The Girl with the Sweetest Secret (Sin & Sensibility #2) Page 3

  Ardith Tutty, nineteen and the deb of the hour, had completed the obligatory first dance with her father and the second with her godfather, and had taken the floor with two other gentlemen since—neither of whom was under age fifty. Still, she didn’t seem in the least beset by such a dismal start to her life in society. Moments later, Frankie understood why.

  Several smartly attired young men descended on the group and spirited girls away to dance, giving lie to her mother’s social wisdom. Soon, the only one left standing with Frankie and Claire was Ardith, who had made herself all but unavailable during the pairing . . . turning aside to greet a nearby matron and brandishing her fan in a way that forbade any approach. Now, however, she fluffed her bodice frills and applied her fan, staring over it at two gentlemen making their way across the dance floor toward them.

  “He’s mine,” she said to Frankie, under cover of her fluttering fan.

  Frankie blinked, wondering if she’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon.”

  “The one on the right. Carlton Laroche. He’s mine.” She gave Frankie an icy little smile. “You two can fight over the other one.”

  Stunned, Frankie watched Ardith appropriate Laroche’s arm and bat her eyes in a calculated way. The gentleman escorted the deb of the hour onto the floor, but not, Frankie noted, without a backward glance at her.

  Conniving heifer . When vexed, Frankie reverted to colorful ranching lingo, peppered with Uncle Red’s miner slang—to her mother’s dismay. She stared at the departing pair, thinking that Ardith might be young but she was already a determined competitor in the marriage sweepstakes. She had sized up Frankie as competition and brashly warned her off as she staked a claim to one of the more handsome men in the room. Silly cow . As if Frankie would ever be interested in jumping such a claim.

  The other fellow presented himself before Frankie and Claire with a stiff bow, muttering his name with a heavy north-of-England accent. “Milroy Steve’son, a’ yar service. Would either of you farr ladies, um, carrre to dannce?”

  Frankie edged back a half step, which left Claire closer to the fellow. He flushed slightly as he offered his arm. Claire gave her a look before accepting the invitation and proceeding to the dance floor.

  That left Frankie standing alone, or so she thought. A moment later a girlish voice whispered, “A lot of good that will do her.”

  She turned with a start to find a stout, frizzy-haired young woman in a too-tight bodice leaning in to speak to her. Hazel Something. They had been introduced at Lucinda Mazur’s coming out party. Plain and self-effacing, Hazel hadn’t been especially memorable, except for the way Ardith and some of the other girls had belittled her.

  “What will do who no good?” Frankie frowned, turning to the girl.

  “Ardith.” Hazel glanced around to be certain no one was paying attention, then nodded to the evening’s honoree as she whirled past. “She’s set her cap for Laroche, but it will come to naught. Her father won’t give her permission to wed until her older sister Marcella is married.”

  “Really? He demands his elder daughter be married first?” Frankie said. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  Hazel looked puzzled for a moment, then realized she didn’t know. “It’s an old custom in noble houses and the Tuttys have always aped fancy manners. Barbaric if you ask me.” She grinned wickedly. “Especially when the eldest is Marcella Tutty.”

  Frankie felt even more at sea and her face must have shown it. Hazel produced a tight little smile. “She’s so plain and disagreeable, where would they ever find someone to take her on?” She shot a satisfied look Ardith’s way. “Ardith will die a spinster if she can’t change her father’s mind.”

  Frankie glanced at arch-competitor Ardith with new eyes.

  “Of course, there are ways,” Hazel added. “And Marcella and Ardith Tutty are nothing if not determined.”

  Before Frankie could respond, Hazel was discovered and bustled off by her irritable lady mother.

  Frankie watched the dancers and the knots of conversation going on around the edges of the dance floor . . . the furtive glances to see who might be in earshot, the whispers and quiet exclamations of surprise or indignation, the hearty laughter and back-slapping of those who endured these honored traditions of camaraderie, connection, and engagement.

  It was a sea of intrigue, she thought, watching the couples on the dance floor and those populating the sides and the conversation nooks. How many of them had secrets that would cause their lives or social connections to unravel if they were to be uncovered?

  Already tonight she had been made privy to three confidences that she would rather not have heard. What was it about her that made people tell her things? She turned to go in search of her mother, knowing there were seating areas filled with mamas and matrons outside the ballroom and on a mezzanine balcony overlooking the far end of the ballroom. That was most likely where—

  Two gentlemen blocked her path and she was surprised to find their host, Marion Tutty, in company with another man, staring down at her.

  “Sir Marion.” She took a half step back and used her fan, uncertain what she had done to draw their host’s notice. “Such a lovely party.”

  “Miss Bumgarten, I believe.” Sir Marion’s smile had a tension about it. “Such a delight to have you here, my dear. You have brightened our gathering with your presence and acquired admirers this evening, one of whom I bring for an introduction.” He turned to the man at his shoulder, who stepped forward and caused Frankie to inhale sharply. “Your Grace, may I present Miss Bumgarten, of America.”

