not a care in the world. A picture of loveliness in white silk and lace embroidered with beads that sparkled like diamonds, she was magnificent, so far removed from the pale shadow of the girl he loved that he’d seen at Adam’s wedding that he could scarce believe his eyes. She’d wept and told him that she feared her husband’s jealousy if he saw her speaking to Hallam and yet now she was flirting with the men that clustered about her. Had she deceived him to the true nature of her life?
Just what kind of a woman was she—and could he trust anything she said?
He stood for several minutes just watching her laughing and teasing one of the men in particular—by his elaborate clothes and exquisite laces, he was a wealthy nobleman. Hallam had never met the gentleman, but his jewels flashed in the light of the candelabra and his clothes were fashioned by the best tailors, though in Hallam’s eyes his cravat was too high, his collars too wide for taste. He was one of the dandy set. Hallam’s lips curled in disgust as he saw the man carried a fan and, still worse, wore rouge on his cheeks—a fashion that had long since been discarded by most men in England. He was a man of middle years, thin with a cruel mouth, and he wore a powdered wig. Another fashion Hallam scorned as being foppish.
He preferred the clean, plain look that Mr Brummell had brought into fashion before he’d fallen so deep into debt and been forced to flee abroad, leaving an unpaid gambling debt—something no gentleman would ever do unless forced. Society had turned against Brummell, though Alvanly and some others were known to speak of him kindly and to send him money in his exile in France.
Why was Madeline looking up at that fop in such a coquettish manner? He had never seen her flirt with anyone so outrageously. As a girl she’d had shy pretty manners that had touched his heart, but now...he hardly knew her. If her husband were truly the brute she’d described to him, how dare she behave so recklessly?
A glance around the ballroom told Hallam that Lethbridge was not in the room to witness his wife flirting with the fop. Frowning, Hallam watched as she gave her hand to one of the other gentlemen and was whisked off to the dance floor. Her ardent suitor seemed annoyed—or perhaps frustrated. He had the look of a hunter intent on cornering his prey.
‘How are you, Ravenscar?’ The voice at his elbow distracted Hallam. He turned to look at the gentleman, a fellow officer who had seen service in France with him. ‘She is a beauty, isn’t she? But off limits unless you wish Lethbridge to call you out. I’ve heard he is like a dog with a bone over his wife as a rule.’
‘Good to see you, Mainwaring. Who is the wealthy fop?’ Hallam nodded in the direction of the frustrated suitor. ‘He looks dangerous.’
‘Yes, I dare say he might be. I’ve heard he is a crack shot and even more deadly with the sword. He was in France with us, though a line regiment, has some French relations, I understand. Rich, they say...some whisper he absconded with jewels, objets d’art and pictures that belonged to Napoleon in the last days of his reign. They also say his relations worked for the secret police in the time of the Terror and became rich by robbing the wretches condemned to be guillotined. Marquis of Rochdale...the third of his line, I believe.’
‘A pretty fellow, by all accounts, and old enough to be the countess’s father.’
‘Perhaps she likes them that way. Lethbridge must be twelve years her senior.’
‘She married to save her family from ruin,’ Hallam replied, stung to defend Madeline, even though he felt annoyed with her for flirting so openly—and for spinning him that tale at the wedding.
Yet she had been crying when he discovered her in the rose arbour. Something was wrong, but he could not decide what to believe.
Moving on, Hallam greeted friends and danced with a couple of ladies—wives of his particular friends—and
Just what kind of a woman was she—and could he trust anything she said?
He stood for several minutes just watching her laughing and teasing one of the men in particular—by his elaborate clothes and exquisite laces, he was a wealthy nobleman. Hallam had never met the gentleman, but his jewels flashed in the light of the candelabra and his clothes were fashioned by the best tailors, though in Hallam’s eyes his cravat was too high, his collars too wide for taste. He was one of the dandy set. Hallam’s lips curled in disgust as he saw the man carried a fan and, still worse, wore rouge on his cheeks—a fashion that had long since been discarded by most men in England. He was a man of middle years, thin with a cruel mouth, and he wore a powdered wig. Another fashion Hallam scorned as being foppish.
He preferred the clean, plain look that Mr Brummell had brought into fashion before he’d fallen so deep into debt and been forced to flee abroad, leaving an unpaid gambling debt—something no gentleman would ever do unless forced. Society had turned against Brummell, though Alvanly and some others were known to speak of him kindly and to send him money in his exile in France.
Why was Madeline looking up at that fop in such a coquettish manner? He had never seen her flirt with anyone so outrageously. As a girl she’d had shy pretty manners that had touched his heart, but now...he hardly knew her. If her husband were truly the brute she’d described to him, how dare she behave so recklessly?
A glance around the ballroom told Hallam that Lethbridge was not in the room to witness his wife flirting with the fop. Frowning, Hallam watched as she gave her hand to one of the other gentlemen and was whisked off to the dance floor. Her ardent suitor seemed annoyed—or perhaps frustrated. He had the look of a hunter intent on cornering his prey.
‘How are you, Ravenscar?’ The voice at his elbow distracted Hallam. He turned to look at the gentleman, a fellow officer who had seen service in France with him. ‘She is a beauty, isn’t she? But off limits unless you wish Lethbridge to call you out. I’ve heard he is like a dog with a bone over his wife as a rule.’
‘Good to see you, Mainwaring. Who is the wealthy fop?’ Hallam nodded in the direction of the frustrated suitor. ‘He looks dangerous.’
‘Yes, I dare say he might be. I’ve heard he is a crack shot and even more deadly with the sword. He was in France with us, though a line regiment, has some French relations, I understand. Rich, they say...some whisper he absconded with jewels, objets d’art and pictures that belonged to Napoleon in the last days of his reign. They also say his relations worked for the secret police in the time of the Terror and became rich by robbing the wretches condemned to be guillotined. Marquis of Rochdale...the third of his line, I believe.’
‘A pretty fellow, by all accounts, and old enough to be the countess’s father.’
‘Perhaps she likes them that way. Lethbridge must be twelve years her senior.’
‘She married to save her family from ruin,’ Hallam replied, stung to defend Madeline, even though he felt annoyed with her for flirting so openly—and for spinning him that tale at the wedding.
Yet she had been crying when he discovered her in the rose arbour. Something was wrong, but he could not decide what to believe.
Moving on, Hallam greeted friends and danced with a couple of ladies—wives of his particular friends—and
Similar Books
