by Mary Balogh
“You will have to wait your turn, Jack,” she said, tapping Major Hanbridge on the arm with her fan. “Duncan has claimed the first dance. And no, I will not promise the next. You know that I never promise dances in advance.”
“And so, Joana,” the major said with a sigh, “I must engage in a footrace when this set is done, and will doubtless be outstripped by some young lieutenant still wet behind the ears.”
Joana smiled dazzlingly at him. And she noticed that the very shy Captain Levens was gazing at her worshipfully as if afraid to open his mouth in case she should laugh at whatever words should issue from it.
“Colin,” she said, smiling sweetly at him, “would you be so good as to have some lemonade waiting for me at the end of this set? It is so warm in the ballroom already.”
The young captain’s eyes lit up as he made her a courtly bow.
“Come, Joana,” Colonel Lord Wyman said, extending his arm for her hand, “the sets are forming.”
She smiled at him. He had arrived in Mafra earlier that afternoon and had called upon her. He was going to offer for her again during the evening. She knew it as surely as she knew anything in her life. And she was going to accept him. Then her future would be assured and her present would be full and the past would be crowded out of her consciousness.
She was going to go to England and be an English lady. It was what she had always wanted.
“Arthur is not going to dance?” she said. Their host had come into the ballroom with a large following of senior officers, both British and Portuguese, and some important Portuguese civilians. They were all standing in a large group at one end of the room but showing no sign of joining the sets forming on the floor.
“Joana,” Lord Wyman said, “when I asked you this afternoon, you were very secretive about what you have been doing since I last saw you in Lisbon. But I have been hearing strange things since visiting you. Are any of them true?”
She shrugged and smiled at him. “How would I know if I do not know what you have been hearing?” she said. “But I daresay most of them are not. One hears strange things in these times.”
“Were you ever in danger?” he asked with a frown. “Lord Wellington or someone in authority should have insisted on having you escorted back to Lisbon as soon as the French began to invade. I should have come myself to fetch you. I blame myself for not doing so.”
“That is the trouble with men,” she said. “They always think to protect women and shield them from all the fun that is to be had.”
“War is not fun, Joana,” he said. “It is a life-and-death business. You should not even be as near to it as this.”
She smiled at him. “But I have you to protect me, Duncan,” she said. “I know that if a company of desperate Frenchmen were to break into this ballroom tonight, you would protect me with your own life. Is that not so?”
“Of course,” he said. “But even so, it may not be enough, Joana.”
“Then I should steal one of their guns or swords or daggers and defend myself,” she said.
“Joana,” he said, his eyes intense on hers, “you need protection. I cannot bear the thought of your being in any danger. I want you out of it. Permanently. I want you in England, in my own home, with my mother and my sisters. I want to know that you are safe there. You know what I am saying, do you not?”
The music was beginning. “How can I?” she said, moving into the steps of the dance. “You must put into words what you mean, Duncan, or perhaps I will misunderstand.”
It was not the sort of dance for such a conversation, since the steps separated them frequently. But Joana was not annoyed. Quite the contrary. The declaration would surely come, and in the meantime she could savor the certainty that all she had dreamed of was about to come about. And if seeing Duncan again had not brought quite the surge of joy that she had hoped for, and if the prospect of living in England at his home with his family brought no great uplifting of the spirits, then she would have patience with herself. Life could not always be as wildly exciting as it had been just a short while before. She must have patience.
Lord Wellington was still with his cluster of dignitaries and officers at one side of the ballroom, she saw, looking about her as she danced, though they had turned to watch the dancing. And in doing so they had revealed the figure of the man with whom they had apparently been talking.
A tall muscular officer dressed in a carefully brushed though plain and somewhat shabby green uniform coat, his face bronzed, his blond hair close-cropped—he had had it cut again. The stiff and unsmiling figure of a man who looked uncomfortable—perhaps at the whole setting of the ball, perhaps only at the attention his presence had attracted. He was standing where he usually stood at public entertainments—in the most shadowed corner. But he had not escaped notice. Far from it.
Joana lost a step in the dance and looked about her, bewildered for the moment and unsure even what dance she was performing. But she recovered herself instantly. His eyes had found her. She knew it even though she was no longer looking at him. He had seen her and she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing that his presence had discomposed her. Never.
Captain Blake had just been thinking that he had never felt more uncomfortable in his life. All day he had been regretting his decision to come to Mafra to attend the ball. And when he had arrived, he had acted from instinct and taken himself off to the part of the room where he was least likely to be noticed. He had scowled about him at all the other splendidly clad guests, hoping by such an expression to hide his discomfort.
But it had been worse than he expected. A thousand times worse. For no sooner had Lord Wellington entered the ballroom, than he, along with his large following of the elite of the elite, sought him out to meet “the hero of Salamanca.”
