by Sandra Heath
There was immense ill will in that long, chill gaze, and in those few moments, Linnet knew that an invisible gauntlet had been flung down.
Chapter 7
Linnet looked away first, and almost immediately the Cyprian passed from her mind, because a boxkeeper brought an urgent message for Benedict.
The man came in very discreetly and whispered in Benedict’s ear. What he said seemed disturbing, for Benedict looked quickly up at him. “Are you certain?” he demanded in a sharp whisper.
“Yes, sir. They said it was imperative that they see you now.”
Venetia looked at her brother. “Is something wrong?” she inquired softly.
“No,” he replied, “but I have to slip out to see someone for a moment.”
“Who?”
“No one you know.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No.”
Linnet was becoming concerned, and as he rose to his feet, she touched his hand anxiously. “Are you sure everything’s all right?”
He gave her a quick smile. “Quite sure. Don’t worry, I won’t be long.” He followed the boxkeeper out.
Venetia leaned across his empty chair to whisper to Linnet. “What do you think it’s about?”
“I have no idea. Venetia, I have a feeling that all is not well.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him, he’s a big boy now,” reassured Venetia, tapping her arm with her fan.
Linnet fidgeted a little, turning frequently to look at the box entrance. The final minutes of the play ticked by, and as the curtain fell, rapturous applause broke out, but still Benedict hadn’t returned. Miss Pope had been called to the curtain three times before he at last came back into the box. Linnet looked quickly around. His face seemed rather pale, and she was sure he had to fleetingly compose himself before meeting her eyes.
He came to stand by her chair, bending to be heard above the applause. “I’m sorry about that. I hope I haven’t spoiled your enjoyment of the play.”
“What’s wrong, Benedict?”
“Nothing.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
She searched his face. “You seem a little…”
“Yes?”
He was smiling at her, but something in his manner precluded further comment, and she fell silent.
Miss Pope couldn’t be persuaded to return to the stage for a fourth time, and gradually the applause dwindled away. The orchestra played the national anthem, and then the audience prepared to leave.
Freddy turned to the other three. “I was wondering if we might all go on to Ranelagh? There’s a fireworks display at midnight, and they provide a handsome supper…”
Venetia coldly snuffed the invitation. “I’m much too tired to go on anywhere,” she said in a bored tone.
Freddy struggled to hide his disappointment. “Perhaps it was thoughtless to suggest it,” he said, preparing to draw her chair out for her.
Linnet pleaded with her. “Oh, Venetia, won’t you reconsider? It would be good to go to Ranelagh, and I know you like fireworks.”
“I don’t want to do anything except go to my bed,” replied Venetia shortly, rising to her feet, and arranging the boa over her arms.
Linnet was cross with her for again treating Freddy poorly, but knew that now wasn’t the time to take her to task. Eventually something would have to be said, however, for it really wasn’t necessary to be so hurtful.
Benedict contained his anger with his sister, turning to Linnet to draw out her chair. As he assisted her with her shawl, he whispered a little ruefully, “Unfortunately, now is not the moment to ask a favor of my dear sister, but ask it I must.”
“A favor?”
“Yes, a very important one indeed.” He faced Venetia. “Sis, would you do something for me? Well, you and Freddy, actually.”
Freddy smiled. “Anything to oblige.”
But Venetia was suspicious. “I don’t trust you when you smile so engagingly, Benedict Gresham. What, exactly, is it that you want me to do?”
“Allow Freddy to drive you home, and leave me to take Linnet back alone.”
Linnet was acutely embarrassed. “Oh, Benedict, how could you!”
He looked quickly at her. “It’s really very important, Linnet. I must speak alone with you, and your great-aunt is mercifully absent.”
Venetia shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, she is, and in her absence I’m supposed to be the chaperone.”
“I wouldn’t ask you if it didn’t matter a great deal,” he pressed. “And is it so very much to ask? If the barouche’s hood is raised…”
“I will know, so will Freddy, and so will Linnet herself. You’re asking her to break the rules, and to deceive her great-aunt. It’s wrong of you, Benedict.”
