A Grosvernor Square Christmas Page 4

  Fortunately, until now, none of his acquaintances had suspected that he—the most sensible man in the ton—had succumbed to such a maudlin, hopeless passion. A hopeless passion, since Amelia Easton would no sooner marry a man like Nigel than she would a butcher from Smithfield. After all, she was widely acknowledged as one of the great prizes on the matrimonial mart—beautiful, kind, good-natured, and disgustingly rich, or at least her father was. It was a most potent combination, and meant that the girl couldn’t step foot outside her family’s Mayfair townhouse without a pack of slavering bachelors in pursuit.

  “How did you figure it out?” he asked Silverton. “I haven’t said a word to a soul, and I’ve been damn careful around Miss Easton, too.”

  The very idea that she might discover his weakness for her made his blood run cold. Amelia was a sweet girl, but she’d surely burst into laughter at the idea of dependable and boring Nigel Dash falling in love with the most sought-after girl in London.

  Silverton propped his broad shoulders against one of the marble pillars that ringed Lady Framingham’s stiflingly hot ballroom. Nigel had never been one to envy his friends, no matter how wealthy, titled, or handsome. He came from an old and distinguished family and had enough money to last him ten lifetimes. More importantly, he was wealthy in friends, and had a mother and sister—both bang-up to the mark—who were devoted to him. He’d never had any cause for envy or complaint.

  Until a few months ago, anyway, when he realized he was hopelessly smitten with Amelia.

  Silverton gave him a sheepish smile. “It wasn’t me who deduced your feelings. It was Meredith.”

  Nigel didn’t know whether to be resigned or appalled, but after a moment’s consideration he decided the latter best summed up his reaction. “I beg you to tell me that your esteemed wife has not shared her insights with anyone else.”

  “Of course not, but we’re both mystified that you’re holding back. Miss Easton is clearly still available. Not only has she been out for several Seasons, she’s cried off from two engagements with two exceedingly eligible suitors. The field would thus appear to be wide open. And, Nigel, it’s long past time you got married,” Silverton added with the annoying complacency of a happily married man. “You’re thirty-four already.”

  “Not until next month. And may I remind you that you were the same advanced age when you married Meredith.”

  “I was simply waiting for the right woman.”

  “Well, so am I,” Nigel retorted.

  “Don’t hold out too long, old man.” As the orchestra struck up a waltz, Silverton’s aristocratic features grew thoughtful. “Besides, I think you have found the right girl. Miss Easton’s temperament would suit yours quite well, I believe.”

  Nigel agreed but, feeling more ill-tempered by the moment, he turned toward the dance floor with a good idea of what he would see—Amelia led into the waltz by one of her apparently endless stream of swains. This time it was Lord Broadmore, the man everyone regarded as the current favorite in the Amelia sweepstakes. The arrogant lord’s possessive demeanor as he guided her into the first turn of the waltz told Nigel that Broadmore believed he was Amelia’s favorite, too. And why not? He was rich, handsome, and heir to the Marquess of Lovering. Just the sort of fellow Amelia would no doubt wish to marry.

  “Blast it, Silverton, just look at the collection of suitors she’s got trailing after her, especially Broadmore.” Nigel gloomily watched the broad-shouldered Corinthian sweep Amelia gracefully down the room. “What girl wouldn’t want to be romanced by someone who looks like bloody Prince Charming?”

  Silverton frowned. “And you’re what? The frog on the lily pad?”

  “Hardly, but I can’t compete with Broadmore. He’s got every girl in town half in love with him already. Why not Amelia?”

  “Because Broadmore’s an arrogant ass. Do you really want Miss Easton spending the rest of her life with him? You’d be doing the poor girl a service by stealing him a march.”

  Nigel had never looked at it that way before. Broadmore was an arrogant ass, one who had a great deal more bottom than brains.

  Not that Amelia seemed to think so. As she and Broadmore spun past him, her light-hearted laugh drifted behind her, shimmering like fairy dust in the air.

  “I see your point,” Nigel replied. “But Amelia doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by Broadmore’s character defects.” He tried to ignore the way his heart twisted into a hard knot at the thought of Amelia married to another man.

