Lady Whistledown Strikes Back Page 4

  But when she looked at Peter Thompson, she realized that there was a shadow behind his eyes that never quite went away.

  Harry had been at Peter’s side throughout the war. His eyes had seen the same horrors, and his eyes would have held the same shadows, had he not been buried in Belgium.

  “Tillie?”

  She looked up quickly. She’d been silent longer than she ought, and Peter was watching her with a curious expression. “Sorry,” she said reflexively, “just woolgathering.”

  But as she sipped her tea, watching him surreptitiously over the rim of her cup, it wasn’t Harry she was thinking about. For the first time in a year, finally, thrillingly, it wasn’t Harry.

  It was Peter, and all she could think was that he shouldn’t have shadows behind his eyes. And she wanted to be the one to banish them forever.

  Chapter 3

  …and now that This Author has made public the guest list from The Dinner Party That Went Awry, This Author offers to you, as a delicious lagniappe, an analysis of the suspects.

  Not much is known of Mr. Peter Thompson, although he is widely recognized as a courageous soldier in the war against Napoleon. Society hates to place a noted war hero on a list of suspects, but This Author would be remiss if it were not pointed out that Mr. Thompson is also recognized as something of a fortune hunter. Since his arrival in town, he has been quite obviously looking for a wife, although as This Author firmly believes in giving credit where credit is due, he has done so in a decidedly understated and unvulgar manner.

  But it is well-known that his father, Lord Stoughton, is not among the wealthier of the barons, and furthermore, Mr. Thompson is a second son, and as his elder brother has already seen fit to procreate, he is a mere fourth in line for the title. And so if Mr. Thompson hopes to live in any manner of style once he departs the army, he will need to marry a woman of some means.

  Or, one could speculate, if one was of a mind to do so, obtain funds in some other manner.

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 31 MAY 1816

  If Peter had known the identity of the elusive Lady Whistledown, he would have strangled her on the spot.

  Fortune Hunter. He detested the moniker, viewed it more as an epithet, and could not even think the words without nearly spitting in disgust. He’d spent this past month in London behaving with the utmost of care, all to ensure that the label was not applied to him.

  There was a difference between a man who sought a woman with a modest dowry and one who seduced for money, and the differential could be summed up in one word.

  Honor.

  It was what had governed his entire life, from the moment his father had sat him down at the appallingly tender age of five and explained what set apart a true gentleman, and by God, Peter was not going to allow some cowardly gossip columnist to stain his reputation with a single stroke of her pen.

  If the bloody woman had an ounce of honor herself, he thought savagely, she would not coyly cloak her identity. Only the craven used anonymity to insult and impugn.

  But he didn’t know who Lady Whistledown was, and he suspected no one ever would, not in his lifetime, anyway, so he had to content himself with taking out his foul mood on everyone else with whom he came into contact.

  Which meant that he was probably going to owe his valet a rather large apology on the morrow.

  He tugged at his cravat as he navigated the too-crowded ballroom at the home of Lady Hargreaves. He couldn’t refuse this invitation; to do so would have given too much credence to Lady Whistledown’s words. Better to brazen it out and laugh it off and take some solace in the fact that he wasn’t the only one savaged in this morning’s edition; Lady W had devoted a fair bit of space to five guests in total, including the poor beleaguered Miss Martin, whom the ton would surely turn upon, as she was merely Lady Neeley’s companion and not, as he had already heard someone say, one of their own.

  Besides, he’d had to come tonight. He had already accepted the invitation, and furthermore, every eligible young miss in London would be in attendance. He couldn’t let himself forget that there was a purpose to his presence in town. He could not afford to finish the season without a betrothal; as it was, he could barely manage to pay the rent on his humble bachelor lodgings north of Oxford Street.

  He imagined that the fathers of those marriageable misses might view him a little more carefully tonight, and several would not allow their daughters to associate with him, but hiding at home would, in the eyes of society, be tantamount to admitting guilt, and he would be far better off acting as if nothing had happened.

  Even if he wanted rather desperately to put his fist through the wall.

  The worst of it was that the one person with whom he absolutely couldn’t associate was Tillie. She was universally acknowledged as the season’s biggest heiress, and her good looks and vivacious personality had made her quite the catch indeed. It was difficult for anyone to pay court to her without being labeled a fortune hunter, and if Peter were seen to be dangling after her, he would never be rid of the stain on his reputation.

  But of course Tillie was the one person—the only person—he wanted to see.

  She came to him in his thoughts, in his dreams. She was smiling, laughing, then she was serious, and she seemed to understand him, to soothe him with her very presence. And he wanted more. He wanted everything; he wanted to know how long her hair was, and he wanted to be the one to release it from the prim little bun at the nape of her neck. He wanted to know the scent of her skin and the exact curve of her hips. He wanted to dance with her more closely than propriety allowed, and he wanted to spirit her away, where no other man could even gaze upon her.

