by Mary Balogh
Now she had seen him again, shining and beautiful like an angel, even though she knew that he had the heart of the devil. And her own heart had turned over inside her. She would see him again, she supposed. It was highly probable. And from the way he had looked at her, without withdrawing his eyes hastily and in some confusion, it seemed altogether possible that he would not avoid a direct meeting. They might meet again. He might speak to her.
She was terribly afraid. Afraid of the evil. Afraid that somehow he still had power over her.
She thought fleetingly of returning to Chalcote. Gabriel had said she might go there whenever she wished. Perhaps, she thought … perhaps Mr. Wade would still be at Highmoor. But she knew she would not go. Could not go. If he was back in England, this thing must be faced sooner or later. Better sooner than later. Perhaps it would not be as bad as she expected. Perhaps, if she could once meet him face-to-face, she would find that, after all, he was just a gentleman she did not like.
Perhaps if she stayed she could be freed at last.
She knew it was a forlorn hope.
IT HAD BEEN WORTH coming, he convinced himself, despite the fact that he had left Highmoor just at the time of year he usually enjoyed being there most of all. He liked to be there when the fields were being sown on his farms. He liked working alongside his laborers. They had stopped looking at him askance, first because he was an aristocrat and was not expected to soil his hands with real dirt, and second because he was a cripple. They had accepted the fact that he was somewhat eccentric.
And he liked to supervise the work of preparing the park for its summer splendor. This year, more than most others, he had had plans for major renovations that would have taken all summer to effect.
Perhaps next year.
It was time he spent a few months of the spring in London, doing his duty as a member of the House of Lords. And it was pleasant to see faces he had not seen in years—male faces, almost exclusively—and to renew old acquaintances. He even ventured to White’s two or three times, though he had never been one to spend his days at a club. It was going to be good to have the chance to enjoy concerts and plays in plenty. It was good to spend some time at Jackson’s again to hone his skills, though it was more difficult to schedule times alone with the pugilist himself. And he was able to do some fencing again. He had tried it almost ten years ago now, out of sheer obstinacy, after his father had observed that that was one skill at least that he must never think of mastering. Balance on one’s feet was of paramount importance to the exercise, as was skill with one’s hands. He was naturally right-handed and had never achieved anything more than an awkward competency with his left. His handwriting looked from a distance like the scrawl of a spider.
But he had persisted and sometimes won bouts against less experienced swordsmen. Never against the best, of course, though he had once surprised one of them with an undeniable hit. But he was able to give even the best of them a run for their money.
It was something he enjoyed. Any conquest against his handicaps was a personal triumph.
No, it had not been a waste of his time to come to town. He did not call upon Samantha, however, though he considered doing so each day of his first week in town. Why not send in his card, after all, and pay a courtesy call on her? He even had cards made that omitted his title. But he never did call.
He saw her once on Bond Street, quite by accident. She was on the arm of a very tall, rather thin, very fashionably dressed gentleman. They were both laughing and looking very merry. The Marquess of Carew ducked into the doorway of a bootmaker’s shop and found that his heart was hammering against his ribs and his mind was contemplating murder. She did not see him.
He went home, feeling very foolish.
He caught sight of her another day, coming out of the library with another gentleman, more handsome though not quite as fashionable as the first. Again she was smiling and looking as if she held the sunshine inside herself and was allowing some of it to spill over. Again he managed to duck out of sight before she saw him.
He considered going back home on the evening of that day. But he had made the long journey only days before, and the Season had not even started yet. He could not be so cowardly.
His arrival in town had been noted. A small but steady trickle of invitations had begun to arrive. He had been invited to Lady Rochester’s ball. Friends had told him that it was expected to be the first great squeeze of the Season. Would not everyone be surprised and even shocked if he were to turn up at a ball! Though he knew of many gentlemen and even a few ladies who attended balls without ever intending to dance at them. There were always rooms for cards and rooms for sitting and gossiping or for eating and drinking.
She would almost certainly be at the ball.
If it was a great squeeze, it would be possible for him to go there and see her without being seen. He would be able to see her dressed in all the finery of a ton ball. He would be able to watch her dance. Without himself being seen.
But he dismissed the thought. Those other two times, though he had hidden from sight, had been accidental encounters. He had not planned to see her. If he went to the ball deliberately to see her and hide from her, he would be in the nature of a spy, a peeping Tom, a stalker. It was not a pleasant notion.
No, if he went to the ball … if? Was he seriously considering it, then? If he went, it must be with the intention of letting her see him, of greeting her, of letting her know who he was. It would be better than calling on her at Lady Brill’s house. It would be a briefer meeting—he could not, after all, ask her to dance and ensure that he would have her to himself for half an hour. It would be a more public meeting. It would be ideal.
And she should know who he was. Perhaps she had already forgotten him, but he felt guilty for having deceived her.
If she knew who he was and if he continued to appear at some of the ton events of the Season, perhaps they could continue their friendship. Perhaps occasionally he could call on her, take her for a drive, invite her to sit in his box at the theater with him.
Perhaps life need not be as bleak as he had thought for the last month and a half that it must be.
