Indigo Moon Read online

  She smiled unworriedly. “You were talking with my cousin earlier. Perhaps he could introduce us. My aunt would never object, then.”

  “Your cousin?” Heath raised his eyebrows. He could not imagine how this single-minded nymph could have noticed to whom he had spoken, nor could he imagine anyone condescending to speak with him. Surely she would have been carried off the dance floor by now if either her aunt or cousin had been paying the least bit of attention to their rash charge.

  “There he is.” She glanced over his shoulder to a point near the entryway where they had met. Then her face lit with a glee that could not be contained. “And there is Geoffrey. Could you not look down upon me with consuming passion or something? He looks positively livid.”

  The earl chuckled and obliged by pulling her more intimately into his embrace and managing not to trip as he swirling her in a graceful circle that billowed her skirts in a most indecorous fashion.

  He bent to whisper in her ear. “Beware, little one, you play with fire when you play with men’s passions.”

  Chapter 2

  As his enchantress led him straight toward Emery Beresford, the Earl of Heathmont chuckled in black delight. He should have recognized the resemblance between the golden-haired nearsighted cousins. And now having some understanding of who this determined young miss might be, Heath realized he had plunged into waters well over his head. He raised a cynical eyebrow as Beresford accosted him.

  “Heath, have you gone mad?” his friend demanded.

  Ignoring this rudeness, Heath answered politely, “The lady says we have not been properly introduced, Beresford. Would you be kind enough to do the pretty?”

  If his friend noted the sarcasm, he ignored it, turning instead to his rebellious young cousin. “Your aunt is looking for you. You know how she is when she thinks she has misplaced something. You had best return to her at once.”

  Green eyes flashed with fury. “Emery Beresford, how can you be so rude? If you do not make the introductions at once, I shall do it myself.”

  Beresford rubbed his nose, glared at his cousin and back again to Heath’s noncommittal expression. Then, he sighed with resignation. “The sad thing is, she would, too,” he muttered.

  At Heath’s look, Beresford shrugged and made a halfhearted introduction. “Lady Aubree Beresford—Austin Atwood, fifth Earl of Heathmont.” He glowered again at his wayward friend. “If you have not already surmised, she is the duke’s daughter, and a more spoiled, willful brat you will never find. If you retain any sense at all, you will run at the sound of her name.”

  Serenely accepting these insults, Lady Aubree curtsied. “An earl, that is excellent. Geoffrey will be furious.” She straightened and smiled sweetly at her cousin. “You are still angry with me for stealing that mare from you. That isn’t gentlemanly, Emery. Give Peggy my regards and be certain Lord Heathmont finds my direction properly.”

  With an all-encompassing smile, she swept away in the direction of a slight, elderly lady who frantically searched the crowd, clutching at the sleeves of passersby in pursuit of her elusive niece.

  Heath followed the sway of slender hips beneath gossamer gold until lost in the crowd, then turned his amused expression to his boyhood friend. “The story of the mare, Emery?”

  Beresford groaned and ran his fingers through the wispy remains of his hair. “At Tattersall’s. She went to Tattersall’s, by Jupiter. She marched through the stables with only her groom in attendance, and the little witch chose the best damned piece of horseflesh on the market. And she bid it right out from under me. Didn’t even know it was her until afterward. Bid it just as cool and calm as you please. The whole damn place was jumping up and down at the prices we were offering, and she didn’t twitch a muscle. And you know what she said to me after? Said the damned mare had a nicked hock she wanted to treat. A thousand pounds, I tell you, for a nicked hock! You don’t know what you’re getting into, Heath.”

  The earl refrained from smiling at his friend’s nervousness. He did not mean to strain this one loyal friendship for a passing fancy, but he was a trifle disappointed in Emery’s reaction. Wryly, he offered Emery the opportunity to back out. “Would you rather this notorious abuser of women stay away from your lovely but exceedingly young cousin?”

