Chapter Ten
“Thank you very much for the dance, my lord.” Cat sent her partner a warm smile and relinquished his arm as they reached the edge of the dance floor. She tried hard not to look over her shoulder for Wycomb. Observing without being observed was more difficult than she’d expected. “It was a lovely idea for the countess to host this impromptu ball.”
Her partner, a fourth son who—however nice—would not be a proper choice as husband for the Baroness Worthington, bowed and looked at her with hopeful calf’s eyes. “I’m grateful I had a chance to dance with you, my lady.”
Perhaps coming from a dashing rake of the ton, the words would have had a different meaning. From this agreeable, eager fourth son, they were simply sweet.
“Very kind of you.” Cat inclined her head, quite aware that if she showed him particular attention the gossips might make too much of it. “I must return to my guardian, however, as I believe we shall be leaving shortly.”
“Of course. Please, may I escort you?” He offered his elbow, which she was honor bound to accept and did so with a pleasant smile.
“Thank you.” She glanced around the room, gaze flitting over the dispersing dancers and the milling guests. It was ridiculous to be watching for Jones or the ruffian from the street. Neither would appear. But it was not amiss to watch Wycomb. There was surely no danger lurking here in the ballroom, but she did not intend to ignore him.
“Is something the matter, Baroness Worthington?” The fourth son angled his head and she felt the arm tucked beneath hers stiffen. “Your, ah, grip indicates there may be a problem.”
“No, of course not. My apologies.” She loosened her fingers and waved her other hand toward Wycomb, the painted fan she carried bumping lightly against her wrist. “My guardian is just there, deep in conversation, as per usual. Thank you for your company and the dance,” Cat said to her escort, who took his leave with a nod of his head and a nervous flick of his gaze toward Wycomb.
Her uncle seemed particularly absorbed on this occasion. Dark brows angled fiercely down as he leaned toward his companion, a nice enough looking gentleman with clever green eyes and a face much younger than Wycomb’s.
“Hello, uncle,” she murmured as she stepped beside him and into a pause in the conversation. “It was a most lovely country dance, and my partner was superb.”
Wycomb did not look at her at first, but held himself still enough to impart displeasure. She heard his long, slow inhale of irritation. Then he shifted his shoulders and tilted his head just slightly to the left, as though he’d heard her but did not want to acknowledge her. It was a stance she had seen more than once, but she refused to be considered a nuisance and stayed her course.
With a twist of her wrist, Cat grabbed her dangling fan and flicked it open. Deliberately, she smiled at her uncle’s companion. “Have you tried the punch yet? It’s quite delicious.”
There would be no choice now but for Wycomb to introduce her. She nearly smiled at her uncle, but decided it would be baiting a predator. Still, a lady could always employ her social weapons.
“Baroness Worthington,” Wycomb said smoothly, though she heard the underlying impatience beneath the proper introduction. “May I present the Marquess of Hedgewood?”
“A pleasure to meet you, my lady.” The marquess smiled and bowed, his eyes as amused as the lips that curved up as he spoke. “My apologies, we were discussing business. But there is surely no business so important as to forget your loveliness.”
She nearly laughed at the platitude, but it was so typical of these gatherings she easily dismissed it. Cat extended her hand and let the marquess bow over it. “Lord Hedgewood.”
“I’ve not had the pleasure of trying the punch, but I shall make certain I do. I believe there are additional beverages to be had. Anything I should try, particularly?” He cocked his head, seemingly prepared to consider her answer. His eyes were still twinkling at her and she wondered if they shared a joke Wycomb wasn’t part of. It certainly seemed so.
She pursed her lips. He was rather charming, this marquess. “I would suggest the pink champagne, but stay away from the lemonade. It’s ghastly.”
“Wise advice, then. Lord Wycomb, let’s postpone our business and take advantage of the social whirl. Good evening, my lady.” He bowed once more in that short, half-amused way men did when they took their leave, as though they expected the lady to stay their departure. Cat did not, and he turned into the crowd and faded away between bright gowns and somber jackets.
“The Marquess of Hedgewood would be a good candidate for your husband, Mary Elizabeth.” Wycomb nodded politely at a passing acquaintance while he spoke and did not look at her. “You would be wise to curry his favor, as he is looking for a bride.”
