Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (6)

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Upon reentry to the Worthington’s sitting room, the simple grandeur struck her once again. It followed no style but its own; an elegant cream Axminster carpet covered the floor with rich mahogany furniture as a warm contrast. Soft light glowed from ensconced candelabras high on the wall. While it was formal, it simultaneously managed a comfortable, inviting feel. Like her own dwelling, there was not an abundance of furniture, but the Worthington’s home had grace and easy sophistication which reflected the couple themselves.

Of seeming their own volition, her eyes immediately travelled to the corner where Sir Robert had found Lord Worthington. Sigh. The man was a bit too charming and handsome for her own good. She knew this. But he was the first charming and handsome gentleman of her acquaintance and she could allow herself to indulge a few fancies, couldn’t she? In fact, it was quite sensible to daydream as long as she wasn’t carried away by it. Amanda would never allow herself to be carried away. Too much.

Except by mysterious strangers and only while unconscious…

Her cheeks flushed.

Amanda, really! Besides responding literally when you were being figurative, what did you decide not ten minutes ago? Hmm? To forget about mysterious men!

Hmm.

Her eyes betrayed her again and she assessed Sir Robert’s form. Then a completely carried away thought struck her. What if Sir Robert had been that mysterious stranger?

Her cheeks flushed deeper.

She contemplated his height and broad chest.

Warmth flooded her.

His arms looked strong enough…

Amanda…

It was entirely possible. She could have been snuggled against him…

Amanda Mildred!

Fine. Well, perhaps she needn’t forget about the incident entirely. Just not during public outings, perhaps.

“Amanda, child, we’ve been looking for you!” Great-Aunt Celia stole her gaze away from the handsome knight, beckoning her to join a little group formed with Sophie, Mr. Urquhart, and Miss Kensington near the card tables.

“Excellent!” Lady Worthington exclaimed. “We can round out our numbers! I hear you play whist.”

“Indeed I do.” Her eyes flicked to Sir Robert. Would it be too much to hope that he liked cards as well as dance? “I quite enjoy it.”

At her pronouncement, their hostess’ face broke into a delighted smile. “Miss Fraser and your aunt, of course, do not play, though I was counting on Miss Sophie to jump at the opportunity so that we can make two full tables. Lord Worthington and I always partner, you must forgive us. We enjoy our little eccentricities others might find grating.” She leaned in, “You’ll see. He plays outrageously while I sometimes talk to my cards. Now, let me just gather everyone…” She didn’t raise her voice or make any particular movements, but somehow the necessary parties convened—their host and Sir Robert included. He met Amanda’s eye and smiled. “Everyone, everyone together. Oh, but we’re one short! Where is…?”

Lady Worthington scanned the far edges of the room then gave a delicate, entreating nod.

Amanda skimmed the area. She caught her breath. A man stood in the shadows. Looming. He wasn’t huge or massive but held a definite presence. It seemed for a moment that he hesitated, but his stride joining them was decisive and crisp.

As the only motion in the room, all eyes were upon him. For someone who had been lurking in the shadows, the focused attention did not appear to intimidate. Rather, his presence grew.

She felt a small pressure on her arm as Sophie leaned closer to whisper, “Returned from the dead, they say.”

Even whilst she uttered the sentence, the man’s attention flicked directly to them as if he knew the exact words spoken. It sent a chill straight down to Amanda’s toes.

Lady Worthington locked arms with the gentleman. “Excellent!” He stood, statuesque, looking decidedly unmoved. “I believe you’ve met everyone except… Miss Amanda Pruett, allow me to introduce Lieutenant Julian Armytage, Viscount Denbigh.”

Cold wasn’t the appropriate word. His hair was a warm toffee blonde, his skin held a healthy glow, kissed by sunlight. Cold would be a stark face with dark, emotionless eyes. His were a rich blue. And, while they might pierce and certainly weren’t overtly expressive, they also weren’t emotionless. Shuttered, perhaps.

