Stranger in My Arms(58)

“I believe it’s the grandest affair I’ve ever seen in Lincolnshire,” Rachel said enthusiastically. “You’ve planned it brilliantly, Larissa.

It seems you’re as marvelous a hostess as ever.”

“I’ve been out of practice for a while,” Lara said with a self-deprecating shrug.

“One could never tell.” Casting a surreptitious glance around them, Rachel lowered her voice before asking. “Has she arrived yet?”

There was certainly no need to ask whom she was referring to. Lara had been watching the door like a hawk for the past two hours. She shook her head with a frown. “No, not yet.”

“Perhaps she won’t come,” Rachel suggested hesitantly.

“She must,” Lara replied grimly. “She would out of curiosity, if nothing else.”

“I hope so.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the approach of Lord Tufton, a shy young viscount who had once offered for Rachel’s hand, but had been eclipsed by Lonsdale’s greater fortune and position.

Lonsdale had resembled a prince, with his athletic build and dark handsomeness and his aura of virility.

Tufton, by contrast, was a small, bookish sort of man, far more comfortable in intimate gatherings than large ones. He was gentle and intelligent, and his near-worship of Rachel seemed not to have dimmed in the years since her marriage to Lonsdale. Back then Lara had believed along with everyone else that Lonsdale was the better match for her sister. Now she reflected sadly that Rachel would have been much happier with this shy, sweet man than with a brute like Lonsdale.

After greeting them both, Tufton turned a hopeful smile toward Rachel.

“Lady Lonsdale,” he murmured, “would you do me the honor… that is, I hope you would consider “Are you asking me to save a dance for you, Lord Tufton?” Rachel asked.

“Yes,” he said with patent relief.

Rachel smiled. “My lord, I would be very pleased to-” “Hello, darling.” To all of their dismay, Lord Lonsdale’s voice interrupted Rachel’s reply. He slid his arm around her waist, his grip tightening until Lara saw her sister wince. His hard gaze bored into Tufton’s mild brown eyes. “My wife has saved all her dances for me, Tufton-tonight and every night thereafter. Save yourself the embarrassment of rejection by refraining to approach her ever again.

And tell that to any other man who wishes to pant and drool over her.”

Lord Tufton flushed and stammered excuses as he made a strategic retreat to the other side of the room.

Lara turned a questioning stare toward Lonsdale, wondering what had caused such crude behavior.

“Lord Lonsdale,” she remarked coolly, “it’s perfectly normal for a married woman to indulge in a harmless dance or two.”

“I’ll handle my wife as I see fit. I’ll thank you not to interfere.

Excuse me … ladies.” Lonsdale gave them a mocking glance, as if the word were hardly applicable to such a pair, and left after one last remark to Rachel. “Try not to behave like a tart, will you?”

The sisters were frozen in silence as he walked away.

“Did Lonsdale just call you a tart?” Lara managed to ask, white-faced.

“It’s only that he’s jealous,” Rachel murmured, staring at the floor.

She seemed like a wilted flower, all her lovely glow evaporated.

Lara seethed with fury. “What does Lonsdale have to be jealous of?

Surely he would never dare to accuse you of infidelity, when you are the sweetest, most honorable woman who ever lived, while he’s a great rutting hypocrite-” “Larissa, please. Lower your voice, unless you wish to cause a scene at your own ball.”

“I can’t help it,” Lara replied. “I hate the way he treats you. If I were a man, I’d beat him to a pulp, or call him out, on” “I don’t want to discuss it, Not here.” Wreathed in artificial calmness, Rachel walked away as if she were unable to tolerate another word.

Boiling in frustration, Lara retreated to the corner of the room where she could simmer in private. She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman and downed it too quickly, causing a fit of hiccups.

Champagne was not a beverage easily guzzled.

As she twirled the empty glass in her fingers, she saw her husband coming toward her. Hunter wore the same bland smile he’d had two hours ago. As he had predicted, he was prominently on display. Old and new acquaintances alike were clearly fascinated by him, and they didn’t hesitate to fawn and question and annoy him like so many gnats.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Lara asked, though she already knew the answer.

His thin social smile didn’t falter. “Immensely.

There are packs of idiots everywhere I turn.”

“Have some champagne,” Lara advised, disliking the feeling that had suddenly come over her, a sort of camaraderie, as if the two of them shared an understanding that excluded the rest of the world. “It makes everything a little easier.” She gestured with her glass. “At least, that’s what I’m hoping.”

“I don’t like champagne.”

“Have some punch, then.”

“I’d rather have you.”

Their gazes met, locked, and Lara found that the teasing comment affected her far more strongly than the champagne. She felt unsteady, giddy, endangered. He was waiting, she realized, minute by minute, biding his time until one o’clock when she would be helpless in his arms. Every instinct prompted her to turn and run… but there was no sanctuary available. She took a deep breath and still felt suffocated.