by LENOX, KIM
With the end of a quadrille, the orchestra quickly transitioned into a valse à deux temps. Dr. Harcourt led her toward the dance floor where couples paired off.
“If we hurry, we can step in with this one.”
“Doctor—”
“Charles. Call me Charles tonight, and I, in turn, shall call you Elena.” He widened his eyes a bit, in feigned incredulity. “Shocking, I know, but we’re here to enjoy our evening, and we’re friends after all, aren’t we, Elena?”
“Yes, we are. Charles.” She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “But if it’s all right, I’d rather sit this one out and . . . perhaps we could just talk.”
“Please don’t disappoint me.” He grinned persuasively and drew her by the hand toward the floor. They attracted the interested gazes of many who stood along the way, including their Lordships Dray-son, Bernard and Thackston, each of whom had called upon Elena at Black House after her presentation at court, and her half-hearted appearance at several society events, only to have their efforts politely rebuffed.
Charles continued. “Truth be told, I’ve been waiting to dance with you ever since you started to walk again. Call it my vanity as a physician, but I’d like to believe my expertise played a part in your recovery. Besides, I’m certain if I don’t claim my waltz early in the evening, my old school chums will get a look at you in that lovely dress, and I won’t have another chance.”
Elena bit her lower lip. “Thank you for trying to make me feel more at ease. It is just that—”
They neared space where carpet gave way to polished parquet. Elena felt the vibration of the stringed instruments through the soles of her slippers. She adored music and would love to dance.
“What is it, Elena?”
“If I knew how to dance before the accident . . .”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t remember how any longer.”
Immediately, he halted his gentle abduction. “I see.”
“It’s true. I can rattle off the chemical properties of quinine”—she waved an anxious hand—“but I can’t recall a single dance step.”
He glanced toward the floor. “They are not so difficult.”
“Yet I don’t wish to learn before this audience.”
“Perhaps private lessons are in order?”
“Mrs. Hazelgreaves has suggested the same. . . .” Elena’s voice drifted off. She couldn’t imagine returning to Black House and undertaking anything so ordinary as dancing lessons, or even breakfast for that matter. She recalled Lord Black’s handsome face, scowling over her forgotten name. Nothing would ever be the same. In truth, she had no home.
“I meant that I should teach you.”
“That would be lovely,” she answered, barely registering his words. “Dr. Harcourt?”
“Charles.”
“Charles.” Elena flushed. “May I speak to you about something?”
His face grew serious. “I hope you know you can speak to me about anything.”
“Might it be possible for me to move into the nurses’ dormitory on a more permanent basis?”
His brows drew together. “You heard my mother and Mrs. Hazelgreaves over there. I’d never hear the end of it. Besides, why would you want to do such a thing?”
“It would only be until my courses at the college began.”
“Is Mrs. Hazelgreaves pressuring you to resign? Should I speak with her privately or write a letter to Lord Black?”
“A letter. Hmmm, no. Let it only be said that I don’t wish to remain at Black House any longer.”
“There must be a reason, Elena. What has happened?”
A shout went up from the reception area, claiming their attention. There, servants clung to two massive carved doors. Despite their efforts and seven pairs of dragging feet, the panels groaned inward upon their hinges. A frigid gust swept the room, snuffing the life of every candle. The orchestra dwindled to silence.
Harcourt’s hand moved protectively to the small of her back. “It’s only the wind.”
Nervous laughter tittered everywhere.
The closure of the doors reverberated through the room, and the majordomo held up a lantern. He shouted, “Stand aside, for the chandelier must be relit.”
Nearby, servants removed a panel from the wall, and hand-cranked the enormous fixture to the ground. Dim shapes rushed forward, bearing lit tapers. Elena watched in fascination as each candle burned anew—only to perceive, on the far side of the shimmering heap, a pair of gray eyes trained intently upon her.
“Heave,” bellowed the majordomo.
