An Earl To Remember

by Jasmine Ashford

  And what a throng! Despite the heavy exclusivity of the place, it seemed there were more people than Ada would have thought possible – all talking and laughing and moving all at once. The rustle of skirts and the delicate peals of laughter assailed her like a wave.

  It must be because I am seeing it as he would see it. Ada hardly ever noticed the size of crowds but now, through her care for Liam, she saw the room as it must be for him. He is so, so brave, she thought, awed.

  She looked about the room, standing on tiptoe to try and locate him. She could see no tall men with black coats, and wondered, with a sinking dismay, if he had decided to decline.

  She made her way toward the refreshments table, walking blindly past ladies with plumes and ladies with lace caps and ringlets and turbans and strings of pearls in their hair. Past tall gentlemen in velvet and others in military uniforms, past generals and lords and earls.

  “Ada...”

  She would have recognized that voice anywhere. She whirled round.

  “Liam!” She wanted to embrace him, but she knew it would not be proper. Instead she simply stared. “You're here!”

  “Of course,” he replied. The scar twitched in the lopsided grin, a white slash, deeply-etched across his face. When he smiled, it made a diagonal line from lip to eyelid, but it was, she thought, becoming on him.

  “I can barely believe it!” Ada breathed.

  “Believe it.” Liam smiled. The two of them stared at each other, lost in one another's eyes.

  “Lady Ada,” Liam said, “I have long forgotten ballroom etiquette, but I think it would be meet, and not to say pleasurable, to ask you for a dance?”

  Ada felt her heart leap. “Lord Liam,” she said gently, “I believe it would be right and proper, not to say delightful, to dance with you. Though I must insist we wait for a gavotte. It would be a pity to do anything less than absolutely right.”

  The two of them laughed. Ada felt her heart soaring. They stood alone together on the side of the ballroom, watching the crowd and the dancers, waiting for the gavotte. They talked and laughed and a few people glanced idly toward them, but no one paid any heed. If Liam had expected people to stop and stare, he would be surprised. A few people cast them interested glances, but if their eyes lingered on the scar they did so only for a second and then passed on.

  “It is a lively party, is it not,” Ada commented, taking a sip of her Malmsey wine.

  “Yes,” Liam agreed. His fingers were clenched where he leaned on a chair, knuckles white, but it was the only outward sign of his worry.

  Ada tapped her foot in time with the music. “Will they ever finish with this dreary dance? I want a gavotte!”

  Liam grinned. “I am sure your patience will be rewarded, my lady.”

  Ada laughed. “Am I so impatient?”

  “Sometimes,” he murmured. She laughed.

  Their patience was rewarded, and eventually the orchestra broke into a lively gavotte.

  “My lady?” Liam smiled, eyes twinkling merrily, “will you do me the honor of a dance?”

  “Certainly!” she smiled, “I had been waiting for that opportunity.”

  The two of them swept out onto the floor together. As he took her hand, Ada felt like she was flying. The dance was perfect – a lively measure in a minor key. He was perfect, too – never had she danced with someone who felt so right, who fitted every movement with her own as if they were carved from a single piece, accustomed over ages to each other. The music ended and she whirled around, dropping a full curtsey, smiling and panting with exertion, as he bowed.

  “My lord,” she said. “You have exhausted me.”

  “My lady,” Liam smiled, raising a brow, “I am delighted to hear that is the case. You shall have to sit and talk with me, for want of any energy to take you hence.”

  They both laughed, and together found some seats. Heedless of the crowd around them, ignoring the rise and fall of voices, the orchestra behind them, the presence of acquaintances, they talked. It seemed like hours, though it could only have been three hours at the most, that Ada spent there. When the ball finally closed, after midnight, her heart was soaring. There was no sign of Oscar, and the evening was perfect.

  They said their farewell on the terrace, a kiss below the stars. Then Liam was rushing to his carriage, and she was joining her party for the long trip home.

