Glancing around at the other guests thronging the stairs, she murmured, “Not much chance of accomplishing much in James’s defence here.” For that, she would have chosen one of the more select gatherings of the powerful elite.
Jack shrugged, his hand lightly stroking hers where it rested on his sleeve. “We’ll be able to learn from your brothers if there are any rumors circulating yet. Until we know that, there’s not much you can do.”
She grimaced, acknowledging that truth, wishing it were otherwise. Her nature was to forge ahead, to get things done, but in defending James, they did indeed have to tread carefully. “I sent notes to my aunts, my father’s two sisters and my mother’s sister, and to my maternal uncle, informing them that I was in London and would be going about among the ton at Alton’s request, primarily to ensure that the unfortunate allegations against James are not made unnecessarily sensational.”
Jack’s lips curved in an appreciative smile. “I take it your aunts and uncle are not fans of the ‘unnecessarily sensational’?”
“Not when it’s their families involved.” Clarice noted the many swift glances thrown their way. Leaning closer to Jack, she lowered her voice. “At least we’re attracting a satisfactory degree of notice.”
“Hardly surprising given that gown.”
The crisp note in his voice had her blinking up at him, meeting his eyes. “It’s the latest style.”
The line of his lips grew more grim than appreciative. “For a lady of your age, status, wealth, and figure, no doubt. Unfortunately, such a gown merely serves to emphasize how few ladies of your age, status, wealth, and figure there are among the ton.”
She stared at him; he sounded so disgruntled she didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. “Don’t you like it?” She’d opted for the forest green satin; the very dark green was a dramatic hue few ladies could carry off well. With its beaded heart-shaped neckline and the elegant fall of its sheening skirts, the gown was perfect for drawing the eye and fixing attention. Time enough, once the ton had realized she was indeed back, to shock them with the plum silk.
Jack held her eyes, then let his gaze lower; briefly, he scanned, then again met her gaze. “I like the gown, as you’re well aware. What I’m not enamored of is who else might find it…overly alluring.”
She nearly laughed; certainly she smiled, rather thrilled if truth be known. That he approved of the gown had been evident the instant he’d set eyes on her in her suite that evening, but she’d never before had any gentleman intimate that he was jealous of the attention—other male attention—she drew. It was a rather heady feeling. Lightly squeezing the steely muscles beneath her fingers, she glanced away.
One more step upward and Jack swept her forward to greet their host and hostess.
Lady Fortescue’s eyes widened with delight and avid curiosity. “Lady Clarice.” She touched fingers. “How lovely to see you back among the ton. I was quite bowled over when your brother told me the news.”
Clarice merely smiled and made no reply.
Extending her hand, Lady Fortescue beamed at Jack. “And Lord Warnefleet! This is a double pleasure. I’d heard you’d retired to the country, my lord.”
Jack smiled charmingly. “I’ve returned to escort Lady Clarice about town.”
Clarice suppressed the urge to raise her brows haughtily at him. When, intrigued, Lady Fortescue turned to her, she gestured lightly. “We’re neighbors in the country.”
“Ah…” Her ladyship wasn’t sure what to make of that.
With no intention of helping her out, Clarice turned to greet Lord Fortescue, as did Jack, then they moved briskly on into the ballroom.
“My brothers should be here somewhere.” They were both tall; both scanned the room.
Without luck, but as she turned back to Jack, Clarice saw any number of interested faces; surveying Jack, still searching the room, it wasn’t hard to see why. She might be supremely elegant, but he was her equal; where she was regal and gracious, he was charming. Physically, they were well matched, both imposing, long-legged and graceful; they made a strikingly handsome couple.
It was clear many viewing them thought so; there was a much-struck quality in the glances thrown their way. Few had recognized her; she hadn’t appeared in these circles for seven years. But the whispered questions had already started. By tomorrow, all London would know that Lady Clarice Altwood was back.
“Come. Let’s stroll.” Jack settled her hand on his sleeve and turned down the long room.