Amanda had to swallow. Twice.

“Lord Denbigh, an honor.”

He bowed. It was very precise, curt, and perfunctory.

His stance was so stiff, Amanda felt her own (faultless) posture a slouch by comparison. Cravat perfect, collars high, it wasn’t only his military bearing which singled him out. It was something about the man himself.

Her mother had schooled her on appropriate topics for conversing with new acquaintances—length of duration in London and the weather chief among them. So far tonight, she’d abandoned her mother’s sage advice. With this stern gentleman, it was time to take heed.

“You are recently come to Town?” she asked (in her most polite and urbane manner).

“Yes.” Followed by silence.

Right. Onto topic two.

“My family, as well, has lately returned to London. Such a challenging year to make the journey—the weather has not been cooperative.”

More silence. If it weren’t for the chatter of the other partygoers, Amanda could have heard a church mouse on the street below. The man had quite a forbidding presence, not all due to his rigid military habit. If he said something more, contributed a little, it might have put her more at ease.

Lady Worthington saved her from the disagreeable, one-sided (and immensely awkward) conversation by ushering her guests to the card tables.

Amanda took the opportunity to sidle closer towards Sophie.

“‘Returned from the dead?’”

She tilted her head and leaned closer, conspiratorially. “No one has seen the man for years. They said he came home from the war but took an extended absence from society. A rumor soon circulated that he’d died from horrific wounds.”

Amanda reared. While she found little fault in listening at keyholes, she didn’t approve of wild gossip. Information was one thing, ill-informed rumor something quite different. “Exactly why I despise gossip. Falsehoods and lies, mostly.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized that she had concurrently insulted her new friend and requested the very lies she so detested.

Sophie shook her head, though she didn’t seem at all insulted. “Oh, there’s a healthy base of truth in most gossip, it’s merely a question of rooting it out. I don’t believe all I hear, but I make certain I’m fully informed about what they’re saying.”

Which, when Amanda thought about it, really was quite sensible.

“Lord Denbigh, obviously, did not know. And what they said was that the man was dead. Consequently, a few weeks ago he attended a musicale and startled Lady Fortescue so much she exclaimed, ‘He that was dead came forth!’ and collapsed onto a convenient settee. Word spread. While Lady Fortescue does have a penchant for the dramatic, the story might not have travelled so quickly without the added fuel that several staff abruptly departed his employ. They claimed he has a violent temper. It all adds to the fire.”

Amanda raised an eyebrow. Sophie nodded. Considering the gentleman she’d just met, she could see why people might believe the tittle-tattle.

They took seats side-by-side yet, despite their delay to the table, they weren’t the last to sit. When Sir Robert sat across to partner her, it took all the skill that years of practice had developed to quell her anticipation and maintain an aura of calm deportment.

His wicked grin did little to help her in that matter. “What do you say, Miss Pruett, shall we trounce them?”

She bit back a laugh. Such swagger!

“That implies superior skill, Sir Robert, of which I lay claim!” Sophie said, dealing.

Sir Robert smiled at the retort, sweeping up his cards with long fingers. “Well, Miss Pruett?”

The man was handsome, he enjoyed parties, he danced, and he played cards. She couldn’t let him win her over so easily. “I cannot possibly answer such an unfair question!”

“Unfair? How so?”

“If I say yes, I sound heartless and shall doubtless rally our opponents to crush such a merciless challenge. If I say no, I’ll seem weak and give them the appearance of an easy victory. Either answer works against us! Instead, I will vaguely reply that I generally reserve vanquishing my enemies for Tuesdays, sir.” Amanda concluded, flourishing an ace to begin play. It hit the board with a satisfying snap.

She heard a grunt from the gentleman sitting behind her. Had she moved her chair backwards with her wild gesticulation? A peak over her shoulder revealed Lord Denbigh. She suppressed a shiver.