Robert had bowed and answered questions and bowed and answered questions and felt his stomach tie itself into knots. He had longed for a battlefield and a sword in his hand and a rifle over his shoulder and the whole French army before him. He would have felt a great deal more comfortable.
Finally, blessedly, the music began, and his interrogators turned away to watch the dancing. He hoped that soon they would also wander away and he would be free to melt into oblivion for what remained of the evening. He had changed his mind about dancing. Besides, there were far more men than ladies present. There would be no one to dance with.
And then his eyes were drawn as by a magnet to one particular spot on the dance floor—to one splash of white amidst the myriad colors. And there she was. It was like a flash back in time. She looked as beautiful and as expensive and as remote as she had looked that first time in Lisbon. She was the Marquesa das Minas again, not Joana at all. And he found himself hating her again even as his stomach somersaulted with the shock of seeing her when he had imagined that she was in England already.
He hated her because she was the marquesa and he was merely Captain Robert Blake, a soldier who had raised himself through the ranks to become an officer, though he would never be able to make himself into a gentleman. For as long as he lived he would be a bastard, the son of a marquess but not of a marchioness. He hated her because he wanted her as he had wanted her in Lisbon and because she was as unattainable as she had been there. And he hated her for having returned from Lisbon instead of staying where he could never see her again.
He hated her because she smiled and looked happy and because her partner was Colonel Lord Wyman. And because she had seen him but her eyes had been sweeping away again even as his own caught them.
He clasped his hands tightly at his back and clenched his teeth and knew that he did not have the willpower merely to turn and leave the ballroom and the building. He knew that he would stay and watch her and torture himself.
And he knew that his misery had passed into a new phase, that now he was gazing into the terror of despair. For she could not look so beautiful, so exquisite,
and so happy, and love him. The idea was absurd. He had fallen prey to her charms after all and had forgotten that Joana lived to conquer male hearts. He had believed that she loved him—right up until a few moments before. But it could not be. How could she love him? Despair became a tightening and a pain in his chest.
* * *
Duncan had asked her. He had taken her to stroll in the long hallway beyond the ballroom and he had made her a formal offer.
“It is what I have always longed for,” she told him. “Marriage to an English gentleman and a home in England. England is where I grew up, you know.”
He squeezed her hand as it lay on his arm. “The answer is yes, then?” he said. “You are going to make me the happiest of men, Joana?”
She looked up into his face and frowned. “Am I?” she said. “I would make myself happy if I married you, Duncan—at least I think I would. But would I make you happy? It is important in marriage, is it not—that we each make the other happy?”
“Joana,” he said, “just your consent will make me ecstatic.”
“Oh, no, Duncan,” she said. “There is a great deal more to marriage than that. Years and years of being together with all the glamour and novelty gone. I don’t know that I can make you happy.” She drew a deep breath and said what she had not planned or expected to say. “There has been someone else, you know.”
“Your husband,” he said, patting her hand. “I understand, Joana.”
“Luis?” She frowned. “I hated Luis. No, someone else, Duncan. Someone more recent.”
He stiffened only a little. “You have many admirers, Joana,” he said. “I can understand that sometimes flirtation leads to something a little more serious. But I shall not worry about it. You have a good heart.”
“You mean you would not worry about it when we were married?” she asked. “You should, Duncan. I should certainly not tolerate even a little flirtation in you—toward another lady.” She licked her lips. “I loved him.”
“Did you?” She could tell that for some reason he did not want to discuss the matter.
“No,” she said. “I used the wrong tense, Duncan. I love him. But I cannot marry him. I thought to marry you and live in the sort of contentment I have always wanted. But I find that I cannot marry you unless you know.”
“You will marry me, then,” he asked, “now that you have told me? The past will be the past, Joana. I am not interested in it.”
She sighed. “I wish I were not,” she said. “How long are you going to be here, Duncan?”
“A few days at the least,” he said. “And when I return to Lisbon, I hope you will do me the honor of allowing me to escort you there.”
“Ah,” she said. “Give me those few days, then, Duncan. I shall give you my answer before we leave.”
“I have waited so long,” he said with a smile. “A few days longer will not kill me, I suppose.”
“The answer may not be yes,” she surprised herself by saying.
“But it may be,” he said. “I shall live on hope.”
She did not know why she had delayed, why she felt suddenly so reluctant to accept him. But of course she knew. How foolish to pretend that she did not. There was a dream she could not let go of.
“Let us walk about the ballroom,” she said. “There are uniforms I have not yet admired and gowns I have not yet had a chance to envy. Take me on a promenade, Duncan.” She smiled gaily at him and chattered brightly as he complied with her wish. They would be three-quarters the way around the room before they passed him, she thought. He still stood in the same place, though not in obscurity. Several people had gone there to talk with him.
