by Sawyer North
“The Viscount Rayleigh,” Henry continued.
Though not much past thirty, the man’s lined face spoke of hard living.
“The Lord Jeffrey Benthall, second son of the Duke of Alderheath and likely heir to his title.” The young but balding man winked and bowed again, catching her by surprise. She forgot her place and curtsied.
“The Lord Canterfield,” Henry said of a short, stocky man near her age. The lord regarded her with sharp black eyes.
“And Sir Hugh Chisholm, formerly of His Majesty’s army and lately a principal officer for Bow Street.”
Lucy blinked rapidly before catching herself. Bow Street? Had Henry brought the enemy to her very doorstep? She glanced at Henry to find him offering a look of reassurance. She forced a smile and eyed the uniformed knight, whose warm return smile contrasted the haunt of his eyes.
“I am pleased to renew old acquaintances and make new ones,” she said, her voice jittery. Unsure of what to do next, she stood awkwardly silent. A welcome announcement rescued her from further torment.
“Dinner is served,” said one of the footmen.
Grateful for a reprieve from the undivided attention of the men, she led them to join the assembly in the dining hall. The collected bodies filled nearly every chair around the great table. This time, however, Lucy was shown to a chair at the center of the table with Isabella to her left, James directly across, and the other suitors flanking his left and right. Henry, on the other hand, remained out of conversational distance next to his sister where Lucy could not air her grievances with him. Charlotte stood to speak.
“Welcome, honored guests, to Ardmoore. I bid you a fair stay.”
She sat again and motioned the footmen to commence dinner service. Light conversation soon emerged and built to a steady murmur, mostly between those in neighboring chairs. Warwick, however, engaged Lucy directly across the table. “You look well, Lady Margaret. I daresay the country air suits you more than the soot of London does.”
She dipped her head with genuine appreciation but maintained a level of wariness. Lord Jeffrey, to Warwick’s left, leaped at the opening. “I believe Lady Margaret would look just as well in London, particularly to those appreciative of her ample charms.”
Lord Canterfield and Lord Rayleigh rushed to add agreement. James added a “hear, hear,” eyeing her as one might a prized mare. Sir Hugh simply nodded silent affirmation. In the glow of such admiration, genuine or not, she began to lose her bearings. Rough and uneducated men she knew. Thieves, brigands, and cheats she knew. Men of cultivation she did not. Her desire to initiate meaningful conversation was overshadowed by her inability to determine what might constitute appropriate small talk. To her dismay, Isabella noticed.
“Gentlemen. What a fine assembly of British gentility you are, and so generous with your praise for our Lady Margaret. Though at the moment the cat has her tongue, I can assure you it is sharp enough to carve a swathe of lively conversation.”
Five pairs of eyes shifted to regard Isabella with interest. Again, Sir Hugh proved the outlier and maintained his gaze for Lucy alone. With the diversion, Lucy leaned forward to catch sight of Henry watching Isabella as well. Had he invited her with amorous intentions? She could not quell her disappointment and turned to stare at her plate. Isabella placed a comforting hand on her wrist.
“I would not be concerned over your taciturn manner, dear. After all, in many societies, silence is a virtue.”
Lucy continued to stare at her plate as her anger swelled over the slight. Then, she recalled her umbrage and Henry’s words about playing the game. She lifted her head and turned calmly toward her neighbor with a warm smile.
“You have my deepest gratitude, Lady Isabella. You are very kind to consider my feelings. To show thanks, I will devote myself to praying that you find a virtue, as I have.”
Isabella’s pompous facade briefly wavered. Lucy glanced past her toward Henry near the foot of the table. His half smile told Lucy that she had hit the mark. Without giving Isabella time to recover, she engaged the reserved knight.
“Sir Hugh. Do I detect a Highlander accent?”
