by Rose Gordon
“'Des es muh dau'ter, Madame Le Fleur,” Henry said, gesturing to Laura.
Laura curtsied to the man with the caterpillar eyebrows.
“How do you do?” he asked.
“She es varry—” Henry waved his hand around through the air, as if he were really trying to think up the word, and perhaps he was— “how do you say, she?”
“Shy?” guessed the man who looked old enough to be her father.
“Oui,” Henry said with a thump of his cane.
The man nodded and held his arm out toward her. “May I have this dance?”
Henry gave her arm a gentle squeeze just above the elbow, and she said, “Oui.”
“Oui, oui,” Henry said, pushing her toward the other gentleman.
Laura flashed the stranger a smile and resisted the urge to turn around and thump Henry on his head with his own cane.
She allowed the stranger to dance her around the room. She frowned. He hadn't even given her his name, or if he had, she'd been too distracted with thoughts of Henry and his mastery of his disguise to notice; but she refused to believe it was that. He just mustn't have been polite enough to give her his name. True or not, it was the truth to her.
“You're a very good dancer,” he commented, spinning her around the floor.
Laura racked her mind for the French word for thank you, but came up short. All she knew was oui and a few other select phrases that she had absolutely no idea what they meant but doubted any of them were thank you; so she ignored him.
He turned her, and from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Henry, standing among a small group of young men. She scowled. What was he doing? Had he forgotten his guise so soon?
The fellow without a name who was turning her about the floor tapped his fingers on her shoulder. She shifted her eyes to his face, grinning. He must have asked her a question. “Par-done,” she said, attempting her best imitation of a French accent even if the word was wrong.
“I was wondering how you were enjoying your time in England.”
“Ah.” She tried to think of something to say in response. She could fake a single word with a heavy French accent but was afraid, if she said more than that, she'd give them away. “Viens ici que je te saute,” she blurted.
“Oh, I see,” he said; the color in his cheeks heightening. He must not understand French, either, and didn't know what to say in response. Good.
She offered him a sweet smile and danced out the rest of the song with him.
“Here you are, Monsieur Archambeau. Your daughter safely returned.” He turned toward Laura. “It was my pleasure.”
“Luca,” Henry started with a heavy French accent, “let me introduce you to Monsieur Cross.”
Laura bobbed another curtsey and smiled at the handsome young man.
“Might I have this dance, Madame?” the dark-haired Mr. Cross asked, offering her his arm.
“Oui,” she said, still forcing a smile.
Laura took her place in line for the reel and waited for the music to start.
Mr. Cross was a very attractive young fellow. Where her previous partner had been old and wrinkled, Mr. Cross was young, with a smooth face. His eyes were so dark they almost looked black, a perfect match for his slicked back hair.
The music began, and as if by their own accord, Laura's feet started to move to the steps. It had been years since she'd danced this reel. It had been her favorite when all the local plantation owners in the county got together for a barbecue and dance.
Heedless to what was going on in the room around her or to what Henry was or wasn't doing; she kept pace and danced around the room. Spinning here. Sliding there. Stomping when necessary. Grabbing Mr. Cross' shoulders and letting him spin her. She was sure a giant grin was splitting her face; she just didn't care. She was dancing and that was all that mattered.
“You're a good dancer,” Mr. Cross practically panted when the reel was over.
Unsure what to say, she smiled and muttered, “Viens ici que je te saute.”
He nodded once, his lips twitching.
Laura momentarily felt a tinge of guilt for speaking in a language he didn't understand; but they were here to play a part, and Henry would blame her if she did anything that might give them away.
“Dere you are, m'dear,” Henry said, giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I wants you to meet Monsieur Allen.”
“Monsieur,” Laura said, doing another curtsey.
Mr. Allen bowed and asked her to dance. Of course.
She agreed and took the dance floor with him. Of course.
He danced her around a bit and asked some inane question to which she replied. “Viens ici que je te saute.” Of course.
He smiled and nodded in response. Of course.
When their dance finished, he led her back toward her “father” who introduced her to another young man. Of course.
And the entire cycle happened again. Of course.
And then again.
For at least seven songs in a row, she was asked to dance by a stranger that Henry introduced her to, danced with him and answered his question with, “Viens ici que je te saute.” How fortunate that none of her dance partners seemed to know any more French than she did.
“I need to drink something,” she whispered in Henry's ear, on the verge of panting for breath.
He nodded and offered her his arm, then led her to the refreshment room.
“Why do you keep finding dance partners for me?” she asked, taking a glass of punch from him.
“I thought you'd like to dance.” He picked up another glass and drained it. “Did I misinterpret the smile on your face? I swear it was as large as Hudson Bay.”
She flushed. “It feels good to dance again.”
“Then, don't let me keep you,” he said, taking the glass of punch from her fingers and setting it down on the other side of the tray. “There are many more gentlemen waiting to dance.”
And sure enough there were. The corner where Henry had been standing previously was full of gentlemen. Some young. Some old. Some handsome. Some less-than-handsome. All of whom wanted a dance.
