by Amy Lake
Without the evidence of her own eyes, Lefèvre doubted the comtesse would believe his story of how agents of the Republic had been taking her to Paris, and how he had intervened to save her life. And without the daughter, none of it mattered anyway. Pierre-Louis was ill-tempered and generally mean, but he wasn’t stupid. Without her daughter, the woman on his bed wouldn’t give him the time of day, wouldn’t care if he was the king himself, and if she was to remain in his home he would need to keep her locked up. Lefèvre wasn’t prepared to go that far.
To make things worse, as if that was possible, the idiots had gotten drunk and set fire to part of the chateau.
“What?”
“We had to! To smoke out the kid!”
“Well, it didn’t work, did it?”
“It would have, I tell you. But some gaffer showed up with a gun.”
That was Baston, Pierre-Louis supposed. And he was almost inclined to thank the old bastard, although if the comtesse had not been already lying unconscious in the cart, covered with one of Arnaud’s filthy blankets, the dodge would have been up then and there. At least Baston had stopped the men from doing any further harm to Beauvoir.
He’d struck Dumont when he first learned of the fire. Fortunately, an old stone chateau was not easily burned, but the library had been badly damaged before the fire had gone out. Lefèvre was beside himself. He’d made plans. He and the comtesse would live in Beauvoir, not in this house, this ill-smelling shack that was the best his father had ever been able to provide.
I deserve better, thought Pierre-Louis. I’ve always deserved better.
So now he had an unconscious woman on his bed, who would want to see her daughter when she woke up. He supposed he could go look for the girl himself. But how could he return to the chateau and still keep an eye on Alice du Merveille?
* * *
Chapter 33
Dance Partners
The Pemberton ball was not a large affair by the standards of the ton, but that only made attendance more desirable to those members of society who had received invitations, to say nothing of the ones who had not. Miss Asherwood and Lord Winthrop were invited, as well as Lord Blakeley; Adelaide Caldwell had been overlooked, to no-one’s surprise, but had convinced Peregrine to offer his escort for the evening.
“I shall only require your arm until we’re in the door,” Mrs. Caldwell promised Lord Blakeley. “Then you can find your pretty young miss.”
The ‘pretty young miss’ was Addy’s way of needling Peregrine about Miss Asherwood. She suspected that he tolerated it only because he knew that any protest on his part would only inspire her to increased efforts.
In fact, Mrs. Caldwell’s thoughts on the matter went considerably beyond having a bit of fun at her friend’s expense; she had noticed the change in Lord Blakeley over the past few weeks, and she liked what she saw. In Adelaide’s opinion, Peregrine had never played the rake as well as the rest of the ton seemed to believe. There was always something serious in his eyes, something that remained untouched, and seeking.
He was a friend as well as a lover, and Mrs. Caldwell had always been loyal. She helped her friends.
* * * *
Elizabeth promised Miss Perrin that she would not spend the evening with her head turning towards the door each time a new guest was announced. He would attend, or he would not attend, and he would seek her out, or not. She needed to get past this, and return to enjoying herself at a ball.
“I see Lady Helen and Susannah,” said Penny, pointing behind her fan. “—over there, by that enormous ficus. I believe this is her last evening out before the wedding.”
Miss Asherwood frowned. “Susannah Ware is getting married? What are you talking about?”
Penelope sighed. “You almost convinced me.”
“What?”
“That you were paying attention. Of course Susannah is not getting married. Lady Helen, you goose.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth nodded. “Of course.”
The wedding was to be a quiet event. Lady Helen’s friends would be there, and Lord Brock’s, but both families were small.
“Lizzie! Penny!”
They joined the two young women. Lady Helen was smiling ear to ear—her fiancé had just entered the ballroom, and was making his way toward the group—and Susannah looked like she could barely hold back her laughter.
“What is so funny?” asked Miss Perrin, when Lady Helen had left with Lord Brock for a turn on the Pemberton’s back terrace.
