It occurred to me only much later that if Anthony wished to do away with Nick, Petros Andreadis would be the perfect person to blame.
Or perhaps my instincts had gone awry and Anthony considered him a handy tool for accomplishing nefarious deeds?
Yet he had ordered me to keep the Greek away from his beloved’s child . . .
I suffered another night of uneasy sleep and strange dreams, one all too vivid and having nothing to do with either babe or Greek. I woke to panting breath and fiery heat flushing my cheeks. Muttering one of my brother’s choicest curses, I buried my face in my hands and burst into tears.
Chapter 23
“Oo, miss,” Josie breathed as she laid back the tissue wrapped around my only ballgown that was not stark white or some virginal shade of primrose or blue. Finding the gown had involved digging down to the very bottom of the garments I had left in the trunk sent from Neville Manor, thinking I would have no use for them. Surprise. Cinderella was going to the ball. Lady Winterbourne had ordered it. I suppose even during a ball she would need someone to fetch, carry, and relay orders.
Unkind. I had begun to suspect there was at least a modicum of kindness buried beneath the starchy cloak of a marchioness.
Josie shook out the gown and held it up. Inwardly, I smiled. Last year, when Aunt Trevor was planning the betrothal ball for her younger daughter, she and Emilia had combined forces to overcome what they called my “mulish stubbornness” and force me into the shop of Bath’s finest seamstress. And there, where I heard the siren call of an array of fabrics and trimmings almost as fine as those to be found in London, we had reached a compromise. I would agree to order a ballgown suitable for a woman of two and twenty, but only if I was allowed to choose the design, fabric, and ornamentation myself.
This pronouncement resulted in considerable wrangling, but in the end I had my way. The gown’s design was simplicity itself—slightly bouffant puffed sleeves framed the plunging neckline which was de rigueur for ladies of the ton, however much it made us all look like courtesans. In my case, of course, with more flesh for my stays to push into view, my décolletage was more brothel than ballroom. The skirt belled out as it fell from the slightly high waist seam and ended just short of the floor, to reveal slim-heeled slippers dyed to match the gown. There were no pleats, no ruching, no bows, no sparkling crystals, no overskirt of tulle. Just a smooth expanse of soft indigo satin, which rippled deliciously with every step I took. With beads of the same color completely covering the bodice and sleeves, spilling down the skirt in intricate swirls that caught the light of whatever chandelier was overhead.
“Oh, Luce, you can’t!” Emilia had whispered when I described the design I wanted.
A shocking dress for an unmarried lady, Aunt Trevor agreed.
But I reminded them I was doing as they wished, selecting a gown for the Trevor ball. I had even agreed to dance for the first time in five years. When they remained doubtful, I pointed out that I thought of myself not as a spinster but as a widow. This remark resulted in ominous silence. I turned back to the seamstress, completing the details of my order.
Now here the gown was, rather the worse for being packed in the bottom of the trunk and the very devil to iron—from the wrong side, and on a well-padded surface, of course. Nonetheless, the gown was like a friend resurrected from the past, something I had chosen for myself. A symbol that represented the me I was now more than the Lucinda who had chosen it. A reflection, perhaps, of some inner hope I had refused to acknowledge until now.
I was going to the Winterbourne ball. Would Anthony—
Oh dear Lord, Geoff might ask me to dance! I groaned.
The price one pays when ceasing to hide from the world.
My Papa has always been more kind-hearted than my Mama. For the Trevor betrothal ball he had gifted me with a rather large rainbow-colored opal on a thin gold chain, its shimmering colors surrounded by tiny amethysts. There were matching earbobs, an ornament for my hair, and a ring for my finger. I suppose it was his way of saying he was sorry, even though long after the fact. As I donned each piece of jewelry, I felt a twinge of guilt. In my misery I had long clung to feeling sorry for myself, hugging sorrow to me like a beloved quilt, telling myself I had been abandoned by one and all. It was not true. Mama might not have the gift of empathy, nor had she shown much interest in motherhood. Yet she had seen that all my garments were packed, included my indigo ballgown. And when she urged me toward the Earl of Thornbury, it was possible she was thinking of my happiness, as well as the benefit to the Neville family of an advantageous marriage. My daughter, the Marchioness of Winterbourne . . .