For the remainder of the mealtime, she asked questions and listened attentively to the answers, never allowing Isabella an opening for invasion. The men pressed for Lucy’s attention, forcing her to carefully manage the conversation without stunting it. Meanwhile, the duchess and Lady Garvey watched with tacit approval and the secretive glances reserved for those who had been friends long enough to speak without words. In the quiet of her mind, Lucy yearned for such a friendship and wondered which of these men might afford her that opportunity. However, she could not help but feel Henry’s presence down the table, mostly unseen. Despite her anger with him, the separation stirred an ache in parts of her soul she had not known existed before.
Chapter Twenty-One
As the assembly transitioned from the dining hall to the ballroom, Henry pushed aside the crush of his guilt and strode to catch Lucy’s elbow, hopeful of offering encouragement. She flinched as he leaned near.
“You are doing well.”
She squared on him with a harsh whisper. “Why did you invite her? My worst enemy. I could stone you right now.”
He recoiled but understood immediately. “So you may defeat her.”
Her brow knotted. “I fail to understand.”
He guided her aside to the cusp of the library. “Lady Isabella and her cohorts are far beneath you, regardless of your rank, and yet they savaged you unjustly. If you are to survive this new life, you must conquer those who dare disrespect you. I extended the invitation so you might put them squarely in their places.”
He withheld the most important reason—that her ability to fully inhabit her station might provide the razor-thin margin between life and death, depending on what Sir Hugh reported and the Bow Street magistrate decided. Lucy blinked rapidly as her umbrage seemed to recede. “You believe I can do that?”
He beat back despair at his duplicity and gently took her hand. “My faith in you is matched only by my desire to see you triumph.”
She glanced at her hand in his and heaved a defeated sigh. With seeming agreement, they released each other’s grasp. She accepted his offered elbow and they resumed walking toward the ballroom.
“What can you tell me of the suitors?” she asked discreetly.
“We should speak later. Not now.”
No sooner had he spoken than Isabella and her friends carved a path between them.
“I do so love a secret,” Isabella whispered. “What plot do we hatch here?”
When Lucy said nothing, Henry filled the void. “I was simply commending Lady Margaret on a successful first impression with her suitors.”
Isabella brushed his shoulder softly and smiled. “Henry, dear, you are ever the encourager.” She turned her attention to Lucy. “You should do very well with these suitors. Your brown hair and dark eyes present a certain Persian effect. One of these men is certain to find it exotic enough to overlook what is less favored by Society at present.”
To underscore her point, she tossed her long blond tresses and fluttered her eyelashes above pale blue eyes. Lucy smiled intently. “Thank you, Lady Isabella, for your heartwarming support. I was beginning to harbor doubts, but you have lifted my spirits. When one of these men makes me his wife, I will return the favor by introducing you to his friends so you may finally have reasonable prospects.”
Isabella’s eyes flashed. Behind her, Miss Wharton drew a sharp intake of breath while Miss Braye coughed. Henry looked away to hide his amusement. The battle was joined! Lucy grabbed Isabella’s hand and began dragging the reluctant woman into the ballroom. “But come, now. The night is young. Discussion of your plight can wait for a more opportune time.”
Henry remained rooted as he watched the women walk toward the center of the room. His pride over Lucy’s handling of Isa
bella conflicted with his desire to warn her of the looming danger. James caught him musing.
“Pining after her will not save you, Henry.”
“Pardon?”
James leaned near and pinched Henry’s shoulder. “Lady Margaret is simultaneously above your station and the pathway to your destruction. I hope you will make a wise choice for both your sakes.”
With that, James moved to join Lucy. In his absence, Sir Hugh stepped next to Henry while watching James. “Don’t listen to whatever he said. There is no accounting for the behavior of a jealous man.”
Henry cast a startled glance at the knight. “Jealous of me?”
“Jealous that you have done more with your life than attend balls and take afternoon tea with shiftless callers. And jealous of your appeal to Lady Margaret.”