Freddy remained tactfully silent, for although he knew that she was right, he also knew that if Benedict had his way, he, Freddy, would have Venetia to himself for a while.
Benedict looked beseechingly at Linnet. “Please tell her that you wish to do as I ask. Forgive me if I’ve approached this clumsily, but I really do have to speak to you alone.”
The boxkeeper’s mysterious message came back to her, and the anxiety returned with it. “Benedict, you’d tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you?”
“Most definitely. Nothing is wrong—far from it, in fact. Please, Linnet, just tell my obstinate sister that there’s nothing more you’d like than to drive home alone with me.”
She smiled, and looked at Venetia, who capitulated with a cross sigh. “Oh, very well, but if this gets out, and Miss Minton breathes fire and brimstone over me, I’ll never forgive either of you. However, no doubt I can survive a little singeing. Linnet, I was going to suggest a drive in Hyde Park tomorrow morning…”
“I’d like that very much.”
“I’ll call at the usual time, then. Come, Freddy, act the gallant escort.” Giving him a haughty look that warned him not to hope for anything more than a polite farewell at the door of her house, she took his arm and allowed him to walk her from the box.
When they’d gone, Linnet turned reproachfully to Benedict. “I wish you hadn’t done this.”
“It was a spur of the moment decision,” he replied softly, putting his hand to her cheek, “and once made, it was impossible to deny.”
“I trust it is indeed as important as you insist.”
“Oh, it is, believe me.” He raised her hand to his lips. “Shall we leave?”
As she took the arm he offered, she looked briefly across the auditorium at Judith Jordan’s box. It was empty.
But if she hoped that she’d seen the last of Nicholas and his Bird of Paradise that evening, she was mistaken, for they were talking to a group of gentlemen near the head of the theater staircase. Linnet’s heart sank as she saw them, but at least Nicholas was looking the other way. Judith, however, perceived their approach immediately, and a feline gleam came into her eyes.
She waited until Linnet and Benedict had almost reached the staircase before murmuring something to Nicholas, who immediately drew her hand over his sleeve and prepared to escort her down to the crowded vestibule. It was inevitable that they should all arrive at the top of the steps at the same moment, just as the Cyprian intended.
Nicholas saw Linnet at last, and a light passed briefly through his eyes. He acknowledged her with the faintest inclination of his head, and then led Judith to descend first. The demi-mondaine’s train slithered after her, and the sequins in her plumes and fan sparkled in the light of the chandeliers. She cast a single mocking glance over her shoulder, her lips twisting into a taunting smile, then she swept regally on down.
Linnet hesitated at the top of the staircase, but Benedict made her descend. “Don’t let the creature affect you so, and don’t give Fane the satisfaction of knowing he can so easily reach you.”
Linnet endeavored to hold her head high, managing a smile, and to her relief Nicholas’s carriage arrived almost straightaway, and both he and his odious b
elle de nuit left. Linnet wasn’t at all sorry to see them go.
Venetia’s barouche came to the theater steps a few minutes later, and Benedict instructed the coachman to raise the single hood at the rear. Then, when he and Linnet were safely inside, their figures mere shadows to any observers, he ordered the carriage to drive not to Carlisle House but to Gunter’s in Berkeley Square.
The square was lamplit, and there were already a number of carriages drawn up beneath the trees, for it was very fashionable indeed to enjoy one of Gunter’s famous ices in the comfort of one’s private vehicle.
As the barouche drew up, Benedict leaned forward, looking for a waiter, and one materialized straightaway.
“May I be of assistance, sir?”
“Yes. What ices are you serving tonight?”
“Raspberry, orange, and gooseberry cream ice, and a very refreshing lemon water ice, sir.”
Benedict looked at Linnet. “Which one would you like?”
“I’m rather fond of gooseberry cream ice,” she replied.