  Beresford gave him a look of exasperation. “Any man who survives the attention of Aubree and the Duke of Ashbrook has received punishment enough for all misdeeds, real or imagined. I’ll warn you now, your cause is not helped by standing between the two. They will chop you into mincemeat and stomp on your bones to rip at each other.”

  The earl accepted this warning placidly. “It sounds a good deal more diverting than licking boots,” he mused.

  The topic of this conversation arrived home in a swirl of cloaks and laughter, offering to dance with her father’s solemn butler and sending her maid into gales of glee as she curtsied prettily and danced with the hat rack when refused the butler’s hand.

  She was seventeen years old, wealthy and beautiful, and in London for the first time in her life. She had danced with a dashing gentleman who had made her feel as lovely and sophisticated as the elegant ladies she had glimpsed on the streets. She had her whole life ahead of her and the wits to know she could do almost anything she wanted should she put her mind to it.

  Why should she bemoan the fate that had made her father a powerful duke who terrorized even the strongest of souls? Lord Heathmont was right. Her husband must be a man unafraid to challenge the duke. If Geoffrey could not stand up to him over a matter as important as this, he was not the man she thought.

  Wistfully, she swept up the three Siamese kittens that came bounding down the stairs into her arms. If only the right man could come along before her eighteenth birthday.

  Aunt Clara gazed worriedly upon her later that evening, though Aubree did her best not to notice. Sitting before her bedroom fireplace in her nightshift, she giggled in delight at her lap full of playful kittens.

  She made a clown face at her frail relative’s expression. “Aunt Clara, you are worrying again. There is no need of it, really there isn’t.”

  Since she was actually Aubree’s great-aunt and apparently feeling her age, Clara lowered herself to the wingback chair at the fireside before taking up a kitten. “Aubree, my child, I know it has been a long time since I have been part of London society, not since your mother’s coming-out, if I remember rightly. . .”

  Aubree knew the tale. Thirty years ago her aunt had been an attractive, ambitious matron who had successfully snared one of the city’s most eligible bachelors for her young charge. After the crowning success of marrying her niece off to a wealthy duke, she had retired to the country with her laurels.

  Clara sighed and tried again. “Aubree, you simply cannot entertain men who have not been introduced to you. Your family is trying very hard to acquaint you with only the right sort of people. You are much too young and inexperienced to make that distinction for yourself. And to waltz with a man you have only just met. . . and at your age. . .” The shock was almost too much for her, and she shuddered.

  Aubree whispered in a kittenish ear and grinned at the answering purr. She loved Aunt Clara, but her high spirits were more than the frail old lady would ever understand. Until now, she had attempted to hide her escapades, but this time she needed her aunt’s cooperation.

  “Auntie, I have apologized for worrying you, but you really have no cause for concern. Lord Heathmont is an eminently respectable gentleman, a friend of Emery’s, and nearly old enough to be my father. He is in London only a short time and is looking for diversion. I am bored to tears with stuffy assemblies, and since Papa evidently intends to choose my husband for me, I see no reason why I cannot enjoy myself a trifle before I must be shackled to some dull politician for the rest of my life. What can an occasional ride in the park harm, particularly if my cousin attends also?”

  Of course, Aunt Clara had known Aubree all of her seventeen years and knew her propensity for trouble, but
her aunt never quite understood her true intentions. She sighed in frustration.

  “It would be better had your brother lived. At least, he had the talent to make you mind and served as a buffer between you and your father, but now. . .”

  A flicker of sadness shadowed Aubree’s thoughts as she remembered the proud young marquess who had been her father’s only heir. Perhaps she modeled her suitors after him, and no other met the standards. Even Geoffrey fell short of her memory of her brother, but who could live up to such a hero? Even the duke had not been able to stop his only son from fighting at Nelson’s side—and dying for a cause that was not yet won, even five years later.

  Cursing the foolishness of men and war, Aubree placed the kittens in their box and rose to stand beside her aunt. “I can never be Henry, Aunt Clara. I have tried, but I only disappoint Papa more. Soon, I will be married, and you need not worry about me anymore. Can you not allow me this little bit of freedom now?”