The crank sounded, and the chandelier jerked upward with a musical jangle.
“Heave.”
Slowly, the masterpiece of faceted crystal lurched higher and higher until the weighty mass trembled above, leaving an unoccupied expanse of carpet that no one dared yet cross.
No one but Lord Black.
When the man touched Elena—claimed her so presumptuously for all the world to see—Archer’s vision went unexpectedly black. The urge to destroy, a deeply imbedded instinct, snarled up from within.
“Lord Black,” Elena blurted, her eyes growing wider with each step he took toward her.
Suddenly, an overabundance of thoughts, sounds and expectations reeled toward him, turning the moment into something ugly and surreal. Voices whispered, murmured and even shouted his name. Not out loud of course, but in the minds of those who took note of his presence.
“Lord Black?” A woman in green led the pack of mortals who suddenly thronged about him. Her cheeks flushed bright with excitement. “Forgive my bold introduction, but we are neighbors after all, are we not? I am Lady Kerrigan. What an unexpected pleasure, to have you grace my little birthday soiree.”
“The pleasure is . . . all mine.” Archer did his best to smile, when inside he could only curse himself for having brought this attention upon himself, when he had wanted none. A sudden, searing pain shot through his left eye. He had never done well in crowds when all the attention was focused upon him. Seeking surcease from the cacophony inside his head, he stared at Elena’s lips, and saw her form the words, No Charles, I am not mistaken. That is my guardian, Lord Black.
Charles. Why did she not refer to him by Lord So-and-So, or Mr. Someone? Why so familiar? Charles’s hand still pressed against her back.
With due effort, he kept the growl from his voice. “If everyone would excuse us, I would like to dance with Miss Whitney.”
The dance floor was the only place he could think of where no one would follow them, and talk, and talk, and talk.
Lady Kerrigan’s eyes widened, as if slightly shocked. She glanced to Elena. “Certainly.”
“Miss Whitney?” Archer extended his hand.
Elena bit her lower lip, but after a moment, said, “Of course.”
She placed her hand into his larger one. As etiquette dictated, she wore gloves. Archer did not.
Charles protested, “But you don’t know how.”
Archer removed his top hat, and handed it to him. “Would you mind?”
Without waiting for an answer, he shouldered his way through the crowd, drawing Elena behind, his thumb pressed against the underside of her wrist. Their heels sounded against the parquet. Feeling more ferocious with each passing moment, he took the printed card from her hand and released it to fall in a zigzag descent to the carpet. The members of the orchestra ogled them, their various instruments poised in hand.
He drew Elena to his side, deliberately placing his hand in the exact spot where Charles’s had been, over the row of tiny buttons that traced the length of her spine. He glanced down, only to find himself entangled in her gaze. He had expected anger, confusion or fear. He deserved any one of those reactions. Yet she peered back as calmly as an Egyptian caryatid.
“I understand,” she said plainly. “But I don’t know how to dance.”
“Yes, you do.”
Her breasts crushed alluringly against her bodice with her sharp intake of breat
h. Her eyes flared with sudden challenge. Three couples eagerly took the spaces beside them, and the orchestra leapt into a lively quadrille.
He bent his head low, and murmured, “Le Pan-talon. ”
With one hand, he guided her off to the right. Together they walked the circle, weaving in and out of the other couples, touching each hand as they passed. Soon, they had returned to the place where they’d started, and once again stood side by side. She threw him a look of wide-eyed astonishment.
He quietly announced the next stage of the dance. “L’Eté.”
Always, his attention remained fixed upon her—her hair, her face, her lovely neck. By concentrating on her, he filtered out the rest. There was only the music, and Elena. The pain in his head subsided. Soon enough, they touched again.
Eyes bright with tears, she whispered, “La Poule.”
They carried on through La Trenise, and eventually, Le Finale. The orchestra paused, and the other couples separated. Archer stood beside Elena. Cards flashed, and partners changed. The gathered assemblage hovered along the edge of the floor, watching. Waiting. Charles stood amongst them, his eyes dark and his jaw set. Once again, the orchestra raised their instruments, signaling the onset of the next dance.
