How To Seduce A Sinner

Chapter Four

The Duke of Warwick’s London townhome was a rather overwhelming place, Dorothea thought as she slowly circled around the outer edges of the ballroom. Antique mirrors lined the walls, rich gold satin drapes were pulled back to reveal the long windows leading out to the terraced gardens, six enormous crystal chandeliers hung from the gilded ceiling. She had heard that the room had been designed in a similar style as Versailles, yet with the memories of the vanquished Napoleon so fresh in everyone’s mind, no one dared to make any references to the French.

She reached the end of the room, turned, and could not contain her gasp of delight. The room was magnificent, decked out in the finest accompaniments. No expense had been spared for the ball, and Dorothea still had difficulty believing it had all been done for her. The innumerable porcelain vases were overflowing with white lilies, the ten-piece orchestra placed in the balcony above the dance floor, the hundreds of lit beeswax candles shimmered and glittered off the mirrored surfaces.

Dozens of rooms beyond the main ballroom were also set up, awaiting the pleasure of the many guests. This would not, she was pleased to note, be an overcrowded, stuffy affair. The Duke of Warwick, or rather his daughter-in-law, Lady Meredith, had the sense to ensure there would be ample room for all of the four hundred or so guests that had been invited. And from the looks of things, not one person had refused the invitation.

The generosity of her temporary chaperones was humbling and Dorothea silently scolded herself for not enjoying the affair more. As a girl growing up in Yorkshire, she had dreamt of such a moment, though even her fertile imagination had not included cases of chilled French champagne being so casually served to the guests by white-gloved footmen dressed formally in blue and gold livery.

While standing in the receiving line earlier, she thought it might be necessary to pinch her arm to truly believe it was all real. If only her sisters were here to share in this moment! But Gwendolyn was nearing the end of her confinement and naturally not participating in any society events. And Emma, at sixteen, was too young to be included. She was languishing at home in Yorkshire with uncle Fletcher and aunt Mildred, no doubt bored to tears.

Dorothea promised herself she would write Emma a long, detailed letter tomorrow afternoon. At least that way she could share some of the excitement of the evening with her sister.

Dorothea’s thoughts were interrupted as a hush fell over the crowd. She turned and saw the Duke of Warwick was leading Lady Meredith onto the dance floor. Dorothea moved herself toward the center of the room, searching for the Marquess of Dardington. He had explained to her earlier in the day that his father, the Duke of Warwick, would insist on opening the dancing at the ball himself.

The idea of dancing with the duke had put a flutter of butterfly nerves in Dorothea’s stomach, but Lord Dardington had quickly explained that the only woman the Duke of Warwick danced with in public anymore was his daughter-in-law, Lady Meredith.

And since his wife would be dancing with his father, Lord Dardington thought it appropriate that he be the one to dance with Dorothea. It was a better choice, yet not all that much of a reprieve, for she found her temporary guardian at times an equally intimidating man.

“Smile,” Lord Dardington commanded as they made their first circuit around the floor.

“I am,” she muttered beneath her breath, girding herself to endure the scrutiny as all eyes in the room swung toward her. “Smiling so broadly I fear my face will split in two.”

“Now that would be something of extreme interest to all those meddlesome gossips,” he replied. “To see your face break in half.”

His lighthearted teasing eased her nerves. Normally Dorothea enjoyed being the center of attention, but she had been long enough in society to learn that along with scrutiny came the criticism. Occasionally warranted, but more often than not petty and mean spirited.

The two couples made a second, slow circuit of the dance floor and then finally the other guests joined them. Dorothea’s breathing gradually returned to a steady cadence as the polished ballroom floor quickly became crowded with additional couples.

After a few minutes, the music ended. Lord Dardington steered Dorothea toward his wife and father, and the four of them left the dance floor together.

