by Lisa Kleypas
He smelled of bergamot, a scent she could no longer inhale without thinking of him. Thank goodness Litton smelled of cloves. Harsh, not particularly appealing, but it didn’t matter. Nothing about him reminded her of Chetwyn, which made him perfect in every way.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” Chetwyn murmured as music once again began to fill the ballroom, “but a lady asked me to deliver this to you as discreetly as possible. She said it was quite urgent.”
Meredith couldn’t help but think that Chetwyn didn’t comprehend the term discreet. He should have secreted Wexford away or waited until the dance was over. She would have preferred the latter.
Wexford furrowed his brow. “Which lady?”
“She asked me not to say. I think she desired to remain a bit mysterious, but I was given reason to believe you were . . . well acquainted.”
Wexford opened the note, then smiled slowly. “Yes, I see.” He turned to Meredith. “I fear I must attend to this matter.”
“Of course. I hope all is well.”
“Couldn’t be better.”
And with that he was gone. Staring after him, she was certain he would be rendezvousing with the woman, whoever she was.
“I would be honored to stand in his stead,” Lord Chetwyn said. Then, as though she had acquiesced, he was leading her onto the dance floor.
“I fear I’m no longer of a mind to dance. I thought to get some refreshment. Alone.”
“Surely, you would not pass up your favorite tune.”
“Greensleeves.” He remembered. The first dance they’d ever shared was to this song. She had gazed up at his sharp, precise, patrician features and decided that he would age well, for there was nothing about him that would sag with time. He was one of those fortunate gentlemen upon whom the gods of heredity smiled kindly. She had been smiling upon him as well, giddy at his nearness, excited by his attentions. She thought she might have fallen a little bit in love with him during that first encounter. “Chetwyn—”
“One dance, Merry.”
“Please don’t call me that. It’s far too personal, too informal.” But she didn’t object when he took her into his arms and glided her over the floor. She hated that he was such a marvelous dancer, that he exuded confidence, and that he made her feel as though only the two of them were moving about the room. Everyone else receded into the woodwork. Everyone else ceased to matter.
Giving herself a mental shake, she refused to succumb to his charms once again. She could be distant, pretend indifference, give the impression that he had never been more than a dance partner.
“Rather fortunate timing that Wexford received a note before this particular song started,” she said pointedly. Did his eyes have to hold hers as though they were examining a precious gift?
“Not really. The note was from me, you see. Although he doesn’t know that, as it was unsigned.”
She didn’t know whether to be angry or flattered. “You took a chance with that ploy. How did you know he would not question an unsigned note from a lady?”
“All gentlemen welcome notes from mysterious ladies suggesting a tryst in the garden.”
Her eyes widened. “But it’s storming out there.”
“As I’m well aware, but I’m not familiar enough with the residence to know where else to send him.”
“What if he freezes to death?”
“I don’t think that’s likely to happen. He strikes me as being fairly intelligent. I’m sure he’ll head back in once he gets too cold and the lady doesn’t show.”
She studied him for half a moment before it dawned on her. “You purposely stole his dance.”
“I did. I saw all the gentlemen circling you earlier, so I knew your dance card was filled. And if it wasn’t filled, I rather doubted that you would take pleasure in scribbling my name—”
“I do not scribble.”
He grinned. Why did he have to have such an infectious smile that begged her to join him?
“I’m sure you don’t. Forgive me, Meredith, but I wanted a moment with you, and I didn’t think you would be likely to meet me in a garden. Not after our last meeting among the roses.”
Inwardly she cringed at the reminder of when he had informed her that he would be asking Lady Anne to marry him. “I thought you should know,” he’d said quietly, as though Meredith cared, as though he knew she’d pinned her hopes on him. When those hopes had come unpinned among the roses, her heart had very nearly shattered. Thank goodness she was made of stern stuff. She’d taken a good deal of satisfaction in the fact that her voice had not trembled when she’d replied, “I wish you the very best.” Then she had strolled away with such aplomb that she had considered going onto the stage. What a scandal becoming an actress would cause, and the one thing her father could not abide was scandal.
