Edith narrowed her eyes at the sight of her cousin Kate entering the room, not in the atrocity of a yellow gown Edith had commissioned for her to wear tonight, but in a concoction of silver and green that made Kate look like a fairyland creature. Edith’s gown of peacock blue and jewel-bright green, trimmed with sparkling gold ribbon and lace, now seemed overstated and garish in comparison.
Unlike the last ball, Kate and her brother were not the guests of honor, so they had not joined the Buchanans in the receiving line as the majority of guests arrived. Which meant the gallery, serving as a ballroom, was already quite full when Kate made her entrance. And what an entrance it was. With the orchestra warming up in their corner in preparation to begin the dancing, Kate promenaded down the length of the room, and everyone turned to watch her progress.
“Good evening, Lord Thynne.”
At her father’s words, Edith turned from her group of friends in time to see Viscount Thynne enter the room. She’d never thought him much of a looker, but in his black evening suit with white waistcoat and cravat, he presented a stunning figure, short and stocky though he was. Edith’s breath caught in her throat. She dropped into a deep curtsy, aware that her gown showed her figure to full advantage.
“Good evening, my lord.” She lifted her eyes to gaze at him before beginning to rise.
He inclined his head first to her father, then to her. “Sir Anthony. Miss Buchanan. Miss Dorcas.”
Edith raised her fan and lowered her chin as she waved it coyly before her face. But Lord Thynne’s eyes slid away from her to scan the crowded ballroom.
She didn’t have to guess what made his expression change from one of boredom to one full of warmth. He excused himself and made his way down the length of the room to the other end where she stood. He bowed to Kate, then lifted her hand to kiss the back of it before tucking it under his elbow and leading her around the room to speak to the other guests—who bowed and curtsied to Kate as if she were the Queen of Sheba.
Edith fumed. She should have been the one making a grand entrance. She should be the one people paid obeisance to. And she should be the one the viscount gazed upon with affection the way he looked at Katharine Dearing.
Edith let a tiny bit of her anger manifest in a stamp of her foot, which she camouflaged by turning on her heel, fully prepared to leave the ballroom. Her nose and chin bumped Oliver’s cravat.
“How long have you been standing there?”
Oliver’s hands encircled her bare upper arms to steady her as she stumbled back. “Long enough to know that you were about to create a scene needlessly. Have you forgotten that it is you, and not your cousin, who is to lead off the ball tonight? That you are the hostess and everyone will be looking to you as a leader in fashion and manners of Oxfordshire society? Your cousin may have caught their attention for a moment, but you are the one who has, and will continue to have, lasting influence on the people gathered here.”
Oliver’s words swirled around Edith and washed away much of her jealousy toward her cousin. Not all of it, but enough.
Oliver let his hand slide down her left arm, then he raised her hand and kissed her knuckles. She could feel the heat from his breath through the silk of her glove, and a thrill of excitement raced up her arm and made her light-headed. She hated that he could make her feel this way. Hated that a few flattering words and a simple touch could distract her so easily. She wanted to be jealous; she wanted to ignore the heat running through her and savor her bitterness. Her envy sparked her creativity into devising ways she could separate her cousin and the viscount and try to win Lord Stephen for herself.
Instead, she found herself taking Oliver’s proffered arm and allowing him to take her out into the middle of the room to lead off the dancing.
Watching Kate and Lord Thynne stroll back up the length of the room, Edith eyed Kate’s gown critically. Looking beyond the fabric, she realized Kate’s dress had a much plainer style than her own. The skirt, though possibly as full and gathered as Edith’s, was not held out to its full advantage by petticoats and crinolines the way Edith’s was. And as she had already noted on numerous occasions, Kate’s waist would never be as tiny as her own. Her cousin’s hair was an indecisive burnished brown, nothing like Edith’s spectacular mane of shiny black tresses, which set her pale skin and blue eyes off to perfection in a way Kate could never hope for.
By the time she’d finished dancing the first set with Oliver, Edith’s plan of action was completely formed. She would take a leaf from her cousin’s book when it came to gaining Lord Thynne’s attention. She would simply ignore him. She would stop trying to flirt with him, stop trying to draw his attention away from Kate. If she had a good time and laughed and flirted with the other men, he would grow tired of the mouse at his side and see what a good time could be had with Edith. And by doing so, she might just punish Oliver for the way he had been treating her recently too.
