by Mary Balogh
Peter Houghton stared at him.
“I can rely on your discretion, Houghton?” his grace asked. “You are going on a long-overdue and well-earned holiday?”
“To visit my cousin Tom,” his secretary said, his face impassive, “and his wife, whom I have not yet met. And their new son, to whom I am to be godfather.”
“I don’t need a family history,” the duke said curtly. “You had better leave today, Houghton, or you may miss the christening.”
“I am much obliged to you, your grace,” Houghton said as his master turned to stride from the room. “I will not forget this favor you have done me.”
“You will see about that other matter before you leave?” the duke said, looking back from the doorway. “I gave instructions that she was to go into Wollaston this morning.”
“It will be taken care of, your grace,” Houghton said briskly.
Well, he thought, the master must be far more discreet than her grace. There had not been a whisper of a scandal belowstairs about his relationship with the governess—the London whore. Though of course there had been the grooms’ claim that the two of them had gone riding alone together for a whole hour the morning before—a claim that seemed to be borne out by the fact that he had been instructed to see that the governess was fitted out for a riding habit and boots.
So she was his ladybird after all. And his grace must be smitten indeed if he was about to pry into the poor girl’s past. She was living under a false name, was she?
But then, one could hardly blame his grace when the duchess was doing nothing to hide her preference for Lord Thomas.
THE MORNING WAS WET. There was not even the chance of a brief stroll outside after her music practice, Fleur found with regret. And no chance that there would be another riding lesson for Lady Pamela.
But the regret she felt over that fact was tempered by memories of her ride the morning before and the way it had developed. And memories of the night before and of the terror that had led her to make a most embarrassing assumption. And the memory of his arms about her and his heart beating against her ear and the smell of his cologne.
She was glad after all that it was raining.
As she watched Lady Pamela print rows of letters and later told her a story from history while they both embroidered, she began to hope that perhaps his grace would not come to the schoolroom that morning. And she listened for him, every sound startling her.
They were examining the globe again when he came. But instead of taking a seat in one corner as he usually did after kissing his daughter and bidding them both a good morning, he stayed on his feet and handed Fleur a letter.
“It came this morning,” he said, “together with one for me in the same hand. You have my permission, Miss Hamilton, to accept the invitation. And I do believe Houghton is waiting belowstairs in his office for you. Have you forgotten your errand for this morning?”
Fleur had not. But she had thought it very likely that he had forgotten, and had not liked to mention the matter to Mr. Houghton at breakfast.
“I will have a carriage brought around for you in half an hour’s time,” he said. “Pamela, you and I will play with Tiny for a while until it is time for me to join some of the gentlemen. This afternoon you may come with Mama and me to the rectory. Some of our guests wish to see the church. You may play with the children while we do so.”
“Ye-es.” Lady Pamela jumped up and down on the spot.
“Come along, then,” he said, reaching out a hand for hers. “Good day to you, Miss Hamilton.”
Mr. Chamberlain was inviting her to join him and his sister and Sir Cecil Hayward for dinner and a visit to the theater in Wollaston that evening. A traveling company of players was to appear there.
She folded the paper and lifted it to her mouth. And she felt an enormous regret for the life that might have been hers at Willoughby. She had work that she was beginning to find quite pleasant, enough social life to keep her active and interested, and the friendship of an attractive gentleman to make her feel like a woman.
She could never have taken that relationship beyond friendship, of course. She had known that and accepted it. She had not asked for much—merely life as it had been for the first two weeks after her arrival.
If only the Duke of Ridgeway had stayed away from home. And if only Matthew had not tracked her there.
The carriage was to be waiting for her in half an hour’s time, his grace had said. She hurried to her room to get ready and to pen an acceptance of her invitation.
Peter Houghton gave her a letter to present at Wollaston so that the bills for her riding clothes could be sent to the house. He also paid her her first month’s salary, though she had not been there for quite a month, explaining that he was to leave within the hour for the christening of his cousin’s son and might not be back for a week or more.
Fleur enjoyed the next few hours. After her experiences of just a couple of months ago, it was a delightful feeling to be dressed respectably, to ride in a smart carriage, to be treated with deference because the carriage bore the crest of the Duke of Ridgeway, to have a little money to spend on silk stockings, which strictly speaking she did not need, to choose rich velvet fabric for a riding habit and soft leather for boots.
And returning to Willoughby Hall felt like coming home again, she thought later, despite the rain and the heavy clouds. The carriage rumbled over the bridge and she turned her eyes to the house and felt a great churning of love for it. And a great sadness that it would not be her home for much longer.
She smiled at the coachman as he helped her down from the carriage, and would have hurried through the doors to the servants’ quarters beneath the horseshoe steps if someone had not hailed her by name. Matthew was hurrying from the direction of the stables.
“I came upstairs after luncheon to visit you,” he said as the carriage drew away again. “The child’s nurse told me you had gone into Wollaston. Alone, Isabella? Why did you not let me know? I would have come with you.”
She stood in the rain and looked at him.