But would it be enough—even assuming she would be willing to continue the acquaintance? Would it not be better to have nothing of her than to have an occasional and casual friendship?
And what if his earlier fears were confirmed? What if she showed another type of interest in him once she knew his real identity? But it was a fear unworthy of him. It was not something she would do. He must trust his good opinion of her.
How would he be able to stand seeing her sparkle at other, more handsome gentlemen? How would he cope with the jealousy?
He would cope because he was a mature man, he thought, and because his eyes were open to reality. He would cope because he must.
Yes, he decided finally just the evening before the Rochester ball, when a couple of friends asked him teasingly if he had accepted his invitation. Yes, he was going to go. He was going to see her. And he was going to let her see him.
“Yes, of course,” he said to a grinning Lord Gerson and an interested Duke of Bridgwater. “I would not miss it for worlds.”
Lord Gerson slapped the duke on the back and roared with laughter. “This I must see,” he said. “All the mamas with eligible hopefuls will fall off their chairs, Carew.”
“Now this is fascinating,” his grace said, raising his quizzing glass and having the gall to peer through it at the marquess. “One might almost imagine that there was one particular eligible hopeful, Hart, my dear chap.”
“This is rich.” Lord Gerson launched into renewed guffaws of mirth.
“I shall call here with my carriage?” his grace suggested. “We must go together, the three of us. Moral support and all that.”
“Yes,” the marquess said, quelling the ridiculous, schoolboyish panic. “Yes, do that, Bridge, will you?”
7
A SQUEEZE IT WAS INDEED. THEY KNEW AS SOON as they approac
hed Hanover Square that Lady Rochester’s ball must already be pronounced an unqualified success. They could not even get onto the square with the carriage, but must sit and wait a full twenty minutes while it crawled forward behind a long line of others. An equally long line soon formed behind them.
“Louisa will be very gratified,” Lady Brill said, uttering probably the understatement of the evening. Lady Rochester would be more than ecstatic.
There was a special excitement about arriving at a ton ball that never quite faded, even at the beginning of a seventh year, Samantha found. Even the tedious wait merely built the feeling of anticipation, that breathless, heart-pounding notion that tonight might be the beginning of the rest of one’s life, that something might happen during the coming hours to change the course of one’s life.
It almost never happened that way, of course. One saw the same faces, conversed with the same people, danced the same dances every time. But the feeling never quite went away.
Every window of the mansion appeared to be brightly lit. A carpet had been rolled out, down the shallow stone steps and across the pavement, so that those alighting from their carriages might have the illusion of never having had to step outdoors. There were smartly liveried footmen everywhere, discreetly busy. And so much finery and priceless jewelry displayed on so many elegant and not-so-elegant persons of ton that one immediately lost any pretensions to personal conceit.
Samantha smiled and stepped out of the carriage. She was in her own milieu and felt thoroughly at home in it. But she could not help remembering her very first ball during her first Season. There had been so much excitement, so much anxiety, so much hope. So much innocence. She would not go back, she thought now, even if she could. There were crowds of people in the hall, talking rather too loudly and laughing rather too heartily. And there was a solid line of people on the stairs, waiting to ascend and pass along the receiving line into the ballroom. There were numerous young girls in the crowd, dressed in the uniform of virginal white gown and white accessories. The most extravagant jewelry any of them wore was a string of pearls. They looked everything she had once been—the poor girls.
“We do not need to go to the ladies’ withdrawing room,” Lady Brill said after looking over her charge—if the term still applied to a lady of four-and-twenty. “You look quite as handsome as you have ever looked, my dear. I do not know how you do it. I like the colors.”
Samantha did too. The silver lace overdress sparkled in the light of candles and gave a smoky hue to the dark green silk gown beneath it. Apart from three ruffles at the hem, her low-necked, short-sleeved gown was unadorned. She had learned from experience that beautiful fabrics and skilled workmanship ought to be left to speak for themselves. She always avoided plumes in her hair, too, though they were very fashionable and Aunt Aggy had told her that she needed the height they would lend her. But she preferred the simplicity of a few flowers in her hair or a ribbon threaded through her curls. Tonight it was a silver ribbon. And silver gloves and slippers. And a fan that by happy chance matched the green of her gown.
“You ought not to have been issued an invitation, Samantha,” a familiar, rather bored voice said from behind her shoulder. “Lady Rochester should have more wisdom. You will outshine every other lady present and ruin the evening for every last one of them.”
She smiled in amusement as she turned. “Oh,” she said appreciatively, “you were quite right, Francis. The turquoise is quite, quite splendid. I am impressed.”
He made her an elegant bow. “And would you marry a man who wears turquoise?” he asked, causing a large dowager to turn her head, adorned with six nodding purple plumes, sharply in his direction.
“Definitely not,” Samantha said. “I should be afraid of being outshone, Francis. Besides, you might always backslide into pink or lavender, and I should feel cheated. Are you going to offer us your arms and keep us company on the stairs?”
“How could I resist making myself the envy of every male in the house by having the two loveliest ladies to escort?” he asked, offering one arm to Samantha and the other to Lady Brill.