  Silverton snorted. “Don’t bet on it. Miss Easton is polite to everyone, including asses like Broadmore. Besides, I understand her parents are doing their best to promote the match. I suspect Miss Easton is reluctant to disappoint them, given the unfortunate gossip surrounding her failed engagements.”

  Many in the ton had labeled Amelia both a jilt and a flirt for crying off, unfair labels that infuriated Nigel. Amelia was no flirt, but a kind person who was too accommodating by half. Neither of the men she’d ultimately rejected had been good enough for her, and Nigel had applauded her courage in breaking the engagements. “If Miss Easton’s parents support the match it’s bloody unlikely she’ll go against their wishes.”

  Silverton dismissed that objection with the wave of a hand. “First of all, if I were a girl I’d much rather marry you than Broadmore—”

  “Yes, well, you’re obviously not a girl, so your opinion on the matter is rather suspect.”

  “And,” Silverton said, ignoring the interruption, “you’re also one of the richest men in England. Parents love to marry their daughters off to men like you.”

  Nigel simply grunted. He hated talking about money, but Silverton was correct. Despite the ton’s general impression that his family lived in a respectable but fairly modest style, they were, in fact, disgustingly rich. His father had invested his small, inherited fortune with great care and to good effect, and Nigel’s efforts in the years since the old fellow’s death had been nothing short of spectacular.

  “That’s all well and good, but Sir Mitchell and his wife are aiming for a title for Amelia,” he pointed out. “They’ve always been ambitious in that regard.”

  Silverton scoffed. “Miss Easton never struck me as a girl dangling after a title.”

  Nigel glanced at Amelia again, being led off the floor by Broadmore. Her cheeks were brightly flushed and a tiny frown marked her normally clear brow. She looked hot and out of sorts, and a moment later snapped open her fan to apply it with vigorous effect. When Broadmore filched the dainty little frippery from her hand with a laugh and started to languidly fan her, Nigel thought she struggled to maintain a pleasant expression.

  “Well, Nigel?” Silverton’s sardonic tone drew him back to the conversation.

  “You’re right in that I wouldn’t expect Miss Easton to hold the lack of a title against a fellow, but she doesn’t think about me as a…prospective suitor.” Nigel paused, forcing himself to accept the grim reality. “She sees me only as a friend.”

  And that had been the story of Nigel’s life. He was everyone’s easy-going friend, and the perfect man to chat with old ladies or put shy debs at their ease. The best man to smooth over awkward moments, soothe flustered spinsters, or joke scowling dowagers out of a pet. And, normally, Nigel didn’t mind that role. He enjoyed lending a hand when needed and genuinely liked talking to people—all sorts of people, even the grumpiest of old dowagers.

  He was, quite simply, good, old Nigel Dash, the most dependable man in the ton, but certainly not a dashing suitor—a true irony, given his name. In the eyes of most young ladies—including Amelia Easton, he suspected—dependable was only a short step away from boring.

  Silverton poked him in the shoulder. “Then you’ll have to change her mind. Make her see you in a different light, like I did with Meredith. You have to take control and sweep the bloody girl off her feet.”

  Nigel eyed Silverton’s tall, golden magnificence. Women had thrown themselves at him for years, before his marriage. They
still tried to fall at his feet, but Silverton had eyes only for his wife.

  Women did not throw themselves at Nigel’s feet, no matter how much he might like them to. “That’s all very well for you to say, but look at you and then look at me.”

  Silverton frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  “My dear fellow, you may be a dimwitted aristocrat but you’ve never been arrogant about your personal attributes,” Nigel said with a wry smile.

  Not that he considered himself a toad. He’d been told on more than one occasion that his looks were pleasing. More than one young lady had commented approvingly on his blue eyes, and he did have a good head of brown, wavy hair. But as for the rest of him, he was merely of average height and tended to be lean rather than muscular. No matter how much he trained at Jackson’s Saloon, he only got leaner and tougher rather than imposing and muscled.

  Of course, his fencing skills were second to none, but unless he and Amelia happened upon privateers or highwaymen, Nigel was unlikely to have the opportunity to display that sort of prowess.

  Once again, his gaze unconsciously sought her out, but this time it snapped into sharp focus. “Blast it, what are those idiots doing to the poor girl?”

  “What’s that?” Silverton asked.