To her left, Mr. Urquhart sounded unruffled as he responded, “As it is only Friday and I have no doubt that I shall receive all the grace I require on Sunday, I need none of yours, Miss Pruett.” He took her ace with a two of trump. “Trounce us best you can.”

“A challenge!” Sir Robert grinned his handsome grin. “Alas, what have I done? I think you were correct, Miss Pruett, and I have awakened the beast.”

Indeed, Sophie and Mr. Urquhart proved a formidable team. Still, there was such playful camaraderie that the next two hands continued with as much laughter as card play (though she and Sir Robert lost more tricks than Amanda thought they probably should have).

The same could not be said for the other table. Lord and Lady Worthington were amiable partners, though he’d puff a little breath from time to time while she would shake her head and tut. But it was the man seated directly behind Amanda that caused friction.

Each time Miss Kensington placed a card, Lord Denbigh made some grumble of disapproval. His overt censure had even managed to crawl under Amanda’s skin. A sidelong glance at the other table revealed Miss Kensington’s flushed cheeks. Judging from the way she culled a card upon the table as soon as her turn arrived, her rushed play was getting worse by the minute. Lord Denbigh responded with a disgusted sniff. Amanda wanted to elbow the man in the back.

Near the end of their last round, Lord Denbigh’s admonishing huff was paired with a hand smacked against the tabletop. Miss Kensington jerked.

Returned from the dead with a temper to match Old Nick’s.

Sir Robert tossed his last card upon the pile. “Well, they’ve neatly trounced us, Miss Pruett.” His gaze slipped past her shoulder to the other table. “After this rubber, is it time to switch partners? Mr. Urquhart and Miss Kensington can battle our dear host and hostess.”

Amanda couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt such a rush of admiration and gratitude. Sir Robert had seen Miss Kensington’s distress and had charged to her rescue! Saint George against the dragon! He’d managed the situation nicely, easing the tension with a simple suggestion.

Yes, he was a charming rogue, but Amanda worried he might be something a bit more.

Which could be very dangerous.

Only a fancy. Don’t get carried away. That she needed reminding was worrisome.

Everyone rose in a babble of conversation, scraping chairs, bumping, and jostling as they moved to exchange seats. Miss Kensington’s face expressed pure relief. Her color, which had been high, lips thin and grey, now returned to a healthy pink. Mr. Urquhart’s composure would be a much more affable match for her than Lord Denbigh with his vulcan temper. If he was the manner of man to huff and puff and slam fists like this while in public, perhaps there was some truth to the rumors from his servants.

Amanda Mildred! That is the same sort of thinking as those who would maliciously claim your father a murderer!

Smoke did not mean fire. It could be… a cigar! Hmm. Which was still lit by fire. Candles? No… A very thick fog?

Spirits ascending a body?

…

Stop that!

She ruthlessly threw herself into a chair. It wasn’t until she looked up that the totality of the situation dawned on her. Lord and Lady Worthington played against Mr. Urquhart and Miss Kensington. Which left Sir Robert with Sophie, and Amanda…

…paired with Lord Denbigh.

And this evening had been going so well.

She took a deep breath.

Well, Lord Denbigh’s unpleasantness could hardly compare to a body in the library.

Sophie took the seat to her left. “I do wonder, Miss Pruett, if the gentlemen have schemed to separate us. This is the second time we’re set as opponents.”

Amanda leaned closer and said in a stage whisper, “They worry about what would happen if we two join forces.”

“We might take over the world.” Sophie nodded.

“Unlikely,” Lord Denbigh said in his brusque fashion. “Napoleon was unable to complete the feat in fifteen years.” His terse assessment brought the jolly conversation to a screeching halt.

Until Sophie made a face. Amanda sniggered like a naughty schoolgirl which earned a glower from her new partner.

“Shall we play?”