Edith laughed and danced and flirted and tried to pretend she had completely forgotten that Kate and Lord Thynne were in the same room with her. And it worked just fine . . . until she saw the two of them walk over to her father.
Sir Anthony looked as if he were about to melt with excitement from whatever Lord Thynne said to him. It appeared he was about to call for silence, until Kate laid a hand on his arm and said something else to him. Father’s face crumpled like that of a toddler whose favorite toy had been swiped away by an older sibling.
Acrid jealousy climbed up into the back of Edith’s throat. She need not hear the words to know what had been said. Lord Thynne had proposed, and Cousin Katharine had accepted. But for some reason, Kate did not want it announced immediately. For that, at least, Edith was grateful. Until the engagement was officially announced, she still had a chance. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.
“Do you think your father will hold a ball in their honor once we are in London?” Oliver’s breath once again sent a shiver down her spine, but this time it was not one of pleasure.
Edith wanted to lash out at him, but she could not afford to alienate Oliver at this point. Right now he seemed to be her only ally.
“If my cousin wishes to marry a viscount, how could my father do anything but show Lord Thynne the highest courtesy?”
“And yet . . .” Oliver arched his right brow in a sardonic expression that made Edith’s stomach burn.
“And yet?”
“I think you still intend to see if you can win the viscount for yourself. Am I wrong?”
She considered contradicting him, but that would be a flat-out lie. “Why should I not? Do not I, the daughter of a baronet, deserve to marry a titled man more than my penniless cousin?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Aside from the affront to Oliver’s status as merely the heir to a title, she had not wanted to let him know that her American cousins were here because their father had lost all his wealth and needed them to marry English money. Nor did she want anyone to know that Lord Thynne had chosen a woman of no means and no pedigree over the daughter of a baronet with a fifty-thousand-pound dowry.
She hooked her arm through his. “At least I am pursuing someone of higher social standing than myself, unlike you, chasing after my seamstress.”
His arm stiffened under hers, and the last vestiges of mockery left his face. She tapped his wrist with her fan and laughed at him. “Remember, we agreed we would not interfere with each other’s pursuits so long as neither of us does anything to shame the other.”
He caught her free hand and twirled her around into the mazurka just starting. “And do you call your following me to Miss Bainbridge’s shop noninterference?”
“I call it protecting my reputation. I have recommended Miss Bainbridge’s services to many among my acquaintances. If it became known that she is a woman of loose morals, that would reflect badly on me. So I must insist that you stop visiting her shop, that you no longer have anything to do with her.”
Oliver inclined his head, which Edith took to indicate a grudging acquiescence of her request.
And yet . . .
After foisting Edith off on another undeserving young man, Oliver slipped out of the gallery and made his way to the card room. As he suspected, Doncroft was well into his cups and had a large pile of coins on the table before him. He finished the hand, downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp, and scooped his winnings into his coin purse, which he stuffed into an inside pocket of his tailcoat.
“I am surprised to see you here,” Doncroft slurred. “I thought for certain Miss Buchanan would have you leg-shackled by now. I suppose Radclyffe is out wooing the delectable Miss Dorcas.”
“I do believe he was partnered with her for this set, yes. Shall we go cheer him on?”
“Lead the way.”
It did not take Oliver long to notice that drink had turned Doncroft’s charmingly boyish smile, which usually made women flock to him, into a salacious leer that made them raise their fans and hide their faces from him. This was no good. “Come, old man. I have changed my mind. Let’s step outside for a smoke.”
“Capital idea. My father returned from the West Indies this week and brought with him some of the best cigars I have ever tasted. I cannot wait for you to try one.”
Before exiting the ballroom, Oliver caught Radclyffe’s attention and made certain he understood to meet them outside when his dances with Miss Dorcas ended.
From the conservatory, they stepped out onto the highest level of the terraced garden. The formal garden behind the house, which had been recently refurbished, was well lit and populated with plenty of courting couples taking in the cool springtime air. Oliver and Doncroft found a place to perch on a low stone wall overlooking the fountain terrace.