  “Amelia is clearly feeling the heat,” he growled, “and yet those bounders clustered around her are barely giving her room to breathe. Broadmore still hasn’t fetched the poor girl a cool drink, either.”

  “Hmm, she does look rather overcome, doesn’t she?” Silverton cut him a sideways glance. “You should do something about it. It’ll give you the perfect opportunity to play knight in shining armor.”

  “Dash to the rescue again,” Nigel retorted. “How very predictable of me.”

  His friend unleashed a taunting grin. “But you do it so well, old man.”

  “Bugger you,” Nigel tossed over his shoulder before pushing his way through the crowd. Silverton’s mocking laugh followed him.

  Even from a distance he could see the hectic flush of Amelia’s normally creamy complexion, her glossy brown curls wilting around her cheeks. She’d retrieved her fan from Broadmore and was waving it madly, not that Broadmore or her other swains appeared to take notice. They’d practically backed the poor girl into a stand of potted plants, each of them clearly loath to cede his position to another suitor.

  Idiots.

  Quickly, Nigel made his way through the jostling bodies around the dance floor, easing through with a touch of a hand on a shoulder and a quietly murmured apology. People smiled and gave way, allowing him to pass with a minimum of fuss.

  “Good evening, Miss Easton,” he said as he took advantage of a small gap to slip between Patterson and Morris, two of Amelia’s more devoted pursuers.

  “I say, Dash,” Patterson expostulated. “No need to push a man to the ground, is there?”

  Nigel had given him a bit of a shove, but pushing to the ground was an overstatement. “Forgive me, old son,” he said. “Barely saw you, what with the crush.” He took the tightly gloved hand Amelia had extended to him and bowed over it. “Miss Easton, it’s a wonder you can even breathe with this pack of fellows looming over you.”

  “Yes, it is rather a mob tonight, isn’t it?” Amelia replied. Her normally cheerful voice sounded strained. “I feel like I’m in the tropics, particularly since I seem to be standing in the middle of a jungle.” She cast a glance up at a large palm frond that was doing its best to tangle with the spangled comb set behind her top knot.

  Nigel released her hand, giving her a swift but thorough inspection. Amelia could never be less than lovely, regardless of difficult circumstances. She had a porcelain complexion—when she wasn’t expiring from the heat—as well as large, sherry-colored eyes and a generous, laughing mouth that could soften the hardest of hearts. But as far as he was concerned, it was her jaw that made her so much more than pretty. Square-cut and determined, it ended in a sweetly stubborn little chin that spoke of the independent spirit that usually hid behind her innately accommodating nature.

  “Yes, it is beastly hot in here,” Nigel said. “Perhaps you might care to step with me to the refreshment table for a cup of cold punch or, better yet, allow me to find you a seat in the supper room. I imagine it’s cooler in there.”

  Her lush mouth curved up in a grateful smile. “Oh, Mr. Dash, that would be wonderful. I’d love to sit down.” She cast a glance at Broadmore. “Especially after my waltz with his lordship. He has quite a vigorous style of dancing, you know. I was quite worn out by the time we quit the floor.”

  Although delivered in a teasing tone, Amelia’s gentle rebuke struck home. The big lout had dragged her around the dance floor and then hadn’t even had the good grace to fetch her refreshments.

  “Oh, hang it, Amelia,” Broadmore complained. “If you wanted to sit down you should have said so. I’m not a mind reader, you know.”

  Irritation lashed up Nigel’s spine like the sting of a whip. Not only had Broadmore neglected Amelia’s comfort, his casual use of her first name indicated an intimacy and possessiveness that bordered on the insulting.

  “Rest assured I will not repeat the mistake, Lord Broadmore,” Amelia returned in a polite voice. Then she turned a dazzling smile on Nigel. “I would be delighted to stroll with you to the supper room, Mr. Dash. I find myself quite in need of sustenance. Not to mention I fear you stand in grave danger of being trampled if we don’t remove ourselves immediately.”

  Since Patterson was currently poking Nigel between the shoulder blades and Morris had just elbowed him in the side, Amelia’s observation had considerable merit. But before he could extend his hand to her, Broadmore shouldered him aside. Nigel’s fingers automatically rolled into a fist, and it took some discipline to keep his temper within reasonable bounds.