Too bad, Mama. Anthony and I are not speaking at the moment.
But dancing . . . ?
There was a chorus of oo’s and ah’s as Josie fixed the opal and amethyst ornament into my hair and I stood up, presenting myself to my audience—Josie, Ivy, Flora, Nick, and Dulcie.
“Oo, miss, y’ look so grand,” Josie declared. “Like a queen!”
Queen of the demimonde.
I snapped at my inner voice, and grumbling, it subsided.
I pinched my cheeks, ran my tongue over my lips, took one last look in the pier glass, smiled bravely at my friends. Josie handed me my reticule, which was, of course, made of indigo satin and heavily beaded. No more lingering. Time to go.
Again, the insidious question—would Anthony ask me to dance . . . ?
All too soon I would know. After blowing kisses to my starry-eyed audience, I began the long walk to the Winterbourne ballroom.
As I approached the vast room where I had labored over the decorations for the better part of two days, the squeals and moans of the orchestra tuning up rose above the low murmur of cultured voices eagerly exchanging the latest on dits. My feet slowed, stopped, as memories of those halcyon days when I first met Brant flooded my mind. Followed by the stinging bite of what came after. My gown, my coiffure, my jewelry faded to nothing. Rising to the balls of my feet, I found myself poised to flee straight back to my bedchamber.
I could not go in. Could not dance and be merry.
Anthony, whispered my inner voice. Insidiously.
Anthony hates me.
Has it occurred to you he might be jealous?
He won’t dance with me, just wait and see. Not once.
You’ll never know if you don’t go in.
So, swamped by guilt over allowing any man but Brant into my thoughts, and seething with anger over the alleged Earl of Thornbury’s erratic treatment of me, I raised my head high and swept into the ballroom. The glittering space, lit by three chandeliers glowing in the heat of hundreds of the finest beeswax candles, was on the ground floor, with four sets of double doors leading onto a flagstone terrace. Four steps down, the area at the side of the house boasted the landscaping perfection of ornamental trees, low hedges, graveled pathways, and bubbling fountains—all dimly visible in the light of blazing torches. Not a flower in sight. Evidently, this round of the Battle of the Landscaping had been won by Humphry Repton.
As I was making a concerted effort not to look for Anthony, Uncle Trevor dashed out of the crowd, requesting the first set. And just in the nick of time, for a great hush had fallen over the ballroom, spreading outward from those near me until the whole room fell silent. It seemed the Whore of Babylon was the cynosure of all eyes.
“Struck ’em dead, child,” Uncle Trevor declared with determined heartiness. “Must say you’re a sight for sore eyes. Best watch the tabbies don’t scratch your eyes out.” Chuckling at his joke, he guided me to where the lines were forming for the first country dance.
Dear, dear Uncle Trevor. Obviously, he had been lying in wait for me to appear. No doubt coached by his wife, but nonetheless I was touched.
In the course of the dance Anthony and I touched fingertips, circled each other, and passed on down the line—carefully avoiding looking at one another as we did so. The erstwhile earl was partnering Lady Ariana, though how that had been arranged I was n
ot quite certain, since as host he should have been partnering the lady of highest title. Was Lady Winterbourne still pushing the match, even though Lady Ariana might find herself bitterly disappointed by being denied the title of marchioness?
I danced with Mr. Draycott and two local gentlemen who were not part of the house-party. By this time, I had recovered enough from my stab of memory to find some amusement in the jostling that occurred as men vied for the favor of a dance. Amusement turned to grim satisfaction as with each succeeding set I became aware of Anthony attempting to catch my eye. Partnering with Sir Harry for a waltz was a positive relief from the line dances where Anthony and I must constantly meet, touch, and pass on.
