“Your Grace, how did you find Europe?” Lady Picard asked.
“In a rumpus,” Eleanor said.
“That dreadful Napoleon.” Lady Picard lifted her snub nose. “I’ll host a little soirée later for just us women, and you can tell us all about your adventures.”
“That would be lovely.” Eleanor planned to be long gone.
Gesturing at the stairway behind them, Mr. Knight said, with a question in his tone, “The Regent must arrive very late to your parties, or a great many people will be turned away.”
“Oh, dear,” Lady Gertrude murmured.
Eleanor held her breath and prayed that Lady Picard would pretend to understand him.
Instead the lady frowned in obvious confusion. “Whatever do you mean?”
“No one can arrive after the prince—”
Lady Picard chuckled indulgently. “No, no, I’m afraid you’re confused, Mr. Knight. Once the prince is here, no one can leave until he does. There are no rules about arriving after the prince.”
“Ah. My American ignorance is revealed again.” Mr. Knight shot a sideways, killing glance toward Eleanor.
“There are so many rules”—Lady Picard rested her hand on his in a presumption of intimacy that revealed only too clearly why he was society’s darling—“and you remember them very well.”
Mr. Knight smiled, showing all his perfect teeth. “I have a perfect memory. I remember everything.” Especially, he said without words, Eleanor’s falsehood.
Behind them, people coughed and shuffled.
Lady Picard decided she had made enough of a show of them, and she should move them along. “A pleasure to have you with us tonight. Dinner will be at midnight. Please dance and enjoy yourselves!” She dug her elbow into her husband’s ribs.
He dragged his contemplation away from Eleanor’s bosom. “Eh? What? Yes, the wife was saying today that if the notorious Lady Sherbourne and that lucky bastard Mr. Knight didn’t come, the ball would be declared a disappointment and she might as well hang herself.”
“We couldn’t have that,” Mr. Knight said. “Such a loss to English society.”
Lady Picard beamed. Lord Picard nodded. Did neither of them hear the sarcasm in Mr. Knight’s tone? Smoothly, Eleanor intervened. “Thank you for your invitation. We wouldn’t have missed the event of the Season.” With a small shove, she moved Mr. Knight along.
People waited to pounce on them, but Mr. Knight glared, and they backed off—for the moment.
Gracelessly, he said, “Lady Gertrude, find your friends and have a good gossip.” Lady Gertrude looked doubtful. “But I just told Lady Picard I never left Madeline’s side.”
“I’ll care for my fiancée for the rest of the evening. She can’t come to harm here in the ballroom.”
If he only knew!
Lady Gertrude looked to Eleanor. “Go on, Aunt. I’ll be fine.”
He waited until they stood alone, then in a voice both cold and furious, he said, “Lord Picard had no right to leer at you. In the future, you will let me handle these situations.”
“We’ve made an entrance, sir, guaranteed to attract attention. It was of your making. You can’t now complain that it worked.” She thought herself the voice of logic and good sense and was startled to see Mr. Knight glower with even more ire. “As for Lord Picard, he’s already tipsy, and he’ll be snoring by midnight.” She took a fortifying breath and prepared to face the crowd.
Mr. Knight took her hand and tugged her to face him instead. “I have another reason to be enraged.” Painstakingly, he repeated her earlier instruction. “We’re not allowed to arrive after the prince?”
If she hadn’t been so nervous, so aware of their observers, she would have grinned at her small victory. “I’ve been gone from England for a long time.”
“So long you forgot such a basic decree?”
“No, so long I forgot I’m supposed to tell the truth.”
His expression made Eleanor wish Madeline were here to handle him. Obviously, Eleanor couldn’t. She was an imposter who would surely be unmasked tonight, on the arm of the most charismatic man she had ever met. He was going to marry her cousin—and after tonight, he would hate her.
A female voice called, “Your Grace!”
Eleanor turned in relief, and came face-to-face with a woman that looked familiar. Very familiar.
“Your Grace, don’t you remember me?” The woman’s voice hit a high note that made Mr. Knight flinch. “I was Horatia Jakeson.”