She deliberately made their promenade a slow one. She stopped to talk with everyone she knew even remotely and to flirt a little with every officer who tried to attract her attention. She would give him every opportunity to move out of her way if he wished. Part of her hoped that he would leave before she had a chance to talk with him. Part of her felt panic at the very thought. But she would leave it to him. She would not maneuver him into anything that he really did not wish for.
“Ah, Robert,” she said when they drew level with him. His very blue eyes looked directly back at her. He was not smiling—but then, she knew him well enough not to expect that he would. “You are not dancing?” It was a foolish question, since the dancing was between sets.
“No,” he said after a slight pause.
“Do you remember Duncan?” she asked. “But yes, of course, he traveled with us out of Lisbon. Robert has become even more of a hero than he was, Duncan. Have you heard?”
“Rumors, yes,” the colonel said. “About a daring visit to Salamanca and an even more daring escape. Congratulations, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir,” Captain Blake said.
“Ah,” Joana said, turning and tapping her foot. “A waltz. Come, Robert, you may have the pleasure of dancing it with me.” She laughed lightly. “You were about to ask, were you not? I want you to tell me about all those daring deeds.”
She thought he was going to refuse, and wondered if she would laugh, blush with mortification, or beat him about the head. Fortunately, perhaps, he did not put her to the test.
“It would be my pleasure, ma’am,” he said, bowing awkwardly and taking the hand she stretched out to him.
Ah, a dearly familiar hand, she thought, and wished that he had not come. Or that she had not come. She should have gone to Lisbon and stayed there. She felt an ache in the back of her throat as she smiled first at Duncan and then at him.
“You do dance, I remember,” she said as he led her onto the dance floor. “Your mother taught you.”
“Yes,” he said, and one strong hand came about her to rest behind her waist and the other hand was held out for hers. She placed her own in it and set the other on his broad, muscled shoulder. And she breathed in the scent of some men’s cologne. But she preferred the raw masculine smell of him, she thought.
Oh, Robert. The ache in her throat had become a lump.
“I have still not forgiven you, you know,” she said as they began to move to the music, tipping her head back and smiling up at him. “I never will, Robert. You will go to your grave unforgiven.”
“I should have taken you to Lisbon,” he said without smiling, “and taken you on board the first ship bound for England, and tied you to the mainmast. I should have done that, Joana. I should have known how mad it was to leave you in Torres Vedras with your friends and expect you to act like any normal sensible woman. Did you even go to Lisbon?”
“No,” she said. “I do not like to be told what to do, Robert. And I should have escaped from that mast, you know, even if I had had to pull it down and wreck the ship in the attempt. I would rather die trying to swim to land from the middle of the ocean than live under a man’s well-meaning care.”
“Yes,” he said. “Oh, yes, I know that, Joana. It was foolish of me even to have thought of what I should have done, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said, and she smiled slowly at him. He looked so much grimmer and more formidable than he had when they parted, though that had happened very recently. Perhaps it was the haircut. He had been looking almost like her gentle, poetic Robert again with it longer. Oh, not quite, perhaps, but almost. At least she had been able to see that they were one and the same person. Now he looked every inch the tough, seasoned soldier that he was—someone with such a different life from her own that they might as well inhabit different planets. “This is a foolish dance, is it not, Robert? Take me walking in the hallway outside and I shall explain to you why I cannot forgive you and you will persuade me to do so anyway.”
“I think we should continue dancing, Joana,” he said.
“You are a coward,” she said. “You are afraid to be alone, or almost alone, with me again.”
“Yes,” he said. “Mortally afraid, Joana. It was why I a
rranged that particular parting. Don’t force me to say good-bye to you.”
“I don’t like stories without endings,” she said. “In fact, they make me furious. Ours must have its ending, Robert. It must. Oh, do you not see why I could not leave Torres Vedras and why I had to put Duncan off earlier when he asked me yet again to marry him? There must be an ending for us.”
“There must be pain?” he asked.
“Were you without pain before coming here tonight?” she asked. “Did it help, the way we parted?”
He danced on with her for several moments, looking into her eyes, his expression still grim. When they neared the door, he stopped and took her arm through his.
“Very well, then,” he said. “Let us have an ending to this story, Joana. You must always have your way, it seems, even to the end. So be it, then.”
She felt no triumph as she allowed him to lead her from the ballroom.
30
ALL he could feel was anger. He had thought it was all over. He had thought that the rawness of the pain would ease with time. And a little time had passed already. He had settled into his new quarters and into his new duties and he had waited patiently for the first, most painful phase of his loss to pass into the second—whatever that would be. All he knew was that it could not possibly be worse. It could only be slightly better, and so on and so on until he would be able to remember with nothing worse than sadness—until he would be able to get on with his life again.
He did not want this to be happening. He had not wanted to see her again. If he had known, or even suspected, that she might be at the ball, then he would have stayed away. He would not even have been tempted to go for one more glimpse of her. He had not wanted one more glimpse. He certainly did not want this—this talking with her and dancing with her and now being alone with her.