Yet Chetwyn had found himself in the midst of one that still had the ladies wagging their tongues. Lord Tristan was seen as a heroic romantic for claiming his love on the day she was to marry another, and Chetwyn was viewed as that unfortunate Lord Chetwyn. She decided she could be gracious. “I’m sorry that things did not go as you’d planned for yourself and Lady Anne.”
“I’m not sorry at all. I’m happy for her. Do you love him?” he asked, taking her aback with his abrupt question. They were supposed to be talking about him, not her. If he wasn’t holding her so firmly, she thought she might have flown out of his arms.
“You say that, my lord, as though there is but one him in my life when there are several. My father, my brothers—there are five of them, you know—my uncles, cousins—”
“Litton,” he cut in, obviously not at all enchanted by her little game.
“It seems a rather pointless question. I favor Viscount Litton immensely. I’d not be marrying him otherwise.”
She could not mistake the look of satisfaction that settled into his deep brown eyes, as though she’d revealed something extraordinary. “Favoring is not love.”
“I’ll not discuss my heart with you.” Not when you’d once come so close to holding it, and then set it aside with so little care.
“I don’t know that you’ll be happy with him.”
She straightened her shoulders, angled her chin. “You’re being quite presumptuous.”
“You require a man of passion, one who can set your heart to hammering. Is he capable of either of those things?” His eyes darkened, simmered, captured hers with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. Her mouth went dry.
Ignoring his question, she released an awkward-sounding laugh. “You think you are?”
“I know I am. Within your gloves, your palms are growing damp.”
Blast it! That was where all the moisture in her mouth had gone. How did he know?
“Your breaths are becoming shorter. Your cheeks are flushed.” He lowered his gaze, her nipples tautened. Whatever was the matter with her? Then he lifted his eyes back to hers. “Correction. All your skin is flushed.”
“Because I’m dancing. It’s warm in here.”
“It’s the dead of winter. Most women are wearing shawls.”
“Only the wallflowers.”
“You would never be a wallflower. You are the most exciting woman here. Meet me later. Somewhere private so that we may talk.”
“What do you call this current movement of the tongue? Singing?”
“It’s too public. We need something more intimate.”
An image flashed of him kissing her. She had often wondered at his flavor, but she would not fall for him again, she would not. “For God’s sake, I am betrothed.”
“As I’m well aware.” She saw a flicker of sadness and regret cross his features. “You should know, Merry, that I am here only because of you.”
“Your flirtation is no longer welcome, Chetwyn. I shall be no man’s second choice.”
“You were always my first.” His eyes held sincerity and something else that fairly took her breath: an intense longing. Dear God, even Litton didn’t look at her
like that. Chetwyn’s revelation delighted, angered, and hurt at the same time.
She released a bitter laugh. “Well, you had a frightfully funny way of showing it, didn’t you?” She stepped away. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve become quite parched.”
Before he could offer to fetch her a flute of champagne, she was walking away. His words were designed to soften her, but she wouldn’t allow them to breach the wall she’d erected against him. She was betrothed now. Nothing he said would change that.
For Chetwyn, it was too late. Her course was set. She wished that thought didn’t fill her with sorrow.
Chapter Two
CHETWYN DISCOVERED THAT being left at the altar wasn’t nearly as humiliating or as infuriating as being abandoned on the dance floor. Or perhaps it simply seemed so because he cared a good deal more about Merry traipsing off without him than he did about Anne.
As people swirled around him, they gave him a questioning glance, an arched eyebrow, pursed lips. Then the whispers began, and he had a strong urge to tell them all to go to the devil.
Wending his way past ballooning hems and dancing slippers, he fought to keep his face in a stoic mask that revealed none of his inner thoughts. He suspected a good many of the women would swoon if they knew that he wanted to rush after Merry, usher her into a distant corner, and kiss her until the words coming from her mouth were sweet instead of bitter. It didn’t lessen his anger that she had every right to be upset with him. But then the fury was directed at himself, not her. He’d handled things poorly. He needed to be alone with her to adequately explain, and furthermore to sway her away from Litton. But he could see now that he had misjudged her loyalty to Litton and her dislike of himself.
