CHAPTER EIGHT

SHE HAD GOT TOO CLOSE with her artless questions and her damnable persistence. Miles stood by the conservatory window and stared out into the darkened gardens, ignoring the cold that was starting to eat into his bones. Alice Lister was too perceptive, and worse, she was too stubborn to back down. There had been a moment when she had challenged him about his feelings for his little brother when he had felt the same uncontrollable bite of anger that had driven him from his family all those years ago. Anger was as unproductive an emotion as guilt or resentment or love, as far as Miles was concerned. It led to poor judgment and rash decisions. It led to a loss of control. It could hurt too much. And he, renowned for his cool head and lack of sentiment, was the last person on earth who wanted to feel that intensity of emotion for anything or anyone.

He knew that Alice had been shocked by his heartlessness. He had heard it in her voice. She had tried to make him admit that he cared. He felt cynically amused that she was trying to persuade herself that he had some softer feelings when he did not. She had sought the truth from him and then she had not liked what she had found.

Too bad.

Little Miss Lister had to learn that honesty could sometimes be diabolically uncomfortable to confront.

Total honesty. To his surprise he had not lied once that evening, neither to Alice nor to anyone else. He had thought that he might bend the truth sufficiently to allow him to feel comfortable but not enough that Alice would guess he was compromising. Instead he had been blisteringly candid. At times it had been a painful experience but he thought that he might actually be getting a taste for it.

Strange.

It was a disconcerting discovery. Unwelcome, too.

The winter wind skittered across the dark gardens, bringing on its edge a stinging sleet that it threw against the glass, and Miles shivered, seeking out the warmth of the lighted ballroom. He deliberately did not look for Alice even though he felt an almost irresistible urge to rejoin her. The impulse troubled him and he found it inordinately difficult to dismiss it.

He propped himself against a conveniently placed statue of Apollo, which he assumed was intended to add an air of classical culture to the Granby’s provincial ballroom. He was amused to see that from the waist down Apollo was swathed in a robe, presumably to preserve his modesty and the sensibilities of the Fortune’s Folly matrons.

Across the polished expanse of the ballroom floor Miles could see his sister dancing for a fourth, scandalous time with Frank Gaines whilst the Dowager Lady Vickery watched from the chaperones’ corner, her face expressing disapproval tinged with resignation. Miles smothered a grin. He wondered which his mother would consider the lesser of two evils: having a spinster daughter so firmly on the shelf she had taken root, or accepting a lawyer as a potential son-in-law. She had already demonstrated her social prejudices once that evening when she had been introduced to Alice. Not, Miles suspected, that her mother’s opinion-or indeed anyone else’s-would count for a fig with Celia if she decided she wanted Frank Gaines. And the dowager herself was not without admirers further down the social order. Mr. Pullen, the magistrate, had come over to ask her to join him in an old-fashioned country dance, and after a rather startled response the dowager had agreed.

Lizzie Scarlet caught Miles’s eye as she twirled ostentatiously down the set on Lowell Lister’s arm. She was flaunting herself under Nat Waterhouse’s nose, laughing and chattering animatedly, and Miles knew that Nat was noticing, even as he bent in ever more assiduous attendance on Miss Minchin and her parents. The Waterhouse and Minchin match had been formally announced that morning in both the Morning Post and locally in the Leeds Intelligencer. This, Miles thought, was Lizzie’s response. She was completely eclipsing poor little Flora, who looked like a country mouse in her fussy debutante gown compared to Lizzie, dazzling in turquoise, her flaming red hair held in a diamond clasp.

Miles finally allowed his gaze to move on to Alice. She was not dancing. She was sitting on a rout chair next to Mrs. Lister and, Miles noticed, with a sudden, odd contraction of the heart, she was being quite blatantly ignored. Clearly it took more than Lady Vickery’s brief patronage to bring Alice and her mother into style. Miles could see a group of young sprigs of fashion nearby who fancied themselves London dandies. They had their backs turned to Alice, pointedly excluding her, taking their cue from the haughty matrons who had moved their own chairs a little aside as though to emphasize the gap between the Listers and the rest of polite society. Even as Miles watched he saw one of the ladies pass Mrs. Lister on her way to the refreshment room and draw her skirts aside, as though even to be near her would taint her. It was pointed and discourteous, and Mrs. Lister blushed with mortification until she was almost as dark as her puce gown.