He heard Elena say, “Thank you, my lord.”
She took a step as if to walk away. The first strains of a waltz, softly ardent, drifted over the ballroom. Archer caught her hand and brought her back against him. Gasps sounded all around. Despite the layers of wool and silk between them, he felt her rapid heartbeat against his chest.
Tentatively, she rested her hand against his shoulder, her fingers curling into his hair.
Already, he led her into the first steps. She moved against him, sylphlike and sweet. Only then did Archer concede to himself what a grave mistake he had made in coming here tonight.
A short time later, Elena stared out over the night-shadowed gardens, but she recognized nothing—not a tree, a fountain or a shrub. Instead, every fragment of her being fixed on the man who stood in darkness, a few feet behind her.
When the waltz had come to an end, they had escaped to this small unlit gallery off the dining hall where tables of food and drink had been laid out for the guests. The faint light of the garden lamps shone through the windows. On the other side of the doorway, voices laughed and conversed. Crystal clinked.
He broke the silence first.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m still just a bit warm from the dance.”
Her gloves lay on the windowsill. She removed her palms from where she’d pressed them against the cold panes, and held them against her cheeks.
The dance. What had happened between them out there? Somehow, his words or his voice had unlocked a memory buried deep within her. Not only that, but she had experienced such a mix of emotions. Afterward, she had felt most unsteady on her feet. She reminded herself she’d spent a long span of days on the hospital ward. Likely, she merely needed rest. Lord Black had brought her here to recover.
“I wish to apologize for what happened earlier this evening, in my study.”
Elena laughed softly, lowered her hands and turned to face him. “You didn’t know my name.”
“I did not.”
She couldn’t see him very well but somehow knew he did not return her smile.
“You didn’t even know I lived in Black House, did you?”
“No.”
She laughed again. “Somehow the darkness makes it easier to ask you these questions.”
“Then I’m glad we are here.” He came to stand beside her. She tensed a bit, but he merely mirrored her stance, resting his palms against the horizontal window frame behind them and easing back against it. Now only a fraction of space separated them from touching.
“I have so many questions for you.”
“Ask anything you like.” Here, beside the window, midnight painted his features blue. He was a beautiful, masculine male, from the high cut of his cheekbones to the firm set of his jaw. With his impeccable clothing and his unbound hair he appeared elegant and wild all at once. Her breath snagged in her throat each time she dared a glance.
“I suppose my foremost question is how I could be under your guardianship for eighteen months and you not know a thing about me?”
“I do know a thing or two about you, Elena. More than you might believe. But I suppose at times I rely too heavily upon Mr. Leeson to manage the more obscure details of my life.”
“I don’t know if I ought to be offended,” she teased, determined to keep things light between them. After all, it wouldn’t do to take him too seriously. She had no real experience in matters of romance—at least not that she could remember. She suspected he was the sort of man a woman could fall in love with, hopelessly so, only for him to destroy her heart. “I’m quite certain I’ve never been called ‘obscure.’ ”
“You’re not obscure, not anymore. I made a mistake. Forgive me.”
“I might.” She couldn’t think, not with him looking at her lips. She could barely string two words together. She sidled a few steps away. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“Leeson assumed you would be married by now.”
“Married?”
“Why do you laugh?” Now he did smile, just a little.
“You and I do have much to talk about.”
There was something agonizing and exhilarating about his nearness. In her mind, she imagined what it might be like for him to bend down and kiss her. She’d never entertained such thoughts, not even about the charming Dr. Harcourt. Just the idea sent her pulse leaping. He was her guardian. She twisted away from him.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to open this window, just a crack.” She struggled with the latches and prayed the frame had not been sealed shut. “It’s so warm in here. I’m sure it’s the heat from the kitchen ovens on the other side of that—”
His arms came around her, rich dark wool over muscular heat. He didn’t touch her anywhere but her hands. There was only an excruciating nearness, the brush of material against her arms, her bare shoulders and back. Long, elegant fingers moved beneath hers where they curled upon the metal handles. Gripping them, he easily lifted the window a few inches.