  But his dreams were going to have to remain just that. Dreams. There was no way the Earl of Canby would approve of a match between his only daughter and the penniless younger son of a baron. And if he stole Tillie away, if they eloped without her family’s permission…. Well, she’d be cut off for certain, and Peter would not drag her into a life of genteel poverty.

  It wasn’t, Peter thought dryly, what Harry had had in mind when he’d asked him to watch out for her.

  And so he just stood at the perimeter of the ballroom, pretending to be very interested in his glass of champagne, and rather glad that he couldn’t see her. If he knew where Tillie was, then he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from watching for her.

  And if he did that, then he’d surely catch a glimpse of her.

  And once that happened, did he really think he could take his eyes off her?

  She’d see him, of course, and their eyes would meet, and then he’d have to go over to offer his greetings, and then she might want to dance….

  It occurred to him in a sharp flash of irony that he’d left the war precisely to avoid the threat of torture.

  He might as well just yank off his fingernails now.

  Peter subtly adjusted his position so that his back was more toward the crowds. Then he gave himself a mental smack when he caught himself glancing over his shoulder.

  He’d found a small group of men he knew from the army, all of whom, he was sure, had come to London for the same reason he had, although with the exception of Robbie Dunlop, none of them had had the misfortune of having been invited to Lady Neeley’s ill-fated dinner party. And Robbie hadn’t been chosen for scrutiny by Lady Whistledown; it seemed that even that wizened old crone knew that Robbie hadn’t the guile to concoct—much less carry out—such an audacious theft.

  “Bad luck about Whistledown,” one of the former soldiers commented, shaking his head with honest commiseration.

  Peter just grunted and lifted one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. It seemed a good enough answer to him.

  “No one will remember by next week,” said another. “She’ll have some new scandal to report on, and besides, no one really thinks you stole that bracelet.”

  Peter turned to his friend with dawning horror. It had never even occurred to him that anyone might actually think he was a thief. He’d
been merely concerned with the bit about being a fortune hunter.

  “Er, didn’t mean to bring it up,” the fellow stammered, stepping back at what must have been a ferocious expression on Peter’s face. “I’m certain it will turn out to be that companion. That sort never has two shillings to rub together.”

  “It wasn’t Miss Martin,” Peter bit off.

  “How d’you know?” asked one of the men. “Do you know her?”

  “Does anyone know her?” someone else asked.

  “It wasn’t Miss Martin,” Peter said, his voice hard. “And it is beneath you to speculate with a woman’s reputation.”

  “Yes, but how do you—”

  “I was standing right next to her!” Peter snapped. “The poor woman was being mauled by a parrot. She hadn’t the opportunity to take the bracelet. Of course,” he added caustically, “I don’t know who will trust my word on the matter now that I’ve been labeled as the prime suspect.”

  The men all rushed to assure him that they still trusted his word on anything, although one was foolish enough to point out that Peter was hardly the prime suspect.

  Peter just glared at him. Prime or not, it appeared that much of London now thought he might be a thief.

  Bloody hell.

  “Good evening, Mr. Thompson.”

  Tillie. The night only needed this.

  Peter turned, wishing his blood weren’t racing with quite so much energy at the mere sound of her voice. He shouldn’t see her. He shouldn’t want to see her.

  “It is good to see you,” she said, smiling as if she had a secret.

  He was sunk.

  “Lady Mathilda,” he said, bowing over her proffered hand.

  She turned and greeted Robbie, then said to Peter, “Perhaps you might introduce me to the rest of your compatriots?”

  He did so, frowning as they all fell under her spell. Or possibly, it occurred to him, the spell of her dowry. Harry hadn’t exactly been circumspect when he’d spoken of it on the Continent.

  “I could not help but overhear your defense of Miss Martin,” Tillie said, once the introductions had been completed. She turned to the rest of the crowd and added, “I was there as well, and I assure you, the thief could not have been she.”

  “Who do you think stole the bracelet, Lady Mathilda?” someone asked.

  Tillie’s lips pursed for a fraction of a second—just long enough to inform someone who was watching her very closely that she was irritated. But to anyone else (which consisted of everyone except for Peter) her sunny expression never wavered, especially as she said, “I do not know. I rather think it will be found behind a table.”

  “Surely Lady Neeley has already searched the room,” one of the men drawled.

  Tillie waved one of her hands through the air, a blithe gesture that Peter suspected was meant to lull the other gentlemen into thinking she couldn’t be bothered to think about such weighty questions. “Nevertheless,” she said with a sigh.

  And that was that, Peter thought admiringly. No one spoke of it again. One “nevertheless” and Tillie had maneuvered the discussion exactly where she wanted it.

  Peter tried to ignore the rest of the conversation. It was mostly inanities about the weather, which had been a bit chillier than was normal for this time of year, peppered with the occasional remark about someone’s attire. His expression, if he had any control over it, was politely bored; he did not want to appear overly interested in Tillie, and while he did not flatter himself to think that he was the main topic of gossip at the ball, he had already seen more than one old biddy point in his direction and then whisper something behind her hand.

  But then all of his good intentions were spoiled when Tillie turned to him and said, “Mr. Thompson, I do believe the music has begun.”