Samantha laughed gaily. Lady Brill tutted and took the offered arm.
Another fifteen minutes passed before they finally stepped into the ballroom. It was the usual scene. The floor itself was empty, in anticipation of the dancing. Crowds lined all four walls, talking and gossiping and laughing. Several people, mostly in couples, promenaded about, looking for acquaintances or merely hoping to be seen and admired. The members of the orchestra were tuning their instruments. The floral decorations, all in varying shades of pink, were hardly noticeable in comparison with the gorgeous clothes and jewels of the gathered guests.
Samantha was soon in conversation with two of her lady friends and a gathering army of gentlemen acquaintances. Hers was the usual court, though Mr. Bains brought with him a neighbor from the country, a tall gentleman who was handsome even without the distinguishing feature of bright red hair. He bowed to all three ladies, but somehow maneuvered matters that he was soon in conversation with Samantha and signing her card for a quadrille later in the evening.
Perhaps the Season would have something new to offer, she thought. A new beau. Did she need a new beau? She never knew quite what to do with the old ones, beyond teasing them and flirting with them and making it quite clear to all of them that it was just a game they played, that she was not in the business of seeking a husband. She never had any wish to lead a man on only to dash his honest and sincere hopes.
She was a little apprehensive tonight. Well, perhaps more than a little. She was afraid that Lionel, Lord Rushford, would be there. But surely not. Somehow he had found the impudence—or the courage, depending how one looked upon it—to return to London and even to ride in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour. But those things he was free to do. There had never been any criminal charges against him, after all. No one could forbid him to live and move about in England. His father was dead now and no longer held the purse strings. But surely he would not receive any invitations to ton events. …
I hear he is being received.
She could hear Lord Hawthorne saying those words. But surely not by most people, and surely in no very public manner.
Even if he had been invited and even if he had accepted, he would surely keep his distance from her. He would not wish for the embarrassment of a reacquaintance. He had not approached her in the park yesterday, after all. Even though he had looked his fill.
She need not feel apprehensive, she had been telling herself all day. But she was. It was a great relief to glance all about the ballroom and see beyond any doubt that he was not there. There was no possibility that she could have missed him if he had been there. He was so very blond and so very beautiful. One could not miss Lionel even in the largest crowd.
She danced the opening set of country dances with Sir Robin Talbot. He was a skilled, graceful dancer. She always enjoyed being partnered by him. It was an energetic dance. She was breathless and felt flushed at the end of it. Briefly she remembered her boast that after all the walking and hill climbing at Highmoor she would be fitter than anyone else in a London ballroom. But she pushed the thought aside again before she could even smile over it. It brought on one of those feelings of falling into a deep depression.
She fanned herself as she talked with a crowd of acquaintances between sets. She was laughing at poor Lord Hawthorne, whom Francis was teasing because he had just danced with a particularly pretty young lady who was making her debut this year. Lord Hawthorne was blushing behind his exaggeratedly high starched collar points and assuring his cousin that indeed he did not have intentions of offering for the chit tomorrow morning. How absurd!
“Though she is uncommonly pretty, Frank,” he added, causing a fresh burst of laughter from the group.
Someone touched Samantha lightly on her gloved arm. Even as she turned with a smile to greet the new arrival, she felt Francis’s hand close protectively about her other elbow and heard him u
tter a muffled oath.
“It is,” a startlingly familiar voice said. “I could scarce believe that after so many years you could be even more lovely than you were as a girl.”
She had the sensation of falling into his pale blue eyes as they gazed into hers with open appreciation. There was almost no other sensation at all. Other sounds and sights around her receded, and with them all awareness of where she was. There were only his eyes. Only him.
“Rushford,” a voice said in coldly courteous acknowledgment from a long way away. “A famous squeeze, is it not? This is my set, I believe, Samantha.”
Lionel.
He inclined his head to her without removing his eyes from hers. “Samantha,” he said. “How are you?”
She heard someone speak. A female voice, quite cool, quite in possession of itself. “I am quite well, I thank you, my lord.”
“I saw you in the park yesterday,” he said. “I could not believe it was you. But now I can see that indeed it was. And is.”
“Samantha?” It was Francis’s voice, unusually curt. “The sets are forming.”
“You are engaged to dance with Miss Crowther,” she heard herself say.
“Devil take it,” Francis said, and then apologized to the ladies for his language and released her arm to stride away.
“Dare I hope,” Lionel, Lord Rushford asked, “that you have this set free, Samantha? Will you honor me by dancing it with me?”
“Thank you,” she said. Even though she was still looking into his eyes and the world was still in recession, her mind somehow told her that she had not indeed promised the set to anyone, though one of her court was bound to lead her out. She never had to miss any dances at any ball.
She had placed her hand in his and stepped away from the group before the world came jolting back. A world that seemed focused all on her. Or on him, rather, she supposed. It had been a very public humiliation, though she had not been there to see it. His father, who had read publicly the letter Gabriel was supposed to have written to Jenny while she was betrothed to Lionel, had made his son read an equally public confession and apology before leaving for the Continent.