And then I saw Geoff making his way toward me. I turned and fled, scurrying through the crowd like a rabbit evading a fox. A whiff of fresh air. Oh yes! I was almost running as I rushed through an open door out onto the terrace. Lifting my skirt, I flew down the steps like Cinderella the night she lost her slipper. Gravel crunched as I headed toward the nearest tall hedge, a good forty or fifty feet from the house. Hide, hide, hide!
Hide from Geoff. Hide from Anthony, who did not want me. Hide from my doubts. My fears. My terrors.
I burst through an opening in the high hedge. Not so well lit here, just enough to see an ornately carved marble bench set against a brick wall. Above was an equally ornate marble roof, perhaps designed as a shelter against our climate’s frequent rains. Perhaps merely a small folly. For me it was shelter of a different kind. I cast myself into a shadowed corner of the bench and quivered. Yes, I was aware it was cowardly. I was proud my determination had lasted as long as it did, but the sight of Geoff . . .
I leaned back, closed my eyes, heaved a deep breath. And gasped as my inner warning system vibrated and I looked up to find a dark figure looming over me.
“Nell, Nell, it’s only I.” Strong arms enfolded me, held me close.
Anthony. Anthony, now sitting beside me. I sagged into his shirtfront, shamelessly crushing his cravat.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Sorry about everything. I’ve been trying to tell you all night, but—” He broke off. “Deuce take it, Nell—beg pardon—but I begin to think I was too hard on Sandridge. How any man could live in the same house with you and not want to kiss you I cannot imagine!”
And with that he kissed me. Not gently or lovingly, but with all the pent-up tension of the past few weeks. For a few moments, I admit I was as swept away as he. (I had fallen in love with him, alas, despite all my common sense kept telling me.) His lips were warm and tasted of punch; his scent, all male. I wanted to burrow in and stay in his arms forever, sheltered from the storm.
Then, far later than it should, reality struck. The words he said to me struck like a blow. I begin to think I was too hard on Sandridge. How any man could live in the same house with you and not want to kiss you I cannot imagine!
Anthony thought me a whore. That’s why he persisted in calling me Nell. Miss Neville was untouchable. Nell was not.
I went very still, stiff as stone. He wasn’t stupid, my Anthony. He broke the kiss, took me by the shoulders and searched my face, which undoubtedly reflected my pain, even in the dim light. “Nell?”
“Did it ever occur to you,” I asked, fighting to keep my voice steady, “that I might wish to be kissed for myself? For Lucinda Neville who is trying so hard to learn to live again? And not because I have a face and form that drives men wild?”
“Oh, good Lord!” Anthony exploded, but I was already half-way to the opening in the hedge. “Foolish girl.” He grabbed me from behind, twirled me around. “I call you Nell because she’s the warm one, the lively one, the girl who smiles and laughs. Lucinda is my mother’s companion. Cold and untouchable.” He hugged me to him, whispering, “And that I don’t want. I want you here in my arms. And not as my mistress.”
After a significant pause, he huffed a breath and added. “Very well . . . when we first met, the thought occurred to me, I admit it. But not after I met your brother . . . believe me, never after I met your brother and discovered who you are. I may have a reputation with the ladies, but I am not dishonorable.”
Was he making a declaration? Somehow I doubted it. More like reassuring me that rape was not part of his repertoire. But seduction . . . ?
“We have both been gone too long,” I said with all the cool indifference I could muster. “It will be remarked.”
“Hell and damnation,” he muttered, “but I am sick of wagging tongues.”
“You, my lord?” I mocked. “What about I?”
He stood back, offered me his arm. “I shall tell Mama I was making myself scarce in order to give the candidates an opportunity to rethink their desire for the title of Countess of Thornbury, thus sparing them the humiliation and disappointment of learning it will likely be a quarter century or more before that role is filled.”
Laughter bubbled up. Too, too absurd.
Though likely true.
Momentarily in harmony with him once again, I placed my hand on Anthony’s arm and allowed him to escort me back to the foot of the steps, where we parted company. Anthony would slip in the far set of doors while I followed a path to an adjoining room, which would allow me to enter the ballroom from an inside corridor.
All might have been well if we had not missed the beginning of the next set, for which each of us was promised. To someone else.