“I shall be leaving on this infernal visit to a Norman church soon,” he said. “But I must see you this evening. Where? Your room? Or downstairs somewhere?”
“I have other plans for this evening,” she said.
“What?” He frowned at her. Water was falling in a steady stream from the brim of his hat.
“I have been invited out to dinner and the theater,” she said. “By neighbors.”
“Who is he?” he asked. “You had better not encourage him, Isabella. I would not like it at all.”
“Can you not conceive of a relationship of pure friendliness, Matthew?” she asked. Cold water was finding its way in a trickle down her back inside her cloak.
“Not where you are concerned,” he said. “Not with your looks, Isabella. We will stay here for a few weeks. But I expect a good portion of your free time. And I do not expect to have to deal with opposition. And that includes the duke. I hope he did not stay with you last night. For your sake I hope it.”
“I am wet and cold through to the bone, Matthew,” she said. “I am going indoors, if you will excuse me.”
He sketched her a bow and turned to run up the marble steps.
Fleur shivered as she let herself in through the servants’ doors. Yes, there was always that—the ultimate choice that she was going to have to make: either to marry Matthew, if indeed he did mean marriage, or to stand trial for murder and theft when the only witness was Matthew himself.
MR. CHAMBERLAIN’S CARRIAGE CAME for Fleur early in the evening. She looked down in some regret at her blue muslin dress and wished that she had had something else to wear. But she would not let anything spoil her evening. She was going to enjoy herself, she had decided earlier, especially after her talk with Matthew. If she had not had this invitation to honor, she would have been forced to spend the evening with him. Of course, there were tomorrow evening and the evening after that, but she would think of that when the time came.
Sir Cecil Hayward, a gentleman Fleur remembered seeing at the ball, appeared to have no conversation but what related to horses and hounds and hunting. But both Miss Chamberlain and her brother were lively conversationalists, and Fleur found herself very well entertained during dinner.
She had never in her life attended the theater, a fact that amused Mr. Chamberlain.
“You have never been near a theater, Miss Hamilton?” he said. “Amazing! How would the Shakespeares of our world survive if people were all like you?”
“But I did not say I had stayed away out of inclination, sir,” she said, laughing—and remembering a time when she had indeed been near a theater.
“This will be like taking the children out, Emily,” he said, smiling at his sister. “I suppose we can expect Miss Hamilton to be all agog and jumping up and down in her excitement.”
“I promise at least,” Fleur said, “not to shriek and squeal, sir.”
“Ah, then,” he said, “I suppose we can proceed on our way. You are willing to dispense with the port for tonight, Hayward?”
The theater was far smaller than Fleur had expected, the relationship between audience and players far more intimate. The audience hissed a singer who sang slightly off-key, whistled every time one actress with a particularly fine bosom appeared on the stage, cheered the villain, jeered the hero when he was abject with unrequited love, and applauded and catcalled through the final love scene.
Fleur loved every moment of it, action and audience both.
“Philistines all,” Mr. Chamberlain said into her ear. “They came here not to be entertained, but to entertain themselves. Of course, it must be admitted that there are more skilled actors somewhere in this country. I hope this experience will not give you a permanent disgust of the theater, Miss Hamilton.”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “It has been a lovely evening.”
Miss Chamberlain apparently did not agree. The heat and constant noise of the theater had given her a headache. And so after letting down Sir Cecil at his home close to Wollaston, the carriage took Miss Chamberlain home before proceeding to Willoughby Hall. Mr. Chamberlain insisted on accompanying Fleur there at such a late hour.
“Adam was not annoyed at my taking you from the house for a whole evening?” he asked.
“He told me that I might accept the invitation,” she said.
“Some people seem to think that their employees are their personal possessions and are not entitled to any free time,” he said, “let alone—heaven forbid—some social life. I might have known, of course, that Adam would be more enlightened. I have never known anyone who has succeeded in luring away any of his servants, though I have known those who have tried. Apparently he treats them more like family than employees.”
“He is always kind,” Fleur said.
“There was universal rejoicing in this part of the world when he came home so unexpectedly a year after being reported dead,” he said. “Thomas was probably the only one who was disappointed to find that he was no longer duke.”
“And yet,” Fleur said, “he is a very pleasant gentleman.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, smiling at her in the darkness of the carriage. “Granted. You are coming to Timmy’s birthday party?”
They conversed easily for a while before lapsing into a comfortable silence.
Mr. Chamberlain turned to her as his carriage crossed the bridge at the end of the lime grove. “I will kick myself for a coward and an imbecile and a slowtop if I do not at least try to kiss you before this carriage stops,” he said. “May I, Miss Hamilton?”
What could one say to such a request? No, she supposed, if one disliked the gentleman. She did not dislike Mr. Chamberlain.
“I see that my audacity has silenced you,” he said. “And I suppose it is difficult to say a polite ‘Yes, sir,’ to such a question. I hope it would not be so hard to say ‘No, sir,’ if that is what you wish to say.”
She saw him smile in the darkness before setting one arm about her shoulders, lifting her chin with his free hand, and lowering his mouth to hers.
It was warm, firm, pleasant. He did not prolong the embrace.
