More or Less a Temptress

by Anna Bradley

  That is, it did until Lord Chester led Hyacinth down the row.

  That was when Lachlan saw it.

  Everyone saw it.

  Lachlan’s chest tightened with impotent fury as the young lord, his face red with shame, trod on Hyacinth’s feet not once, not twice, but three times as they made their way through the set.

  The boy couldn’t seem to take a step without crushing her slippers under his pumps. The couples along the line noticed and began to titter at his clumsiness. He grew more nervous, and it made matters worse.

  Lady Joanna and Miss Tilbury tripped lightly down the row, their faces wreathed in smiles. Both of them were clearly well pleased with their plot, but by the time Lord Chester had taken Hyacinth down the line three times, he looked as if he were ready to burst into tears.

  And the dance wasn’t nearly over. Given the number of couples in the line, it could easily go on for half an hour or more. There wasn’t a damn thing Lachlan could do except watch, his entire body stiff with rage, as Hyacinth’s dainty feet were battered. He struggled to hold himself in check, but when Lord Chester’s pump snagged the edge of her gown and ripped a long tear in her hem, he’d had enough. He started forward, ready to lunge for Hyacinth and carry her off the floor, but he’d hardly moved a single step toward her when she caught his eye.

  She stopped him with a tiny shake of her head, imperceptible to anyone but him, but a world of understanding passed between them in that single gesture.

  Don’t interfere.

  Her gaze had met his for a single instant only before it slid away, but it was enough.

  Lachlan obeyed her silent command, but Christ, it was torture. Pure torture, to be forced to watch as she was hurt over and over again, without being able to do a damn thing about it. There was only one person more wretched than he was, and that was Lord Chester, who saw, too late, that he never should have allowed himself to be goaded into such a cruel prank.

  But Hyacinth…

  She never flinched.

  Not once, as Lord Chester continued to make mincemeat of her feet, did she ever acknowledge by word or expression that anything was wrong. She didn’t miss a single step, and her resolve never faltered. She looked up into her partner’s face as she went through the figures of the dance, her hand clasped loosely in his, her lips curved in a tight smile.

  Helpless anger, regret, and guilt gathered like a storm in Lachlan’s chest as the dance dragged on and on, until he was sucked into such a whirlwind of confused emotions he couldn’t tell how he felt, or who he was angry at anymore.

  He knew only that this dance was endless.

  At last the music faded, and the gentlemen bowed to their partners. Hyacinth dipped into a graceful curtsey in front of Lord Chester, for all the world as if she’d never enjoyed a more pleasant dance in her life.

  Lachlan stared after them as a grim-faced Lord Chester took Hyacinth’s arm and escorted her through the crowd, but he lost sight of them in the crush as couples streamed off the floor, and others moved to take their places. He hurried to deliver Miss Taylor to her mother, then ran across the ballroom toward Lady Chase.

  But when he came to a breathless halt beside her, Hyacinth wasn’t there. “Where is she?”

  Lady Chase was wringing her hands. “She went to the ladies’ retiring room. Oh, Mr. Ramsey! I tried to accompany her, but she wouldn’t allow it. I daresay she didn’t want me to see how bad it was—”

  “I’ll go, and wait for her in the hallway.”

  “Yes. Hurry, won’t you?”

  Lachlan tore through the ballroom. More than one head turned to follow his progress, but Lachlan ignored them all, his gaze fixed on the double doors that led into the long hallway beyond. Only one person mattered to him, and nothing in the world could have stopped him from going after her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hyacinth didn’t allow herself a wince or a limp until she’d left the ballroom and all the prying eyes behind. Once she was alone in the dim hallway, she braced her hand against the wall and made her slow, painful way toward the ladies’ retiring room, her feet howling in protest with every step.

  It felt as if the bones in her toes had been crushed to a powder, but it couldn’t possibly be as bad as that. Surely no bones were broken. Her toes were a bit mangled, yes, and her slippers were certainly ruined, but nothing worse.

