Page 3 of Nothing But a Rakehell
“Oh, hell and damnation, Sterne. You scared me. I thought you wereher.”
“Her?” Sterne’s brow lifted. “Oh. The Vernon girl caught you?”
“Nearly.”
“Well, you’ve been gone an age. We couldn’t find you anywhere. Then I remembered the time we played faro all night—and couldn’t find you in the morning. Eventually we found you curled up asleep behind the ferns.”
“I had to hide,” Keswick told Sterne, taking his hand and rising to his feet. “Too much wine sloshing about in my brainbox—and the girl has set her sights on me. She thinks I’ll turn the other way and let her have herfunafter we marry.”
“Good heavens,” Sterne grimaced. “That McNamara girl has surely been influencing her. You need to keep away from them both, then. Come on, now, though. The ball is winding down. It should be safe. There’s been no sign of her while I’ve been looking for you.”
“Where’s the rest of the lot?”
“Gone off to Lapwell’s. Chester’s had a bee in his bonnet since someone mentioned chops. I said we’d come after them. You brought your carriage tonight, did you not?”
“Aye. I’ll ask for it to be brought around.”
“You know,” Sterne mused as they left the house. “It might be a good idea for you to leave London for a bit. Give that Vernon girl a chance to set her sights elsewhere.” They strode down to the street as Keswick’s carriage drew closer in the line.
“What? You want me to allow that chit to run me out of Town?” He recoiled, as he always did when he thought of leaving London to return home. “I only need to avoid her. I’ll just stay away from the events of the Marriage Mart. There is still plenty else to get up to.”
Sterne, sterling friend that he was, understood his reluctance. “No, I don’t mean you’d have to go back to Devonshire. Don’t forget, Tensford has invited us all to his house party towards the end of the Season. I’d wager he wouldn’t mind if you head down early. I’ve half a mind to go with you.”
Keswick was shaking his head as his carriage rolled up. A footman opened the door and Keswick stepped up—and froze, halfway in.
Miss Vernon lolled inside, one shoulder of her gown pulled low. “Lord Keswick,” she said with a smile.
He sank back onto the pavement as Sterne peered over his shoulder. “What’s the delay?”
The girl’s smile faded. “Mr. Sterne.” Sitting up, she straightened her frock. “Goodness. Whatever are you gentlemen doing, climbing into Miss McNamara’s carriage?”
Wordlessly, Keswick took the door from the gaping footman’s hand. He closed it and eyed his family crest with a raised brow, then looked at Sterne.
“Where is Miss McNamara?” the girl asked, her tone growing shrill.
The coachman, craning his neck at the delay, heard her voice come from within and blanched white. “I’m sorry, my lord! I had no idea!”
Keswick stepped away from the carriage. “It’s all right, Dobbs. Take the lady home. Berkely Square, I believe.” He turned to Sterne. “So, Tensford’s place. We are for Gloucestershire, then, are we?”
* * *
Lady Glory Brightleykept a forced smile fixed firmly in place. Her ankle felt as if it were on fire, but she took Mr. Thorpe’s right hand and circled with him, keeping time with the music. She winced as she twirled to take his left hand and circle again, in the other direction.
“Relax your features, Miss Brightley,” Mr. Thorpe implored. “You must at least give the impression that you are enjoying yourself.”
She’d like to see how much he enjoyed dancing while lightning bolts of pain shot up his leg, but she gritted her teeth and continued. All went well for several minutes until, hands joined with Mr. Thorpe and her sister Hope, she moved forward—then forgot to fall back the required steps. Losing her balance, she stepped wrongly with her weak leg and tumbled to the floor.
Her face flamed as her sister and Miss Penelope Munroe, who made the fourth in their set, scrambled to help her up.
“Oh, dear,” Mr. Thorpe fretted. “I had so hoped that this dance was the one. Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot is slow and stately.” He frowned, thinking. “The Shrewsbury Lasses will not do—all of that skipping around! But I thought this might be the dance for you, Miss Brightley.”
“It’s just the turnings that are difficult, sir. My ankle . . .” She let the words trail away. If there was anything she hated more than showing weakness, it was making excuses.
“Oh, but turningisdancing,” Mr. Thorpe began.
Hope cut him off. “I think you are quite right about this dance,” she told him. “It is stately and less demanding than so many of them.” She turned to Glory. “And you made it so far into the dance, darling. With practice, I’m sure you’ll improve even further.”
Hope gave her a squeeze. “I do think you are quite right and extraordinarily brave to take on this challenge. When the gentlemen are flocking to you in London, you’ll be glad of the chance to be able to dance at least a little, with the man of your choosing.”