“There,” said Susannah, “goes the luckiest man alive. I believe she will not let him out of their bed until she is expecting. I wouldn’t be surprised if they are getting a start beforehand. Crispin does not seem like a gentleman who would refuse.”
“Susannah!” But both Penny and Elizabeth were laughing.
“I’ve never known anyone to want a family so desperately. One would think she had no other purpose to her life.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “She likes children.”
“Then let us hope she has a large brood.”
“Lizzie,” said Miss Ware. “He is here.”
Elizabeth did not doubt for a moment who Susannah was referring to. Not Geoffrey, whom she had seen out of the corner of her eye a few minutes ago, and who was probably waiting for the right moment to make his approach.
Lord Blakeley. Penny was facing in the correct direction, so there was no need for Miss Asherwood to turn around.
“He’s talking to Mrs. Caldwell.”
“Don’t look at them!” whispered Elizabeth.
“Don’t worry. They’ve left,” said Penny.
“Left! Left where?”
“I believe,” said Penelope, with some hesitation in her voice, “that they are taking a turn outside.”
Outside. With Mrs. Caldwell. Elizabeth felt a stab of pain. She was quite sure that she was blushing red to the roots of her hair, and was horrified that he might see her.
He won’t see anything, you ninny, came a little voice. He’s gone outside with Adelaide Caldwell.
“Miss Asherwood.”
It was Lord Winthrop. And the orchestra was beginning.
“Would you do me the honor of this dance?”
She gave Geoffrey a sudden, blinding smile. “I’d be delighted.”
* * * *
Peregrine had been doubtful when Addy had demanded his attention for ‘an important matter.’ He was even more doubtful now.
“What is this about?” he asked Mrs. Caldwell.
“Walk with me a few minutes,” she replied. “I was feeling overcome with the heat of the ballroom.”
Lord Blakeley gave a laugh of disbelief. In her entire life Adelaide Caldwell had never been overcome by the heat of a ballroom.
“Addy—”
“Oh, allow me a moment, will you, Perry? ’Tis not as if I’m asking for your first-born child.”
A few minutes should not have been a problem, but Lord Blakeley was particularly frustrated on this occasion. He had seen Geoffrey Winthrop edging his way toward the group of Miss Asherwood and her friends, and guessed that—even now—she was dancing with that gentleman.
In his arms, thought Peregrine blackly, although the description could hardly be used of an English country dance. ’Twas not as if they were waltzing, a moderately scandalous activity only newly imported from Germany, and not widely accepted in London ballrooms.
Surely there would be no waltz here, tonight—
If there was to be such a dance, he would be the one with Miss Asherwood in his arms.
“Peregrine,” said Mrs. Caldwell.
“Hmm?”
“What do you want from your life?”
Lord Blakeley was instantly alert. What did the woman mean? Was this one of those serious discussions that females seemed to pine for? Gods.
But Adelaide was laughing. “I don’t know what I’m to do with you, Perry.”
“I can’t imagine what you mean.” He was stalling.
“Explanations are suc
h a bore, don’t you think? I know you do, you’ve told me so yourself. So please keep up. We’ve had our fun—and I won’t deny, it was some of the best fun I’ve had in a long time.” Mrs. Caldwell smiled innocently. Peregrine was still at sea. “But I won’t sleep with someone who is truly in love with another woman. So that relationship is at an end.”
He stopped, and turned to look at her.
“Addy—”
“But, as a friend, I will offer you some advice. Something must change. You can no longer play the rake.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are wholly unconvincing in the part.”
He narrowed his eyes, frowning. “In my experience, that has not been the case.”
“In the past. As I know. But a gentleman who is now besotted—”
“I am not,” said Lord Blakeley, “besotted.”