Horatia Jakeson had come out during Madeline’s debut Season, a fresh-faced girl who’d suffered from spots, narrow lips, and a traditional father who demanded she dress conservatively and never, ever, wear cosmetics.
Apparently, she was out from under her father’s thumb, for tonight she wore rouge in circles on her cheeks and paint on her lips. Her hair had been cut and frizzed across her broad forehead, and she’d gained three stone, most of it across her behind. “Horatia?” Eleanor blinked in amazement.
Horatia clapped her beringed hands. “You remember!”
Horatia had been one of the girls who had spent hours trying to inveigle herself into Madeline’s inner circle. She hadn’t succeeded, but she had spent hours confiding her ambitions to Madeline’s companion. Surely she would recognize Eleanor, and Eleanor told herself it was better to get the unveiling over with now, right away, and end this nerve-twisting anticipation. She waited, chin up, feet braced, for Horatia to look at her, really look at her, and see that she was not the duchess.
Instead, Horatia babbled, “I married Lord Huward on a dreadful day, you should have seen the rain, and everyone said it was a bad sign, but we have two sons, so I guess they were wrong, so now I’m Lady Huward. But you and I were best of friends before you left England. You do remember that, don’t you?”
Eleanor now remembered how Horatia rambled in incoherent circles. She remembered that Horatia’s conversation was enough to make one want to shriek. She didn’t remember how unobservant Horatia was.
As Horatia peered up at her, her face remained content. “The Continent certainly appeared to have agreed with you. You’re looking beautiful. Not that you weren’t beautiful before, but a little gaunt, you know. Now your cheeks are all round. Is that hairstyle new from France?”
Eleanor started. In the last hour, she’d forgotten about her hair. She touched the short ends of her hair with her fingertips. She wasn’t used to the cut yet; she would probably never be used to the cut. But if this kept her from being recognized, it was worth the sacrifice of her beautiful, waist-length hair. Her hair…her one vanity.
She glanced at Mr. Knight. And the cut had infuriated him. To her surprise, she’d rather enjoyed his rage.
She didn’t understand why. Normally those kinds of scenes made her stomach hurt, made her want to run and hide. But when Mr. Knight had stormed toward her, she’d been conscious of only one thing. He cared enough to make a scene.
Her own reaction had been interesting.
His had been fascinating.
Horatia babbled on. “But you probably didn’t go to France. That dreadful Napoleon. Doesn’t he ever think of anyone but himself?”
How could Horatia not see the difference between Madeline and Eleanor? After four years, had Eleanor changed so much? Or had the years erased the sharpness of Horatia’s memory and left her to see what was presented to her?
Horatia’s bug-eyes darted to Mr. Knight, and the surprise she hadn’t shown Eleanor she now demonstrated for him. “Good evening, I didn’t see you standing there, and how I could miss the most handsome gentleman of the Season, I don’t know. Lord Huward says I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached to my neck, but I say, Huie—I call him Huie—Huie, that’s absurd, everyone’s head is attached to their neck, and he says that could be rectified. He’s so droll!”
Eleanor risked a glance at Mr. Knight, and his expression of mingled horror and fascination made her release a stifled explosion of laughter.
It was pr
obably relief that made her give way, but Mr. Knight’s darkling glance only added to her mirth. With a bow and a murmured, “Excuse us,” he led her away. “That’s a friend of yours?” he demanded.
Eleanor had difficulty maintaining her sobriety. “No, don’t be ridiculous. She is someone who would like to call the duchess her friend.” Someone who had just established first contact and not shrieked out a revelation. Right now, Eleanor almost liked Horatia.
“You always speak of yourself in the third person, as if you were royalty,” Remington commented.
“Almost royalty,” Eleanor retorted. “Almost.”
Was everyone expecting Madeline to be changed by her travels? Changed as much as Horatia? Because if that were the case, Eleanor might, just might, pull off this ruse.
A great many people hovered nearby, waiting for their chance to speak with her, and as soon as she looked up, the first gentleman rushed forward as if leading a charge. Short, bald, and dressed in an outlandish yellow-and-blue jacket, he bowed with a flourish. “Your Grace, how good to see you’ve returned to England. We’ve sorely missed your beauty.”