  The affection between them was real, and her aunt sensed the plea that was not spoken. She nodded sadly, hugged her, then paused for one final shot. “I trust you, Aubree, but that earl of yours is no gentleman, I fancy. Remember the injured hawk whose broken wing you set?” At Aubree’s nod, she continued, “He bit your finger and flew away when he needed you no longer. I’ll not allow that to happen again, my dear. You keep your cousin with you.”

  After her aunt departed, Aubree climbed into bed and buried her face in the pillow, trying to hold back the tears. How could she make her aunt understand that the cynical earl offered a cure for her own wounds and not the other way around? Geoffrey’s cut had injured deeply, more than she would admit. Her father’s rejection of her had shadowed her entire life; to be rejected by the man she had chosen to marry was a humiliation too deep to be borne.

  But never would she let anyone know it.

  The earl arrived as promised, his aged Hessians gleaming with new polish, his biscuit-colored trousers snug and revealing the trim hips and flat stomach of a man accustomed to vigorous exercise. The deep blue of his square-cut coat accented the similar coloring of his eyes, and though the thick mass of chestnut curls falling upon his brow had not been deliberately styled in the classic mode, he succeeded in resembling any statue of a Greek god Aubree had ever seen.

  She smiled hesitantly as he entered the salon, dominating the delicate Sheraton pieces with his athletic grace and air of the outdoors. If it had not been for his limp, she might have frozen in panic at her foolishness in inviting this stranger here. As it was, she urged him into the most comfortable chair.

  Entering behind his friend, Emery lifted his eyebrows at her maneuver, but he sensibly held his tongue. This was only a polite social call of twenty minutes after all.

  Aubree opened innocently enough by introducing Aunt Clara, who sought to place the earl’s ancestors in relation to her own. Delighted to learn Heathmont’s mother was the younger sister of a close friend of her youth, Clara occupied the first five minutes with her chatter before the tea arrived.

  Emery paced nervously, narrowly avoiding tripping on the Aubusson carpet, accidentally upsetting the Sevres snuffbox on the mantel, and nearly colliding with the new Hepplewhite table, until Aubree grew exasperated.

  “For pity’s sake, Emery, either put your spectacles on or sit down and have some tea. My father is not about to stroll in anytime soon, and he will not cut the throat of his future heir in any event. Why didn’t you bring Peggy? She must certainly grow bored sitting at home while you’re gallivanting about.”

  The earl hid his amusement as the future Duke of Ashbrook obediently lowered himself to a tapestried sofa at the command of a tiny chit of a girl. Though she lacked the polished sophistication of her London-bred peers, Lady Aubree Beresford obviously had learned the lesson of power and command. Relaxing, Heathmont spread his long legs out more comfortably and waited for the Punch and Judy show to begin.

  “Peggy stays home for a very good reason, as you well know, Aubree. A lady in her condition does not show herself in public,” Beresford explained, as if to a very slow child.

  “Stuff and nonsense, Emery! Is all the world to pretend women don’t have babies? Perhaps we are to believe babies come from heaven, delivered directly to the doorstep of good little girls and boys? If that’s the case, heaven is enormously fond of those poor creatures down by Covent Garden and the docks.”

  “Aubree!” Aunt Clara intruded, aghast.

  Beresford glowered. “Aubree, we are not animals to parade ourselves as nature made us! I don’t know how you grew up to be such an uncivilized heathen, but even you must admit the necessity of clothing ourselves.”

  At the dangerous gleam in green eyes, Heath hastened to interrupt. “Lady Aubree is correct in some respects, Beresford. Why should we hide away our women as if we were ashamed of them, while the men strut and preen like roosters over their accomplishments? But I doubt if this is a topic for the tea table, my lady. Perhaps you should apologize to your aunt and find a more suitable subject?”

  “Apologize?” Aubree stared at him as if he had developed two wings and horns, but his frown warned her that she needed his help, and she complied with alacrity.

  “I do apologize, Aunt Clara. I shall learn to speak with more circumspection.”