“Chetwyn?”
Turning, he smiled at the gossamer-haired beauty standing before him. “Anne.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course.” Even as he spoke the words, he realized that had they married, he’d have spent a good deal of his time being untruthful with her, as he was now. He liked her, adored her, in fact, but he didn’t love her. He doubted he ever would have fallen for her as Walter had before he left for the Crimea. And certainly not as Lord Tristan had.
“I’m so very glad you came,” she said.
“Yes, well, I must thank you for sending me the list of guests who had accepted the invitation.”
“I daresay that I needed to send only one name: Lady Meredith.”
To imply he was taken aback by the accuracy of her words was an understatement. He thought he was so skilled at hiding his emotions. “How did you know?”
Taking his arm, she guided him over to an assortment of fronds that provided some protection from prying eyes. “While you were courting me, I noticed the way you looked at her with longing on a few occasions when our paths crossed with hers. I thought perhaps she had rebuffed you, which I certainly didn’t understand, but after observing the drama on the dance floor, I don’t think the rebuffing happened until tonight.”
The drama that everyone had observed. He thought in public he’d be spared her wrath. Where Merry was concerned, he seemed destined to constantly misjudge. “I’m not quite certain rebuffed is the proper word. She is betrothed, after all. What sort of gentleman would I be to try to steal her away from Litton?”
Anne smiled. “A very determined one, I should think, and I would wager on your success.” She glanced around as though fearing that she might be overheard. “As you know, my brothers are the worst gossips in all of England. Jameson tells me that Litton is up to his eyebrows in debt to Rafe. While I don’t know my brother by marriage very well, Tristan has assured me that Rafe is someone to whom I’d never wish to owe anything.”
Chetwyn was of the same mind. Lord Rafe Easton owned a gambling establishment, and while it had a solid reputation, Chetwyn preferred one with a bit more class, better clientele, and no rumors of thuggery surrounding it. “You think Litton is marrying Meredith only for her dowry?”
“I’ve heard it’s substantial. I wish Society would do away with the entire dowry business. It always leaves a lady wondering at a man’s true motivations.”
“Surely you have no doubt where Lord Tristan is concerned.”
She laughed. “Oh, absolutely not. No, my concern is with Lady Meredith. One of my other brothers, and I can’t remember which one now, hinted that this betrothal came about under unfortunate circumstances.”
Chetwyn felt as though he’d taken a punch to the gut. “You think he compromised her?”
“I don’t know. It was something about a garden and witnesses—” She held up her hands. “Dear God, I’m as bad as they are. Forgive me. I know not of what I speak, and so I should not be speaking. I just dislike seeing her with Litton—whom I don’t much care for—when she could be with you, whom I favor a great deal.”
Reaching out, Chetwyn squeezed her hand. “What matters, Anne, is that she is happy.”
“Of course, you’re right. It’s just that she didn’t look as happy with him as she did with you.”
He chuckled. “Now I know you’re biased. She was quite put out with me the entire time we were dancing.”
“I was put out with Tristan a good bit of the time after I met him, but it didn’t stop me from falling in love with him.” Rising up on her toes, she bussed a quick kiss over his cheek. “I wish you luck with your endeavors here.”
As she wandered away, Chetwyn decided that his best course for the moment was to enjoy another glass of Scotch. He was heading toward the doorway when Wexford stepped into his path, his nose red, his cheeks flushed, his eyes radiating panic.
“Who the devil was she?” he asked. “I never saw anyone. She’s no doubt wandered off and is in danger of freezing to death by now. We must cease the music, form search parties, call out the hounds.”
“Steady, old chap,” Chetwyn commanded, placing his hands on Wexford’s shoulders, attempting to calm him before damage was done. “There was no woman.”
Wexford blinked and stared at him as though he’d spoken in Mandarin. “Whatever do you mean?”