  Chapter Three

  The gentleman clicked his heels smartly as he bent his head in a gracious nod. He was tall, dark, and expensively dressed. A blue-rimmed white satin sash held in place by a gold medallion lay diagonally across his broad chest. It was a Continental look, she had learned from her London associations. That all took a moment to sink in, along with “Your Grace. ”

  This was a duke .

  Her hand extended, seemingly of its own accord, as she sank on weakening knees into a well-practiced curtsey. She rose into the glow of a smile beaming at her from beneath large brown eyes that glinted with amusement. He had short dark hair and square, solid features that were ennobled by an aquiline nose and a firm mouth.

  “Maximillian, Duke of Ottenberg has been so good as to grace us with his presence this evening,” Tutty continued, a bit too eagerly.

  “Miss Bumgarten.” The duke’s voice was deep and pleasant around her name as he gave her hand a kiss and a surprising bit of pressure before returning it to her.

  “Your Grace, it is an honor to meet you,” she managed, reeling a bit.

  She glanced at the far end of the room, wondering if her mother was watching.

  “The pleasure is mine, dear lady,” he said with a throaty accent that marked him as being from the north of the Continent. “Our host speaks the truth to say that you brighten this gathering with your radiance. I hope you will make this evening all the more memorable for me by accepting my invitation to dance.”

  “I would be pleased to, Your Grace.” She gave him her hand and accompanied him to the dance floor where couples were answering the music’s call for the next dance. It was a waltz, a dance Frankie had not only been tutored in, but actually enjoyed. As he put his hand to hers and clasped her waist, she felt the stares of the room collect around them and experienced a trill of excitement.

  The duke was as impressive a dancer as he was a figure. His every movement seemed confident and calculated to put his partner at ease. She fell into the rhythm of the music and steps, feeling her skirts sway pleasantly in the turns. She couldn’t imagine a more perfect partner.

  “And where is Ottenberg, Your Grace? I’m afraid I have not had time to study the geography of the Continent as much as I would like.”

  “Prussia,” he said tautly, watching her for a reaction. “The north of Germany. My lands border the Mecklenburg.”

  She nodded, making a mental note to find a map somewhere.

  “And what brings you to London? Business or pleasure?”

  “Business is ever in a German’s mind,” he said with a laugh. “But not in his heart. There we find room for . . . sweeter pursuits.” He collected her gaze in his and smiled warmly.

  Oh, he was a charmer.

  As they whirled through another round of steps, he made her feel as if they were the only two people on the dance floor. He spoke of his interest in shipping and acquiring contacts in international commerce and she told him of her first home in the great American West and how she came to be in London. He confessed that he longed to visit the United States, land of cowboys and gold mines and endless opportunity. When she asked if his duchess enjoyed London, his gaze took on a canny edge.

  “I am unmarried, Fräulein Bumgarten .” He increased the pressure of his hand around hers. “I have only myself to blame. I search the world for the perfect woman. Nothing less will do. One with eyes of sky blue, hair the color of polished mahogany, and a fire in her heart.” His hold on her hand grew tighter still. “But where am I to find such an angel?”

  She reddened at the implication of the bold words that he clearly intended to describe her. Perhaps she was misreading his flattery. Lord knew, she was no expert on Continental customs. It could be that German nobles were raised to different standards of propriety from Brits or Americans.

  “Well, if I run into such a lady, Your Grace, I will be sure to send her your way.”

  He chuckled, drawing her into a mischievous laugh as the waltz drew to a close. He surprised her by continuing to hold her hand discreetly after the music faded away. He asked earnestly for another dance, being “so reluctant to part with you after only having found such a rare and companionable young b
eauty.”

  She was a sucker for blatant admiration.

  The next dance was not as lively, but the slower pace gave them more of a chance to talk.

  “Horses,” she informed him, were her family’s trade at her Nevada home. “Well, horses and silver. We were—are—mining people.”

  “Horses and silver.” He mused on that. “We have a great tradition in Prussia—excuse me—Germany , of breeding horses for battle and for show. If someday you come to my country, you must see the Lipizzaner stallions. They are silver and white horses that are trained to do the most remarkable things . . . to perform the dressage and do the airs above the ground. You know this, yes? The airs?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of them.”

  “Remarkable things. To stand on hind legs and jump and lunge through the air . . . is most extraordinary. These horses were bred first by the Hapsburg royalty for battle. Spanish and Arabian stock increased the strength and endurance.” He studied her. “You ride, then?”

  “Do I ever. But there are so few places in London for a truly pleasurable ride. Hyde Park’s ‘Rotten Row’ and Serpentine are always so crowded and scrutinized. I am used to open spaces where you can give your mount his head. I love flying across the countryside with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. So much better than sitting primly and having to match pace to every other horse and rider on a simple path.”

  She halted. He was watching her keenly and his hand had once again tightened on hers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go on so.”

  “Think nothing of it,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You Americans, you have the reputation for living free, yes? And I would love to see you riding so—with your magnificent hair unbound and your face to the sun. You have the free spirit, Fräulein Bum—”

  “Frances, please.” She dared correct his address in the name of forming a more interesting connection. “Or Frankie. Family and friends call me that.”

  “A ‘little name’?”