Lord Denbigh led an ace of clubs. When Amanda placed her king atop his ace, he tsked. When she trumped the next trick, he hissed. When she led a three, he huffed and puffed (and possibly snorted). By the time they lost the hand, she had heard more onomatopoeias than she knew words for.

It was disastrous.

Now, while his ill manner had brought Miss Kensington to the brink of tears, Amanda was rather amused. Here was a man who arrived unfashionably late to a party, stood taciturn in a darkened corner, spoke brusquely, gave unfair criticism, threw a tantrum, and generally made everyone around him feel an uncomfortable itching sort of sensation down the back of the spine. Amanda had yet to hear him say one nice thing to anyone about anything! Her brother behaved with more civility! (This time, she referred to Daniel. Geoffrey had overwhelmingly mastered civility by the age of three.)

It might have been Amanda’s smirk at the comparison. It might have been a slight shift in the air. But it didn’t require a skilled observer of human character to see that Sir Robert was a tease and that the staunch and forbiddingly dark personality of the viscount must have provided an overwhelming temptation. Whether or not Amanda’s smirk unintentionally encouraged him, Sir Robert began to tease the bear.

“Luck does not seem to be with you this evening, Denbigh,” he prodded.

Silence for a moment. Then a grumbled, “Luck has nothing to do with it.”

“You’re quite right. It’s more a skillful collaboration between couples.”

“If I only knew what my partner was doing…”

“Ah, but I believe I know Miss Pruett sufficiently well to predict how she will behave. I’ve partnered her before, you see.” Sir Robert smiled, lazily.

Lord Denbigh made no sound, but tensed his jaw. There was an uncomfortable undercurrent between the two men. Even Sophie reacted, fingers gripped stiffly upon her cards.

Perhaps it was Sir Robert’s smirk. Or perhaps it was the fact that she had lost when she had partnered Sir Robert, as well. But Amanda found she had no taste for prodding the Viscount’s ire. It was one thing for him to rile himself for no reason, it was quite another to provoke him for sport. Whether or not Sir Robert’s smirk discouraged her, Amanda would not play along.

“Since you know me so well, Sir Robert, you will have anticipated my next move.” Amanda let her card hover face-down above the table. He raised a brow. “No?” She flipped the trump to the board and gathered the cards with a flourish. “Then I will warn you: I plan on taking the rest of your tricks.”

She was focused on Sir Robert’s reaction—he laughed, rich and vibrant, and nodded a gracious defeat—but from the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Denbigh lean forward in his chair. If at all possible, the man’s posture became even more alert! He observed her rather intently as she cleaned the board. His serious scrutiny caused a sheen of perspiration and made her question her play of each trick, but she took every one.

“Well done, Miss Pruett, I must say!” Sophie clapped.

The praise warmed her, but mostly there was a smug satisfaction that Lord Denbigh could not complain over that performance! No huffs, no puffs! She glanced at her partner. Rich blue locked her gaze. A little jolt shook through her body. For one moment, those uncommunicative eyes attempted speech.

The thought unnerved her.

He sat silently, thumbing a card, staring at her. After a slight hesitation, he laid it down. His eyes never lost contact with her own. A clash of sapphires and celestine.

Amanda glanced at the board. Then her hand. Most people would slough a club. She would normally play a heart. But if she played the wrong card, Lord Denbigh might return to his huffing. It had been so nice to not hear him huff.

She wavered.

The club or heart? The club?

Oh, why worry over the man’s reaction? She’d play the way she played! The heart.

She bit her lip and raised her head.

Lord Denbigh sighed. And…

Was that a smile?

Yes!

The man actually relaxed! An almost imperceptible ease of his shoulders, but…they moved!

It was as if they’d developed a silent communication. He’d been watching her so intently to learn how she played. Now, when she discarded, he fed her an appropriate lead. They played the next two hands working rather well together. All huffs, sniffs, grunts, and other onomatopoeias became nonexistent.

