by Mia Marlowe
She refused to look at Sanders lest she be drawn into his big brown eyes.
When the music ended, he escorted her to the edge of the dance floor, then kept hold of her hand and walked her slowly toward an alcove with a window seat. Once they reached it she sat on the cushions, purposely positioning herself in the center and arranging her broad skirts around herself to discourage him from sitting as well.
Lord Sanders did not discourage easily. He pushed the yards of fabric out of the way and sat beside her as near as her panniers allowed.
“I’m surprise you don’t pull the curtains so you can hold me captive in here,” she said archly.
“A charming idea, but not now,” he said. “You see, I have something to tell you. It’s a secret.”
She glanced around the room. Lady Bettendorf was holding court in the far corner, no doubt regaling her little cadre with the latest and juiciest on dits. “In that case, we should move to a more private setting.”
“No. You know how court people are. If we slink away, they’ll scent a secret and follow, hoping to overhear a tidbit.” Sanders nodded and smiled across the room at an acquaintance. “We’re perfectly safe if we stay right here. They’d never believe I’d tell you something for your ears alone in such a public place.”
Her curiosity was thoroughly piqued. “What is it?”
“First, I have a question for you, and bear in mind I know you well enough to be able to tell if you try to lie to me.” Sanders leaned toward her. “Is your heart engaged in this match with Lord Edmondstone?”
She glanced across the room at the viscount who had joined the group of gossips and was chatting amiably with Lady Bettendorf. The lady preened and seemed to be enjoying herself, displaying her horse-sized teeth in a truly ghastly smile. To his credit, Lord Edmondstone didn’t recoil in horror. Anyone who could charm that old bat redefined charming. There was no denying that the viscount would be an ornament to Florence’s arm and more importantly, the match with him would please her father out of all knowing.
“Lord Edmondstone is the duke’s choice,” she said. “Not mine.”
“Pity His Grace can’t wed the man then,” Sanders said. “Then you could both be happy.”
She almost swatted him with her fan, but decided it might seem as if they were flirting. Instead she fluttered the ivory and feathers before her bosom and tried to look bored, but she burned to know Sander’s secret. “What have you to tell me?”
“Just that I have it on good authority that Viscount Edmondstone is planning to compromise a young lady in the second floor parlour at midnight.” Sanders caught up one of her hands and held it between both of his. “Once they’re discovered, they’ll be forced to wed.”
Florence swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure how to feel. Part of her was furious that Edmondstone would publicly court her and privately choose someone else. But another part of her was strangely relieved.
Her father couldn’t blame her for the match failing if the viscount were that indiscreet.
Or could he?
The duke was completely taken with his theories of horse breeding. He’d waxed long and eloquently about how the same principles should be applied to people. He never gave Florence a moment’s peace about producing exceedingly fair grandchildren for him and lost no opportunity to promote the match with the handsome Edmondstone. The last message from her father’s solicitor confirmed that the amount of her dowry, an offer of an exchange of property along with interest in a fleet of merchant vessels, and a townhouse in St. James had all been accepted by the viscount’s father, the Earl of Meade. The Duke of Seabrooke was paying full price for his future beautiful grandchildren. A formal proposal was the only thing missing.
If she allowed the viscount to slip away at this stage, her father might well have an apoplectic fit.
“What are you going to do?” Sanders asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You could run off to Gretna Green with me.”
She was sorely tempted. Sanders truly wanted her, without being bribed with money, lands and houses. Just her. It was comforting to lean into his uncomplicated adoration. But then she thought of the duke.
The need to please her father was stronger than the need to please herself.
“I wish I could.” Florence pulled her hand away. “But I can’t.”
“You wish you could. Well, that’s something, isn’t it?” A flicker of sadness passed behind his eyes, but then Sanders smiled. “Never mind, my lady. We shall have to make sure you end up with the right bridegroom by hook or by crook.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Simply that you present yourself in the parlour by a quarter to midnight and let the swain who meets you there have his way with you. At the stroke of twelve, you’ll be discovered with your lover in flagrante delicto.”
Florence bit her lower lip. “I don’t know.”
“Make this one decision and then all the others will be out of your hands,” he said.
“If it were only that easy. How can I pass myself off as someone else like that?”
“Simple,” Sanders said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’ll be dark. Lie down on the settee and wait. You’re of a size with the girl Edmondstone is supposed to meet. As long as you don’t say a word, how would anyone know it’s you?”
“But it seems so . . . underhanded.”
“It does because it is,” he agreed. “But you have to ask yourself what you want and what you’re willing to do to get it.”
What if I’m not sure what I want? No, she couldn’t admit that to him. Sanders would only try to convince her to elope with him again. A brisk coach ride to Scotland was looking better by the minute.
“Who is the other girl?” she finally asked.
“Telling would only be hurtful to you and I won’t be a party to that,” Sanders said. “Suffice it to say that if you decide to accept this midnight rendezvous, I’ll take care of her. I promise you will be the only lady in the parlour.”