Clarice kept pace beside him, her innate hauteur cloaking her, making her appear as minor royalty. Which, Jack reflected, was not far from the mark. Some of the older ladies they passed recognized her and opened their eyes wide at them, but when Clarice, calm and serene, inclined her head to them, they returned the gesture readily enough.
Jack sensed a slight easing in the fine tension thrumming through her.
Then she tightened her grip on his sleeve and nodded toward a set of windows. “There they are—Alton and Roger.”
They joined them; both brothers perked up as they did.
“What did you learn at the clubs?” Clarice asked.
“Not a great deal,” Roger replied.
“It seems,” Alton said, “as if quite a few have heard whispers, but they’re puzzled by them, and are playing cautious until they learn more.”
“Good.” Clarice’s lips firmed in cynical satisfaction. “Our sainted name is buying us a little time, at least.” She glanced at Jack.
He nodded. “Time enough for us to devise suitable countermeasures.” He met Alton’s gaze. “I seriously doubt that whoever is behind this will allow the whispers to fade and die. Their plan calls for as much sensation as they can generate, but exonerating James will nullify that.”
Roger glanced at Clarice. “Now you’re here, if you can think of any way to help me with Alice, I’ll be your slave for life.” His tone sounded hopeless.
Clarice raised her brows. “Very well. Jack can be my witness. Now!” Turning, she surveyed the crowd. “Where is she?”
Roger pointed to a young lady standing beside a chaise on which a bejeweled matron sat conversing with two others. The young lady was steadfastly looking the other way. Although two gentlemen hovered, neither seemed to be holding Alice Combertville’s attention.
Clarice grinned, eyes narrowing, the gesture intent. “This should be easy.” It was obvious to Clarice that Alice’s attention—her senses, her focus—were firmly fixed on their group, on Roger. “Wait here.”
She left them and smoothly circled the chaise. With Alice so busy looking the other way, it was easy to approach her, to come up beside her with a smile. “Miss Combertville?”
Alice started, and turned to her. She frowned, puzzled; she had no idea who Clarice was.
Likewise intrigued, the two gentlemen drew closer; Clarice turned to them and smiled graciously. She was sure neither recognized her, equally sure from the looks in their eyes that she could, if she wished, enslave them.
“Harry Throgmorton, fair lady.” Harry took the hand she extended and bowed with extravagant flair.
“Miles Dawlish, ma’am.” Mr. Dawlish, not to be outdone, was studiously correct.
Clarice hid a smile; they were far too young for her. Too inexperienced, too lightweight to be thinking what they were. “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I would like a private word with Miss Combertville.”
She’d given them no name; she gave them no explanation. Put on the spot, effectively dismissed, although clearly disappointed, they both summoned smiles, murmured “Of course,” and reluctantly moved away.
Turning to Alice, Clarice smiled. “I’m Lady Clarice Altwood, Roger’s sister.”
Alice blinked; her frown deepened. “His half sister…?” She scanned Clarice’s features. “No.”
Clarice let her smile turn grim. “No, indeed. Moira isn’t my mother. However, there’s no reason you should recognize me. I haven’t been out in the ton for many years. I’m pre
sently in town on business, and in light of Roger’s interest in you, I thought to make your acquaintance.”
With lustrous brown hair, and brown eyes that should have been bright but instead looked dull and weary, Alice stared up into Clarice’s face. She looked as lost in hopelessness as Roger. “I…Roger…”
Clarice held up a hand. “Just listen, if you would, and let’s see if I have this straight. Roger told you of the youthful misdemeanors Moira thought to hold over his head to prevent him from offering for your hand. Is that correct?”
Alice’s lips firmed. She nodded.
“Roger thought you understood, that you were as determined to go forward as he to formalize your engagement. Then, however—do correct me if I’m wrong—you spoke to Moira, to upbraid her over her attempt to blackmail Roger into dancing to her tune.”
Alice’s face fell. She looked faintly ill, but she didn’t contradict Clarice; she simply stood there, her large eyes fixed on Clarice’s face.