“Pardon me. A gentleman who is truly, madly, and deeply in love—”
“Adelaide.” Peregrine was ready to put a stop to the entire conversation. He was about to put Mrs. Caldwell firmly in her place. This was not a subject—
“I have no assurance of the young lady’s feelings for me,” he said instead, a sentence almost as unexpected to him as it was to Addy Caldwell.
Silence. “Ah,” said Adelaide after a moment. “So there it is.”
“And as she is nearly betrothed to Lord Winthrop—”
“Only nearly. And don’t you think—if both parties were amenable—this engagement would have been announced weeks ago?”
“It seems a possible interpretation,” admitted Lord Blakeley. “And yet, if one party is not anxious for the event, which one?”
“That is what we need to find out,” said Mrs. Caldwell. She held out her hand to Lord Blakeley. “Shall we return to the dance?”
“Oh—” Peregrine was alarmed. “Oh, no, Adelaide, you cannot—”
His companion was fussing with her hair, removing a few tendrils from the beautifully pinned and arranged curls piled on the top of her head. He frowned.
“Watch me,” said Adelaide Caldwell.
* * * *
Lord Winthrop seemed different tonight, thought Elizabeth. There was a sense of determination about him that she did not find unattractive.
Even as her attention strayed to the Pemberton’s terrace.
Lizzie sighed, inwardly. She refused to think about Peregrine Blakeley anymore. If he preferred a tryst in the arms of Adelaide Caldwell to a dance with her, well so be it. She would not chase after him like a lovesick schoolgirl. If he thought that she—
“Lizzie,” said Geoffrey, with a hint of reproach in his voice.
“Hmm?”
“You are woolgathering again.”
She gave Geoffrey a small smile. “You are right. I’m sorry.”
The steps of the dance parted them at that moment, giving Miss Asherwood a chance to gather her thoughts.
“Perhaps we should . . . talk to each other,” said Lord Winthrop, next.
Elizabeth saw Peregrine Blakeley and Adelaide Caldwell return to the dance floor. She could not read Lord Blakeley’s expression, but Mrs. Caldwell’s was all too clear.
Happy. Satisfied. And her hair was slightly mussed, as if she had tried to re-pin the curls without complete success. Elizabeth remembered suddenly, viscerally, the feel of Lord Blakeley’s hands as he had helped with her own hair, under the Marquess of Derwell’s arbor.
What had Geoffrey just said?
“Yes,” said Lizzie. “We should talk.”
Lord Winthrop’s hand closed firmly around hers, and he started in the direction of the terrace.
“Miss Asherwood.” A voice, the voice she most wanted to hear.
Lord Winthrop’s face needed no decipherment.
“Miss Asherwood is engaged,” said Geoffrey, his tone one of plain annoyance.
Lizzie’s breath caught, and Lord Blakeley hesitated, as if considering the two meanings of this word.
“Ah, but the young lady had promised me the sarabande,” said Blakeley.
The young lady, who had not, made rapid calculations in her head. ’Twas questionable form to call a gentleman a liar. She wished to dance with Peregrine Blakeley, who might have news from Monsieur Rabaillat.
And yet, she did not wish to dance with him.
Miss Asherwood had already offered Lord Blakeley her hand before she realized that the decision was made. She sent a glance of apology to Geoffrey, who had a look in his eyes with which she was unfamiliar. A hard look. And Elizabeth suddenly felt all the absurdity of her position, the unfair manner in which she was treating Lord Winthrop, and the ridiculous hopes that she was entertaining with respect to her current partner, who was probably just returned from a garden assignation with Adelaide Caldwell.
She felt it deeply, and was ashamed.
A sarabande, she thought. That’s all.
* * *
Chapter 34
The Sarabande
Lord Blakeley barely heard the music, and had no idea if he was performing the correct steps. His hand touched hers, and something flowed from one to the other, something that united them so completely that he wondered if he could ever let go.
Or if she felt the same.