She remembered him: a cit who had bought his way into society. Like a moth, he flitted from one wealthy, titled person to another without ever lighting, and she was sure he wouldn’t notice she was an imposter, and if he did, he wouldn’t dare say a word for fear he was wrong. “Thank you, Mr. Brackenridge.” She let him take her gloved hand and bow over it with all the ardor of a beau enthralled.
“Careful, Brackenridge, I’d hate to have to call you out.” Mr. Knight stood at her left, tall, straight, and unsmiling, like some dragon protecting the lady he had won. And in a way, perhaps he was. A good many people here in this ballroom must think this union between England’s noblest of women and an American businessman to be a disgrace. Yet while he stood over her, none of them would have the audacity to dispute his steely-eyed claim.
Eleanor didn’t have a chance to hear Brackenridge’s nervous reply to Mr. Knight’s challenge, for the next gentleman stepped up. Red-haired and freckled, he looked as if he were no more than eighteen, yet he said, “Your Grace, so good to meet you again.”
Again? Eleanor didn’t remember ever meeting him. Smiling politely, she tried desperately to remember his name.
“Stop teasing her, Owain, you know she scarcely noticed us when last we met.” A girl who looked remarkably like Owain curtsied gracefully. “He’s my twin, and when you met us, we were in the nursery. I’m Miss Joan Hanslip, and this is Owain.”
“Ah, I recall now!” Madeline and Eleanor had visited the Hanslips five years before and found the family both large and jolly. “It is good to meet you again, Mr. Hanslip. Is this your first Season, Miss Hanslip?”
“Yes, and I’m having a marvelous time.” She flashed a grin at the tall, thin man behind her.
He was about Mr. Knight’s age, and Eleanor remembered him very well—as he would undoubtedly remember her. “Lord Martineau. How good to see you.” She spoke softly and again braced herself to be revealed.
“A privilege to have you back, Your Grace,” he said, but he didn’t care whether she was here or in Hades. He had eyes only for Miss Hanslip.
Eleanor looked around at the people crowding around her and worked to recognize all the faces, to remember all the names, to be the duchess they expected. She had to pretend to be an aristocrat. And not just any aristocrat. One of the highest in the land, one who had created a scandal that had sent her fleeing on an extended journey, one who had been wagered and lost and now, in the eyes of society, belonged to an upstart American. In short, one who excited the curiosity and interest of everyone in the ballroom.
“Your Grace, such a privilege to be present at your return after so long in exile.” The gentleman’s corset creaked as he bowed, while his bushy blond whiskers formed an almost living entity on his florid cheeks. “You must be happy to be back in civilization. Such a savage expedition! So ill-fated!”
“I’m pleased to have returned in one piece.” People chuckled as if she were a wit, while around her, the number of faces continued to grow. Eleanor squinted as she stared at this gentleman and tried to recall his name. Then she did, and thrilled with herself, she said, “But it wasn’t all unpleasant…Mr. Stradling.”
He reared back, thoroughly offended. “Lord Stradling.”
Eleanor turned crimson. “Of course. Viscount Stradling. Forgive me, my memory temporarily deserted me.”
“Good to see you, Stradling.” Mr. Knight sounded amused by her faux pas. “How did your horse do in that last race?”
As Mr. Knight drew Stradling aside, a lady stepped forward, and she rolled her eyes toward Lord Stradling and shrugged, as if indicating Eleanor shouldn’t take his discontent seriously. “Your Grace, I’m sure your adventures have driven every name from your mind. I’m Lady Codell-Fitch, and like so many of us, I wish to offer congratulations on your betrothal.”
“Yes, congratulations.” “Congratulations!” “Amazing betrothal!”
The felicitations were insincere and accompanied by many an ogling stare, but Eleanor pretended, as Madeline would, to be pleased. Taking Mr. Knight’s arm, she pressed it. “He is quite handsome.” She found herself daring to defy them all with an up-tilted chin. “I wish you all could be so lucky.”