“Ah, now you shall have an opportunity to practice your skill at coquetry,” the duke observed dryly as a gaggle of gentlemen eagerly converged on them. “Meredith tells me she is impressed with your approach when it comes to capturing their attention.”

Dorothea blushed and lowered her chin. In Yorkshire, she had considered herself something of an expert in the fine art of flirting, but here in Town the level of pretense that men and women engaged in was far beyond her talents. “I fear I have much to learn,” she whispered.

“I believe you are a quick study,” Lord Dardington interjected. “However, if you encounter any problems, I am here to assist.”

Dorothea could not help the skeptical look she gave Lord Dardington, uncertain how much help he could offer. More than likely, he would scare off a large number of her potential suitors, and that would not be much help when her intent was to find a husband. Then again, would she truly wish to marry a man who could not hold his own against an intimidating opponent?

She smiled coyly as the gentlemen clamored around her, trying not to be obvious as her eyes searched the group for one man in particular. One man she feared was not in attendance.

Carter Grayson, Marquess of Atwood. He had remained in her thoughts these six days since the Earl of Wessex’s ball. Lady Meredith had expressed mild surprise when there had been no note, no flowers, no call from the handsome marquess, but Dorothea knew this would be the outcome. She had no expectation of being pursued by a man of his stature.

Still, it had been disappointing to be proven correct.

“Miss Ellingham, I simply must insist that you allow me a dance.”

Dorothea turned and her eyes fell on the impressive girth of Sir Perry. His florid face flushed, he bowed as low as his corseted chest would allow. When he straightened, the tuff of pale blond hair that grew on the crown of his head remained over his eyes. Hastily he pushed it back over his scalp.

“Of course I shall reserve a dance for you,” she answered, hoping Sir Perry was not going to make a nuisance of himself. “A quadrille would be perfect.”

“I am honored.” He poked at the strands of hair that had again fallen over his eyes. “And for the second dance, perhaps a waltz?”

Dorothea inwardly groaned. She had been introduced to Sir Perry the second week she arrived in Town and during that initial conversation had ruled him out as a possible husband. He was too old, too self-important, and much too boring.

Still, she thought it cruel to cut him directly. He was harmless and it never hurt to have a circle of admirers. A waltz, however, was far too intimate a dance to consider engaging in with him. It would most certainly give him the wrong impression of her feelings.

She smiled vaguely in response to his request, but Sir Perry did not seem to notice. The sound of his own voice was the only thing he preferred to his meals, and he soon dominated the conversation. The other gentlemen appeared to be waiting for him to catch his breath so they could get in a word.

Dorothea’s smile widened as she appreciated the ironic humor of the situation. Tuning out Sir Perry’s prattle, she began to look about the ballroom.

Her gaze halted on one gentleman in particular and a shiver of awareness went down her spine. Atwood! She recognized him instantly. His broad shoulders were unmistakable, his dark hair brushed and gleaming in the candlelight. He was tall and athletically built; his midnight blue eyes clear, intelligent, and assessing.

Dorothea could not contain the sigh that fell from her lips. The marquess was what her younger sister Emma would call dangerously handsome.

Unexpectedly he turned and looked directly at Dorothea. Their eyes met and her breath hitched. He was standing on the opposite side of the room, and yet she felt the full force of his regard. His expression never altered; it remained calm, open, and pleasant. Yet she read within it an unspoken challenge.

A ripple of nervous energy went through her, along with an unfamiliar flush of heat. It was as if her entire body was blushing.

Against her better judgment, Dorothea commanded herself to stare at him directly. He was dressed in formal evening clothes, as he had been the other night. They were luxurious and expertly tailored and she wondered briefly what he would look like in more casual attire, or even more shocking, what he would look like wearing no clothing at all.

The image brought another flush to her face. Dorothea nearly groaned out loud. Drat! She had wanted to remain poised and inscrutable when she next faced the marquess. Instead, she appeared gauche and naïve.

