Lord Fortescue bowed. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Cavendish?”
Horatia baulked at the thought. When news of the waltz had first reached them, lessons had been held at the assembly rooms in St Albans. Despite Henry partnering her and treading heavily on her toes, she had enjoyed the dance but felt far from confident that she’d mastered it with any degree of grace. Manners dictated she must accept. She murmured a polite response and accompanied him onto the floor. This close, it followed that she would know whether or not he recognized her. She almost welcomed it, for she wished to bring the whole charade to an end.
“This is a dance with which I’m familiar,” he said, drawing her close in his arms. “We danced it in Paris long before it came to England.”
She supposed he considered England far behind Paris in most things fashionable. Finding herself pressed up against his hard chest produced the memory of how it looked unclothed. Her breath caught, and she wriggled within his arm. “We do not dance this close in England, my lord.”
He let her go in surprise then took up the pose again, leaving space between them. “Merci. I did not know. You have saved me from making a faux pas.”
She suspected he knew quite well, for the devilry in his eyes betrayed him. “You might learn by observing others, my lord,” she admonished him.
At least now she could breathe. But this was unlike the night they had spent together, when her disguise had protected her. Did he find her attractive? She had no idea if his charm was merely part of his personality. It shouldn’t matter, for he would choose a bride from the aristocracy, but somehow it did. His hand at her waist, guiding her, made her recall their time in the hut and his indecent revelations of lovemaking. Her breath quickened at the thought of such an act perpetrated by him on some woman, and even possibly her. His proximity and the strength and pure maleness of him overwhelmed her. Breathing in the familiar woody Bergamot scent, intermingled with starched linen and soap, she closed her eyes, but that made her dizzy. After examining his masterfully tied cravat adorned with a sapphire pin the color of his eyes, she raised her eyes to his. “I have not seen a cravat tied in that way before. What is it called?”
He smiled down at her. “I believe it is called Trone d’Armour.” The style hailed from France most likely. He was different from the English in other ways too. The French had a disconcerting way of looking at someone. Was he the real Baron Fortescue or an impostor? He knew so much about the Fortescue family. And he had talked so lovingly of them, she found she couldn’t doubt him.
To calm herself, she fixed on the dimple in his chin. His full under lip might be a sign of a generous nature. A passionate one? She tried to silence her thoughts. “Is there a chance Napoleon might escape from St Helena?”
Guy shook his head. “He is a beaten man. The world will not see him again.”
She wondered what his true feelings for Napoleon were. She almost asked him but was afraid of the answer. Somehow she knew he would answer truthfully. He must care deeply for the country of his birth. Could he come to love England as much?
“Are you all right?” He clasped her hand tightly. “I am not dancing too fast?”
“No, of course not. I’m hardly in my dotage.” She looked down to the swell of her bosom, pale in the candlelight. Her chest gave her feelings away, rising and falling as if she’d run a mile.
“I’m glad you told me. I should never have known.” He chuckled. “Why, you must be well past twenty. If I can be allowed to guess.”
“You are not allowed, my lord. And I’m shocked you would mention it.” She wished she could whip the offending net from her hair.
“I do apologize; I seem to have a knack for annoying you.”
“Not at all.” She was not just out of the schoolroom admittedly.
His graceful moves made her dance well. They spun around and around. Her head, already a trifle woozy from the wine, spun too. She counted under her breath as his hand tightened at her waist. Their bodies were close again, too close for propriety’s sake and her peace of mind. There was nothing she could do about it, so she gave herself up to the sensation. Once she did, she found it very pleasant. She lifted her gaze to his and found his expression had become earnest.
“If you permit, I shall call on you and your father,” he said. He turned her expertly. “I desire to see Simon again. To thank him,” he added, sotto voce. “I worry he may get into difficulty on my account.”
Horatia’s heart sank to her dancing slippers. At this precise moment, she had no idea how to deal with such a request. To refuse him would be considered bad mannered, and in his arms, the urge to fight him had deserted her. Her wits lost, she scrabbled for some excuse. “Simon is a modest fellow; I doubt he would wish you to pursue this further. You will embarrass him.”
“Tiens! That is not my intention.”
She almost sagged with relief.
He sought her gaze and held it. “I promise to be prudent. Monday at two o’clock. If it is convenable?”
“Of course,” Horatia said in a high voice, her mind blank with horror.
The dance ended, and he escorted her from the floor. “Would you care for refreshment?” he asked. “The room is quite warm.”
She settled herself into a chair. “No thank you, my lord.”
“I see you do not have your fan.”
She slanted a look at him and caught his sympathetic smile. Somehow she didn’t trust it. Hot and extremely bothered, she determined to rescue her fan at the first opportunity.
He signaled to a waiter and returned with a glass of Madeira. “I see the musicians are threatening to play again.” His eyes danced with amusement, and she wondered if he found them all terribly parochial. “I must go and ask another lady to dance.”
Horatia watched him bow to Fanny. She curtsied and blushed prettily as he led her onto the floor for a cotillion. What a handsome couple they made. She wished Fanny would not giggle so.