He turned to the waiter. “Gooseberry it is, then.”
“Sir.” The man bowed, and hurried away.
As Benedict sat back again, Linnet glanced at him. “Did you engineer all this simply to ply me with cream ice?”
“No, but you have to admit that such an evening as this does cry out for utter indulgence.”
She glanced up at the clear, starlit sky, and then at the other carriages, their panels and harness gleaming in the lamplight. A warm breeze stirred through the plane trees, and a woman laughed somewhere nearby, a light, summery sound that carried clearly. She nodded, smiling at him. “Yes, it is a Gunter’s night,” she agreed.
“And a little spoiling will do you good after having had to endure the Bird of Paradise’s unwelcome presence.”
Linnet lowered her eyes. “I don’t really want to talk about her.”
“If not about her, then maybe about Fane himself?”
“No, not about him, either.”
He studied her in the dim lamplight. “Linnet, forgive me if I press, but I need to know exactly what Fane means to you.”
“He means nothing.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Yes. Benedict, it’s all in the past, so why are you…?”
He interrupted. “Because you were obviously very affected tonight when he came in with the Jordan woman.”
“I was angry. He knew he was taking her to the theater when he came to see me, and yet he said nothing. At the very least he could have given me the option of crying off, but he preferred to deal me another…”
“Blow?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you said he didn’t mean anything to you anymore,” said Benedict softly.
“He doesn’t.”
“Then his actions shouldn’t bother you.”
She was silent for a moment, and then smiled a little. “Benedict Gresham, my aunt’s verbal barbs bother you, but I don’t interpret that as meaning you secretly love her.”
He grinned. “Touché.”
The waiter returned, bearing aloft a small tray on which lay a silver dish of pale-green ice cream and a spoon. “Your gooseberry cream ice, madam,” he said, presenting the tray.
She took the dish, and Benedict put some coins on the tray, then the man withdrew again. Benedict sat back again, watching as Linnet tasted the ice cream. “I trust it is as good as it looks?”
“Definitely.”
“How long is it since you last did this?”
“Too long.” She thought for a moment. “Actually, it was spring last year, and I was with…” She broke off, taking a long breath.
“Fane?”
“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly.
“The fellow’s name crops up with monotonous regularity,” he observed quietly.
She didn’t finish the ice cream, but put the dish and the spoon down on the seat opposite her. “Yes, his name does seem to be cropping up, so perhaps you’d better tell me what it is that you really wish to discuss.”
He looked away for a moment. “I think I’ve handled everything badly so far tonight, so much so that I’m not sure that this is the time to say what I was going to say. I’m afraid I’m still very jealous.”
“Jealous? Of Nicholas?”
“Who else?”
“You have no need.”
“Do you really mean that? I mean, in your heart of hearts?”
“Yes.”
“I love you so much, Linnet, that I can still hardly believe that you’re really here in London instead of hundreds of miles away in Grasmere. I like to flatter myself that I am part of your reason for returning south.”
“You know you are.”
He took her hands, his thumbs caressing her palms.
“In a short while I will instruct the coachman to drive to Carlisle House, and there I will take my leave of you. I will return to Fane Crescent and endure the hours until I see you again. Those hours apart will be eternity.”
Her fingers curled in his. “It will not be for long, for I’m sure we will see each other at the subscription ball at Almack’s tomorrow night.”
He smiled a little, his thumbs still moving gently against her palms. “Oh, I’m sure we will, and I’m equally sure that our social calendars crisscross like a game of hopscotch, but it isn’t our social calendars that are concerning me, it’s our whole lives. Linnet, I love you, and I want to be with you constantly, every day, every week, and every month of every year. I want to marry you, for nothing less will suffice.”
She stared at him, her eyes shining in the lamplight from the windows. “And I could want for nothing more,” she said softly.
His fingers closed firmly around hers. “You accept?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I didn’t know what to think.” He gave a short, incredulous laugh. “You really do accept?”