She took a deliberate breath and waited for her wits to stop spinning. Really. He was just a man. No different certainly from most of his gender.

Yet for all his refined looks and manners, he had a rugged appeal that she found alarmingly attractive. And the glimpse she had been given of his humorous side had only whetted her appetite for more.

He slipped into the crowd. Dorothea’s eyes searched frantically for his whereabouts, darting to and fro before she suddenly caught herself. What was she doing? Making a complete and utter ninny of herself, that was certain. How truly mortifying.

Scolding herself for squandering the opportunity to bask in the attention of the numerous gentlemen standing right in front of her, Dorothea blinked hard.

Sir Perry was still droning on about something. No matter.

“Gentlemen, my dance card looks woefully bare.” Her unexpected interruption startled Sir Perry into silence. Seizing the moment, Dorothea smiled flirtatiously at her circle of admirers. “Pray tell, whose name shall I write in for the first waltz?”

“Looking for anyone in particular?”

The male voice at Carter’s ear startled him, but he managed not to jump. “Not so much looking as avoiding,” he said drolly.

“Hmm, let me guess,” Viscount Benton said. His eyes swept the room and his expression grew puzzled. “Hell, there are almost too many unmarried ladies here to select just one that you need to avoid.”

“Yes,” Carter agreed grimly. “And nearly half of these females are on my father’s infernal list.”

The viscount’s brow rose. “I thought you were going to burn that damn list.”

The marquess shrugged. “I was, but then I reasoned it would be far wiser to memorize the names, so I know which females I must ignore.”

“And how is that going?” Benton asked, amusement edging his tone.

“Not well.”

“Perhaps we should retreat to the card room,” the viscount suggested. “Unmarried females generally refrain from sitting at the tables.”

“I think it is safer if we leave the ball,” Carter replied, wishing again that he had sent his regrets. He could hardly try to court a woman with his father here. Besides, the one female who most captured his attention was tonight’s honored guest, and she was already taken. By Arthur Pengrove, of all people. “There is a new girl working at Raven’s Paradise. Madame Angelina assures me she is supremely talented.”

The viscount cleared his throat. Confused, Carter looked closely at his friend. “Are you blushing, Benton?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Atwood,” the viscount scoffed. “I would be more than happy to accompany you to the brothel and I shall even wager that I will be the first to have a go at the new girl.”

“Then what is the problem?”

Benton looked away. He almost seemed…embarrassed. But that was impossible. Carter had known the viscount for years. And in all that time he had never once seen him as discomforted as he now appeared.

“I can’t leave yet,” Benton finally admitted. “I promised my grandmother I would do her a great favor and dance with the niece of her dearest friend. By any chance, are you acquainted with Miss Phoebe Garret?”

Carter started laughing. For all his swagger and bravado, his scandalous and outrageous behavior, at his core Benton had an honorable streak he could not eradicate. Though he certainly tried his damndest.

A favor for his grandmother. How priceless! Carter could hardly wait to tell Dawson, knowing their friend would appreciate the utter irony of it all. “Miss Garret is on my list,” he said. “The first name, actually.”

Benton grinned. “Then I am safe. If the duke has earmarked her as one of your potential brides, she will no doubt be very unimpressed with my lesser title and wealth. I can fulfill my duty to my grandmother without fear of giving Miss Garret the wrong impression of any interest in her.”

Carter tugged at the cuffs of his shirt. “That is assuming Miss Garret will grant you a dance. She is a somewhat timid creature who will more than likely be frightened speechless when a rogue with your reputation approaches her.”

“What a perfectly delectable thought.” The viscount’s lips rose in a wider smile. “I had forgotten a blackened reputation can be a most useful tool when it comes to the marriage mart. It scares many a scheming mother away. You should consider acquiring one yourself.”

“God forbid. My reputation is already dark enough. Besides, a rake merely scares off one sort of female and attracts another.” Carter barely kept himself from shuddering. “No, thank you.”