  “I shall remember this party until I die,” she whispered under her breath. She smiled up at the stars that winked down from the velvet sky above, sure that they had heard her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A VENGEFUL MIND

  A VENGEFUL MIND

  The darkness fell softly beyond the windows of Suttner House. Oscar Ridlington sat alone upstairs, watching the night fall. The darkness suited his brooding mood. He set aside the brandy glass and poured another measure.

  “That woman!” he cursed, throwing back the drink.

  The woman was Ada Drosty. He hated her. He had once courted her, and her repeated rejection had cut him to the quick. Now, not only did she reject him, but she entertained the courtship of some scarred upstart from the far North! He was a nobody!

  He had watched from across the room as this upstart had laid hands on Lady Ada, had danced with her, talked with her, made her laugh. He had never seen the lady like that before – her joy in this man's company enlivened her.

  He had never heard of the man. All he knew was that he hated him with a passion that overwhelmed all reason. The man was making a fool of him. Only yesterday he had heard someone comment that he, the Duke of Darbyshire, had been “pipped to the post” by some unknown gentleman.

  He sighed, feeling the brandy slowly cloud his mind. As he sat there, breathing slowly, he heard a knock at the door.

  “Come in!” he called.

  “My lord?”

  “Rodway!” Oscar stood up quickly, setting the glass aside as he saw who stood there in the doorway. “I did not expect company?” His eyes were cold and expressionless, expression carefully neutral.

  “I said I might drop in,” the man said casually. “I'll leave, if this is an awkward time?”

  “Not awkward at all,” Oscar said evenly. “I was just taking my ease here. Please, join me.” He lowered himself into a seat by the window, waving his new guest to the other. Inwardly, he sighed, none too pleased by the man's company.

  “Don't mind if I do,” Lord Rodway said, and lowered himself easily into the chair. Oscar poured him a drink, and the two men sat quietly a while.

  “You went to the theatre today?” Lord Rodway asked, making conversation.

  “No,” Oscar said shortly. “I attended the ball last night, and so rose late this morning.”

  The two sat quietly for a while, listening to the distant sounds of the street, and the closer noises of crickets in the garden, the quiet hiss of an oil-lamp.

  “The town is talking of a certain lady, and her involvement with an unknown lord,” Lord Rodway began.

  “I do not want to hear of this,” Oscar said, raising a hand.

  “I'm sorry, old boy,” Lord Rodway said smoothly. “But you should know. The man intends to wed her. And I thought…” He did not finish the sentence, but left it hanging, a query for Lord Oscar to expand on.

  “I do not care to hear what the man intends,” Oscar managed to say, though his teeth were clenched. “I only care what I intend.”

  “And that is?” Lord Rodway asked mildly. “To allow some Northern upstart to steal your prize under your nose?”

  There was a silence, while Oscar blinked at the bluntness of that statement. At length, Oscar groaned. “I am humiliated enough, Lucas. I do not need salt in my wounds.”

  Lucas Rodway leaned over to pour a drink. The decanter clinked against the crystal glass and the sound of fluid glugged in the silence of the room. The man sat back, sipping appreciatively.

  “I did not mean to salt your wounds,” Lord Rodway said lightly. “You have excellent taste,” he added, sipping th
e drink again.

  “Thank you,” Oscar said testily. “I am not usually known for bad judgements.”

  “Not usually, no,” Lord Rodway remarked. “Only as regards ladies.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Oscar rounded on him, blue eyes bulging. Lord Rodway sat back, a look of fear temporarily crossing his face. Oscar was pleased to see it. Strong and skilled, he was known for his prowess in dueling. Lord Rodway should not cross him, and the evident fear salved his wounds somewhat.

  “Nothing,” he said quickly. “I just wished to bring to your attention the talk of the town,” Lord Rodway said smoothly. “There are many who think it amusing to see you bested in the field by an unknown horse, so to speak.”

  “There are?” Oscar's eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt his fingers tighten on the arms of his chair, as if he would strangle it.

  “There are,” Lord Rodway said lightly. “I, for one, am interested to know how you would respond.”