The lushly garbed and overly perfumed people were obviously taken aback. They must have expected her to align herself with them, the English nobility, and with a wink and a sigh show how very much she hated this match. But she didn’t even have to wonder how Madeline would react to this situation, for in this instance the two cousins thought as one. Neither of them would allow Mr. Knight to suffer the slights of society. They might not wish for this marriage, but the de Lacy pride wouldn’t allow them to let anyone else know.
Close by her ear, Mr. Knight said quietly, “A pretty pretense, yet lest you imagine I’m impressed, let me assure you I remember this morning when you tried to escape. Tonight you defied me in the matter of your hair and your clothing, and lied to me to get your way. I take your words with a grain of salt.” He chuckled deeply. “Smile as if I’m whispering words of love in your ear, and all these ladies will go to bed dissatisfied with their mates tonight.”
Eleanor did better than that. She wished, for long, hopeless minutes, that she was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Standing here with Mr. Knight while all eyes avidly observed them made confronting a French battalion or facing life in a Turkish harem seem like child’s play. But at least so far no one had recognized her. At least no one had called her bluff. The people she’d met four years ago had changed, and they expected that she—or rather Madeline—had changed, too. More important, Eleanor had been Madeline’s companion, a woman considered so unimportant by the ton that few had bothered to look at her closely. That, combined with her own retiring nature and the aristocracy’s belief in their own omnipotence, made her safe from detection.
Eleanor had never thought she would be so lucky.
Then her luck ran out.
A mature beauty of perfect proportions elbowed her way forward. She had a fashionably narrow face and chin. She held her full lips in a perpetual, half-smiling moue of superiority. Her hair was a golden blond, and her eyes were brown and exotically tilted.
She was gorgeous. She was graceful.
She was Eleanor’s oldest nightmare.
Chapter 11
Lady Shapster, Eleanor’s stepmother, waited to betray Eleanor in the most public of places, in the most humiliating of ways.
Eleanor was the center of a circle with all attention on her, and she found herself backing up—into Mr. Knight’s arms.
Placing his hand on her waist, he steadied her…and confined her.
Caught. Trapped between an old nightmare and a new.
Eleanor struggled to take a breath, to quell the rise of panic. She knew only too well how spiteful Lady Shapster could be. Time and again, from the moment Eleanor was eleven and her father had brought the elegant widow home
as his new wife, Eleanor had suffered as her every fault had been reviled, her every failing exposed.
And she could only imagine what Mr. Knight’s vengeance would be when his gullibility was revealed.
Peculiar, how as the hours had progressed she’d feared the crowd’s ridicule less and Mr. Knight’s disdain more.
“Your Grace.” Bowing her head, Lady Shapster curtsied in a symphony of elegance, spreading her shimmering blue silk skirt like a peacock displays its feathers.
So she hadn’t yet recognized Eleanor. But when she looked up and realized she had given obeisance to her humble stepdaughter, how Eleanor would pay!
In her deep, warm, and oh, so cultured voice, Lady Shapster said, “How good to see you home and safe. Your uncle has asked about you time and again.”
It had been eight years since Eleanor had escaped Lady Shapster’s domination, eight years since they’d last seen each other, but as always when facing her stepmother, Eleanor felt awkward and overgrown. “My…uncle?” My father!
“Your uncle, Lord Shapster. My husband.” Lady Shapster looked at Eleanor, commanding by sheer force of will that Eleanor acknowledge the relationship. She hadn’t yet really looked at the face before her. Instead, she concentrated on imposing her will on the girl she thought was the future duchess. By forcing Madeline, who had no patience with Lady Shapster, to admit that they were related, Lady Shapster had some small claim on the loftiness of Madeline’s nobility.
“I remember Lord Shapster. I remember…you.” Eleanor wished she could forget, but she had been scarred by this woman, by her malice and her ruthlessness.
Imagining victory, Lady Shapster smiled, her lips stretching in a parody of graciousness. Her Roman nose tilted into the air. She planted her feet firmly apart so that no one could budge her, and her stance showed one part of her character: tenacious, haughty, and determined. But beneath the facade of nobility was a core of ice that never melted.
How well Eleanor knew that. How many times she had been frozen by a glance!