  There was no misunderstanding that statement, and even as the rest of the gentlemen rushed to fill the subsequent slots on her dance card, he was forced to crook his arm and invite her onto the dance floor.

  It was a waltz. It would have to be a waltz.

  And as Peter took her hand in his, fighting the urge to entwine their fingers, he had the distinct sensation that he was falling off a cliff.

  Or worse, throwing himself over the side.

  Because try as he might to convince himself that this was a terrible mistake, that he shouldn’t be seen with her—hell, that he shouldn’t be with her, period—he couldn’t quite quash the pure, almost incandescent tingle of joy that rose and swirled within him when he held her in his arms.

  And if the gossips wanted to label him the worst of all fortune hunters, then let them.

  It would be worth it for this one dance.

  Tillie had spent her first ten minutes of the Hargreaves’ Grand Ball trying to escape her parents’ clutches, her second ten looking for Peter Thompson, and her third standing at his side while she chattered about nothing at all with his friends.

  She was going to spend the next ten minutes with his complete attention if it killed her.

  She was still a little irritated that she’d practically had to beg him to dance with her, and in full view of a dozen other gentlemen. But there seemed little point in dwelling upon it now that he was holding her hand and twirling her elegantly around the dance floor.

  And why was it, she wondered, that his hand on her back could send such a strange rush of desire straight to the very core of her being? One would think that if she were to feel seduced, it would be from his eyes, which, after ten minutes of studiously ignoring her, burned into hers with an intensity that stole her breath.

  But in truth, if she was ready to throw caution to the wind, if she now required every last ounce of her fortitude not to sigh and sink into him and beg him to touch his lips to hers, it was all because of that hand on her back.

  Maybe it was the location, at the base of her spine, just inches through her body to her most intimate place. Maybe it was the way she felt pulled, as if any moment she would lose herself, and her body would be pressed up against his, hot and scandalous, and aching for something she didn’t quite understand.

  The pressure was relentlessly tender, drawing her toward him, slowly, inexorably…and yet when Tillie looked down, the distance between their bodies had not changed.

  But the heat within them had exploded.

  And she burned.

  “Have I done something to displease you?” she asked, desperately trying to shift her thoughts onto anything besides the heady desire that was threatening to overtake her.

  “Of course not,” he said gruffly. “Why would you think something so absurd?”

  She shrugged. “You seemed…oh, I don’t know…a bit distant, I suppose. As if you did not welcome my company.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he grunted, in that way that men did when they knew a woman was right but had no intention of admitting it.

  She’d grown up with two brothers, however, and knew better than to push, so instead she said, “You were magnificent when you defended Miss Martin.”

  His hand tightened around hers, but sadly, only for a second. “Anyone would have defended her,” he said.

  “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t think so. I’d say the opposite, actually, and I believe you know I’m right.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes defiant, waiting for him to contradict her. Smart man that he was, he didn’t.

  “A gentleman should never wreak havoc with a woman’s reputation,” he said stiffly, and she realized with a strange little bubble of delight that she loved that little hint of stodginess, loved that he was actually embarrassed by his own strict code of ethics.

  Or maybe it wasn’t the code as much as the fact that she had caught him in it. It was much more fashionable to be an unfeeling rake, but Peter could never be that cruel.

  “A woman shouldn’t wreak havoc with a gentleman’s reputation, either,” Tillie said softly. “I’m sorry about what Lady Whistledown wrote. It wasn’t well done of her.”

  “And do you have the ea
r of our esteemed gossip columnist?”

  “Of course not, but I do approve of her words more often than not. This time, however, I think she may have crossed the line.”

  “She accused no one.” He shrugged as if he didn’t care, but his tone could not lie. He was furious—and pained—by that morning’s column, and if Tillie had known who Lady Whistledown was, she would have happily trussed her up like a goose.

  It was a strange, fierce feeling, this anger that he’d been hurt.

  “Lady Mathilda…Tillie.”

  She looked up in surprise, unaware that she’d been off in her own thoughts.

  He offered her an amused smile and glanced down at their hands.

  She followed his gaze, and it was only then that she realized she was gripping his fingers as if they were Lady Whistledown’s neck. “Oh!” she let out in surprise, followed by the more mumbly, “Sorry.”

  “Do you make a habit of amputating your dance partners’ fingers?”

  “Only when I have to twist their arms to get them to ask me to dance,” she shot back.

  “And here I thought the war was dangerous,” he murmured.

  She was surprised that he could joke about it, surprised that he would. She wasn’t quite certain how to respond, but then the orchestra finished the waltz with a surprisingly lively flourish, and she was saved from having to reply.

  “Shall I return you to your parents?” Peter asked, leading her off the dance floor. “Or to your next partner?”

  “Actually,” she improvised, “I’m rather thirsty. Perhaps the lemonade table?” Which, she had noted, was clear across the room.

  “As you wish.”

  Their progress was slow; Tillie kept her pace uncharacteristically sedate, hoping to stretch their time together by another minute or two.

  “Have you been enjoying the ball?” she asked him.