gentleman.”

  Then he lifted his head, and she got her first clear view of the enigmatic marquess.

  Four

  To her shock, Marianne realized she had seen this man before. What—of course, the glove shop, he had stepped on her foot and grabbed her in—in a most inappropriate place. She had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt when she did not know his name, but now—could the marquess be as rude and unmannerly as Caroline had feared?

  And here was Louisa making a cake of herself, just to—Marianne had no doubt—make the young Sir Lucas jealous.

  “You are mistaken, Louisa.” Marianne tried to pull herself together. “I fear that I have no acquaintance with this—with this gentleman.”

  “On the contrary,” the man said, his deep voice familiar and his tone much milder than on their last encounter. “We have met, but somewhat irregularly. Your servant, Mrs. Hughes. If you like, I shall summon my sister-in-law, Lady Gabriel Sinclair, to perform a proper introduction.” Removing his unfashionable wide-brimmed hat, he bowed to them both.

  Marianne found herself unable to give him a direct snub. Something—but before she could identify the feelings that hovered at the edge of her mind, Louisa interrupted.

  “Oh, we don’t mind that.”

  “Yes, we do.” Marianne glared at her charge. “Louisa!”

  The younger woman returned a smile so dazzling that it was hard to remember to be angry. No wonder the scamp had gotten away with so much with her papa, Marianne thought ruefully.

  Louisa breezed ahead. “If you would introduce me—properly!—perhaps the marquess would enjoy a turn on the dance floor?”

  This was unsuitable for so many reasons that Marianne drew a deep breath. Yet, if the marquess was willing to overlook such audacious behavior, Marianne had little hope of stopping her ward. And, in fact, the man seemed stunned beneath the force of Louisa’s beauty and brimming good spirits, so Marianne was sure she could hope for little help from him.

  Gritting her teeth, she said, “My husband’s niece, Miss Louisa Crookshank, newly arrived from Bath.”

  He bowed to the younger woman. “John Sinclair, marquess of Gillingham, at your service.”

  “Then you do wish to dance!” Louisa flashed her brilliant smile again.

  She had taken a commonplace remark for an invitation—really, this was too much. Marianne opened her mouth to utter a scathing censure, but she found that Louisa had already put her hand on his arm and was drawing the marquess toward the dance floor.

  She was going to lock Louisa in her room for the next month! There was obviously no other way to control her. Marianne told herself she had been much too harsh on her sister-in-law. She should never have scorned Caroline’s lack of authority over her niece. No one could keep a rein on this spoiled, impetuous girl.

  It served Louisa right that the marquess seemed ill at ease on the dance floor. Although it was only a simple round dance, he still managed to make several mistakes. Regrettably, it did not appear to dim Louisa’s obvious happiness; she gently directed him back into the proper form. Why did he not know the steps? Perhaps the marquess was simply overcome by her beauty. Was he smitten by Louisa already?

  Marianne grimaced. If that was true, she could foresee a labyrinth of possible complications ahead.

  At least, watching the pair, she could take a closer look at the man’s face. Yes, his countenance was marred by half a dozen pockmarks, but really, the effect was not the horrible disfigurement she had expected. The scars had faded somewhat through time, and he had a strong chin and well-formed nose, and his eyes, a deep dark brown, were quite pleasing . . .

  But his hair, brown with glints of gold, was overlong and badly cut, and his apparel was a disgrace, his coat ill fitting, and his cravat clean but awkwardly knotted. In addition, his manners were as atrocious as Louisa’s, trying to pretend that their accidental contretemps in the glove shop constituted an acquaintanceship . . . Was he s
o desperate to have an opportunity to speak to Louisa? Perhaps he and Louisa deserved each other!

  No, she had promised Caroline, and, anyhow, Marianne did not wish Louisa to rush into some improvident connection just to avenge the suitor who had abandoned her. And speaking of him, where had the young Sir Lucas gone?

  Marianne looked farther across the dance floor and the many couples parading up and down, dipping to the measured flow of the tune, bowing and curtsying to each other. In a moment she located the young man, with the same partner on his arm, completely ignoring the other couple—so completely that she suspected he was indeed aware of Louisa and her highly ranked partner.