“Tell me, which one of these simpering ladies is Phoebe Garret?”

Carter searched the room. He had only met Miss Garret a few times, but he well remembered her dark hair and full figure. “She is currently at the back of the ballroom, partially hidden by a massive potted palm.”

“Naturally. I am not surprised that she demonstrates the prerequisite characteristic of cowering that your father finds so endlessly appealing.” The viscount craned his neck in the direction Carter indicated. “Egad, she’s a bit long in the tooth,” he remarked. “No wonder her relatives are cornering men to partner her for dances.”

“She isn’t that old.” Carter shrugged. “Nearly four and twenty, I believe, which is younger than you or I.”

“She’s practically in her dotage.”

“That’s most unkind,” Carter replied.

“It’s just an observation. I don’t make these ridiculous rules. Nor do I follow them.”

The two men stared at Miss Garret. As if somehow sensing she was being observed, she slowly sank farther behind the palm fronds. Benton sighed.

“Age can add an interesting bit of maturity and depth to a woman’s countenance,” Carter remarked. “Alas, that is not the case with Miss Garret. I think she is simply too shy for her own good, and her natural hesitation coupled with her age and her anxious mother’s proclivity to rush her into a match unfortunately leaves the woman with a desperate air.”

The viscount’s eyes widened with concern. “Desperation in a female can be most unnerving.”

“And dangerous. Be sure to remember that, Benton.”

“Ah, there you are.” Peter Dawson’s voice broke into the conversation. “I told Roddy we’d find you two eventually.”

Carter smiled, pleased to see a few more friendly male faces. “Major, I’m so glad you could make it tonight,” he said sincerely.

“I assumed I had you to thank for the invitation, Atwood,” Roddington replied. “The Duke of Warwick is hardly within the circle of my acquaintances.”

“I had a feeling you might enjoy yourself this evening.” Carter looked around the room. “Most men of Warwick’s rank know how to throw an exceptional party.”

“Aren’t you the son of a duke?” Roddington asked.

Carter turned in surprise. It was hardly a secret, but he was startled that the major would be aware of the connection. “Yes, my father is the Duke of Hansborough.”

“Yet we try not to hold it against him,” Benton interjected in a dry tone.

“Is the duke here?” Roddy inquired casually.

“Somewhere.” Carter’s mouth twisted. “We are not much in agreement these days, my father and I. Especially when it comes to the subject of finding a marriageable young lady.”

The major’s eyes widened slightly. “For you or for him?”

For him? Carter nearly choked on his tongue. The idea of his widowed father taking a bride was something that had never once entered his mind. Though he supposed it was a reasonable question. Carter’s mother had been dead for many years. And his father was not yet an old man. In fact, men older than the duke had successfully married and even fathered additional children.

Dawson picked up the thread of the conversation. “That’s a rather intriguing suggestion. If the duke was saddled with a young bride to chase around, he wouldn’t be half as interested in what you were doing. What do you think, Atwood?”

Carter stared at Dawson dumbly. What did he think of the idea? It was bullshit, pure and simple. His father had deeply loved his wife and was devoted to honoring her memory. He would never, nor should he, consider replacing her.

“I think marriage is far too much on everyone’s minds these days,” Carter said sharply, refusing to examine his feelings on the matter too closely. “Come, gentlemen, let’s engage in a few obligatory dances and then leave the ball to find some true entertainment.”

Dorothea absently fingered the white satin ribbon on the skirt of her gown and drew herself farther into the corner. She had deliberately left the next few dances unclaimed on her card, leaving herself the option of resting or perhaps partnering with someone who had not presented himself to her. Like the Marquess of Atwood?

“Miss Ellingham?”

Trying to hide her yelp of shock, Dorothea nearly bit through her tongue. Gracious, he’s here! She offered him a polite curtsy. “Good evening, my lord.” She kept her expression cool, fearing she would be unable to smile without looking and feeling like a total ninny. “How good of you to attend my ball.”

