Recklessly Yours

In awe Holly considered the evidence of wealth that shimmered in every crystal-dripping chandelier, every flawlessly polished mirror, every gleaming gilt frame and carving and clock that graced the Ashworths’ ballroom. It was said the Duke of Masterfield’s peers often shook their heads at his propensity to dirty his hands in trade. If the extravagance of marble and silver and sumptuous silk could speak, it would tell the story of a man who believed himself to have the last laugh. As Victoria had told her, the duke was even now on his way to the West Indies to survey his plantations and purchase more land.

A string quartet and a pianoforte tucked into an alcove provided the music. As the duchess began pairing off her guests for the next quadrille, Holly avoided her by ducking behind a flock of plump matrons who declared their disinclination to dance by closing ranks and embarking on a rousing commentary about what the other ladies were wearing.

Holly had already danced a quadrille, a minuet, and a waltz, but this one she meant to sit out, or rather move through the room long enough to establish her presence. Should anyone inquire after her, people would say, “Oh, yes, I was just speaking to her. She went off that way. . . .”

Near the center of the room, Willow stood paired with a tall young man whose thatch of dark hair insisted on falling in his eyes despite copious amounts of pomade. Ivy had taken a seat on one of the satin-covered settees along the far wall. The very young Countess of Huntley sat beside her, nervously fluttering her fan and darting her gaze all about her. As Holly watched, Ivy placed a hand on her companion’s wrist and appeared to set about distracting her from her cares.

The music began, and the dancers commenced the opening steps. Holly deemed it safe to disengage herself from the camouflaging matrons, but before she left them she joined briefly in their debate over the merits of feathers versus jewels versus ribbons in the latest headdresses.

“Does not a ribbon or two, and perhaps a small, carefully placed jewel, suffice?” she asked, then awaited their responses as if their opinions were of the utmost importance to her.

Lady Bidsworth raised her lorgnette to study her, her sharp eyes nearly swallowed by the plump folds of her aged face. “Only when the wearer is as young as you, my dear. Enjoy simplicity while yet you may.”

Smiling, Holly moved on, greeting people as she went, stopping to exchange pleasantries and trade opinions about the day’s demonstrations and activities. She didn’t remain with any group longer than a minute or two, but worked her way steadily across the room.

As she neared the open terrace doors, she stopped and turned for a final surveillance of the ballroom. The dancers had formed two elegant lines and were presently tracing a graceful pattern down the center of the room. The rest mingled along the room’s perimeter, watching, talking, laughing, all beneath the solicitous eye of the duchess. A middle-aged couple, husband and wife, drifted past Holly and out onto the terrace, tipping their heads to her in greeting. She was just about to turn and follow them out when her gaze lighted on Lord Drayton, standing in front of one of the room’s several fireplaces. He looked magnificent in ebony tails and a white silk waistcoat, his equally pristine neckcloth tied simply.

He didn’t need artifice; didn’t need embellishments to outshine his peers. He need only stand with his shoulders broad and relaxed. Powerful without effort, he was a man equally at home in a ballroom as in the saddle.

Her stomach dropped. Beside him, smiling up at him, was the golden-haired beauty who had arrived that afternoon with her parents: Lady Penelope Wingate, whose father owned profitable shares in the Ashworths’ West Indies plantations.

Holly had to agree, whereupon Lady Sabrina had leaned closer to confide, “She’s also a distant relation to the queen, which is why Father is so keen on Colin marrying her. Personally, I don’t like her. Despite her lineage there is a commonness about her that borders on vulgarity, as well as a look in her eye that prompts one to suspect her of clandestine thoughts.”

Based on the significant looks passing between Lord Drayton and Lady Penelope, Holly would say he liked her exceedingly well, despite her exaggerated curls and overabundance of jewelry.

A misery as cold as hoarfrost settled over Holly’s heart. Her thoughts tumbled back to her tour of the stables that morning, to the many insights Colin had shared with her. Did he share his aspirations with Lady Penelope? Was he even now explaining his theories of prevailing and dormant traits to the eager young royal chit batting her eyelashes at him?

She started, then disguised her flinch with a flick of her fan. Stuart Bentley stood at her shoulder, gazing out over the ballroom as if to join in her contemplation of the proceedings.

“Superlative,” she said, barely suppressing a huff of exasperation. She had just been about to make her escape, would have made it, if only she hadn’t lingered over Colin Ashworth’s conquest of the simpering Penelope Wingate.

Oh dear. Oh no. The duchess chose that moment to hasten across the ballroom, honing in on them like an arrow to its mark. “Yes, delightful! Mr. Bentley, Miss Sutherland, do lead the others into the next waltz.”

Holly could hardly refuse without appearing insufferably rude. When the quadrille ended and the next number began, she had little choice but to place her hand in Stuart Bentley’s and walk with him to the center of the gleaming parquet floor.

“Indeed, Lady Penelope,” Colin murmured in reply, though to what he had just agreed he wasn’t quite certain. As she nattered on, his gaze drifted over the ballroom, then abruptly stopped. What was this? Bentley and Miss Sutherland were dancing a waltz.

What was Bentley up to? Colin thought he had made himself perfectly clear at the stables that morning. Had Bentley forgotten, or had he grown a substantial pair of bollocks in the interim?

Beside him, Penelope went silent. Colin shifted his gaze back to her, at the same time wondering why he put up even the slightest pretense of interest. Despite his father’s well-vocalized wishes, he had no intention of marrying her. Not now, now ever; not even if she were next in line to the throne.

“Matters?” He tried to remember what she’d been talking about, but Miss Sutherland’s bright blue skirts swept the corner of his vision and drove all other thoughts clear from his mind.