Unease slid over her skin as quietly as a cool breeze. “Lord Hedgewood?”
“He has all the necessary attributes. Old blood, wealth, property. His family is not as old as your own, but it is quite as good as you will get.”
She was not interested, not even the least bit, despite how charming the marquess was. Cat also knew better than to outright disagree. “I shall take your recommendation under advisement, uncle.”
“You would do well to accept it as more than a recommendation.” Wycomb turned his head to look down at her with a gaze that did not pierce her skin, but felt as though it had. Blue and cold, his eyes ranged over features tight with control. “You must marry, and soon. There is more at stake than even your considerable fortune.”
Unease gave way to discomfort, the air that had been cool on her skin turning into a chill rippling up her spine.
“I don’t understand.” Her hand tightened on the thin wooden handle of the painted fan, and she wondered if a soldier did the same on the hilt of his sword as he went into battle.
“Nor do you need to.” Wycomb angled his head and gestured to the ballroom at large, pulling every giggling female and smooth politician and charming rake into their conversation. “I have made an extensive study of those unmarried peers with wealth and lands to match your own, as well as those who will be entering society in the next few years.”
“The next few—” She choked on the words. Did he think she would marry an untested boy, simply to secure her fortune?
“You cannot wait until you are thirty-five to break the trust, Mary Elizabeth.” He looked away again, leaving her with only his profile as a method of determining what he was thinking. “There is too much uncertainty. Too much could go wrong. If you die without an heir…” He let the words trail off, and she knew it was because he assumed that blow would strike her the hardest.
So it did. If she did not have an heir, the barony and all that it held would pass out of the Ashdown bloodline to a branch so far removed there was no Ashdown blood left. In short, it would follow the way of the earldom her father had held and which could not pass to her.
“I realize I must provide an heir.” She’d known and resented it all of her life. She wanted to huff out a breath in frustration, so she inhaled and held it instead. “I don’t intend to create an heir with just anyone simply so I can secure the title. I have centuries of history to think about, both before and after my lifetime, uncle.”
“Which may not last as long as you believe, my girl,” he said softly. His hands did not touch her, but she felt imprisoned all the same. “Consider his suit,” Wycomb continued, gaze as piercing as if the cold blue had become spears. “If not him, I shall find another man for you. But consider his suit, Mary Elizabeth, to secure the future.”
“I suppose life is fragile,” she said carefully. Fighting the urge to swallow hard, Cat looked out over the laughing ton swirling around the ballroom amongst candles and sweet flowers. Perhaps the flowers were so strong they could not scent danger or fear. “Illness could strike at any moment, I know. But I’m in good health.”
“Life is still fragile, as you said.” Now he did touch her, setting his hand on her shoulder. His fingers did not vise over flesh and bone, but were soft. Yet they were no less menacing for it. More, perhaps, because he could hurt her if he chose. “Accidents happen more often than you think. A wrong step, and such an unfortunate event could happen to you.”
His voice barely carried to her beneath the strains of the violins and chatter of the guests.
The threat still echoed beneath the words.
The chill in her spine became fear, then fear became terror as she looked into very cold, steady eyes showing not a shred of compassion, nor even humanity. What had he become?
This was wrong. All wrong. An heiress did not secure a husband by threat, and no uncle threatened his niece with…she could barely think it. She would have thought it a misunderstanding.
Except this man was so much worse than she’d expected.
“Good night, Mary Elizabeth.” He bowed, a proper and elegant movement, then smiled slowly. “Do enjoy the rest of your evening, my dear. I have some people I need to speak to, but please let me know when you are in need of an escort home and I shall oblige.”
He stepped away from her as a pair of breathless young ladies ambushed Cat from either side.
“Oh, my lady, isn’t it all exciting?” One chirped, her fan fluttering near her flushed face.
“So many interesting persons this evening!” The other followed suit, her eyes sweeping across the room.
Cat looked to either side at the vapid girls fluttering about her. She was trapped in the ballroom, gooseflesh prickling her arms and fear thrumming beneath her skin.
There was no escape.
When she left this room, she would take the fear with her.