  She gritted her teeth against the pain and hobbled down the hallway, but when she neared the ladies’ retiring room she became aware of a babble of female voices drifting out into the hallway, punctuated by an occasional shriek of laughter.

  Hyacinth hesitated outside the door, leaning against the wall for support. She couldn’t be sure they were laughing at her, but the high-pitched titters and squeals had an ugly, mocking edge to them. In any case, she couldn’t inspect her injuries with every gossip in London hanging over her shoulder—not without giving them the opportunity to describe her bruises and gashes to the ton in thrilling detail as soon as they returned to the ballroom.

  Her lips pulled into a grimace as she straightened from the wall and wobbled to the end of the hallway on her battered feet. She opened the first door she found, and slipped inside.

  Cool darkness enveloped her. Hyacinth pulled in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh as she began to pick her way over to the nearest sofa. She’d promised Lachlan she’d avoid deserted libraries for the rest of the season, but she’d made that promise before her toes were trampled to mush under Lord Chester’s pumps. Surely bodily injury was an exception—

  Hyacinth froze at the soft click of the door opening behind her, then closing again, and the muted thud of footsteps at her back. She tried to whirl around to face her pursuer, her heart crashing against her ribs, but her feet chose that moment to fail her. She stumbled, but before she could fall to her knees, a strong, hard arm wrapped around her waist.

  Oh, dear God. It was one of those dreadful library rakes Lachlan had warned her about, and she couldn’t properly defend herself from any improper advances, because her toes were crushed.

  “Unhand me at once, you blackguard!” She struggled against his hold, beating her palms against his shoulders. In some dim part of her brain she realized only two gentlemen in the ballroom this evening had shoulders as broad as these, but panic had her in its grip now, and she continued to fight instinctively, like a trapped animal.

  “It’s all right. It’s only me.”

  Lachlan’s calm, quiet voice pierced her haze of panic. He held her against his hard, enormous chest until she stilled, and he felt so good, so safe Hyacinth didn’t even stop to consider what she was doing, but twined her arms around his neck, sagged against him, and pressed her face into his waistcoat.

  A low, comforting rumble rose from his chest. He swept her up as if she weighed no more than a feather, cradling her in his arms with such gentleness she let herself nuzzle deeper against him with a sigh. Oh, how had she ever believed this man was dangerous, or that he relished brawling and violence? His fists may be the size of a horse’s hooves, and he knew how to use them, but no man who touched a lady with such tender care would ever needlessly hurt someone.

  If Lachlan used his fists, it was because he felt he had no other choice.

  He carried her over to a long leather sofa, laid her carefully against one end, and then smoothed her skirts over her legs before seating himself on the other. His face was half-lost in shadows, but he was watching her—she could feel the weight of those dark hazel eyes on her face as if his fingers were stroking her cheek.

  He didn’t say a single word, but sat quietly, waiting.

  Hyacinth twisted her fingers together in her lap. “It wasn’t as awful as it looked.”

  The words had hardly left her mouth before he contradicted her, his voice flat. “Yes, it was.”

  “No, I-I wasn’t badly hurt, really.”

  “Ye
s, you were.” Again, no hesitation, and even in the cool dimness of the library, his eyes seemed to burn right through her. “I saw you limp into the library from the other end of the hallway. You could hardly walk.”

  “Of course I can walk! It’s not as terrible as you’re making it out to be. It wasn’t anything, really. Just a dance, and not that many people noticed it—”

  “Everyone noticed it, or if they didn’t, they’ll hear about it soon enough. Don’t pretend it was nothing, and don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying!” she protested, her voice a touch higher than normal, as it always was when she lied. “I admit it wasn’t the most pleasant country dance I’ve ever had, but it wasn’t the disaster you make it out to be—”

  “Let me see your feet, then.”

  He reached for the heel of her slipper, but she jerked her foot away before he could take it off. “No.”