  “We call it a ‘pet name.’”

  “Ah. You honor me with such permission. Then you must address me as Maximillian. Alas, my family had no ‘pet name’ for me.” He made a moue of a face that bordered on the adorable. “They were serious and dutiful people.”

  “Something tells me you are of a different stripe,” she said, smiling.

  He blinked. “Stripe? I have no stripes.”

  She laughed softly. “It just means you are different from them. Like a horse of a different color.”

  “I see.” He seemed to relax and whirled her around in an elegant spin that required him to hold her tighter. “Alas, I am indeed my parents’ son. Ottenbergs breed true. Duty and determination are passed on in the bone and sinew. That and a burning desire for beauty.”

  She could have sworn his eyes glinted, but the next moment the music ended and she spotted her mother standing at the edge of the dance floor, making a show of conversing with friends but in reality, watching Frankie and her intriguing partner. Frankie felt the duke’s presence in the firm pressure of his hand around hers.

  Without a word, he conveyed that he intended to have her for a third dance, and she felt oddly conflicted. One dance was simply custom, and two was a display of enjoyment or interest. But three in a row was considered too exclusive, too familiar. It was possible the German duke was unacquainted with the nuances of England’s social niceties. Lord knew it took her a while to catch on to them, even with the Countess of Kew for a guide.

  Thinking of the beloved countess who had tutored her and her younger sisters in society’s expectations, Frankie wondered what she would think of the duke’s forward behavior. Was this the start of something she would come to celebrate or to regret?

  When the music began, the duke took her into his arms, then halted with a start and looked over his shoulder. He removed his hands from her and stepped back, his expression dark and his mouth suddenly a hard line. Reynard Boulton came fully into view with a wicked little smile and a gloved hand presented for hers.

  “Forgive the intrusion, old man,” Boulton said with more than a hint of insolence. “But I believe this dance was promised to me.”

  The duke stepped back, gave a stiff bow accompanied by a forced smile—“until later, fräulein”—and strode off the dance floor.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” she hissed as the Fox set a hand to her waist and steered her into the flow of dancers.

  “Saving your reputation,” he said with a smile that was clearly meant for everyone but her. “People are starting to talk.” He met her eyes for a moment. “Primarily your mother. Good God—that woman. Another dance and she’d have had you wedded and bedded before banns.”

  She glanced toward her mother’s last known location, remembering the suppressed excitement in Elizabeth’s face as she watched Frankie with the duke. The S in Elizabeth S. Bumgarten did not stand for subtlety.

  Curse his hide, Boulton was probably right.

  “I should think you would know better, Miss Bumgarten. Displaying such simpleminded fascination with a Prussian.”

  “Simpleminded—” She bit back few ranch-hand words in favor of something more ladylike. “My dance partners are none of your business.”

  He was totally unaffected by her censure.

  “In fact, you should thank me,” he continued, “for preventing you from squandering your reputation on a man you know nothing about.”

  “And I suppose you know everything there is to know about him. Your stock and trade, right? Knowing everything about everyone.”

  There was a slight hitch in his otherwise flawless steps, and his features lost some of their customary hauteur. It was then that she realized just how close he held her and how easily they moved together. She slid her hand to his shoulder, meaning to increase the distance between them, but discovered an unexpected muscularity beneath that elegant tailoring. Distracted by the realization that the Fox was hard in more than manner, she looked up and straight into his gaze.

  “He is Prussian,” he declared, looking away sharply. “That is all one needs to know.”

  For a moment, his dove gray eyes had seemed softer, more accessible. She was relieved to see only a hint of old bruising on his face.

  “And what about being ‘Prussian’ should disqualify him as a dance partner?”

  “They are a hard and militaristic people. They have a passion for guttural consonants, cuckoo clocks, and fat liver sausages. Their nobility rule with an iron hand, and when they see something they want, they take it.” He glanced away, checking their progress on the floor. “There. You now have all you need to know about Prussians and your fascinating duke.”

  Something in the tenor of his voice and the way he avoided looking at her made her wonder if something more than just outraged propriety caused him to intervene so crassly. After he brought her uncle Red home the other night, she had considered that he actually might feel some responsibility, however reluctantly, toward their family because of his ties to Daisy’s husband. But this—stepping in to save her from herself—this was beyond the pale.

  “Good to know you’re such an expert on nationalities,” she said, determined to show him she wouldn’t be intimidated. Since there were a number of measures left in the dance and they had to talk about something. “What can you tell me about the French? One Frenchman in particular. I believe his name is Julian Fontaine. He is the maestro of the orchestra providing this lovely music. What do you know about him?”

  He put another inch between them, and she noted the way he retreated into superiority.

  “Why should I know anything about him?” he said, glancing away. “He is a musician .”

  “A very talented musician. The conductor of a fine and sought-after chamber orchestra.”

  “It sounds as if you’ve already made a thorough study of your own.”

  “Not nearly as thorough as I would like,” she said, making a point of looking through the dancers toward the orchestra.

  “You do have eccentric tastes, Miss Bumgarten,” he said frostily. “Dukes. Musicians. Prussians. Frenchmen.”