Miss Asherwood’s every movement was elegant and light, as he had noticed the first time he danced with her at the Marquess of Derwell’s ball, an event that now felt part of some other life. The thick curls of chestnut hair—the hair that he so longed to touch—framed a face that was beautiful and held a lively, intelligent expression. He heard her laugh at her own tiny misstep, and wanted to hear that sound every day for the rest of his life. She was dressed in a gown of pale blue silk, shot with threads of gold, and the fabric poured over the curves of her body in a manner both so demure and so enticing that Peregrine was going mad imagining the smooth skin underneath.
And yet it was not only her body that Blakeley wished to explore. It was her thoughts, her dreams, her wishes for her life. He could not explain why this young woman had captured his interest so thoroughly when the accomplished flirts of the ton, some of them beauties indeed, had left him untouched. He could not explain why his heart ached, why the heat of desire flamed at every touch of her hand. Peregrine had never imagined himself in love before, never imagined that it was even possible for someone like the man that he was.
He felt suddenly vulnerable, and did not like it.
The orchestra began a second iteration of the sarabande, and they came together again to curtsey and bow. Their glances crossed, and he saw a faint blush come to her cheeks.
Gods. What was she thinking? He had to know—
Miss Asherwood is engaged, Lord Winthrop had said, and it had taken all of Peregrine’s years of playing the rake to find an easy reply to that, a lie.
And the young lady had not gainsaid him. He took comfort there, at least.
Adelaide had seen that he was besotted, known it almost before Peregrine did himself. Was he so obviously in love that anyone could tell how he felt? The thought chilled him. Lord Blakeley played the rake; he had no desire to play the fool. It went against everything he had tried to make of his life. It confused him. And so his next words to Elizabeth were not the words he would have preferred to say, but instead a flippant remark, the most offhand, careless remark he could think of.
“So, you are engaged,” he said, with an easy smile, as if it were a bit of a joke between them. He was sure that Geoffrey had meant only Miss Asherwood’s immediate situation, but he would make fun of the entire idea, bloody hell if he would not. “How delightful.”
* * * *
Mrs. Caldwell was an acute observer of the human condition, and was generally spot on in her assessment of an individual in love—Lord Blakeley being only the most recent case in point—but she had misjudged Elizabeth Asherwood. Not in believing that the young lady had a tendre for Adelaide’s former lover, which was true enough, but in the extent of the girl’s self-confidence.
Addy was a confident woman
herself, and always had been; she found it difficult to imagine another state, especially in a society miss who was intelligent, pretty—and rich. And could Miss Asherwood not see the signs of love on Lord Blakeley’s face? They were obvious to Mrs. Caldwell.
But Elizabeth was young. She had been told many times that Blakeley was a rake, and would never marry, and her acute awareness of Adelaide and Peregrine’s sojourn on the Pemberton’s terrace had inspired jealousy, yes, but not the will to fight for that gentleman, which she assumed would be pointless anyway. She was more in the mind of being angry, and wanting to fight with him, and Lord Blakeley’s remark about her being engaged—with almost a laugh in his voice!—had been the final straw.
Damn the man. She would be engaged.
So Lizzie raised her chin a fraction of an inch, and put on her best impression of a happy female, and answered, “Oh, yes. We have set no date for the marriage, but ’twill be soon, I think.”
The expression on Lord Blakeley’s face would have been all that any woman could have wanted, but it appeared for only the briefest of moments, and then the familiar mask of the rake returned. And Elizabeth was not sure that she had seen that stab of pain crossing his features, or if it had existed only in her imagination.
“Excellent,” said Peregrine Blakeley, with a smile.
* * *
Chapter 35
The Engagement
“Engaged!”
“Shh,” said Elizabeth, frantically motioning for Miss Perrin to lower her voice.
“Engaged!”
“Penny—”
“To whom, pray tell?”
That question brought Miss Asherwood up short. “To Lord Winthrop, of course,” she said.
Penelope stared at her. “Geoffrey asked you? And you said yes?”
“Well . . . not exactly.”