  Oh, Lord, what a Season it was going to be!

  John gritted his teeth and tried his best to remember the steps. They were not complicated, and he had danced this tune as a boy, he was sure of it, but those elusive memories were impossible to grasp. An alluring young woman with sparkling blue eyes and pale hair smiled up at him, and the radiance of her beauty made him feel a little light-headed. He was only human. And how long had it been since a woman had looked at him without a trace of repugnance or fright? The sheer surprise of it had knotted his tongue, not to mention his wits, or else he would have made an excuse to avoid dancing.

  So here he was, stumbling around the floor, doing his best to ignore the surprised glances of other dancers when he moved the wrong way. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead from the sheer effort of putting the correct foot forward, as he tried not to look like a total imbecile in front of this angel who seemed, inexplicably, to be drawn to him.

  She was unlike her lovely chaperone, with the smoky gray-blue eyes and the brows drawn together, as if she did not approve of his having the temerity to claim her ward’s hand. Not that he could blame her. For that matter, overseeing this high-spirited beauty must be a singular charge. And Mrs. Hughes did not look that much older than her niece.

  Perhaps because of his fervent, if unspoken, prayers, the music ended at last. John could bow one last time and offer Miss Crookshank his arm to escort her off the floor.

  She batted her lashes. “Thank you so much. You do not wish to join the next set?”

  But this time he was prepared. He shook his head. “I fear I am not the most polished dancer,” he told her, hoping she would not laugh in his face at such an understatement. “I will retire to the side, instead, and allow you the opportunity to be guided by a more practiced hand than mine.”

  “No indeed,” she said at once, fanning herself with her free hand. “I am quite warm—in fact, I’m sure I must look a sight, with my face so flushed.”

  A seasoned man-about-town would have inserted a quick compliment here. John felt as raw as uncooked mutton. “Uh, no, not at all,” he mumbled.

  But despite his awkward response, her smile did not fade. “In fact, sitting out for a time is just what I would like.”

  He was surprised that she did not accept his polite withdrawal—this beauty would have no trouble acquiring another, better-favored and smoother-footed partner.

  “Perhaps you would like a glass of lemonade?” he amazed himself by asking.

  “I should love a glass, if you will sit with me and tell me about Kent. I have heard it is a most scenic county. What is your favorite spot?”

  She really wanted to spend more time with him? Incredulous, but not one to refuse such a gift from the Fates, John escorted her to a table at the side of the dance floor and summoned a waiter to order refreshment. Then he wondered if he had erred again. Should he have included Miss Crookshank’s chaperone in their party? He glanced about, sure that Mrs. Hughes would not have gone far, unless she had rejoined her husband and was dancing, too.

  Sure enough, her gaze somewhat suspicious, she was regarding them from a few feet away. When she saw him staring, she inclined her head slightly but did not smile, then turned her head to continue her conversation with another matron.

  He would like to make her smile, John thought, not sure from whence the thought had come. No, it was obvious; he’d like to convince her that he was a proper escort, even for an innocent, lovely girl like this one. Of course, first he had to convince himself. He was not sure which would be more difficult.

  Sighing, he found that Miss Crookshank was waiting for him to expound upon the beauties of Kent. And why did his loosely tied neckcloth suddenly seem too tight?

  His command of easy conversation was barely more polished than his skills on the dance floor. Trying to think, he drew upon memories of his favorite fishing spot. “Kent? You might imagine it as a thick green carpet of grass. The land rolls down toward the marshes that edge the salt water. Seabirds call overhead, and waves pound against the shore. It is an ideal place to be alone with one’s thoughts.”

  Her expression guileless, Miss Crookshank regarded him. “Are you often alone, then, my lord?”

  He hesitated, unsure just how to respond. She was too innocent to intend to suggest any undertones. “I enjoy walking my estate with one of my dogs at my heels. It is easier to focus on matters at hand, especially if one’s meditations tend toward melancholy.”

  Now why had he said that? He was much too unnerved by the unaccustomed presence of a lovely young woman.