Sharp hisses of speculation marked my passage as I searched for my intended partner. Across the room I caught a glimpse of Anthony bowing before Lady Melinda, clearing offering his apologies. I quickly looked away, but there was no ignoring the atmosphere around me. I was the focus of what felt like a myriad accusing eyes. We know where you’ve been. And with whom.
I found Mr. Draycott, apologized profusely. We insinuated ourselves into the line. When Anthony and I met in the course of the dance, I tried to avoid his gaze but found I could not. Instead of sparking with the fury I had seen all too often, his gray eyes were full of mischief, as if over the last fortnight we had indulged in some childhood prank, not a deliberate spurning of a bevy of hopeful young ladies, as well as playing ducks and drakes with a marquisate.
A few romantic words and . . .
Ah! How neatly he had used me.
And he expected me to enjoy the joke.
Men are beasts. With no exceptions.
Except Brant.
And Nick.
Chapter 24
Needless to say, the atmosphere was chilly as the guests took their leave the next day. An announcement had been expected at the ball. The Earl of Hadlow, his wife, and daughter fairly oozed animosity as they climbed into their carriage. Lady Ariana had been the chosen one, yet no offer had been made. While offering their farewells to Lady Winterbourne, the Rutledge family steadfastly ignored me, leaving no doubt about where they laid the blame lay for this shocking failure.
The other young ladies and their families were slightly less hostile. It would seem I had given them respite from the inevitability of the Earl of Thornbury choosing Lady Ariana. Though their prospects were spoiled for the nonce, when his infatuation with me wore off, they would happily renew their pursuit.
They could have him.
As for the young gentlemen, they had added a kindly liveliness to the house-party that I would miss. I stood behind Lady Winterbourne’s left shoulder and accepted with warmth and gratitude the farewells they directed my way. I confess to misty eyes, however, as I said good-bye to Aunt and Uncle Trevor. And to Emilia. My tears, however, evaporated on the instant when Geoff leaned down, a wicked glint in his eye, and kissed my cheek. At that moment I was sorry I had not hit him harder.
Over the next few days Petros Andreadis was seen solely at dinner. He was spending a good deal of time with Mr. Metcalfe, Mrs. Randall explained. The secretary was writing down a day-by-day account of what had happened to Hartley Deverell, the former Lord Thornbury, after he arrived in Athens. Or at least as accurate an account as Mr. Andreadis’s knowled
ge and memory would allow.
Oh, well done, Anthony. A perfect excuse to keep him away from Nick. And me.
With the guests gone, it was like a pall lifted from the house and grounds. I no longer had to steel myself against a constant barrage of small slights interspersed with sudden stabs of ill will. Lady Winterbourne continued to treat me with ambiguity—with less indifference than she might direct to an employee, less warmth than to a visitor. There were even occasional moments when she recalled I was also Supervisor of the Nursery, a fact that continued to add confusion to my status in the household.
And then there were moments when she recalled I was the Keeper of Secrets.
I would catch her frowning at me, as if I were an enigma she could not puzzle out. Not so strange, I suppose, as I frequently found my role in the household as confusing as she did.
Two routines, however, I clung to with tenacious determination—the freedom of my morning ride and taking Nick outside for his daily dose of sunshine and fresh air.
Babcock assigned a footman named James to accompany Nick and me on our wanderings through the park. He seemed pleasant enough, his easy manner with Nick showing the touch of a man with younger brothers and sisters. We wandered down all the garden paths, returned to the grotto and the dock. We even made one awkwardly slow journey into the maze, the wagon clipping a few corners and strewing yew in our wake. After that, we stuck to the open, finally venturing one day onto the path that led over the bridge. It was time, I’d decided, for Nick to discover all those bleating white furry creatures called sheep.
As the wagon rolled across the bridge, his little arms waved with sheer joy. Clearly he could feel the change of rhythm as the gravel beneath the wheels changed to wood and hear the rush of the burbling stream below. An adventurous child was my Nick; his awareness of the world around him constantly amazed me.
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