  “I would challenge the rascal!” he said, hotly. “I will not have anyone say I give up what is mine.”

  “That is precisely what was said, your grace,” was the smooth reply. “And I would counsel you to take... whatever action you see fit.”

  “Action I see fit!” Oscar spluttered. His head was aching, a hot rage building there that threatened to overwhelm all sense. “I will take action indeed! And he will wish I hadn't.”

  “I am sure he will,” Lord Rodway said mildly.

  If Oscar had been more alert, he would have wondered why the man was provoking him, and considered that he might have bet on the outcome of a duel, should he and this Liam Donnelly choose to fight one. Lord Rodway was an inveterate gambler – one of the reasons he cleaved so strongly to Oscar was through his hopes the man would settle his debts. But Oscar was not clear-headed. Blinded by rage and hurt pride, he saw only the promise of redeeming his reputation in the field.

  “I will make him wish he hadn't,” he said thickly. “And you will be my second. Tomorrow, we will pass Lord Liam's house and we will make him wish he had kept his hand stapled to his sword and not thought to touch that which is mine!”

  “Quite, your grace,” Lord Rodway said smoothly.

  Together they sat and planned a visit to Liam Donnelly. It would be swift and brutal, and Oscar would be avenged.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  MISTS OF MEMORY

  MISTS OF MEMORY

  The morning sun shone through the window at Liam's apartment. He turned over in bed and smiled.

  I cannot quite believe I am alive. Last night was surely heaven?

  He sat and stretched, smiling. He remembered every moment – the dance, each word of her conversation, the way she had looked at him. He could almost not believe it had happened. The only evidence that it was real and not some blessed dream was his suit, lying where it had been left on the chair.

  He rolled out of bed and rang the bell for his manservant to come and help him dress. While the man worked, he could not help humming a song from the ball.

  “You're cheerful, milord,” the man commented.

  “Thank you, Rawlings,” he said. “I am.”

  “Breakfast's set in the breakfast room, when you want it,” his man added, brushing Liam's coat down as he buttoned it.

  “Thank you, Rawlings. I'll be there directly.”

  “Very good, milord.”

  When the man had gone, Liam contemplated himself in the mirror before heading next door. Made of the best linen blend and dyed a deep navy blue, almost black, the suit he had chosen was worth every penny he had spent on it in Atwick's. As he crossed the floor to the hallway, he suddenly realized something. He had looked in the mirror and had not even noticed his scar.

  The realization was overwhelming. He drifted across the hallway to the breakfast room in a state of amazement.

  He wandered to the table, opening the salver where it sat waiting for him. He already knew what it would contain – Kedgeree was a favorite of his, stemming from his years in the army. It was the one aspect of it he had maintained, despite his need to sever himself from each memory of the time. The walls he had built around his mind were almost impenetrable, allowing the barest trickle of memory through.

  Now, his memories were all of Ada. His life was starting anew. “I can hardly believe I am so blessed,” he said sincerely. As he reached for tea, his peace was shattered by a shout.

  “Liam!”

  The shout echoed in the stone corridor. He blinked, and tried to clear his head. He was lost in his memories of Ada, dancing. Ada taking his hand. Ada, her eyes warm as she talked with him, danced with him, kissed him.

  “Liam!”

  “Milord...”

  He heard the sound as of a man in pain, falling. The sounds spurred him into action and he ran lithely for the stairs. “Rawlings...”

  “My lord...” Rawlings called up. The man sounded like he was in pain.

  “Shut your mouth!” someone hissed, and then the same voice called his name. “Liam! Lord Donnelly!”

  Liam felt a red rage fill him. He ran down the stairs. Whoever that was had hit his butler! He felt the same rage flood his veins as had happened in India, when he had seen his comrade torn down from his horse.

  “No!” he shouted, and ran for the stairs. As he did it, he seemed to see, overlaid, the memory of India – hitting out at soldiers with curved swords, and then just carving into anything and anyone who came near him.