“I would not have missed it for anything. Please, allow me to introduce a friend, Major Gregory Roddington, a recent hero of the war.”

Distractedly, Dorothea turned her attention to the handsome man beside the marquess. He bowed to her and smiled.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Ellingham. They are playing a quadrille. Would you do me the honor of standing up with me?” the major asked. “Though I’m afraid I can claim no great skill on the dance floor, I promise to try and execute the steps in the correct order.”

“Ah, but can you avoid crushing my toes, Major Roddington?” she asked with a flirtatious tilt of her chin.

“I can try,” he answered with a twinkling grin.

Dorothea swallowed a small sigh of disappointment. The major seemed to be a very pleasant, affable man, but it was Atwood’s attention she craved, not his friend’s. How marvelous it would be to dance, and flirt, with the marquess. But he had not asked her.

“I shall be delighted to dance with you, sir.” Pasting a bright smile on her face, Dorothea allowed the major to lead her onto the dance floor.

They assumed their places. Major Roddington initially set himself on the wrong side. The gentleman on his left gave him a sharp poke, pointing out the error. Hastily changing positions, the major favored her with a sheepish grin.

Dorothea’s answering smile held true warmth. Perhaps it was better to be paired with the major. He seemed a kind man. He was handsome in an unpolished, rugged way, with a trim, fit physique. She liked how he smiled at his ineptitude, for it was a rare treat indeed to encounter a man who did not take himself so seriously.

The music began and each couple bowed elegantly. Hands held, they came together in the pattern of the dance. They crossed next to each other, took a few steps forward, then back.

Dorothea pivoted gracefully on the ball of her foot, turned to the man on her right, and came face-to-face with the Marquess of Atwood. She sucked in a sharp breath. He appeared not to notice as he took her hand.

And squeezed it playfully. Good heavens! She gazed intently at the marquess, certain she must be mistaken at what had happened. Or wistful?

Regaining her composure, Dorothea repeated the dance pattern. She waited breathlessly as her hand once again was clasped within the palm of the marquess’s large one. And then…another squeeze, followed by a gentle caress.

Dorothea’s feet stumbled as she missed a step. The major sent her a sympathetic glance. Had he seen what happened? No, that was unlikely. He was concentrating too hard on where to place his feet and when to turn. She swallowed. Why did Lord Atwood keep touching her in such a manner? Was he flirting? Teasing? But if he was interested in her, then why hadn’t he asked her to dance?

Deciding the only way to complete the dance successfully, Dorothea concluded she must ignore Atwood and focus her attention exclusively on the major. When the steps next brought them close, she smiled charmingly at Major Roddington, tilting her head deliberately to one side. Her best side. The side that she always thought showcased her features to their fullest advantage.

“How are your toes faring, Miss Ellingham?” the major whispered.

“They are quite safe at the moment,” she whispered back. “I think you are far too modest in your assessment of your dancing skills.”

He laughed, and she caught a quick glimpse of a most appealing dimple in his cheek. “You are very well-mannered, young lady.”

“Nonsense. I applaud your effort.”

“You must forgive my lack of entertaining conversation.” The major smiled as he turned to face her again. “I confess, I am counting the steps. Which I know is terribly gauche.”

They twirled, then met again. “At least you are counting silently in your head,” Dorothea quipped. “I know of at least two gentlemen who mutter the numbers under their breath as they dance. ’Tis most distracting.”

“Are you insulting the major?” Lord Atwood interjected.

The unexpected question seemed to startle Roddington as much as Dorothea. He missed his footing and did indeed step on her toe. Dorothea skillfully hid her wince.

She was forced to wait until the figures drew them together before she could answer the marquess. “Stop being such a pest, my lord, and pay attention to your own partner.”