Alice had her chin up and was watching the dance and there was no indication on her face that she found people’s attitudes embarrassing, but Miles thought that she must care. Most people would, to be so obviously and so rudely ignored, and Alice had already shown how sensitive she was to the feelings of others. She could scarcely be insensitive to snubs to herself.

Miles frowned, remembering that Alice had been inundated with dancing partners when he had first met her the previous autumn in Fortune’s Folly. But of course that had been before she had rejected nineteen offers of marriage. Now that most of the fortune hunters had left for the winter, no one else had any interest in her, and she was left high and dry. Nothing could have made it more obvious that Alice had only been tolerated in Yorkshire society because of her money.

He saw Faye, Duchess of Cole, smiling contentedly as she observed the social isolation that Mrs. Lister and her daughter were enduring. She was gossiping to her cronies and whispering behind her fan. And then Miles saw Sir James Wheeler’s son George laugh immoderately at some joke his friend was making and in the process spill the remainder of his wine all over Alice’s silk skirts. The liquid splashed in bright red pools on the pale pink gown. Mrs. Lister gave a little cry of distress and George Wheeler glanced around and said loudly, “Send for a servant to mop it up, ma’am. Oh, no need-there is one here already.” Then he and his friends burst into more gales of amusement. It was true that one of the Granby waiters was already kneeling at Alice’s feet and wiping the spillage up with his white napkin, but Miles thought that that was not really what George Wheeler had been meaning. He suspected that Alice had taken the point, too, for she shifted a little on her chair, and then turned her face away as though seeking some protection from the malicious words and the spiteful stares. And then, as though that were not bad enough, the Duke of Cole’s affected drawl rose disastrously over the ballroom chatter.

“Fetching little piece, ain’t she? I’ll find a place for her if she’s ever looking to go back into service. In fact she could service me whenever she liked, what!”

Someone tittered sycophantically, and emotion kicked Miles hard and unexpectedly in the gut, a mixture of anger and something feral, deeper and more disturbing. He felt a violent urge to go up to Henry Cole and strangle him with his own neck cloth, or to challenge him to a duel or invite him to meet his maker in any imaginative way he chose. The impulse was so strong that Miles found he had already started across the floor before he had himself back under control and reminded himself that Alice’s injured feelings were nothing to him. He might want her in his bed, which was no more than lust, and want her money in his bank, which was desperation, but that was all there was between them. And since Alice had refused a public announcement of their betrothal, he did not even have to defend her good name out of family pride.

Even so, it seemed extraordinarily difficult to leave her unprotected, her reputation bandied about by any ill-bred scoundrel who chose to insult her.

He dismissed his scruples and strolled over to the door where he stood aside with a cynical smile as Nat Waterhouse ushered Miss Minchin and her parents from the ballroom with the immaculate courtesy of the attentive suitor. It was only when the Minchins had vanished through the door that he saw Nat give a shrug as though he was sloughing off an unwanted responsibility. As his friend moved toward the refreshment room Miles stepped forward.

“Perfect son-in-law material,” he drawled. “Attentive, deferential, courteous-and titled, of course.”

“Well,” Nat said, “she is rich and amiable-”

“And witless.”

Nat frowned. “Would you want to marry an intelligent woman, Miles?”

Miles glanced toward the ballroom again. Alice was talking to Lowell and Lizzie Scarlet now. He felt a sense of relief that she and her brother were back on speaking terms and a stronger one that Lowell had missed Henry Cole’s remarks. Had he heard, there would probably have been a brawl in the ballroom by now.

Alice was smiling at something her brother had said, and the curve of her lips sent another kick of something hot and strong through Miles’s gut. Devil take it, he wanted her very much. Three months was an impossibly long time to wait.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, I would want an intelligent wife,” he said. “I would not spend a great deal of time in her company, but on those occasions when we were thrown together I would rather not be bored senseless.”