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She was being stared at, she knew. From the other side of the ferns she heard a conversation, the whispers not quite low enough.
‘They say she and her father were stranded in the desert and rescued from savage tribesman by a French officer! Can you imagine! And so she had to marry him to secure his protection for herself and her father. And then there was a battle and he was killed and her father—the scholar Sir Philip Woodward, you know—he bravely took a small boat down the Nile—’
‘My dear! The crocodiles!’
‘I know, I was aghast! But fortunately they encountered our valiant army besieging Cairo and were saved. And Miss Woodward—she is not using her French name, and who can blame her, poor child?—was escorted home by some wealthy merchant’s wife. Not good ton of course, but utterly respectable.’
‘Good heavens. So now she is with her grandfather, St Osyth. Quite a catch, I imagine, despite the French husband. Handsome girl. Have you seen her gown? One of Madame Rochester’s, if I do not mistake. And that jade set—unconventional, but I suppose as she is actually a widow...’
‘Cleo, my dear!’
‘Yes, Aunt Madeleine?’
‘Lady Jersey is coming this way.’
One of the patronesses of Almack’s, one of the leaders of the ton. Cleo felt herself shivering with nerves. If she got this wrong, she was doomed from the outset.
* * *
The next half hour passed in a daze. Cleo maintained her poise, her smile and, apparently, her wits, although she had no clear idea of what she said to anyone. Lady Jersey was pleased to be interested and amused by her exotic story, gentlemen joined the group. Perhaps I can do this after all.
‘Lord Dryton, good evening.’ Lady Madeleine fluttered her fan and beamed on the gentleman who had just joined the group.
That was very warm. Suspicious, Cleo tried to study him without staring. Dark, olive-skinned, lean with firm lips and deep lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth. He bowed to her aunt and smiled. Cleo took an involuntary step back. I do not like you, my lord.
‘Lady Madeleine, such a pleasure to see you again. Do, please, introduce me to the young lady I believe is your niece. I have been hearing such exciting tales of perilous escapes.’ His voice was deep and pleasant, but his smile did not reach his eyes. They seemed to slide over her body before returning to her face.
‘Of course. Cleo, my dear, here is a good neighbour of ours in Somerset, Lord Dryton. My lord, Miss Woodward.’
She curtsied as she had been taught and found a smile to curve her lips. ‘My lord.’
‘You have had an exciting time of it, it seems, Miss Woodward.’
‘The stories of crocodiles were exaggerated, my lord,’ Cleo said. But I think I have one standing in front of me.
Lord Dryton shot her a look from under his dark brows as though he suspected her of levity. ‘Excellent. You will do me the honour of a dance, I hope?’
‘My lord.’ She proffered her empty dance card and he wrote his name against the dance immediately after supper, bowed and left.
‘Deverall, my dear fellow. You are back in town.’
Cleo dropped her reticule and someone picked it up. She murmured her thanks. I must not show any particular interest in Quin.
The rest of the group glanced in his direction, several people nodded and smiled and the buzz of conversation grew. Quin was obviously known and liked. Cleo’s hands moved of their own accord—to reach out and touch him or to slap that clean-shaven, handsome face with its easy diplomatic smile? She clenched them on her fan.
‘Miss Woodward.’ He inclined head and shoulders in a slight bow.
‘Lord Quintus,’ she returned, amazed to find she could speak with perfect control. ‘We meet again. Lord Quintus was on the same ship that I travelled on from Alexandria, Aunt Madeleine.’
Lady Madeleine knew the true story, of course, but her self-control was perfect. ‘Indeed, my dear?’ There was a smile on her lips and a clear warning in her eyes.
‘It was a fleeting acquaintance, ma’am, to my regret,’ Quin said. ‘I am a martyr to seasickness and spent most of that wretched journey confined to my cabin.’ That little lie was going to get him unmercifully teased by some of his acquaintance, Cleo could tell from the grins on the faces of the men. ‘I must do my best to make up for my lack of utility now. Might I beg the honour of a dance, Miss Woodward?’
The correct behaviour for dealing with requests to dance had been drilled into Cleo. Provided her chaperon had approved the gentleman, then she must accept if there were any dances left on her card. She’d had not the slightest excuse for refusing Lord Dryton, nor would Quin believe her card was full. Even pleading fatigue when the time came would not save her from either man—she must still accept, but ask to sit out and talk. Aunt Madeleine appeared to approve of Quin as a partner so there was no help there.