“I wait meekly for a stinging slap on the cheek,” he said, withdrawing his arm and hand and sitting upright again. “None? I hope I have not offended you. Have I?”
“No,” she said.
“I shall look forward to seeing you in a few days’ time,” he said. “Perhaps we will even be able to exchange a few words above the shrieking of the children. Birthdays always cause more noise than any two other occasions combined. Have you noticed?”
He waited for his coachman to put down the steps before descending to the wet terrace in order to hand her out. He escorted her up the steps to the main doors, rapped on them, and bowed over her hand, raising it to his lips, before turning to leave.
“Thank you for your company, Miss Hamilton,” he said. “I have enjoyed the evening more than I can say.”
“So have I,” she said. “Good night, sir.”
She looked about her as the door closed, half-expecting Matthew or the duke to step out of the shadows. But there was no one except the lone footman who had opened the door.
She ran up the stairs and along to her room. She undressed quickly and climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up about her ears.
She would think only of the evening. At least for one night she would go to sleep happy. She thought about Mr. Chamberlain and his friendly humor. And about his kiss. And she wished that life could have started a little less than a month ago. She wished that there were no Matthew and no Hobson’s body lying under the ground somewhere close to Heron House. She wished there had been no London, no necessity of remaining alive there. No Duke of Ridgeway. She even wished in some strange way that there had been no Daniel.
She wished there had been only Willoughby Hall and Mr. Chamberlain.
She thought again of his kiss, which she must not allow to be repeated. And of his attentions, which she must not encourage.
And she remembered warm strong arms tight about her, and a strong-muscled chest against her cheek, and a strongly beating heart against her ear. And she thought of waltzing with a partner who twirled her about with a firm hand at her waist and whose cologne had been a part of the beauty of the night.
She burrowed her head farther beneath the blankets.
THE FOLLOWING DAY CONTINUED WET. The duke rode out in the afternoon with two of his more hardy guests to call upon some of his tenants. When they returned, too late for tea, it was to discover that the entertainment for the evening had been arranged already. Everyone was tired of charades, Lady Underwood informed him, meeting him in the great hall. They were going to dance in the drawing room.
“Indeed?” he said. “And who is to play for us? Miss Dobbin?”
“She is quite willing to do so,” Lady Underwood said, “but Walter insists that she be free to dance at least some of the time. Have you noticed that he is quite smitten with her, Adam? And have you noticed that I am less than smitten with Philip but have to make do with him in order to avoid dreadful boredom, you annoying man?”
“Well,” he said with a smile, “you will have dancing to entertain you for this evening, it seems. Who is to play when Miss Dobbin is dancing?”
“Oh, the governess,” she said. “It is all arranged.”
“Is it?” he said. “At whose suggestion, pray?”
“Matthew’s, of course,” she said. “He claims to have a slight acquaintance with her. I believe it is considerably more than slight, but only time will prove me right or wrong on that. Anyway, she is to play. Do tell me you will waltz every waltz with me, Adam. You do it so divinely.”
“I will be honored to dance the first with you,” he said. “Pardon me, ma’am, I must change out of these wet clothes.”
Did Fleur know how her evening had been organized? he wondered. Had she been consulted? Had she been told or asked? And did she think him responsible again for making use o
f her talents? He winced at the possibility. She was employed as Pamela’s governess, not as entertainer for his guests.
He wondered if anyone had thought of such details as having the furniture moved back in the drawing room and the carpet rolled up and music brought from the music room. He would wager no one had.
FLEUR HAD BEEN LOOKING FORWARD to a quiet evening with her embroidery in Mrs. Laycock’s sitting room. But just after lessons had finished in the afternoon she had been handed a hastily scrawled note from her grace, summoning her to play the pianoforte for a dance in the evening.
She was not unduly upset. She had been half-expecting some summons from Matthew, and while this might well be it, at least she would be in the drawing room in company with all the guests. She would not be alone with him.
A line of footmen was still busy rolling the carpet when she arrived in the drawing room. She walked back to the hall to wait until the room was ready for her. And she looked about her at the magnificence of it all.
She looked up to the dome, shadowed in the gathering dusk, and at some of the gilded carvings on the walls between the columns. Winged cherubs blew into slender pipes, their cheeks puffed. Violins were crossed with flutes.
“It was designed to be a place for music,” the duke said at her shoulder. “The gallery was made to be used by an orchestra. Unfortunately we have not had a grand concert or ball here for more than a year.”
Fleur turned toward him. His face was caught by the shadows of the hall, his eyes blacker, his nose more aquiline, his scar more noticeable than in the light. He was standing close to her, his hands clasped behind him. And she felt breathless and very aware that a solid Corinthian column was at her back.
“You have consented to play for us this evening?” he said.
“Yes, your grace.”
“Tell me,” he said, “were you asked?”
“Her grace sent me a note,” she said.
He grimaced. “I promised this would not happen again, did I not?” he said. “I was from home this afternoon. Miss Hamilton, will you do us the honor of playing? You are quite at liberty to refuse. This is not part of your duties as governess.”