  Oh, God—it was as bad as Lachlan thought it was. Worse, if the throbbing in her toes was any indication. There would be bruises and cuts, and likely blood and swelling, and if she let him take off her slippers he’d see it, and…

  And she didn’t want him to, because somehow, in a way she couldn’t explain, she was ashamed of herself. Ashamed of being an object of ridicule, and ashamed of getting hurt.

  “Hyacinth.” His voice was grim with warning.

  “No! Just help me get to the carriage, then fetch Lady Chase, won’t you? I want to go home.” Oh, how she despised the wobble in her voice just then!

  He heard it, and his hands clenched into fists. “I should never have asked you to do this. This is your last ball, Hyacinth. Your season ends tonight.”

  Hyacinth stared at him, dumbfounded into silence. This was the reprieve she’d been longing for since Lady Joanna had mocked her at Lady Bagshot’s ball. This was her chance to escape the ton’s censure without disappointing anyone—her chance to fade back into comfortable obscurity, where no one laughed at her, and she could be certain each hour would mirror the one before it.

  It should have made her happy. As little as a week ago, it would have.

  But now, well…everything had changed, hadn’t it?

  Lachlan had urged her to stand up for herself. He’d told her she could do it—she could show the ton they couldn’t intimidate her into running away. She’d looked into his eyes, and she’d searched those fierce hazel depths, and she hadn’t seen a single shred of doubt there. He’d believed in her, and because of that, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she’d believed in herself.

  She wasn’t going to give that up for anything, not even if all ten of her toes were broken, and she’d left a trail of bloody footprints on Lord and Lady Hayhurst’s pristine ballroom floor.

  Not for anything, or anyone, not even Lachlan. He might think her too weak to fight her way to the end of her season. He might not believe in her anymore, but she was no longer that same lady she’d been just a week ago. There was no going back. Not now. Not ever.

  Now, nothing in the world mattered as much to her as proving him wrong.

  Proving them all wrong.

  She could make it through her season. She would make it, despite Lady Joanna’s attacks and Lord Chester’s pumps and the ton’s gossip and smirking.

  Because if she didn’t…if she didn’t…

  Where would it end? Where would she end? In her grandmother’s townhouse, wandering from room to room, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness. In Brighton with the other invalids, her grandmother hovering over her, fearing the worst each time she coughed, or showed even the slightest hint of low spirits.

  No. There had to be more than that. She needed more, and she deserved more, and if she was the only one left who believed she could have it, well…

  Then so be it. She met Lachlan’s eyes, and slowly shook her head. “No. I’m not giving up. I promised I’d finish the season with Isla, and that’s what I intend to do. You said…just last week you urged me to stand up for myself. You said no one could make me a victim without my consent. Was that just talk, Lachlan? Because nothing’s changed since then.”

  His face darkened. “Everything’s changed! Tonight it wasn’t just a few snide words from Lady Joanna. They’ve hurt you, and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t protect you from it.”

  “You think this is your fault?” Hyacinth gaped at him, stunned. For the first time she noticed the bleakness in his face, the way his hand shook as he dragged it through his hair.

  He didn’t see this as her failing. He saw it as his.

  “Lachlan.” She reached for his hand and held it between her own. “There was no way you could have known this would happen. Even I didn’t know poor Lord Chester was such a danger on the dance floor, and he and I have been friends for several years. You’ve been in London for less than three weeks. How could you possibly know?”

  “I knew something was wrong. Lady Joanna was giddy at the thought of you dancing with Lord Chester, and so was that half-wit, Miss Tilbury. I should have seen it, and put a stop to it before—”

  “How could you have put a stop to it, Lachlan, without causing a scene and making it worse? Would you have chased poor Lord Chester out of the ballroom when he stepped on my foot? Thrown me over your shoulder and carried me off the floor?” She squeezed his hand, and offered him a cautious smile. “At one point I thought you might do just that, and I’m very glad you didn’t. There’s quite enough gossip about me already.”

  She’d hoped for a smile in return, but his lips remained tight. “I should have warned you something was wrong before he led you out to the floor.”

