The majority of Gryff’s houseguests had gathered in the drawing room by the time Carys descended the stairs that evening.
She’d called for a bath after returning from the woods, and had blushed with guilty pleasure at the new sensitivity of her breasts as she slid the soapy washcloth over them. Her skin felt alive, tingling with awareness, and her flush intensified when she noticed the slight redness on her décolletage and realized that it must have been caused by the faint stubble on Tristan’s chin.
She could barely believe what they’d done. The whole interlude seemed like a wicked, magical daydream, a secret entrusted to the forest. In a strange way she felt part of some timeless fellowship of lovers. How many other couples had met in those same woods over the centuries for a little clandestine amour?
All heads turned toward her as she entered the drawing room, unsurprising since she’d chosen a striking teal silk profusely embroidered with peacock feathers. Rhys caught her eye from across the room and raised his glass in a silent toast at her glorious extravagance. At least she’d given the guests something to talk about if conversation flagged.
Morgan stepped forward and handed her a glass of champagne. “You look like Geoffrey.”
Carys inclined her head, almost jabbing his eye out with the ostrich feathers she’d placed in her hair. “Are you going to put me in a pie if I scream?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“I might take a walk out to the menagerie later and show him this.” She snapped open her peacock-feather fan and waved it with a dramatic flourish. “As a warning of what might happen if he continues to misbehave.”
Morgan snorted. “I think even a birdbrain like Geoffrey has realized you couldn’t harm a fly. I just hope Gryff’s warned the guests they’ll be woken at some ungodly hour of the morning by a screech that sounds like someone’s being murdered.”
Carys chuckled.
They drifted into the ballroom where Maddie had engaged a local string quartet to play a series of country dances and Carys spent the next twenty minutes deflecting the enthusiastic attentions of a young man named Thomas Herriott. His boyish adoration, while flattering, made her feel altogether ancient.
She interrupted an embarrassing attempt to woo her with a limerick about Lancelot and Guinevere. “Tell me, Mister Herriott, do you dance?”
Poor Herriott looked flustered at her direct question, as if he hadn’t expected a goddess to actually speak, but he recovered quickly. “Er, oh, well, yes. Yes, of course. Would you like to—”
“Perfect!” Carys trilled. “In that case, perhaps you can explain something to me?”
Thomas looked as though he might collapse at her feet in gratitude. Even the tips of his ears turned pink.
“Anything!”
She sent him a smile, the one that brought out a charming dimple in her left cheek, and indicated a figure seated in one of the chairs on the opposite side of the room. The occupant, a slim girl with pretty features and flaxen hair, was clearly uncomfortable; her head was bowed, her shoulders stooped, and she fiddled relentlessly with the beaded tassels of the reticule in her lap.
“Do you see that lovely creature over there?”
Thomas frowned. “Err. Yes?”
Carys leaned closer, as if to impart some confidential information. “Then let me tell you, Mister Herriott, that I am quite horribly jealous of her.”
“You are? Why?” Herriott seemed so genuinely mystified that Carys almost took pity on him. Almost.
She feigned astonishment. “Why, that’s Cordelia Rutledge. Her father’s General Sir Anthony Rutledge, the war hero. Not only is she a considerable heiress, but just look at her complexion! Not a freckle to be seen.”
Herriott opened his mouth to insist that he adored Carys’s freckles, but she was too quick for him.
“And I have always admired her lovely blue eyes. Why on earth hasn’t some lucky gentleman snapped her up? Are you all so lacking in observational skills?”
“She has a stammer,” Herriott said bluntly. “That’s what Fox says, anyway.”
Carys waved her hand. “Only when she’s nervous. It disappears when she’s at ease.” She went in for the coup de grâce. “Of course, an intelligent man would see past such a trifling obstacle. He might even see it as a challenge; can he be the one to vanquish the stammer? It’s a quest worthy of any modern Lancelot.”
Herriott, to her relief, seemed to find this idea rather appealing. He studied Cordelia with renewed interest.
“You should ask her to dance,” Carys whispered.
He turned back to her, clearly torn. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to—?”
“Oh, goodness no! Not in this dress. Ask Miss Rutledge about fossils. It’s a particular passion of hers, I believe.”
Herriott straightened his cravat and smoothed his hair with new determination. “Do you know, Lady Carys, I think I will. I’m rather interested in geology myself. If you’ll excuse me?”
Carys nodded graciously, and hid her smile when he left with a swift bow.
Her amusement increased when she saw Morgan shoot Herriott an irritated glare for conversing with Cordelia, but she felt no remorse for promoting the match. Morgan wasn’t remotely serious about the girl—he was merely entertaining himself. Her brother needed a partner who would challenge him, not agree with every word he said, and Cordelia was too sweetly compliant.
Carys bit her lip. Now that she thought on it, the only woman who’d ever seriously affected Morgan was Maddie’s cousin, Harriet.