Obviously the man’s ability to reason had frozen while he was outside. “I wrote the note. The entire thing was a ruse as I wished to dance that particular dance with Lady Meredith.”
“You sent me out in the cold? For a dance? Why didn’t you just ask, man?”
“Would you have stepped aside?”
“That is beside the point.” Wexford held up a finger. “I shan’t soon forget this, Chetwyn.” With that ominous warning, he stormed off.
Considering Wexford had once shot a rhinoceros, Chetwyn considered himself fortunate that the veiled threat was quite mild. Then he saw a young lady grinning in the doorway. “I don’t suppose it would be my good fortune to discover you’re deaf.”
With a giggle, she shook her head and disappeared into the hallway. Lovely. More fodder for the gossip mill.
“HE SENT LORD Wexford out into the storm so he could dance with you,” Lady Sophia said.
Meredith had come to the retiring room to regain her calm because it was too early to retire to her chambers. She found herself surrounded by Ladies Sophia, Beatrix, and Violet.
“Terribly romantic,” Lady Violet said.
“Terribly selfish,” Lady Beatrix insisted. “Wexford could have died.”
Meredith wondered if she was hoping for more than a dance from the fellow. She wondered if she should tell Lady Beatrix that she shouldn’t strive so hard to impress men with her litany of accomplishments, then wondered if things might have been different if she, herself, had tried harder with Chetwyn—if she had thrown a fit in the garden instead of giving the impression that she could hardly be bothered by his change of heart. Was she as much to blame for their diverging paths as he?
“Perhaps we shall have a duel at dawn,” Lady Sophia said, her voice rife with excitement.
“Between Chetwyn and Wexford?” Meredith asked.
“I was thinking more along the lines of Chetwy
n and Litton. I daresay it is one thing to dance with a lady, an entirely different matter to go to such great lengths to do so.”
“My dance card was filled. He wanted a dance. Make no more of it than that.” Even now she should be in the ballroom fulfilling her obligations. Perhaps she would claim a headache.
“It’s no secret his family coffers suffer for want of coin. His father made some ghastly investments, from what I hear. He needs an heiress with a substantial dowry. He lost Lady Anne—”
“You say that as though he misplaced her,” Meredith interrupted, impatient with the conversation. Standing quickly, she shook out her skirts. She wanted to be more than her dowry to some man. Was she to Litton? She was no longer as sure. “I’m returning to the ballroom.”
It was nearing midnight, the last dance would be soon, and she was anxious to see Litton, to have him wash away any lingering evidence that Chetwyn had danced with her. But she waited for him in vain, stood among the older matrons whose hips no longer allowed them the luxury of dance. Her only consolation was that Chetwyn wasn’t about to witness her disappointment. She wondered if he’d taken his leave. She could only hope.
Chapter Three
THE RESIDENCE HAD grown quiet, the only sound the wind howling beyond the windows. Sitting alone in a chair by the fire in the billiards room, Chetwyn savored his Scotch and reminisced about the first time that he’d set eyes on Merry.
For more than a year he’d been in seclusion, grieving the loss of his brother. Finally, the Season before last, Chetwyn had taken the first step out of mourning by attending a ball. He had felt as though he were a stranger in a strange land. All the finery, the food, the laughter, the gaiety—did any of them deserve any of it when so many had died?
Suffocating in that overly flowered ballroom, attempting to talk about weather and theater and books, had made him feel as though his clothing were strangling him. He was merely going through the motions of being present, wishing he’d not been so quick to return to Society.
And then his gaze had landed on Lady Meredith. He was struck with the romantic notion that she was the sort over whom men fought wars. He’d desperately wanted to release her raven hair from its pins. The pink roses that adorned it matched the ones embroidered in her pale pink gown. It had draped off her alabaster shoulders, enticing a man to touch them. She was talking with three other ladies, and then she tilted back her head slightly and laughed. The glorious tinkling had wafted over to him, and for the first time in a good long while he didn’t feel dead, didn’t feel as though he had been buried alongside Walter. He was ever so glad that he was alive to hear such sweet music.