Smiling, she bent closer, kissing him softly on the lips. “I accept, Mr. Gresham, and I long for the moment when I become Mrs. Gresham.”
He swept her into his arms, kissing her passionately on the lips. He crushed her close, as if he feared she would suddenly melt away, and his fingers moved softly in the warm hair at the nape of her neck.
At last he drew away, cupping her face in his hands. “I don’t want to wait, I want you to be mine as quickly as possible.”
“You surely aren’t suggesting an elopement?”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t wish to appear clandestine.”
“But elopements are romantic,” he pressed.
“And cause a great deal of chitter-chatter. I want it all to be done properly, with a betrothal ball at Carlisle House and then a grand wedding at St. George’s. Nothing less than a Hanover Square wedding will do. I want the world and his wife to not only see our happiness, but share it with us.”
“A betrothal ball and a St. George’s wedding? My sister will be unbearable, and will constantly badger your great-aunt for a hand in all the arrangements. She has great ambitions as a hostess, and recherché dinner parties are no longer enough. She’s long been pining to organize a ball, and has had her scheming eye upon your ballroom.”
“I know, and I’m sure my great-aunt will be only too delighted to allow her to attend to the arrangements. I fear my lady relative loathes being the hostess, and won’t relish the thought of arranging anything as large as a ball.” Linnet spoke lightly, but inside she had grave reservations concerning Great-Aunt Minton’s reaction to the betrothal. It was true that the old lady didn’t like being the hostess, but it was also true that she didn’t approve of either Benedict or Venetia. Still, that was a bridge to cross when it was reached, and not at this wonderful moment when she, Linnet Carlisle, was utterly happy for the first time in what seemed an age.
Benedict still cupped her face in his loving hands. “If you want a betrothal ball and a St. George’s wedding, then have them you shall. All I ask is that both take place
as soon as possible, for I cannot bear to be apart from you any longer than absolutely necessary. Will you promise me that?”
“Willingly.”
“Weeks, not months?”
She nodded, and he kissed her again, an ardent kiss that was warm and tender, and as she gave herself to the moment, she knew her happiness lay with this man, whose strength and comfort had helped her through the misery of the past twelve months.
But as her lips parted beneath his, the past was all around her, and for the space of a heartbeat, she thought she heard Nicholas’s low, mocking laughter.
Chapter 8
The journey from Grasmere had evidently taken a great deal out of Great-Aunt Minton, who did not put in an appearance at the breakfast table in the conservatory the following morning, and so the awful moment of telling her about the betrothal to Benedict was put off for a little while. Linnet returned to her room to change for her drive with Venetia, and then sat at her dressing table while Mary combed and pinned her hair.
Her bedroom was a very feminine chamber, with pink-and-white floral oriental silk on the walls, and deep pink draperies at the two tall windows overlooking the courtyard. The four-poster bed was hung with white brocade, ornate and gold-fringed, and the coverlet was made of ruched pink taffeta. There was a white marble fireplace, screened by a panel of tapestrywork Linnet had made as a child, and a mantelpiece on which stood a glass-domed clock of some antiquity, two pairs of silver-gilt candlesticks, and a number of miniatures, including likenesses of her parents and Uncle Joseph. A handsome gilt-framed mirror graced the chimney breast, and there were two comfortable chairs, upholstered in golden velvet, standing on either side of the polished brass fender.
The dressing table stood against the wall between the two windows, to catch the best of the light. It was a fine piece of furniture beneath its covering of frilled white muslin, and its top was cluttered with all the paraphernalia so necessary to a young woman of fashion. There was a triple mirror, several more silver-gilt candlesticks, an array of trinket boxes, scent bottles, pin dishes, phials, cosmetics, and combs, two hairbrushes, and a T-shaped stand over which Linnet’s many ribbons were draped. The colorful lengths of silk and satin fluttered a little in the light draft that crept beneath the raised window sashes, and the rattle of a carriage was heard as it drove slowly along Charles Street toward Berkeley Square.