With a quick look around for rivals, Mr. Oakley approached. Suppressing a sigh, she rose to take his arm. His hopeful gaze settled on her as they danced.
As soon as the dance ended, Horatia excused herself and slipped from the room. She hurried to the salon, relieved to find it deserted. Plunging her hand into the urn, she straightened with the fan in her hand.
A deep voice came from the doorway. “Ah, you have found it.”
She spun around. “Why yes, it must have fallen into this vase.”
“How extraordinary you thought to look there.” The baron leaned against the doorframe.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” She snapped it open and glared at him from over the top.
He gave a benign smile and offered her his arm. “Shall we join the others in the ballroom?”
With a stiff nod, Horatia accepted. He stepped beside her, and she rested her hand on his sleeve, aware of the sensual slide of fine cloth under her gloved fingers. Her skirts rustled against his leg as they walked down the long passage. The beeswax candles burning in their sconces scented the air.
“Do you know, Miss Cavendish, I found your groom most remarkable.”
Horatia swallowed and wished she could go home. “You did?”
“The way he cares for animals, particularly.”
“Yes, he has a gift with them,” she added, warming to her subject. Simon was a master with horses, after all.
“I’ve heard it said that Englishmen love their horses more than their women.”
“Indeed?” She removed her hand. “You should not believe all you hear, my lord. Why, I’ve heard it said, that the French are overdressed flirts. Most unfair I feel sure.” She offered a regretful smile.
A grin turned up the corners of his mouth and sparked in his eyes. “Most unfair. But as I need new staff for the Hall, I must warn you, I may try and steal Simon from you.”
So that was what this was about. She must stop them from meeting. “Simon will never agree; he is very loyal. I would advise you not to bother.”
He smiled with an apologetic shrug. “Très bien, Miss Cavendish. At least I have been honest.”
“Honesty does not necessarily guarantee good manners, my lord.” They had reached the ballroom. Relieved, she saw her father approaching. “Ah, here is Father. It must be time to leave.”
After they thanked their hostess, her father went to organize the carriage. Lady Kemble approached Horatia. “I advise you to accept Mr. Oakley’s offer, my dear.” She pinched her lips. “He’s more than acceptable and your unfashionable height will bring few opportunities your way.”
“Thank you for your advice, Lady Kemble,” Horatia said, trying to ignore the sting of her words. “It’s of no consequence, as I intend never to marry.”
Lady Kemble’s titter died away as someone entered behind her.
“How can you be so sure, Miss Cavendish?” came the baron’s voice. “One day you might meet your perfect match.”
Horatia swung around. “I plan to pursue literary endeavors as my aunt has done.” She now not only looked but sounded as stiff as an aged spinster and grew more annoyed by his amused gaze by the minute. “She has a remarkable circle of friends and acquaintances in London.”
She curtseyed and went to the steps as the carriage approached.
Horatia lay awake, recollecting the events of the past evening. She came to the conclusion that the baron had not recognized her, for he had ample opportunity to speak of it and had failed to do so. She fretted over a plan to deal with his visit and finally decided to send Simon off on an errand. She would then don the groom’s attire and waylay Lord Fortescue in the dim light of the stables before he arrived at the house. Once she’d assured him that everything was fine and refused any offer of employment he might make her, she would whisk up the back stairs and change into a morning gown. A lace cap would hide her hair. She became convinced she could make it work. Calmer, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Six
The following evening, after a day spent searching fruitlessly for his portmanteau, Guy wandered the Rosecroft gallery of portraits. So these prosperous men and women were his ancestors. He thought he recognized a feature or expression in some. His father had told him much of their history. He paused to sip the fine claret his butler had brought up from the cellars as he wandered the corridor to the west wing. Art that his father had listed were missing from the walls, Meissen and Sévres china gone from the cabinets. Valuable items meant to be handed down from generation to generation, gone. There was a story to be told here, and he wanted to learn it, but so far Eustace had managed to avoid his probing questions. He had complained of the ague and retired to his rooms. Something was wrong. Guy needed to delve deeper into the reasons behind the estate running at a loss. How was it possible for this to happen, with all the money his father had sent from France over the years?
Guy sensed his father’s presence more strongly here in England. He was saddened, not only because his relative had mismanaged the finances, despite the comfortable living the estate had afforded him, but also because his father had walked away from so much that had mattered to him. His roots. It was evident in the portrait gallery, where the Fortescues went back hundreds of years. And it struck at the very core of who he was. Guy knew it had been the same for his father. John Strathairn had told Guy what had taken place before his father rushed from England’s shores, all those years ago. A young blade, father had flirted with a married lady and stirred the ire of her jealous husband, Earl Spender, who had slapped his face with his gloves and demanded satisfaction. Guy’s father’s friends had tried to persuade the earl to walk away, for the sum of it had been a brief kiss in the moonlight, but the countess had a history of dalliance, and her husband intended to make an example of his father.
The two men and their seconds met at dawn on a London common. As the earl was known to be a poor shot, Guy’s father planned to delope. Earl Spender’s shot went wide. His father fired into the ground, trusting the seconds would then call a halt. But the earl insisted on a second shot and fired first. When Spender’s bullet grazed his father’s cheek, he fell back and his pistol fired, ending the earl’s life. Before daybreak, his father had left England, never to return.