Chapter 9
The duke’s longcase clock chimed the bottom of the hour, so Delphinia rose from the couch in the retiring room and made her way back to the ballroom. Her headache had abated slightly, but she still wished there were fewer candles blazing. She searched the room but didn’t see Tristan anywhere.
He must be on his way to the parlour already.
Her friend Harmony had already worked her way into Lady Bettendorf’s circle. Their gazes met across the room. Harmony smiled and laid a finger along the side of her nose in the time-honored gesture of collusion.
A rush of affection for Harmony flooded Del’s chest. She was the best of friends. Even though Harmony was more than a little shocked by Delphinia’s plans, once she was told she’d get to play a prominent part in this evening’s little drama, Harmony’s misgivings flitted away like cottonwood seeds in springtime. In another few moments, Lady Bettendorf’s party was moving along toward an exit. Harmony had succeeded in steering the gossip and her group into perusing the portraits in the corridor. By midnight, they’d have reached on the second floor heading toward the parlour where an oil painting of the first Duke of Seabrooke was mounted over the fireplace. Harmony would claim she was simply perishing to see it.
Everything was in readiness.
Delphinia had a few more minutes before she needed to start toward the parlour, so she sat to watch the dancers execute a lively gigue and hoped her belly would settle. Her whole future would be determined within the next half hour. Their plan was a sound one, but she’d feel better once it was irrevocably accomplished.
She figured she’d be better able to slip away between sets when so many would be intent on finding the punch bowl. The gigue was probably the last dance in the set, yet it went on and on. Just when she was sure the quartet was winding up for a big finish, they launched into yet another repetition of the theme. Delphinia tapped her toes, more from nerves than enjoyment of the music.
Lady Floren
ce strode past, her gait determined. Most women who weren’t dancing strolled along the edges of the dance floor, the better to be seen by potential dance partners who were looking for the next name on their card. The duke’s daughter moved with purpose, her mouth set in a hard line, arms swinging. She didn’t notice that her lace handkerchief slipped out of one of her sleeves and fluttered to the floor.
“Oh, my lady,” Delphinia said as she bent to retrieve the handkerchief, but once her fingers closed around it, her throat constricted and she couldn’t speak another word. The Brussel’s lace on the kerchief was doing all the talking.
In twisted tones, the lace warbled on. Del couldn’t decipher what it was trying to say, but there was no mistaking the vision it showed her. Even though the room in the disjointed images was dark, Del could make out Lady Florence, waiting with hammering heart on tufted velvet. A man joined her and after a few moments of kissing, passion flared white-hot between them.
Delphinia dropped the handkerchief and her vision cleared, but the stab of pain in her head nearly brought her to her knees.
Lady Florence knows our plans, she realized. Del looked around for the duke’s daughter but didn’t find her anywhere. She’s gone to take my place.
Despite the way her head pounded, she started toward the door. She had to stop Tristan from making a mistake that would ruin all their lives. At the very least she needed to reach the parlour before Harmony and Lady Bettendorf.
“I say, Miss Preston, don’t scamper off.” Sir Rupert Digby blocked her way. “You missed our chaconne earlier so I believe you owe me this bourrée.”
“I can’t, Sir Rupert,” she said, knowing she was being terribly rude, but she couldn’t help herself. “I have to go—”
“Come now. Don’t be like that. Wherever you need to be, you can go after this dance. Lord knows, it’s quicker than a minute.” Sir Rupert grabbed her hand, settled one of his paws on her waist and whisked her out to the center of the dance floor before she could protest further. Sir Rupert was right. The bourrée’s steps were quick, but the dance music was Bach and his pieces stretched into next week with interminable repeats.
Delphinia tried to free her hand but Sir Rupert’s grip was like a manacle. She couldn’t escape gracefully and couldn’t wiggle away from him without causing a scene. For a moment, she considered feigning a swoon, but that would only draw more attention to her as attempts to revive her were made and she’d never get away.
Over the strains of the Bach, the longcase clock chimed a quarter to midnight.
Chapter 10
The door to the parlour opened and a dark figure slipped inside the room. He was quiet as a wraith. Florence was certain he must be able to hear her heart. It was all she could hear, pounding in her chest, throbbing in her ears.
She shifted on the settee. The rustle of her petticoats on velvet and the creak of the settee’s walnut joints sounded unnaturally loud. The man headed straight for her, his footsteps as sure and unhesitating as if the room was bathed in light.
Florence wondered if he could smell her fear there in the dark and that’s what drew him so unerringly to her.
She gave herself a mental slap. There was nothing to fear. She was simply going to surrender her maidenhead like countless milkmaids did every day. It was no great feat. She only had to allow it to happen.
He settled beside her and took her into his arms. His mouth found hers in a kiss of surprising gentleness. Florence had expected this coupling to be done on the double-quick since they were shortly due for an interruption. She anticipated something as frenetic as a bourrée, complete with fast leg twitches, only performed horizontally. She’d braced herself for this joining as if it were an assault. The tenderness in his kiss completely disarmed her.
He truly loves her, whoever she is, Florence thought with sadness. He’s going to be terribly disappointed when the candles are lit.
And she was bound to be disappointed for the rest of her life. He’d hate her for this.
