by Diane Farr
Within ten minutes of her arrival at the supper table, several unpleasant facts were abundantly clear to Olivia. The first was that Sidney Cheyne—a good-looking lad whom she thought charming for, perhaps, the first three minutes of their acquaintance—was doggedly pursuing Miss Sowerberry. Miss Sowerberry had little to recommend her to a handsome, well-connected young man, so it was plain as a pikestaff that the unfortunate girl was rich. It was equally obvious that Mrs. Sowerberry’s opinion of Mr. Cheyne was not high, and that the only reason she had consented to bring her daughter to this party was that she had been promised an introduction to Lady Olivia Fairfax. Olivia was the prize that had been dangled before the Sowerberrys like a carrot on a stick.
She hid her revulsion behind the well-trained wall of politeness her breeding had taught her, but she was deeply angry. That rascal George sat beside her—actually pressing his audacious thigh against her knee!—and smiled blandly at the indignant glances she threw him. She itched to give him a piece of her mind.
Mrs. Sowerberry was the worst sort of mushroom—a pushy, loudmouthed, fawning woman, clinging by her fingernails to the fringes of society and determined to thrust her daughter into the aristocracy. She had her work cut out for her, thought Olivia disgustedly, for although Mr. Sowerberry did little but sit there, silently shoving a fearsome amount of food down his gullet, it was obvious he was nothing but a cit. He must be wealthy indeed for his daughter to attract someone like Sidney Cheyne! But Mr. Cheyne she disliked more than the Sowerberrys. He was a young man of birth and breeding, and, to Olivia’s mind, there was no excuse for what he had become.
Had she not been so angry with George, she would have been grateful when he leaned in and interrupted one of Mrs. Sowerberry’s monologues, inquiring whether Olivia would care to try the famous arrack punch.
She shot him a fulminating glare, but kept her voice civil. “I think not, thank you. I believe it is made with strong spirits.”
“Rum, in fact.” His dark eyes danced with mischief. “I’m sure it would do you good. You look a little pale.”
“The air has become strangely oppressive,” she told him sweetly. “I hope I am not unwell.”
His grin was completely unrepentant. “If you are, my dear Lady Olivia, I heartily recommend the punch. A glass or two, and you will feel wonderfully improved.”
Mr. Cheyne chimed in. “Perhaps she needs air, Rival. It’s a bit close in the supper boxes.” He flashed a careless, overly boyish grin at the Sowerberrys. “I’ll be happy to play host while you are gone, dear chap.”
Mrs. Sowerberry greeted this suggestion with a hostile sniff, but Olivia was so eager to escape the supper box that she seized on it at once. “If you would not mind, my lord—” she began, trying to sound meek and apologetic.
“Not at all,” he said promptly. He immediately rose and discarded his cloak, assisting Olivia with the smoothest of smiles. It was only when she had gratefully risen and taken his arm that it occurred to her: The entire incident was extremely suspect. Was that laughter she saw lurking in his eyes?
Before she could decide, he was bowing and taking his leave of the table, and custom demanded that she do the same. Mrs. Sowerberry hoped, in a disgruntled voice, that Lady Olivia would feel better shortly and return to finish her supper. Mr. Cheyne boomingly assured Lord Rival that the company would be in good hands and that he might take his time without worrying that his guests would be neglected. Mr. Sowerberry grunted, and Miss Sowerberry said nothing at all.
Once again, Olivia found herself strolling off through the gardens on George’s arm. Had he planned it that way? As they left the quadrangle and turned the corner onto one of the walkways, placing the supper box out of sight, she stopped in her tracks and rounded on him, eyes narrowed. He looked at her, his brows climbing in an expression of guileless inquiry—but Olivia saw his shoulders shake with mirth.
“I knew it! You did that on purpose,” she said accusingly. To her dismay, she discovered that she was fighting a strong impulse to laugh. She bit her lip and glared at him, but it was too late. His wicked grin told her that he had seen the laughter she was trying to suppress.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, assuming an innocent air.
“You deliberately inflicted upon me a party of persons whom you knew I would loathe! How dare you use me so?”
“You are too severe,” he lamented, apparently deeply injured. “Why would I do such an unhandsome thing? I thought you would be pleased. A simple, family party—”
“Family?”
“Certainly. Mr. Cheyne tells me he is your mother’s third cousin twice removed, or some such thing.”
She threw up her hands in eloquent despair. “Must you remind me of that?”
“Well, well, one cannot choose one’s family,” he said soothingly. “If it is any solace to you, he claims a similar kinship to me. I thought his connection to both our families formed a logical link between you and me—adding an air of respectability to the evening.”
Her lips twitched. George’s air of triumph indicated that he had thought of that excuse this very instant. “I see. So Mr. Cheyne’s presence provided the illusion that, despite my otherwise incongruous presence, your party consisted entirely of family members. Well, that ought to keep the scandalmongers silent! Very thoughtful of you. And what relation are the Sowerberrys to me, pray?”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Let me see. As future in-laws of Mr. Cheyne—”
“According to whom?”
“Mr. Cheyne. Why are you laughing? He ought to know who his future in-laws will be.”