  Miss Crookshank opened her blue eyes wider. “Surely you are not inclined toward melancholy, my lord? You have everything you desire, do you not?”

  He blinked in surprise, and she blushed.

  “Forgive me, I spoke without thinking! It is one of my besetting sins. You have recently suffered the loss of your father; of course, you must have pensive moments.”

  John considered explaining that he and his father had not been close, but that might sound insensitive, and, anyhow, the lady had rushed ahead.

  “I lost my own beloved father a year and two months ago, and I miss him dreadfully,” she told him, blinking away a hint of moisture that made her eyes glisten.

  “I am so sorry to hear of it,” he said.

  “You’re very kind.” She reached forward for an instant to touch his hand, then, as if remembering her manners, pulled her gloved hand back. But his skin tingled from the slight contact.

  If she were not so young and naive, he would think her the most brazen flirt, he thought. Likely, she had no idea how such a soft contact could inflame a man’s passions. And he had no business thinking of passion in connection to an innocent girl. On the other hand, such ardor was what he had sought, had he not, coming to London to find a wife?

  Not love, of course, never that, but enough simple desire to enable him to tolerate a stranger as his wife, to father the children he needed. He had promised himself he would offer his wife, whoever she should be, courtesy and politeness, but there had to be a touch of something more; if not—if not, the emptiness inside him would ache forever. And it would not be such a bad bargain—his wife would have the adoration of her children, and she would share a worthy title and all his wealth. Many women accepted less in a marriage.

  Was it possible that Miss Crookshank would consider his suit? Would her parents consider it, that is, her current guardians—would that be the stern-faced Mrs. Hughes and her husband?

  John noted a young man with a fashionable appearance, his shirt collars appallingly high, eyeing them from a few feet away.

  “I fear I am monopolizing your company,” he told his companion. “You should dance with a more urbane partner. But perhaps you would allow me to call upon you in a day or so?”

  Her lips lifted into a wide smile. “That would be delightful, my lord. I should very much enjoy seeing you again.”

  At least she did not pretend to be coy; he hated playing games. They stood, and the young man visibly gathered his courage and approached.

  “M-Miss Crookshank? We were introduced earlier,” he stammered. “May I have the pleasure of the next dance?”

  “Of course, Mr. Blaton. I should be most pleased,” Miss Crookshank agreed. The young man gulped and led her back to the dance floor.

  John took a sip
of his wine and looked about him. If he meant to pursue this fortuitous acquaintanceship, he had best make some overtures to the young beauty’s chaperone, who did not seem to regard him with any great warmth. So he looked about the room till he found Mrs. Hughes, still chatting with another woman, and he bided his time.

  When the other matron turned aside, John strode toward Mrs. Hughes. “I hope you are enjoying the evening?”

  She looked up at him, and for a moment he feared she might spurn his greeting. Then she answered slowly, “Yes, indeed. And you? Do you come to London often, Lord Gillingham?”

  She had a most pleasing voice, he thought, smooth and melodious. “Not at all. This is my first visit to Vauxhall,” he told her. “It is quite as amazing as everyone has said.”

  Mrs. Hughes nodded. “My niece has been most anxious to see it, though I had some qualms about the less than refined company she might encounter. This is her first visit to town. I have been newly entrusted with her care, so you will understand that I am very careful about what I allow her to do.”

  It was a clear warning, he thought, but perhaps a bit extreme. He was not, after all, a penniless Captain Fortune, hanging out for a wealthy wife. Was the young woman wealthy? It hardly mattered; he had little concern about the riches or lack thereof that accompanied his future bride. If she was, he would face more competition, however.

  “I believe I am reasonably refined,” he asserted, his tone mild. “I will admit to a lack of town polish, having spent most of my adulthood on my country holdings, but doubtless that can be remedied. My name and estate are all that anyone could wish, even if my face is not the most pleasing. Surely I am fit to be received by polite company?”

  She blinked, and her cool facade wavered, if only for an instant. “I did not mean to suggest otherwise, my lord, that is—”

  Direct assault on the enemy often gained one an advantage, he reflected. It had always been the best way to deal with his father. Careful not to reveal his satisfaction over her small retreat, he continued.