1. Incomparable

Chapter one

Incomparable

London, England ~ May 1810, Four years later

" I say, and I've always said, you're prime as punch, Lady Lou. D'ye think we ought to have a go of it together?"

Lady Lou? Prime as punch?

It was one of the less eloquent proposals that Louisa had received. She knew that Mr. Smythe, despite his happy-go-lucky charm, had been on tenterhooks all evening at the Mowbray ball, but even without a case of nerves, he was no Shakespeare. When it was their turn for a country dance, he had shuffled her over to an alcove instead, and there he laid his heart bare with this astonishingly inane proposal that they "have a go of it together."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Smythe," said Louisa smoothly, more practised than Mr. Smythe at this sort of thing. After all, it was her fifth conquest in a highly successful debut season. As the Incomparable, she had become adept at responding to tongue-tied swains. "My uncle, as you know, is my guardian, so I think you'd best apply to him for permission."

"Oh, by Jove! I suppose I'd better." Mr. Smythe looked at her hopefully. "Then it's not a no, you mean?"

"I can't predict what my uncle will say, but if it were left up to me, I know where my affections lie."

That was vague enough to promise nothing and everything at the same time. You really are becoming a most excellent liar.

"Oh, by Jove!" said Mr. Smythe, again—lanky, loveable Mr. Smythe, whose head, unfortunately, contained far less wit than hair. His face lit up in sunny relief. "I'll call on him tomorrow. First thing!"

"See that you do," said Louisa with a cordial smile. It was a test. A trap. A corroboration of what she already suspected to be true. For although Mr. Smythe, who happened to live only a few houses away, would undoubtedly raise the knocker on the door of her Mayfair home, her uncle, the Duke of Warrenton, would undoubtedly send him away disappointed. He would dismiss Mr. Smythe's suit without consideration and then refrain from telling her that the man had even called.

It was not that her uncle was absent minded. No, he was as sharp as a card dealer from Soho and almost as untrustworthy. Over the course of the season, Louisa had been feted by admirers at every soiree, mobbed by suitors at every ball, and hailed as the Incomparable. And yet, according to her uncle, no offers of marriage had been made for her. It was incomprehensible. It was preposterous. It was too smoky by half.

She dismissed Mr. Smythe with a nod of her head and then looked out across the ballroom, trying to locate her uncle. There he was, leaning in rakishly to flirt with Lady Maltrousse. Louisa watched Uncle Nigel take the lady's fan and tease her by refusing to return it. She rolled her eyes. Of course, the lady was married—that seemed to be her uncle's preference. He was lucky he had not yet flirted with anyone who was happily married. Louisa would have enjoyed seeing her uncle's chiselled jaw crumple beneath a jealous husband's fist.

In her younger years, Louisa had always considered Uncle Nigel a good-hearted fellow. He had visited every year at Christmas and roasted apples and played at riddles with her. He had kept her company at dinner in the nursery while her parents dressed for dinners at other people's tables. But when he inherited the title, he had also inherited a desire to puff himself up in consequence. From the start, he had proceeded with the notion that the duties of a duke lay less in being a productive member of Parliament and more in being a fashionable rake about town. He had spent a preposterous amount of money and effort on playing a part, trying to prove himself just as much a dashing duke as Louisa's father had been.

Initially, he had been so involved with his own rackety affairs that he had hardly paid her any notice. When he had finally allowed her to make her come-out this season at the age of nineteen, he had barely interested himself in her. She had planned her presentation at court and her debut ball on her own and informed him what duties he would be required to perform. It was only after her success had been trumpeted throughout the ton that he had begun to take notice of her.

And you can see just where that notice has got you!

Tonight, he had offered to squire her to the Mowbray ball, and instead of disappearing into the card room, he was dividing his time between outrageous flirtation to create his own amusement and ghastly introductions to ruin Louisa's. In between dances, he had presented some of his more unsavoury connections to his niece. They were gentlemen twice her age with several strikes against them in appearance or behaviour. The Earl of Yarmouth, who had attempted to accost her four years ago, would have seemed a paragon compared to these undesirables. And unfortunately, this time, she had no mysterious rose gardener to fend off their attentions.

Louisa frowned as her uncle met her eye and returned Lady Maltrousse's fan. No doubt he meant to come her way again and introduce another "dear friend." Why on earth her uncle wanted to make her known to a pack of old roués was beyond her, but there was some sort of game afoot, and Louisa was determined to discover what it was.

She forced her brow to cease puckering and resumed the appearance of placid calm. She was fully aware that her serene, heart-shaped face was the foundation of her successful season and the adoration of her many suitors.

They think you're simple and sweet and serene. If they only knew what voices you have babbling inside your head. If they only knew what you thought of them all!

"Good evening, niece," said Uncle Nigel, grinning slyly and sliding his hand beneath her gloved elbow. "Are you enjoying yourself tonight?"

"I always do," said Louisa. And even more so when her uncle was absent! Uncle Nigel steered her towards the punch table. She would let him steer her for now, but she intended to take the rudder of her own fortunes into hand soon enough.

"It's quite a crush in here. Mowbray's circle of acquaintance is…extensive. Every baronet and his brother is here." Nigel spoke snidely as if his own taste in company were far more refined.

They reached the punch table, and he handed her a glass of the spiced liquid. Then, he cocked his head as if the idea had just come to him. "There's someone I want you to meet, Louisa. A new acquaintance of mine—Solomon Digby."

"Another acquaintance? I suppose he's one of the baronets littering the ballroom?"

"Er, no," said her uncle, glossing over the man's lack of title. "But he's quite congenial. And rich. You'll like him immensely."

"Will I indeed?" murmured Louisa. She had seen Mr. Digby announced at the door of the ballroom earlier in the evening. The grey-haired, pot-bellied fellow had repulsed her on sight. It was not so much his obesity that offended, but that he insisted on drawing attention to it with his garish puce and jonquil waistcoat.

"Let me make the introduction. And I should tell you in advance that I took the liberty of ceding him the supper dance that I wrote down on your dance card."

The pupils of Louisa's violet-brown eyes widened. "Did you indeed, uncle? Were you regretting spending dinner with me and planning to sit in Lady Maltrousse's pocket instead?"

"Of course not," said her uncle, without even the decency to blush. "I was merely looking out for your own amusement. Mr. Digby will keep you entertained."

Louisa almost snorted aloud in disbelief. She was certain that the only entertainment Mr. Digby would provide at dinner was coarse talk and rude stares. She would have to do her best to quell any familiarity.

By now, she was used to the fact that if she did not look out for herself, no one would. Parents lived and died. Servants came and went. Only she was a constant in her own life. Only she could be trusted to keep herself safe. She had her uncle's measure now, and she was determined to find out why he was so intent on foisting his fusty friends on her instead of securing a suitor like Mr. Smythe, and why her season as the Incomparable has been so incomparably dissatisfying.