The marquess abruptly ceased dancing, causing the other two couples in their set to bump into each other. One of the gentlemen coughed deferentially to gain the marquess’s attention. Atwood immediately inclined his head in apology and took up where he had left off, though Dorothea noted gleefully that he was no longer in time to the music.

She raised her brow challengingly at Lord Atwood as they came together for a final time. He gazed into her eyes with an intense stare, but did nothing improper. She inhaled, feeling jittery and oddly disappointed.

The major escorted her from the dance floor. Lord Atwood retreated in the opposite direction. Dorothea smiled routinely, expressing her thanks, trying to settle her nerves. It had been fun dancing with the major, yet it was the moments when she met and sparred with the marquess that stuck in her mind.

There was a brief pause as the musicians set themselves for the next dance.

“I believe you have promised the waltz to me, Miss Ellingham,” a deep voice proclaimed.

“Did I?” she remarked airily. Dorothea consulted the dance card that hung from her wrist on a white satin ribbon, not especially caring for the possessive tone in Lord Rosen’s voice.

Previously he had treated her with a formal reserve she initially found intimidating and later decided was more amusing than anything else. He had been among the first to notice her when she came to Town, monopolizing her shamefully at her first society outing. A meeting with the Marquess of Dardington quickly changed that circumstance, but a few weeks ago Lord Rosen had made a second appearance as a potential suitor.

Dorothea had dismissed him from her thoughts because she had been pursuing Arthur Pengrove. And, she also admitted, because Lord Rosen was a bit daunting. He was older, nearly forty, a gentleman with sophisticated tastes and libertarian ways. He was, by many accounts, an accomplished rake. What then could he possibly see in her? She vacillated wildly between feeling flattered and puzzled by his attention.

“There, see my name.” Lord Rosen pointed to her dance card. “’Tis written in such a fine, feminine hand. It appears that everything you do is close to perfection.”

Heavens above, was he teasing? She glanced up at him. He sent her a provocative glance and she wondered what he really thought. Did he in truth hold her in any esteem? Or was this part of an elaborate game, a carefully orchestrated seduction?

Resolving not to let herself be provoked, Dorothea repressed a waspish retort and composed her features into blandness. Surely nothing would scare the handsome, dashing Lord Rosen away faster than a limp, placid female.

He appraised her with a measuring gaze and Dorothea realized her ploy had not worked. In fact, it seemed to have the opposite result. Instead of becoming bored and disinterested in her, Lord Rosen seemed keener than ever to spend time in her company.

“The waltz is the most intimate of dances, is it not?” he whispered.

“It can be,” she replied, her voice thin and fragile. Oh, dear this would not do. Not at all. Dorothea cleared her throat. “With the right partner,” she added in a far stronger tone.

“Yes, the choice of a partner can make the difference in so many of life’s experiences,” he said smoothly.

Dorothea felt the color rush to her cheeks. There were those who said a reformed rake made the best husband. Her own brother-in-law, Jason Barrington, was living proof of the truth in that statement. Still, Dorothea was not convinced of the universal application of that theory and wondered again if it was wise to test it personally.

On the other hand, Arthur Pengrove was no longer a possible matrimonial candidate. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her assessment of Lord Rosen’s character. A more mature, worldly gentleman like Lord Rosen might make the ideal husband for her.

Besides, her own requirement that she kiss any gentleman whom she considered to be a potential husband before agreeing to marriage would be an easy feat to accomplish. Given his reputation and experience, it was safe to say that Lord Rosen would not object nor censure what others might label as forward behavior when she encouraged a kiss.

Dorothea offered him a warm smile. “The music is about to begin, my lord. Shall we?”

She put her hand on his outstretched arm. He instantly covered it with his own, squeezing it with an intimate familiarity that pushed at the boundaries of propriety. Dorothea ignored the jolt of warning that rushed to her head. They would be dancing in a crowded ballroom, in plain view of hundreds of guests, including Lord Dardington, her self-appointed protector.

What possible harm could occur?