Henry tried to argue his point about Lucy, but Sir Hugh simply cocked an eyebrow and sauntered away. Regardless, he could not dismiss his brother’s warning. After all, James had known longer than anyone the true extent of Henry’s fallen nature.
…
Once inside the ballroom, Lucy watched the guests filter in and assume positions around the cavernous space, some sitting, others not. The pack of suitors soon clustered around her to form a cordon that locked out all others as they circled for the kill. Their aggressive proximity raised her anxiety. Once again, the men began to vie for her attention.
“Tell us of your childhood,” Rayleigh said.
“Or of your education,” suggested Lord Jeffrey.
Her brief panic appeared to draw Henry’s brother a step nearer. “Mundane and boring,” he said. “Let us hear instead of how you escaped the highwaymen who drove your coach into a river. That should make for a fascinating tale.”
Despite the directness, Lucy found with some surprise that she was more inclined to discuss that dark day with some element of truth than to lie about her unconventional upbringing. “Thank you, Lord Ravensheugh. I should like to do so.”
He cast a challenging eye at the other men and then smiled sweetly at her. She nodded while biting back a dismal opinion of his attentions. “Of course. Now, where to begin? Oh, yes. The road from Runnymede along the Thames. That is where they fell upon us, but our horses were swift.”
She conveyed most of the story in graphic detail, while conveniently omitting parts that might lead to more probing questions about her subsequent childhood. She finished with her discovery by Steadman but twisted the tale slightly.
“A gentleman came upon me as the thieves emerged from the trees. He convinced them to leave and then saw to my safety.”
“How terrifying!” said Lord Canterfield. “I commend your courage, and at such a young age. It is no wonder the duchess speaks so highly of you.”
“Indeed,” added Warwick. He seemed to have completely forgotten his mistreatment of her before he learned of the immense dowry. “Why, I have seen grown men crumble under lesser threats. Well done.”
James gazed at her with eyes softer than before. “Yes, Lady Margaret. Very well done.”
With that, he offered her his arm. “Shall we attend to the other guests?”
She accepted the arm reluctantly, escaping the huddle of suitors for the first time in half an hour. Her eyes immediately found Henry locked in conversation with Isabella. Their unheard discourse seemed passionate and intense. A surge of jealousy nearly brought her to a halt. Isabella spied her and James and waved to them.
“Oh, there you are at last, my lady. Please beguile us with your skills on the pianoforte.”
Charlotte, who had slipped into the background all evening, immediately sprang to Lucy’s defense. “That will not be necessary. We should dance instead, and I will play the pianoforte.”
Lucy nearly sagged to the floor with relief.
“Thank you, Lady Sinclair. Despite my lack of ballroom experience, dancing would please me greatly as I have no skill whatsoever on the pianoforte.”
While she marveled at the turn of events that would have her preferring one public humiliation over another, she returned her attention to Henry. His face seemed clouded, distant.
“You have my sympathy,” said Isabella. “I am sorry your mentor failed to teach you pianoforte. Still, I truly believe you might learn to play passably despite your indelicate fingers.”
Lucy blinked but dipped her head in a show of gratitude. “Thank you again for your unending encouragement. However, I must admit I have found my indelicate fingers quite useful from time to time.”
“Oh? For what purpose?”
She pressed a pointer finger into each ear. “For example, plugging my ears against annoying sounds.”
“Lady Margaret,” said Isabella. “Surely you are not serious. Of what annoying sounds do you speak?”
Lucy smiled broadly. “See? It is working! I cannot hear a word you are saying.”
Henry raised his hand to hide a smirk. He motioned to her to remove her fingers from her ears. She did so.
“I apologize, Mr. Beaumont,” she said. “Did I embarrass you with my display?”
“No. I merely feared your fingers would become stuck and make dancing impossible. You do wish to dance, yes?”
She gulped. “As an alternative to a flogging, I suppose I do. Let us see if I might so damage the quadrille as to cause France to again declare war on Britain.”