The final trick of the rubber, Amanda was so confident they had swept the board that she actually reached to take it before she noticed his last spade outranked hers.

“Oh, Sir Robert, my apologies! I got carried away.”

He smiled, long fingers quickly sweeping the cards from the table. “I make it a point to win the battle even if I have lost the war.”

Lord Denbigh looked equally surprised—and more than a little angry. “Had the last trick up your sleeve, eh Boyle?”

Amanda gasped. Luckily, by this point, his grumblings were largely ignored. (And he did not slam the table.)

Still, Amanda tried to soothe any ruffled feathers. After all, men fought duels over more trivial slights to their honor. “I could have sworn I’d counted all out against me. The card was skillfully played, Sir Robert.”

Lord Denbigh took a breath, but the arrival of refreshments interrupted any further protestation.

“Not watered ratafia!” Lord Worthington wrinkled his nose, insulted. “Make mine a port. Come, gentlemen, enough of cards. It’s time for us to retire and leave the ladies to their weak drinks and plottings.”

The men departed. Amanda couldn’t help sharing a small smile with Lord Robert. She absolutely did not sigh at his back. Absolutely not.

The ladies convened and talk became somewhat silly and frivolous (the ratafia was not, in fact, watered down). Miss Kensington pantomimed a scene involving her dog and a duck (Miss Elizabeth was the duck), Lady Worthington told a story about Great-Aunt Celia’s pannier hoops getting caught upon a gentleman’s sword as they danced (Great-Aunt Celia giggled, despite denying the event), and by the time they’d packed and tucked themselves into the carriage to return home, everyone felt a satisfied, warm glow.

With one sullen, lordly exception, perhaps—Amanda caught a glower upon Lord Denbigh’s brow as he took off at a brisk clip into the night.

“Well that, my dear, was a fine evening,” Great-Aunt Celia said, settling back into the carriage cushions.

“Yes, indeed, Aunt.”

“With some handsome gentlemen!”

Amanda blushed, but agreed, “Yes, indeed, Aunt.”

“Didn’t I tell you all would be well?” she gave a contented sigh. “Now,” she tapped her cane on the carriage floor twice, “I will close my eyes for a moment. Nudge me when we arrive home.”

With her eyes closed and swaying to the movement of the carriage upon the cobbles, a golden lock of hair fallen across her resting face, Great-Aunt Celia looked like a little girl up past midnight. The poor woman had been in a coach for days, tossed about on her hobbled leg, all to ensure her (abandoned) niece had a proper chaperone. She’d endured cramped quarters, a broken wheel, the worry of delay, and rushed travel to arrive as escort just in the nick of time. Like Cinderella’s godmother, she’d dressed her in the finest clothes, despite her fears. Amanda rubbed the beads upon the outlandish reticule in her lap. The back of her eyes tingled.

She sighed, resting her head against the cushions.

As Great-Aunt Celia said, it had been (surprisingly) an enjoyable evening featuring many a handsome gentleman. Even Mr. Arbuthnot, pinched face and all, was an attractive man. Mr. Urquhart in his quiet, studious way, lanky with sparkling eyes.

But it was not Mr. Urquhart’s earnest face which flit through her mind as she closed her eyes. Sir Robert was charm personified. He enjoyed parties. Dancing. Cards. Humor. If he was any indication of the type of gentlemen she would meet upon entry into society, Amanda would have many a sleepless night. Already she caught herself sighing at wistful, silly daydreams of dancing with the gentleman in a darkened ballroom.

As Lord Denbigh glowered from the sidelines.

Amanda’s eyes popped open at the unbidden image. The carriage hit a pothole, juggling its occupants as if to assist in snapping her into sense. Though it couldn’t be denied that her two whist partners certainly rivaled each other for looks, not charm. Lord Denbigh…

To borrow from the Scottish Play: if he was given a drop of the milk of human kindness, it had curdled.