“Heavens, yes. There can be no higher authority for that information. Do you know, I am almost disappointed? I thought I was taking a grave risk in coming here alone with you. Instead I discover that I am being chaperoned by all these delightful additions to my family.”
George spread his hands deprecatingly. “Exactly. A perfectly tame and logical gathering. I invited our mutual cousin—or whatever he is—to make you feel at ease, and the Sowerberrys to make Mr. Cheyne feel at ease.”
She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot on the gravel path. “I don’t know what you deserve,” she said at last, trying to sound stern despite the laughter quivering in her voice. “That frightful woman will trumpet my name to everyone she knows. Even if I escape being hailed as her cousin, I shall figure in her speech forevermore as ‘my dear friend, Lady Olivia Fairfax.” ’
“She is a friendly soul,” he said, sounding pleased. “I’m glad you liked her.”
Olivia could not help it; she burst out laughing.
George took her hand and placed it back on his arm, patting it. “Good. You are not truly angry.”
“I am excessively angry!” she exclaimed, still laughing. “You are the worst rogue I ever met.”
“Yes, but your experience is limited,” George reminded her, leading her in a leisurely way toward one of the pavilions. “How did you like your newfound cousin?”
“Which one? Mr. Cheyne? He is the second-worst rogue I ever met.”
George’s eyes glinted down at her in amusement. “So you did see through him. I wondered if you would.”
“He is loathsome,” announced Olivia, not mincing matters. “Is he truly a friend of yours?”
George paused before answering. “I suppose he is. Fancies himself my friend, at any rate. In a moment of weakness, I actually gave him a key to my flat. I am growing increasingly weary of his antics, however. He doesn’t seem quite the amusing fellow I once thought him.”
“He sets my teeth on edge. I can’t believe you ever thought him amusing! I saw through that false bonhomie at once.”
“Oh, I saw through it! I simply—forgave it.” He still smiled, but behind the smile Olivia thought he looked troubled. She was sure of it when he glanced down at her and said softly, “He and I are very much alike, you know.”
Olivia stiffened in instinctive rejection of such a notion. “You are nothing alike!
” she said hotly. “How can you say such a thing? No, I will not listen to you—it is absurd! He is the most repellent man it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, and you—” She stopped, struggling, and fell silent.
He was laughing again. “Oh, pray finish your sentence!” he begged. “Am I the most attractive man—”
“—it has ever been my misfortune to encounter,” she finished grimly. She was blushing, but threw him a look of defiance. “I am having a most unlucky September, am I not?”
“And I am having the luckiest.” Something in his smile eased her mortification and almost made it possible for her to smile back at him. She resisted the temptation, however.
They had drawn very near to one of the pavilions, where a small dance orchestra played, planted in an overhanging balcony. The smooth floor of the pavilion was dotted with laughing couples, swirling together in time to the music. Festoons of gently bobbing lanterns had been strung above the dance floor, lending a glow of enchantment to the scene.
It was a pretty sort of dancing, new to Olivia. She had been watching the dance for some time without seeing it, but now it excited her curiosity and claimed her attention. The couples did not dance in a discernable pattern. Instead of sets moving together and apart in figures, each couple seemed to be dancing in isolation. The fact that everyone danced in the same direction was the only thing that kept the couples from colliding. The most arresting feature of the dance was that the dancing couples held each other in a sort of embrace—a stylized embrace, but an embrace nevertheless. She kept expecting them to break apart and form some other figure, but the dance apparently contained none. Some of the couples held each other more closely than others, some danced side-by-side or with the woman revolving gracefully beneath her partner’s arm, but all the couples danced in unbroken contact with each other.
It was this that made her realize she was seeing a waltz. She had heard of the waltz. Lurid descriptions of it were a recurring theme in popular discussions of moral decay. The waltz was frequently singled out as providing proof of the decline of civilization. Intrigued, she watched the shifting, circling couples and tried to imagine what it would feel like to dance that way. It was pretty to watch, but she could not picture herself doing it. Certainly not without blushing.
Absorbed in her own thoughts, she belatedly realized that George was soliciting her hand. She looked up at him, startled. “Oh! I beg your pardon; I wasn’t attending. Did you—did you say the next dance? If it is a country dance, or even a quadrille, I would be happy to—”
“It won’t be. The orchestra’s played nothing but waltzes since they struck up. They are all the rage, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” She returned her gaze to the dancers, concentrating this time on the music. “The music is appealing, isn’t it? Very—how would you describe it? Rhythmic.”
“Olivia! Is this the first time you’ve heard a waltz?”
Olivia blushed. “You needn’t stare at me as if I were a Hottentot,” she said with dignity. “I might very well have heard a waltz before—without knowing it.”
“By Jove. You don’t know how to waltz.” George took a breath, a rather queer expression descending on his face. It almost looked as if he were excited by the news and trying to keep a lid on his exultation. “This is an unexpected development.”
“How so? I have already told you that I haven’t attended a ball since I was seventeen.”
“I think you should learn to waltz.”