Everyone chuckled over her comment. To her surprise, however, the mirth seemed amusement with her wit rather than ridicule for her shortcomings. Confidence surged within her, and she strode onto the dance floor with resolve.
…
Henry watched glumly from the hinterlands of the ballroom as Lucy and James joined a quadrille of four couples. When the music began, she danced earnestly and executed the steps with only a few minor slips, still clutching the unseen foil with her right hand. Her few mistakes, however, were not what concerned him. Rather, what bothered Henry was the way his brother smiled at her, and worse, how she appeared to return his attention. Her infectious laughter periodically punctuated the music as she gave herself to the flow of the dance. Regret dogged him for his actions in London over the previous days. One way or another, he was delivering her to a devil. Presently, Isabella came to stand beside him. She leaned in to his shoulder.
“You appear as a child lost in a dark wood.”
“I am observing my pupil for the purpose of later critique.”
Isabella shook her head and gazed up at him with batting eyelashes. “Oh, Henry. Do not torture yourself over her. Her attempts to gain your affections are ill spent.”
He furrowed his brow. “She is not vying for my affections.”
Isabella slapped his shoulder lightly. “Oh, she is, addle brain. Do you not see the way she watches you? The way she forms herself to your every word and action?”
“Not really. She rarely does anything I tell her to do.”
“That much is obvious, but she follows you like a helpless puppy, hoping for a word from you so she may disagree. Make no mistake. She desires your affections. I pity her that and pray she might find satisfaction with one of those lesser men surrounding her now.”
He forced a smile, if for no reason other than to end the discussion. “You are right, of course. I’ll not torture myself over her. Lady Margaret’s die is cast and there is precious little I can do to change that.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The following morning while the guests still slumbered after a long evening of dancing and drinking, Lucy rose before sunrise to walk the fields. Her solitary path led her toward the creek that formed one border of the Sinclair estate. Upon arriving at the water’s edge, her eyes darted up to find Henry standing across the creek watching her with cautious interest.
“Henry. You surprised me.”
“And you me, Lucy.”
She considered turning back, but curiosity over his
morose demeanor prodded her forward. She eyed the water. “How does one cross this?”
“You’ll find a footbridge a few hundred steps to your left. That is the easy way.”
She tossed him a mischievous grin. “You should know by now I do nothing the easy way.”
The hard set of his jaw loosened. “You are correct. In that case, you must leap across.”
She nodded and backed away a dozen steps before her confidence wavered. “What if I fall?”
“You will not fall. Your ridiculous fortitude disallows falling.”
With an appreciative nod, she hiked her skirt a few inches and darted toward the creek. As she took flight, Henry leaned over the water with arms extended. He caught her and they landed in a tangled heap on the moist earth. Her eyes fell on his enticing lips only inches from hers. After a frozen moment, his arms slipped from her shoulders to encircle her waist. All sense fled and she spontaneously pressed her lips to his. He pulled her closer and leaned into the kiss, leaving her bewildered and aroused. She had never allowed a man to so much as touch her. How had she instigated such intimacy without a second thought? When she placed a hand against the grizzle of his cheek, he emitted a nearly inaudible groan that reverberated in her chest. She gloried in the mystery of the startling moment, preparing to abandon all reason. However, he gently pushed her away with a defeated sigh. She clambered to her feet and smoothed her dress, her cheeks and lips a field of flame. He rose to his feet, watching her.
“I…I made the leap.” Her calm reply belied a racing heart.
“You did.” He glanced away while rubbing his neck. “Will you sit with me and enjoy the sunrise?”
She settled next to him on the remains of a fallen tree, careful to leave space between them. They watched the rising sun in silence for a time.
…
Henry’s head was in turmoil as Lucy sat beside him on the log. His ongoing betrayal of her confidence stole the spectacular kiss from his lips and dashed it into the mud. The urge to confess his recent actions nearly produced fruit before she ended the opportunity.