The one thing that made this tragic event easier to bear was the Frenchwoman his father had married. His mother’s warmth and love for them all overcame everything. Guy swallowed the sorrow and loss that threatened to overtake him. Here in this gallery, he felt it strongly. They were gone. He must live his life in a way that honored them both.
No doubt Eustace would be more approachable, if not more respectful, if Guy could produce the proof of his birth. But so far his search of the countryside had failed to find it. The bag could have fallen off anywhere. Grateful the snow had melted, he determined to continue his search the next day.
Guy strode back into the salon and poured himself a brandy. The servants had retired for the evening. The house was quiet except for the sound of mice scratching behind the wainscoting. He seized a candelabrum and made his way to the solar, planning to search below it for the secret passage his father told him about.
The steps took him down to a long narrow storage room, pitch black and stuffy. He moved along the walls but could detect no sign of a door. After a frustrated hour of searching, he gave up and returned upstairs.
He must deal with the matters at hand. Eustace certainly, but first… He paused and smiled. Simon.
Chapter Seven
When Monday came, Horatia picked at her breakfast and ate even less at luncheon, drawing concerned comments from her father. Just to please him, she forced down several mouthfuls of cold beef.
At half past one, she excused herself from the library where her father smoked his pipe and read a periodical. She hurried upstairs and donned the groom’s clothing, her fingers stumbling over the hidden button on the fall-front breeches.
As she passed the kitchen, she heard Jim, the stable boy, chatting to Cook. He had needed no urging when Horatia suggested he sample the biscuits and cakes fresh from the oven.
It was blustery and cold, but snow had not fallen for days. The ground was mushy with melted ice, and heavy grey clouds hung overhead. Horatia hesitated as the wind whipped around the corner of the house, a gelid touch on the bare skin at her nape. She’d forgotten her scarf. She shook her head and hurried towards the cozy warmth of the stables. It would be flying in the face of fortune to return to the house for it, and it wouldn’t be needed if she kept to the shadows.
The stables were empty and satisfactorily gloomy. The General whickered a greeting. Simon had gone off to the village apothecary to fetch her father’s medicine. That was the only excuse she could think of, but as he would soon be in need of it, the order caused no comment.
She patted The General’s nose and fed him an apple. By the time the last of it had disappeared, she heard the clip of a horse’s hooves on the gravel drive. She peeped out of the barn door and saw the baron, tall in the saddle, riding towards the house.
Horatia stepped out and beckoned him. He caught sight of her and rode towards the stables then dismounted and led the horse inside.
“Sorry, my lord,” Horatia said, adopting Simon’s gruff voice. “We have no footman here. No under-groom neither. I’ll stable your horse.”
“Simon, good fellow,” he said warmly. “I came to thank you again. I am indebted to you.”
“No need for that, my lord,” she said. “Everything’s right and tight here as it happens.” She turned her back to lead his horse into one of the stalls. Seizing a brush, she bent and swept it over the horse’s flanks.
He came to rest an arm on the stall door. “I am relieved. If you had lost your job, I was going to ask you to work for me.”
She straightened to brush the horse’s back, confident of the poor light. “Mighty good of you, my lord. But not at all necessary.”
“Eh bien, merci encore.” He turned towards the door.
Relieved it had gone so well, Horatia stepp
ed out from behind the horse. She looked up to see if he had gone and found him watching her with his arms folded.
The elation left her, and she took a deep, shaky breath.
“Did you really think you could go on fooling me?” A note of outrage lay beneath the humorous tone in his voice. “How many people around here have red hair like yours?”
“My hair’s not red,” she said, incensed. “It’s chestnut.”
“I wondered how far you would carry this ruse, Miss Cavendish.”
She backed into an empty stall as he strode towards her.
He followed her inside. Reaching over, he whipped off her hat, and her hair came loose and tumbled around her face. “So, what do you have to say in your defense?”
“Nothing, my lord.” Horatia lifted her chin, her heart pounding loud in her ears. She chewed her lip. She would have to brazen this out.
Annoyed blue eyes stared into hers. “I do not like to be toyed with. I thought there was something wrong with me.”
“Pardon?”
“Watching you bend over in those breeches. Zut! From the first I felt a strong attraction to you. And then, when I saw you dressed as a woman, I understood.”
“You knew it was me at the dance?” She scowled. “And you deliberately teased me?”
“Don’t you think you deserved it?” He seized her shoulders and gave them a shake. “You tricked me. Why?”
She swallowed. “No trickery, my lord. I was dressed this way when I found you, if you recall. I needed to keep up the pretense.”
He shrugged. “But why do you dress like that?”
She couldn’t explain her restlessness to him and tossed her head. “I prefer to ride astride.”
He raised a brow. “You like a strong beast moving beneath you?”
She bristled at the insult. “I like to ride alone.” He made it sound as if she gained some sort of indecent enjoyment from the exercise. Her face heated. To ride astride was unfeminine, she knew, but that fact had never bothered her before.
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