  Heath could almost hear her silent vow: Until after she was married.

  “Perhaps Lord Heathmont would do us the favor of describing his home and neighbors? You are from Devon, I believe you mentioned, my lord?”

  Since this was the next-to-last topic he wished to discuss and Heath suspected from the mischievous gleam in the lady’s eye that the little minx knew it, he felt himself aptly repaid for his coercion. He steered clear of the subject of his neighbors and launched into the topic of the sailing to be had from the coast.

  The remainder of the visit passed innocuously, and Heath was rewarded with the promise of Aubree’s company for a ride in the park on the following day. It would be interesting to see how much she would try to pry from him during his short stay in society.

  Outside the duke’s fashionable Park Street residence, Beresford halted. “Devil take it, Heath! You cannot mean to court a chit nearly half your age. Even if I know there is no truth to the gossip about you, you have no cause to taint Aubree’s reputation with scandal. She’s a greenling—and a willful brat, admittedly—but a gentleman. . .”

  “I have long since resigned the position of gentleman, Beresford,” Heath replied. “The young lady knows what she wants and I am only helping her to obtain it. Courtship plays no part in it. With the proper handling, I believe I can help my own cause as well. The young lady and I understand each other.”

  His nearsighted friend looked dubious but resigned. “You had best know what you are doing, Heath. I’ll not be in the briars over that tyke again. I’m too old for it.”

  The earl snorted disrespectfully and climbed into his waiting phaeton. “You have a wife and child to keep you young, my lad. Allow me my few eccentricities.”

  Knowing something of his friend’s troubles, Beresford grimaced. “What you need is a good woman, Heath, and I don’t mean that high flier you were with the other night. Pity Peggy’s not up to the mark right now. She’d match you up with just the thing. A sizable dowry can always make a man’s coffers sing a different tune.”

  Heath scowled. “I have nothing to offer a wife, and I’ll not be indebted to anyone. The subject is closed.”

  Women were no longer a part of his life—not the marrying kind, leastways. Other problems were uppermost in his mind as he made his plans for the courting of the duke’s only daughter. The girl herself scarcely came into it.

  Chapter 3

  The Duke of Ashbrook tapped his quill against the desk as his piercing gray eyes looked through his caller. The duke’s golden Beresford hair had faded to a dull beige and gray, but age had not robbed him of his energy or ambition. Both were thwarted by the necessity of listening to prattle of his daughter’s latest jingle-brained
escapade.

  He had sired his youngest child at a late age, too late for both himself and his wife. The duchess had died in this final effort to bring forth a second son. As a result, Aubree’s upbringing had been left to a succession of nannies and governesses. He fully realized now the folly of leaving a malleable child in the hands of fools, but he’d had no choice then and very little now. If only Henry had lived. . .

  This was an admission of weakness, and the duke shoved his pen aside, standing up and striding angrily to the window overlooking his northern estate. He straightened his shoulders against the tendency to sag. He would never convince Aubree he only wanted her happiness, and he certainly had no intention of revealing the reason for his need to see her safely settled. Physicians could be wrong, and there was no point in worrying her needlessly. He might yet live to see his grandchildren. Still, he would feel the responsibility relieved only when he knew his rebellious daughter had a husband to look after her in the extreme case the physicians might be right for a change.

  Cursing to himself, the duke wondered what devilment she was up to now, for he knew of a certainty that his quick-witted daughter had not taken up with a scoundrel out of innocence.

  “The Earl of Heathmont? Is he not that rapscallion they accused of—what? Beating his wife? Murdering her? Some such nonsense. Bitch probably deserved it.” The duke swung around to confront his unwelcome visitor.

  “So they say, but he was never brought to trial.” The solicitor surreptitiously eased his weight from one leg to the other. It seldom occurred to his grace to offer a visitor a seat. The duke seldom sat himself. “They also say he is a war hero, cashiered when he nearly lost his leg at Corunna.”

  “Corunna.” A little more than three years after Henry’s death. Henry would have been thirty this year. He wondered how old this Earl of Heathmont might be.