  This time, it was not a guardsman with a curved sword, striking out at his best friend. It was Oscar Ridlington, and he held his butler by the scruff of the neck. It was the same rage, however: someone was harming someone in his care, and he lashed out without thought, aiming for the man's head. He felt hot tears of rage run down his cheeks as he recognized his foe and hit him, harder.

  This is the man who threatened Ada! This is the man who insulted her, who made her afraid. He slighted Toby. He's hit Rawlings...

  The thoughts mixed with the thoughts from the battlefield, all those years ago. As he struck out, the scene was overlaid with that wild and teeming battlefield, and in his mind a cry echoed – wailing and inhuman – in his voice.

  “Caledon!”

  Caledon had been his friend. Geoffrey, Lord Caledon. He had ridden with him, shared cigars, joked, shared his secrets. He had been like a brother, and closer than a brother. A comrade and a friend. And then he was dead.

  As his butler, freed from his lordship's grasp, dragged him back, he realized something. He had not killed for violence. He had not killed for hate. He had not even killed indifferently, simply for his orders. He had killed for Geoffrey, Lord Caledon. As he would kill now, for Ada. He crumpled, then, the realization almost too great.

  He was not a villain! He was a man, maddened with grief, protecting someone he had loved.

  “Caledon!” he whispered. He felt his knees go out from under him.

  “My lord...” his butler was murmuring, blood sheeting down his own face from a broken nose. “It is me, Rawlings. You struck his grace, the Duke of Norwich...” His voice trailed off as the man Liam had attacked in this instance hit him, hard around the head, making him see red with black flares shooting through it.

  “You scoundrel!” Oscar Ridlington was shouting. “You were dancing with my intended woman. I do not back down... whatever I think of her. She slighted me. You had no right to keep me from my dues.”

  The man hit Liam another blow, and, as he passed out, his thoughts were of Ada.

  “Ada!”

  He whispered her name as the darkness rose before him. He had been right to protect her. He had helped her, even if he would die for it, now. She was safe. He thought he heard Toby, shouting his name.

  “Liam!”

  He fell into the darkness. If Caledon, or Ada, came to him, he did not notice – all he saw was red and black.

  “Can you hear me?”

  A voice was speaking somewhere in the dark, far beyond Liam's vision and his pain. It was later, mu
ch later – he could sense somehow that it was dark outside though his eyes were closed. Liam breathed in and smelled incense and the smoke of a fireplace and the sweet lavender of clean bedding and tried to move, feeling the whisper of cotton sheets beneath his feet.

  He opened his eyes, but pain lanced through his head, and so he closed them.

  “Toby?” he asked, taking a guess. The voice had sounded like Toby. And it would be typical of him, he thought wryly, to snatch him from the jaws of death only to torment him by leaving a bright candle where his aching eyes could see it.

  “Liam,” the voice said gently. It was Toby's. “I am here, yes. How are you?”

  Liam huffed a laugh. “Daft question, that.” He tried to sit, to spit out the gobbet of blood in his mouth, but almost fainted. “I'm still alive,” he added, coughing dryly.

  “Liam...” Toby sighed. “Of all the daft, dear, delirious things I have ever seen...” He sighed, and held his friend while he tried to sit. “Why did you have to attack Lord Oscar Ridlington? The man's the best fighter in the land!”

  Liam laughed weakly. His head ached, his chest was bruised and he could not open his eye. He was fairly sure a tooth had been knocked loose, for his mouth was filled with blood. He felt like he had died and been inadequately revived.

  “I didn't plan to do it,” he said, and coughed again. He spat out the blood and whatever else was in his mouth, and Toby held him while he drank.

  Toby groaned. “I know,” he said dolorously. “Like you didn't mean to nearly get your head cut off in the war, standing over Geoff like an angel of death. Like you didn't mean to lead a charge into enemy territory to defend out general. Or like you didn't mean to attack the terror of Cambridge when we were there together, to protect me?”

  Liam slid down Toby's arm and to the pillow. He felt like he had been ridden over by a carriage. He was exhausted and it seemed every part of him had breaks and bruises. But what Toby was saying caused more response than any wound.