Clarice felt her features harden, fought not to sound too harsh when she said, “My dear Alice, I think you’d better tell me what Moira said to you—what else she told you about Roger—because I’m prefectly certain whatever it was, she lied to you.”
Hope welled in Alice; it showed in her eyes, but she didn’t know whether to trust in it or not. She searched Clarice’s face with painful intensity, then she glanced at her mother, reached for Clarice’s hand, and tugged her back a few steps from the chaise.
Alice retained Clarice’s hand, pressing her fingers. “You said you haven’t been in London for years. If so, how can you truly know Roger, know him well?”
Clarice smiled reassuringly. “Part of the reason I no longer grace the ton is because I grew up closer to my brothers than was probably wise. Until the age of sixteeen, I spent every hour I could with them. I do know all three of them very well indeed.”
She let her memories and her fondness for her brothers show in her eyes.
Alice saw, read the truth. She hesitated, once more searching Clarice’s eyes, then she drew a huge breath, and let it out in a strangled whisper. “Moira said he preferred boys.”
“What?” Clarice only just managed to mute her exclamation. She turned her back on the room and pressed Alice’s hand. “Sorry. I…” Stunned, she shook her head, then set her jaw, and met Alice’s wide, almost pleading eyes. “Moira made that up from whole cloth. There is absolutely no truth in it. Well—” Dragging in a breath, she turned and with a gesture directed Alice to look at Roger, standing across the room with Alton and Jack.
“Roger has been in purgatory thinking he’d lost you, struggling to win you back, not for weeks, but months. That, Alice, is not the behavior of a man who in reality prefers boys.”
Even saying the words, she felt ill. How dare Moira invent such a thing?
Alice looked up at her, her expression clearing, transforming as belief strengthened and happiness beckoned. Clarice herself felt torn. Should she tell her brothers what poison Moira had spread, or would it be better to keep silent?
Alice shook her hand to regain her attention. “I…feel so happy”—she swallowed—“almost. I love Roger so, and I’ve been so miserable, but…how can I face him now without telling him what I believed?”
Releasing Alice, Clarice lifted her chin. “I’ll tell him. I’ll explain how you felt, and make sure he understands…it’s not something a lady can ask a gentleman about, after all.”
She met Alice’s eyes, saw incipient joy flaring like a beacon in the brown. “I’ll speak with him now, then send him to you. After that…his heart truly is in your hands. Don’t disappoint me.”
Alice started to smile, blinking back tears. “Oh, I won’t, Lady Clarice. I promise I’ll always love him.”
“Just Clarice if we’re to be sisters-in-law.” Looking at Roger, Clarice patted Alice’s hand, then she looked one last time at Alice, smiled and turned to go. “Oh!” She turned back, met Alice’s eyes. “One last thing. Be especially careful around Moira. She won’t take this well. You’d be well-advised, once Roger has formally offered for you and been accepted, and that better be done as soon as possible, to take your parents into your confidence over the tricks Moira’s played. Moira is not to be trusted, not in any way.”
Alice’s eyes narrowed, her lips firmed. “Once Roger marries me, I’ll keep Moira away.”
There was steel beneath Alice’s soft brown, distinctly feminine exterior. Entirely satisfied with Roger’s choice, Clarice swept back across the ballroom to inform him the reins of his future were once again in his hands.
Telling Alton and Roger about Moira’s lie wasn’t the easiest thing she’d ever done, but she did it without a blink, then, as she’d expected, spent the next ten minutes damping down her brothers’ understandable wrath.
“We do not want Moira to know you’re retaking control of your lives, not until after the reins are firmly in your grasps.” She eyed Alton and Roger sternly. “There’s no benefit to us in ranting at her over this, unconscionable though it is. Now!” She faced Roger. “I’ve done my part. What comes next is up to you. If you have any nous at all, you’ll reassure poor Alice that you quite understand how it was, and then together you can decry all Moira’s works and, as soon as possible, grab your chance and offer for Alice’s hand. Once you’ve been accepted, explain about Moira. Don’t try to protect her. If you do, she’ll just use the opportunity to scupper your happiness again. Just hold off any formal announcement until we have Nigel and Alton settled, too.”