He hated to admit it, because he hated to think anyone of lower rank than himself had anything nicer or better than he, but Wakesdown Manor far outstripped Chawley Abbey in grandeur. Too bad Edith Buchanan had two older brothers and was not heiress of the estate in addition to a large fortune.
He and Doncroft were halfway through the slim, fragrant cigars when Radclyffe joined them.
“I do believe our friend is about to break his own heart, pining after a woman he cannot have.” Doncroft offered the open silver cigar case toward Radclyffe, but he waved it away.
“I have news on that front.” Radclyffe straddled the wall on the opposite side of Oliver from Doncroft. “Negotiations between my father and Dr. Suggitt have ended with no engagement to his horse-faced daughter. For which I will live in gratitude my entire life. Once I hinted to Father that it might be possible for me to court Miss Dorcas Buchanan, he lost all regard for Miss Suggitt and her ten thousand pounds.”
“Well, I hear there is to be a wedding in the family, so Miss Dorcas’s mind will soon turn to matrimony.” Oliver snuffed out the cigar, finding it too acerbic for his taste.
“A wedding?” Doncroft lit up a fresh cheroot. “Have you and Miss Buchanan come to terms, then?”
“I am not the one to be ‘leg-shackled’ just yet. No announcement has been made, but I believe Miss Dorcas’s cousin Katharine will be exchanging vows soon . . . with Lord Thynne.” Oliver swung his legs over the wall the opposite direction from Doncroft so the acrid smoke did not blow directly into his face.
Radclyffe glanced toward the back of the house. “Now I understand why Sir Anthony withheld his permission for me to formally announce my intention to court Miss Dorcas. If the family is to be connected to a viscount, the value for each of the Buchanan girls on the marriage market will increase significantly, beyond the vast fortunes they bring with them.”
Oliver sighed. “Yes, and you have the pick of the litter, I must say.”
Doncroft guffawed. “Dear boy, are you having doubts about your arrangement with the oh-so-prickly Miss Edith Buchanan?”
“Not doubts, exactly. But I have no illusions as to what life with a woman like that will be like.” He grunted. “Can either of you imagine my mother and Edith Buchanan living under the same roof?”
“Your hunting lodge in Middlesex will be much used, I wager.” Doncroft stamped out the half-finished second cigar. “I am dry as a bone and in need of a beverage.” He inclined his head and wavered a few steps before getting his footing and returning to the house.
“Are you certain Miss Dearing is to marry Lord Thynne?” Radclyffe sounded more like the hesitant, easily flustered boy of fourteen Oliver and Doncroft had taken on as a project at Eaton than the educated, wealthy man of eight-and-twenty he now was.
“Almost certain. Though, as you said, no announcement was made. Miss Buchanan has been expecting it for weeks.” He did not add that his potential wife planned to try to stop the marriage from taking place.
“At least she will have her cousin’s wedding plans to keep her busy and out of your . . . ‘business’ in North Parade.” Radclyffe winked. “How goes it with the seamstress?”
Oliver shared Edith’s demand that he never visit Miss Bainbridge again. “The first part of my plan goes into action tomorrow morning. I have something scheduled for each day of the coming week to make Miss Bainbridge think of me. It will culminate at our servants’ ball, when I shall make my intentions known.”
Radclyffe sat up straighter, surprise lengthening his face. “Surely you are not going to—”
“No. I will not tell her about the wager. She only needs to know I plan to make her fall madly in love with me. I care not about what happens after that.” That strange foreign feeling tried to insinuate itself in his chest, but he once again ignored it.
“And if Miss Buchanan gets wind of it? What then?”
“She is not yet my fiancée or my wife. I am not formally courting her. She may do as she pleases; it makes no difference to me.” Oliver rubbed his hands together. “However, it will make winning the wager that much more pleasurable to know I’ve done it under her express prohibition.”
Yes, now more than ever, Oliver wanted to win that bet. Even if he did not have the challenge spurring him on, he would still want to woo Miss Bainbridge, just because Edith Buchanan had forbidden him from it.
This little scheme was turning out to be more fun than he could possibly have imagined.