“Better?” His breath touched her cheek and her neck.
Oh, yes, even better than the kiss she’d imagined. Everything tingled—her body, her skin. Since awakening after the accident, without memories, she’d felt the absolute necessity of control. Controlled emotion, controlled thoughts, so she wouldn’t succumb to the panicked realization she was completely and utterly alone in the world. Now everything within her screamed abandon.
“Thank you.”
“Elena . . .” His jaw brushed against hers. His clean, spicy and very male scent enveloped her.
“Yes?” she murmured, dazed.
A rap sounded and simultaneously the door flew open, washing the narrow space in golden light. Elena broke free of Lord Black’s embrace and moved to stand several steps away. Lady Kerrigan and Mrs. Hazelgreaves pushed inside, an army of two in pink and green. Both smiled tightly.
Lady Kerrigan held two glasses. “Would either of you care for some refreshment?”
Archer leaned back against the window frame, in a pose of nonchalant grace. “No, but thank you.”
Mrs. Hazelgreaves waggled her cane at him. “She’s not really asking if you want lemonade. What she’s saying is that you’re being conspicuous. Everyone’s talking. Or at least whispering. And whispering is worse than talking.”
Lady Kerrigan pressed a glass into Elena’s hand, and then into Lord Black’s. “After traveling in such exotic locales, it must be difficult to return to the more stringent rules of polite society.”
Elena’s first instinct was to leap to Lord Black’s defense, but he appeared not the least bit abashed. In truth, neither was she. She sipped her lemonade.
Archer responded quietly. “Miss Whitney felt fatigued. I merely brought her here to recover away
from the excitement and the lights. I’m her guardian—should I not be concerned for her welfare?”
Lady Kerrigan gave a nervous laugh. “There are different definitions of ‘welfare.’ Please take this as a compliment, your lordship, but this society matron has never seen a guardian quite like you. I must warn you, the proximity of your ages alone will inspire talk.”
Mrs. Hazelgreaves thumped her cane against the carpet. “And talk, like whispering, is something I simply will not abide. It’s why your solicitors retained me as companion to the girl, is it not, Lord Black? To ensure her character is above reproach.”
“Yes, indeed.” He glanced at Elena. Amusement lit his eyes.
She bit her bottom lip, so as not to smile.
“On that note,” announced Mrs. Hazelgreaves, “I am weary and wish to return to Black House.”
Elena protested softly, “We’ve only just arrived.”
Lady Kerrigan implored, “You’ll miss Eddy.”
Mrs. Hazelgreaves sniffed. “The Court Circular has him at Balmoral.”
“Only this afternoon he indicated in a telegraph that he might travel down by train, just for the night.”
A grimace twisted the older woman’s lips. “Eddy’s a dullard.”
“Nonetheless,” whispered Lady Kerrigan, with a glance over her shoulder to be certain no one would overhear, “that dullard might very well be our future king.”
Mrs. Hazelgreaves’s lips flattened into a thin, white line. “It’s nearly midnight.”
“Of course.” Elena nodded. “If you are weary, we should go.”
Lord Black straightened to full height. “I shall arrange for your carriage to be brought around.”
Elena murmured, “Thank you, Lord Black.”
Mrs. Hazelgreaves narrowed her eyes upon him. “Miss Whitney will be accompanying me.”
His dark brows lifted. “I did not doubt that.”
Archer strode across the crowded gallery, his gaze fixed on the exit. The voices and thoughts of those in the room around him reverberated uncomfortably in his head. Damn it, if half the population of West London wasn’t hatching plans to call upon him at Black House tomorrow afternoon to welcome him home.