  “I’ll take Amelia out on the terrace for a breath of air, Dash,” Broadmore said. “You and the rest of this lot can go bother someone else.”

  Nigel frowned. Broadmore was an ass, but even he knew better than to act with such reckless disregard for Amelia’s reputation. What the hell was the matter with him?

  Amelia stared at his lordship with open astonishment. “Take me out for a breath of air? It’s the middle of December!”

  “Besides,” Morris piped up, “wouldn’t do to be stepping out so privately with a fellow, Miss Easton. Lord knows what people would say if they got wind of it.”

  When Broadmore leveled a furious glare at Morris, Nigel understood. The bastard was not only trying to stake out his claim on Amelia, he wanted to hurry things along by putting her in a compromising position.

  “Thank you for the warning, Mr. Morris,” Amelia said with a kind smile. “But I have no intention of stepping outside with anyone.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Nigel said cheerfully. “Now, if you’ll take my arm, Miss Easton—”

  Broadmore shouldered him aside. Again.

  “Dash, why don’t you run along?” he said. “There must be some doddering old ladies or stammering debs to attend to. That’s what you’re good for, isn’t it? Not squiring the ladies.”

  Nigel heard the murmur of disapproving voices from the small circle. Amelia’s other suitors might feel a mild degree of resentment that he was about to whisk her away, but they were generally a good lot.

  And they all counted Nigel as a friend.

  “Now that you mention it, Broadmore, I had quite an engaging conversation with your grandmother this very hour,” Nigel replied. “No man in his right mind would call her doddering. And I enjoyed leading your sister into a set, as well. She may just be out this year, but she’s an entirely agreeable girl. Didn’t stutter once, as I recall.” He affected a puzzled frown. “Can’t imagine where you’d get the idea that your relations are anything less than charming, Broadmore. Really, not the done thing to insult them, you know. Family is family, after all.”

  By this time, Broadmore’s ears had turned beet red. But before he could respond, Amelia let out a del
ighted laugh. “I believe he has you, Lord Broadmore,” she said as she took Nigel’s arm. “I hope you have learned your lesson. Mr. Dash, if you are ready, I would dearly love that cup of punch.”

  With polite nods to the other men, except to the speechless Broadmore, Nigel led Amelia away. A less disciplined man would have gloated over his victory, but he held back a triumphant grin.

  Barely.

  Amelia had a way of cutting through his self-control, and the hell of it was she had no idea she was doing it. But, for the moment at least, he could relish the feel of her slender body by his side and enjoy the light touch of her hand on his arm.

  Letting out a relieved sigh, Amelia allowed him to steer her away from the mob at the edge of the dance floor. “It’s such a relief to finally have some room to breathe. I thought I was going to faint dead away if I had to spend a moment longer in that stuffy corner. Not that I mean to complain,” she hastily added. “The gentlemen were all quite kind.” Then she frowned. “Except for Lord Broadmore, that is. I can’t imagine why he was behaving so oddly tonight.”

  Nigel could, but had no intention of telling her.

  After stewing about Broadmore’s behavior for a few moments, Amelia gave a small, dismissive shrug, then looked up at him with a sweet smile that tore through Nigel’s sense of self-preservation, scattering it to the four winds.

  “I owe you grateful thanks, Mr. Dash,” she said with an endearing chuckle. “You rode to my rescue at precisely the right moment. I only wonder how you knew.”

  “Well, you did look a trifle flushed,” he said. “Thought you could do with a cold drink, if nothing else.”

  She gave his forearm a little squeeze. “Mr. Dash, as always, you know exactly what to say or do. You are indeed a most dependable friend.”

  Nigel pondered her choice of words for a long moment. “So it would seem,” he finally said.

  Dammit, Silverton was correct. It was long past time he made a few changes.

  Nigel cut around the perimeter of Grosvenor Square, heading for No. 3 and the home of Lucy Frost, the widowed Countess of Winterson. It was only a few days before Christmas, and time for Lady Winterson’s holiday party. Although London was somewhat thin of company this time of year, those who were left vigorously competed for an invitation to the gala festivities at No. 3. Lady Winterson might be the object of rumors about her supposedly scandalous love life, but no one disputed her power in the haute ton.