Slightly dazed, Roger nodded. His gaze drifted across the room to where Alice stood watching, nervously waiting.
Clarice made an exasperated humming sound, grabbed Roger by the shoulders, turned him to face Alice, and gave him a shove. “Go.”
With hope in his eyes, Roger went.
Clarice blew out a breath, then turned to Alton. “Now, where next? The Hendersons’?”
They separated, Alton going ahead to the last ball on their list, at Lady Hartford’s, there to speak with his Sarah. Clarice and Jack would meet him there after they’d waltzed through the Hendersons’ ballroom and met Nigel and his Emily.
Nigel was heartened to hear of Clarice’s success in clearing Roger’s path. Greatly encouraged, he introduced them to Emily, who proved to be a sweet-tempered young lady but no meek miss. She searched Clarice’s face in rather studious fashion, then shook hands, and murmured, “I always thought the snide remarks your half sisters made couldn’t possibly be true.”
The smile that went with that statement drew an answering response from Clarice. Despite the difference in age and experience, they found common ground in discussing Nigel and his manifold shortcomings.
“Here!” he protested. “I thought you were supposed to help me win Em’s hand, not tell her all my weaknesses.”
Clarice rolled her eyes. “I’m quite sure Emily knows of them already. We’re merely passing the time.”
Jack smothered a laugh at the look on Nigel’s face.
But Alton’s assessment proved true; Nigel’s case was the least urgent. After bestowing her clear approval, Clarice and he took their leave. He steered her up the long ballroom, noting, as she did, the interest they provoked, the quick looks, the questions whispered after they’d passed.
Music rose from the dais at the end of the room, the lilting strains of a waltz. Halting, he caught Clarice’s eyes. “We’re here supposedly to enjoy the ball. Shouldn’t we dance?”
He raised a brow and watched her slowly raise one in return as she considered just what he was suggesting, that their appearance at three balls in a row with absolutely no attempt to enjoy the entertainment offered would assuredly raise speculation as to their purpose and potentially focus interest on whom they had met, whom they’d been speaking with.
Clarice smiled. “Yes. Let’s.” As he stepped onto the dance floor and swept her into his arms, she murmured, “I warn you it’s been years since I last waltzed.”
“Just relax.” He
stroked his fingers along her spine as his hand came to rest on her back. “I believe you’ll find it’s not something you forget.”
He drew her to him, and revolved, immediately reminded how well matched they were, how delightful it was that she was so tall, that her legs were so very long. With her in his arms, the waltz took on another dimension, one of deeper, more specific pleasure.
Clarice felt it, knew it, let her mind drink in the sensations of being held so masterfully, captive to a strength far greater than her own, surrounded by it, by him, yet not threatened.
She looked into his face as they whirled, the rest of the dancers dissolving about them, studied his clean-cut, almost austere features, and wondered why. Why, with him, it was so different.
Never before had she liked being held, not in the sense of being controlled, of being confined, of a strength that could accomplish that. His strength, the warm steel she could sense enveloping her, could, if he wished, immobilize her, trap her, restrict her, yet nowhere in her was there even the slightest fear that he, it, ever would.
They were lovers, and if she didn’t feel threatened when he held her beneath him, or before him, then no fear was likely to surface here. Instead, this, the dance, the exhilarating precession of the waltz, became another element of their loving, another landscape in which they could explore their physical and sensual connection.
A connection carried through the heat of his hand as it rested, heavy, on her back. In the strength in the fingers that held hers, that powered their sweeping turns, in the effortless control that guided them unerringly through the swirling throng. Their thighs brushed, forest green satin softly swooshing as her skirts caressed, then fell back. She felt alive in his arms as she never had before, more conscious of her body, of her breasts lightly brushing his coat, of the heady promise in the muscled body so close to hers, of the beckoning heat in his eyes.