She was near to hating herself.
And him.
The only way she found she could continue kissing him was if she imagined he was someone else.
Sanders.
She decided once she gave the viscount an heir and presented her father with his desperately desired perfect grandchild, she’d behave exactly like a man. She’d take a lover and not worry a fig over her husband. They could enjoy a coldly correct marriage and lead separate, albeit parallel lives.
The decision gave her the courage to part her lips and deepen their kiss. He answered her with a quick thrust of his tongue and to her surprise, warmth spread in her lower belly. A low ache started and Florence laid back on the settee while he pulled up her skirts. A wicked thrill followed his fingertips up her thighs.
Losing a maidenhead wasn’t going to be that difficult, after all.
* * *
“Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please,” Delphinia chanted under her breath, as she flew up the stairs to the second floor. She didn’t know if God would answer the prayer of someone who’d been a party to such a convoluted plan, but she hoped He would. So much had already gone wrong, she and Tristan really didn’t need further punishment.
She’d finally escaped Sir Rupert when the last cadence of the ridiculously long Bach bourrée died. At the same instant, the longcase clock began chiming midnight.
Her chest ached as if someone were spreading her ribs and ripping out her heart. There was no denying it, even to herself. Tristan had probably already bedded Lady Florence there in the dark parlour. There was certainly no time set aside for idle conversation in the plans they’d laid out. But maybe somehow, Tristan had discovered he hadn’t met up with the right woman in time. Maybe . . .
If she could only reach the parlour before Harmony and Lady Bettendorf, she’d be able to salvage the situation.
As she reached the second floor landing, the group of gossips were filing into the parlour at the end of the long corridor. Harmony led the way, holding a candlestick high. There was a collective shriek. Someone called upon Heaven to witness and noted loudly that “Goodness gracious, me! The gentleman’s breeches are around his ankles.”
Then Lady Bettendorf’s voice boomed above the rest. “Oh, I say, it’s Lady Florence!”
Delphinia stopped dead. The duke’s daughter had been recognized. With Tristan.
She sank down to sit on the top step because she’d have fallen down otherwise. She raised a shaky hand to cover her mouth to keep from crying out. Then when she finally managed to stifle the scream that was still trapped inside her, she wrapped both arms around herself and rocked, keening in silent misery.
Ruined. Everything was ruined. Why had she not Seen this coming sooner?
Tristan would have to marry Lady Florence now. There was no avoiding it. And that left Delphinia . . . utterly alone. There was no question of finding another man to love. Tristan was her very heart.
A long march of days stretched ahead of her, each more joyless than the last.
The image matched the bleak future she’d Seen for Tristan when his signet ring first spoke to her in the gypsy tent. She’d always believed her choices meant something, but perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps the future was pre-determined and there was no escaping it, no matter what she did.
Strains of a stately sarabande filtered up the stairwell. The ball was still in progress. She couldn’t bear to see Tristan now. Not with Lady Florence on his arm. She’d never be able to school her face into passivity as word of the scandal broke over the house party. But perhaps she could hide in plain sight if she managed to find one of the curtained alcoves empty. So she wobbled to her feet and, clutching at the railing, made her way down to the ground floor ballroom.
She lifted her chin and blinked back the tears. If anyone remarked on her high color or the fact that her eyes were unnaturally bright, she’d plead the headache that had dogged her all evening. She’d never had headaches when she allowed the voices of objects to slip briefly int
o her mind before. Of course, she’d never opened herself so fully to them, or accepted visions from so many inanimate objects in such quick succession.
Or maybe the headache had been her warning that events were coming that could not be changed.
When she reached the ballroom door, Delphinia pressed her palms against her closed eyes and drew a deep breath before entering. Fortunately, the crowd was focused on the dancing master who was leading a group through the forms of a supposedly new dance which looked suspiciously like a very slow gigue.
Del didn’t spare them more than a glance. Her only concern was that she be able to slip into the first alcove and sink into the cushioned seat without attracting any attention. She breathed a sigh of relief when she settled without incident. She couldn’t face anyone now.
The window behind her stood open and a breeze washed over her, lifting the curtains, further obscuring her from the rest of the party. There in that sheltered little space, she finally let the tears come. They scalded down her cheeks. She wept for Tristan. She wept for herself. She even wept for Lady Florence, who would know no joy in her coming marriage.
How could she when her husband loved another?
Del’s shoulders shook. She covered her face with her hands, not caring any longer if anyone saw her grief. She didn’t care what happened to her. She didn’t care about anything.
She was too sunk in misery to be more than mildly surprised when someone reached through the window behind her and wrapped a strong arm around her waist. One quick jerk and she was yanked away from the well-lit world of His Grace’s ballroom and into the murky shadows of his garden. A hand clamped over her mouth when she tried to cry out for help.
Against her expectations, she did care what happened to her, after all.
Chapter 11
The lovers hastily rearranged their clothing while the cadre of gossips looked on. Florence smoothed down her petticoats and straightened her wig. She still hadn’t found the courage to look Lord Edmondstone in the eye, but she was grateful beyond words when he extended a hand to help her stand.