She turned her head and located Harriet on the opposite side of the room. The other girl was looking lovely in a forest-green gown, but she seemed to be trying to disappear into the shadows.
Harriet lived in London for most of the year with her father, but came to Newstead Park each summer. Gryff, Rhys, and Morgan had spent most of their school summer holidays traipsing about the hills and valleys, looking for Maddie and Harriet to torment.
While Gryff had always returned from these adventures full of tales of what he’d done to annoy Maddie, Morgan’s bragging had always been about irritating Harriet. He’d seemed to take a gleeful delight in teasing her.
But then Morgan had gone away to sea, and the man who’d returned was far more cynical and battle-hardened than the fun-loving brother who’d left. He’d thrown himself into the pursuit of pleasure with careless abandon, but Carys was worried about him. As someone who knew all about putting on a façade and only pretending to enjoy herself, she recognized the same signs in her brother.
His imprisonment on the island of Martinique had left a deep mark on him. Carys didn’t know the full details, but Morgan blamed an incorrect maritime map for his shipwreck. He’d vowed to track down the mapmaker and extract revenge.
Carys sighed. Perhaps Harriet’s presence this week would jolt him out of his slump. The two of them were good at keeping the other on their toes.
As if he’d sensed her thoughts, Morgan glanced over and spied Harriet. His lips curved in a smile of anticipation. He rose in one smooth movement and started heading her way and Carys saw the exact moment Harriet realized she was Morgan’s target; her eyes widened in alarm and she pressed herself back against the wood paneling as if hoping it would swallow her up.
Morgan’s expression turned wolfish.
Harriet glanced first left, then right, clearly searching for an escape route, but found none. She was hemmed in by a giant potted fern and an elegant console table. Realizing her predicament, she drew herself up, but even at her tallest she was no match for Morgan when he stepped in front of her.
He offered his hand.
She shook her head, clearly trying to deny the dance Morgan was requesting, but he simply caught her fingers and spun her smoothly out into the newly forming line of dancers. Carys suppressed a smile at Harriet’s furious expression and Morgan’s answering look of mock contrition. How she wished she could hear what the two of them were saying …
A glass of champagne materialized at her elbow and she looked up with a surprised jump. Her heart rate tripled as she recognized Tristan, devastatingly handsome in black evening clothes and a snowy white cravat. She accepted the glass without thinking and took a healthy gulp.
How did he sneak up on her like that? The man was a magician.
His dark brows rose in greeting. “Matchmaking?”
Carys sent him a surprised glance. “What, between Morgan and Harriet? Are you mad?”
“No, those two.” He sent a subtle nod toward Cordelia and Herriott.
“Ohh.” She managed a creditable shrug. “Herriott was starting to annoy me. But I do think he and Miss Rutledge are well-matched. He simply needed a nudge in the right direction.”
“And you provided the nudge.”
“Why not?” Cordelia and Herriott were deep in conversation now. As Carys watched, a blushing Cordelia allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.
“You found Herriott tiresome?” Tristan asked. “Why is that?”
“He’s too young.”
“He’s two years older than yourself.”
Carys sent him a teasing sideways smile. “I prefer a man with a little more worldly experience. Someone who doesn’t have the rosy glow of optimism clouding his judgment.”
“You’d choose age and cynicism over youthful exuberance? No wonder the ton’s dubbed you ‘an original.’”
She laughed, genuinely amused. “Ha! That’s the nicest thing they say about me. They also say that I’m extravagant and indecorous. And sadly lacking in feminine virtues like sweetness and humility.”
She tossed her head, and the ostrich plumes danced. “In my defense, my ‘profligate spending’ keeps scores of people in gainful employment. I like to think I’m redistributing the wealth: from myself to the dressmakers, jewelers, and glove makers of London.”
“Only you could argue that buying a new outfit for every day of the year is actually a public service. The King should give you a knighthood.”
Carys suppressed an amused snort at his mockery. His lack of deference was so refreshing. Any other man would have rushed to assure her that she was perfect.
“You don’t like this dress either?” she teased.
“You’d look better out of it.”
Her heart missed a beat. His expression was so bland she could scarcely believe she’d heard him correctly. Oh, he was wicked.
“I thought you said you weren’t coming this evening?” she managed.
“My business took less time than anticipated. I decided to ride over here and help you fend off your raft of admirers.”
His tone was so dry Carys couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. She gestured at the empty space around them. “Well, thank you,” she mocked. “You can see how besieged I am.”
They were standing near the entrance of the ballroom and a commotion in the hallway heralded the late arrival of another guest. She twisted her head to see who the new guests were, and froze in shock as she recognized Victoria Howe handing her traveling cloak to their elderly majordomo, Beddow.
Dear God, no!
Her worst fears were realized when Victoria’s husband entered close behind her, doffing his hat, closely followed by the portly form of her father, Obediah Jennings.