She chuckled. “I have no need for it! I have allowed you to bring me to Vauxhall for one night, but that does not mean I am ready to cast myself into the social whirl! I haven’t time for such nonsense. And besides, I would dislike it excessively.”
“You won’t dislike the waltz,” he promised. She felt his hand touch her waist again, and a shock of electricity seemed to pass through his palm and into her body. She looked up instinctively, but it was a mistake to meet his eyes. There was something intimate and teasing in his smile that made her forget to breathe.
“We struck a bargain,” he reminded her softly. “I have borne with patience your lessons in bookkeeping, my lady. It is time you submitted to my authority for an hour or two. Here is something you need to learn—and I know how to teach.”
“Tonight?” she asked weakly.
“Tonight.” He grinned. “You’ll learn it in no time.”
She glanced back at the dance floor, curiosity warring with shyness. “I can’t bear it. I shall look such a fool.”
“No one will see you. We’ll go off by ourselves until you have learned the steps.”
She shook her head, laughing. “I might have known! Do you propose to haul me into the shrubbery to teach me the waltz?”
“Curb your suspicion, Prudence! I happen to know that behind that wall to your left, the very wall to which the orchestra’s balcony is attached, there is a paved area with a fountain in the center. We will hear the music as well there as if we were on the dance floor. We will be invisible to all the other dancers. And since the waltz is danced in a circular pattern, we can waltz round the fountain.” His hand tightened on her waist, drawing her infinitesimally closer as he leaned in to whisper teasingly in her ear. “Trust me.”
“I don’t know why I should,” she said stiffly, trying to sound as disapproving as she wished she felt. She was already perfectly aware that she was about to acquiesce.
He gave her another of his wicked grins. “Then don’t. But if you require some token from me to make up your mind, I will pledge to you that, for once, my intentions are honorable. Nothing untoward will happen. May I teach you?”
She studied his face, torn between the impulse to avoid running an even greater risk than she already had, and an even stronger impulse to follow him wherever he might lead. Every instinct clamored out a warning that this man was dangerous, that this night was dangerous, that she was gambling with her heart, her happiness—and perhaps her entire future—by going off alone with him. Of what use was it, to promise herself that she would keep her guard up? That she would not trust him too far? That she would not allow her emotions to run away with her common sense? She had already made those promises to herself, and she was breaking them right and left.
In later years, it seemed to her that this was the moment that forever changed her life. This was the last moment when she could have said “No.” Had she refused this one dance, her entire life might have been different.
But she did not refuse.
She looked at the dancers once again, this time picturing herself among them in her shimmering gown, George’s eyes smiling down at her, his touch guiding her as they glided on a lilting swell of music. The dream was irresistible.
“Thank you, Lord Rival,” she said demurely. “Yes. You may.”
12
He hoped she was not already having regrets. As soon as they turned off the main walkway, the light and merriment of Vauxhall Gardens receded, plunging them into a private world. She moved beside him as if in a trance, completely silent, as he led her deeper and deeper into the gloom. The path narrowed sharply near the entrance of the clearing, foliage crowding in on either side until they could no longer walk abreast. He took her hand then, drawing her after him, and at the end of the path held up a low-hanging branch so that it would not strike her as she entered the clearing. She walked gravely beneath his arm and into the clear space. Here, as he had promised, a fountain played and the stars shone down. She halted, looking around her in pleased surprise.
“But—this is marvelous,” she said, her voice hushed and filled with wonder.
Luck had favored him once again: The clearing behind the pavilion was deserted. The tall fountain, springing from a waist-high basin, danced and sparkled in the center of the pavement, its tinkling music meshing prettily with the orchestra’s strains. His attention drawn to it by the awe in her voice, he also looked around, seeing the place with new eyes. He had to admit, it was rather marvelous. There was something deliciously intimate
about this space behind the wall, invisible to the world of light and music just beyond it. They shared the enchantment of the lilting strings, the fluting woodwinds, and the filtered glow of lamplight, and yet they were completely hidden, their presence undetected and unsuspected by the musicians and dancers on the other side of the wall. It was a special, secret place. The music and the magic seemed stolen—and somehow sweeter for it.
Olivia walked a few paces toward the fountain, swaying slightly in time to the music, then turned her face up to the stars, stretched out her arms and turned in a blissful circle. “Oh, it’s more than marvelous,” she whispered, laughing softly with delight.
He grinned. Her straightforward enjoyment was touching. It spoke volumes about her naivete as well as her candor. And these guileless displays of enthusiasm seemed to indicate that on some level, and despite everything, she trusted him. Odd, that.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said simply.
She dropped her arms and smiled mistily at him. “This is the most wonderful night of my life,” she blurted. Then she seemed to catch herself and laughed a little, wrinkling her nose in embarrassment. “Heavens, what a bumpkin! I must sound terribly—farouche, I suppose, to a man like you.”
He opened his mouth to respond with a polite lie, but stopped just in time. Her honesty deserved better than that. “A little,” he admitted, trusting she would see the twinkle in his eyes. “But it’s refreshing. Your complete lack of subtlety is so charming, in fact, that I was beginning to wonder whether it was deliberate.”