He wished Penelope would stop talking so he could concentrate on the elegance of Miss Sutherland’s arms, the curve of her nape, the tightness of her cinched waist as she circled round and round the ballroom. Colin shouldn’t have been surprised at her agility. Riding would have sculpted her figure to perfection—he’d wager a small fortune on the potential magnificence of her thighs—while the subtle nuances of maneuvering a mount would have taught her a dexterity that easily translated to other physical endeavors . . . such as dancing.

“Do you agree that England should empty its debtors’ prisons, not to mention repeal the Abolition of Slavery Act, in order to provide a viable workforce to our protectorates around the world?”

Just then, the music ended. After a bob of curtsy, Miss Sutherland scurried away from Bentley’s side. Colin followed her progress down the long room. She paused near her sister Ivy, then continued on until she reached the terrace doors. As she crossed the threshold, the torchlight outside set brilliant highlights dancing in her hair, gilded the folds of her gown, and tinged her skin with a warm, inviting glow.

“I confess I’m a trifle fatigued tonight. . . .” She linked her arm through his, leaving him no choice but to let her lead him on a stroll along the edge of the room—away from the terrace.

His mother unwittingly came to his rescue by inquiring whether he and Ivy meant to dance together. “I believe Lady Harrow could do with some punch first, Mother,” he replied before Ivy could speak. “And I’d not be tempting her out onto the dance floor until the occasion of another sedate quadrille.”

“Oh, you are quite right.” His mother’s eyes widened with alarm. She slipped her arm through Ivy’s and drew her to her side. “Come, my dear, let us endeavor to make you comfortable.”

She stepped into his path and earnestly thanked him for the splendid ball. And suddenly something didn’t sit right with him. He’d watch one sister disappear out the terrace doors, and when he tried to see where she was going, the other two sisters conveniently headed him off.

Before the youngest Sutherland could engage him any further in conversation, he smiled, gave her gloved hand an affectionate squeeze, then excused himself and walked briskly off. If anyone else called his name, he didn’t hear it.

The terrace was sparsely populated, with Miss Sutherland nowhere in sight. His first thought was that she’d stolen down to the stables again. But to what purpose? He had shown her everything that morning. The horses, the facilities, everything. An uncomfortable sensation crept over him.

Did her interests lie merely in the purchase of a racehorse? He had believed that her enthusiasm for all things equestrian had been what had sent her down to the stables the night before. But if not, what was the tantalizing Miss Sutherland searching for?

The ballroom lay at the easternmost end of the house, and she could have gone in either of two directions: down the steps and into the gardens—and perhaps the stables beyond—or westward, toward the other rooms that opened onto the terrace.

The former notion brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Had she stolen into the shrubbery for a tryst? Who would it be? Bentley? No, Colin had just left him behind in the ballroom, dancing with another young miss.

Besides, his instincts denied the possibility that Miss Sutherland had scampered outside to compromise herself in the shadows. As sensual and alive as she was, she was no fool of a chit bent on ruination. Like her sisters, she had good sense about her.

He began strolling casually until he got beyond the torches and the candlelight spilling out the ballroom windows. The music faded into the chirping of crickets and the swish of the trees. He considered the row of darkened windows and French doors stretching out beside him. Where had she gone, that she couldn’t have accessed more easily from within the house?

Willow watched Lord Drayton—or Colin, as she sometimes dared to call him—stride out to the terrace. She had done her best to delay him, but she hadn’t been clever enough. Had Holly gotten enough of a head start?

Whirling, Willow craned her neck until she located Ivy walking arm in arm with the duchess. Ivy, too, cast worried glances toward the gold-tinged shadows of the terrace.

With a flutter of her fan, Willow caught Ivy’s attention. Then she flipped her fan closed again and pointed its tip in the direction the earl had gone. Ivy’s brows knitted in comprehension. Willow pressed a hand to her bodice to suggest that she go, but Ivy shook her head. She said something in the duchess’s ear, then began threading her way out of the ballroom.

Willow’s instinct was to follow Colin. Perhaps his leaving had nothing to do with Holly. Wishing to set her mind at ease on that count, she headed for the terrace, hoping to find him leaning on the balustrade, enjoying the night air and speaking with guests.

“Miss Willow.” Lady Sabrina’s satin-clad hand settled lightly on Willow’s shoulder, effectively holding her in place. “There is someone who wishes to dance with you, but he is afraid to ask you himself.”

“Good gracious, why would anyone be afraid to ask me?” Yet the answer seemed obvious. It must be Geoffrey, the youngest and most retiring of the Ashworth siblings.

“Why, here he is now.” Lady Sabrina reached out her hand, but the wrist she caught and the figure she drew closer were far too solid and imposing to belong to the youthful Geoffrey Ashworth.

Lord Bryce’s stormy gaze—so much darker and more mysterious than those of his siblings—shifted to encompass Willow. It descended on her with near physical force, rendering her slightly weak in the knees. “Good evening, Miss Sutherland.”

“Bryce, Miss Sutherland appears not to be engaged for this set.” His sister raised her eyebrows; her narrow chin thrust forward as if to impale her brother should he show the slightest prevarication.

He hesitated for an instant, an eternity that made Willow squirm inside with mortification. Then the word delighted, uttered in his deep, brooding voice, caressed her ears, and she discovered her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, her fingertips tantalized by the hardness of the muscle beneath his sleeve. The music began. In Lord Bryce’s guiding arms Willow found herself swept round and round in determined circles, flying, soaring, until the room blurred and she lost track of where they were, lost track of everything but Lord Bryce’s severe countenance, his steady hold, and the inscrutable gaze that never left hers.