  “Even if you had warned me, it wouldn’t have done any good.” She released his hand and fell back against the sofa with a sigh. “As I said, I’ve known Lord Chester for several years. Even if I’d known he’d step on my toes, I wouldn’t have refused to dance with him.”

  “Damn it, Hyacinth.” The bleakness on his face dissolved into anger. “Is that your idea of standing up for yourself? Letting some gawky, tongue-tied lord crush you under his feet?”

  Hyacinth flinched at his ugly words. She didn’t answer right away, but watched him in silence for a long moment. “No,” she whispered at last. “That’s what I call being a friend.”

  A harsh sound tore from his throat. “A man who’d let Lady Joanna coax him into trampling you isn’t your friend.”

  “He didn’t set out to hurt me, Lachlan. He wouldn’t. I don’t know what happened with Lady Joanna, but I know Lord Chester. He wouldn’t do that.”

  “He did do it!” He yanked the hem of her skirt back to reveal her slippers, but the anger on his face transformed into horror when he saw the blood seeping through the white satin covering her toes. “Hyacinth…oh, God, look what he did to you.”

  His voice broke on the last word, and Hyacinth jerked her skirts down over her slippers to hide them, then pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them to keep them hidden. “Listen to me, Lachlan. Lady Joanna is…”

  But she hadn’t any words for Lady Joanna. That kind of vindictiveness was wholly outside her experience. She didn’t understand it, and she didn’t want to. “Lady Joanna is one thing, but Lord Chester…”

  Oh, how to make him understand?

  She drew in a deep breath. “Lord Chester was one of the first gentlemen I met when I arrived in London. His grandmother, Lady Dale, is friends with my grandmother, and a dear, sweet lady. I was just sixteen when I came to live with my grandmother, and a hopeless, bumbling country girl. My parents had died the year before, you see, and I’d never been to London. I was…quite lost.”

  She peeked at him through her lashes, half-afraid he’d be glowering at her, or worse, yawning with boredom, but he was watching her face with such attentive intensity, heat washed over her cheeks.

  “Lady Dale used to bring Lord Chester with her when she came to visit my grandm
other, and he was…oh, he was the kindest young man. Awkward, to be sure, and shy, but then so was I. Still, between the two of us we somehow managed to put our self-consciousness aside, and we became friends. I told him all about the life I’d left behind in Surrey, and he confided in me about his father’s illness. Sometimes we’d walk in the gardens, and he’d give me the scientific names for all the plants. He’s fond of botany, and has a great deal of knowledge about it, and—”

  “He’s your friend. I understand that. But that doesn’t mean you have to let him hurt you, whether he meant to or not. You should have let me escort you off the dance floor.”

  She shook her head. Lachlan said he understood, but he didn’t. Not really. “If I’d let you escort me off the dance floor, and we’d left Lord Chester there alone, in the middle of a set, how do you think he’d have felt, Lachlan?”

  She was watching him closely, and as soon as she asked, she saw it hadn’t even occurred to him how Lord Chester might feel. Which was all well and good, because Lachlan didn’t owe Lord Chester a thing.

  But she did. She owed him her friendship. It was as simple as that. To her, it made all the difference.

  “He would have been dreadfully embarrassed. Shamed and humiliated. Don’t you see, Lachlan? Lady Joanna tried to make a fool of Lord Chester tonight, just as she did me—she was as cruel to him as she was to me. If I’d gotten angry with him, or cried out, or walked away, it would have hurt him terribly and, well…I daresay Lord Chester’s feelings are more sensitive than my toes.” She looked away, down at her hands twisted in her lap, and added quietly, “I don’t call hurting my friend standing up for myself. If it is, then I suppose I won’t ever be able to stand up for myself, after all.”

  She continued to pluck at the folds of her gown with nervous fingers, avoiding his eyes, but when he said nothing, and the silence had stretched so long she’d nearly ripped a hole in her skirts, she risked a glance at him.