And who was she to deny them?
***
A sick feeling took root in the pit of Henry's stomach. Something wasn't right. Where had all of these chaps come from? Laura was certainly a beauty, and it likely added to her appeal that she was French; but gads, how was he supposed to decide who was and wasn't a proper suitor for her?
He glanced over to where she was dancing with Mr. Arnold. Her grin sent a bolt of lightning straight to his groin.
“Your daughter is in need of a protector, then?”
Henry snapped his head around to face the young man who'd dared to ask such a bold question. “No, no, no,” he gushed. “She need a hu'ban',” he told the fellow who couldn't have had more than twenty years in his dish.
The young man ignored him. “I have the means to keep her living well,” he said, not taking his lecherous eyes off of Laura.
Henry turned to the gentleman on his left and scowled. He looked just as unacceptable, leering as if he'd never seen an attractive young lady before.
“Sir,” said a gentleman dressed in an ivory coat with trousers that matched his white cravat but were a stark contrast to his waistcoat and leather shoes. “I don't believe we've met before. My name is Arthur Pratt...”
Henry didn't care about the rest of the man's introduction. His reputation preceded him. He was not the kind of fellow Laura needed. He was an arrogant drunkard who was more likely to treat his bottle of whiskey with more respect than his wife.
Ignoring the young chaps around him, he scanned the ballroom. Many of the faces were familiar.
Drunkard.
Weakness for gambling.
Rumored to have the pox.
He scowled. That one over there, licking his lips as if getting ready to devour an entire goose, was Mr. Abrams. It was highly speculated that his first wife had received a bit of help falling down the
stairs to her death.
Henry moved his eyes over to the next man.
Card sharp.
Too young.
Too old.
Too many mistresses.
His scowl deepened to an undeniable frown when his eyes landed on Mr. Morrison, the wicked man he'd bought Zeus from. Nothing angered him more than a man who mistreated his horses, and there was not a boulder's chance of floating that he'd allow Mr. Morrison to marry Laura or even dance with her.
He sighed. Of all the fellows he'd met tonight, Mr. Cross seemed the best fit, but even that was questionable. Mr. Cross was in debt and in desperate need of an heiress. He'd have a better chance of finding one in London, not that it was any of Henry's concern.
“Sir?”
Henry lifted his eyebrows at the chap who'd just spoken. He recognized that voice as belonging to Duncan Hodgekiss, a country squire.
“Oui?”
“I was wondering—” he removed his hat and fingered the brim— “that is, would it be too forward of me to beg an introduction?”
Henry searched the man's face. Henry and Duncan had attended Eton together, where Elijah and Henry had been some of his only friends. Where most boys were spirited and unable to go for long periods without making noise, Duncan preferred it to be quiet and was usually very serious. He was soft spoken, and if Henry remembered right, he had a fondness for animals. He'd be perfect for Laura.
“Oui, oui, Monsieur.” Henry gestured for him to take a step closer.
Duncan came closer. “My name is Duncan Hodgekiss, sir.”
“Monsieur Archambeau,” Henry said. “An' dat—” he gestured to where Laura was being spun about the dance floor by a man twice her age— “es me dau'ter, Luca.”
Duncan swallowed visibly. “She's very beautiful.”
“Oui, oui.” He couldn't deny the other man's charge, nor would he wish to. She was beautiful, radiant even, as she moved.
Henry gripped the knob of his walking stick and waited for the song to be over. None of the other chaps he'd presented to Laura inspired confidence in him as Duncan did. If anyone here was the right one for her, it was him.
“Ah, Luca,” he said, cutting her previous dance partner a sharp look. “Des es Monsieur Hodgekess.”
Duncan bowed at the same time that Laura curtsied and Henry had to bite the inside of his cheek so not to grin. Poor Duncan, he was nervous.
The first strains of a waltz filled the air. Henry stepped back so Duncan could lead Laura out to the dance floor.
Around him, the remaining unsuitable gentlemen continued to vie for his attention. But he couldn't spare any; not even for one second. He was far too rapt in the scene before him; and for a reason he couldn't place, an ache unlike anything he'd ever experienced was building in his chest.
~Chapter Thirteen~
This had to be the longest waltz ever written, Henry thought to himself as he once again resisted the urge to check his pocket watch.
After her first waltz with Duncan, she'd come over just long enough to inform him they were going to the refreshment room. Reminding himself that he was playing a role, that of a father who was looking to marry off his daughter, he allowed her to go and gritted his teeth as she walked away, smiling at Mr. Hodgekiss.
This is the best thing for her. You cannot offer her what she needs. It was true. He was sarcastic and sometimes he hedged on being too forward and even a touch impolite. Though he'd never be unfaithful to her, there were no other qualities about him that would make him a good match for her.
Duncan pulled her close and Henry scowled at him.
Perhaps that was a good thing. At least Duncan was interested in her and she seemed rather taken, nodding and smiling. Of course, he'd have to think up some way to explain tonight's situation to Duncan if she agreed to allow him to court her. But that was a matter for another day. Right now, all he could think about was the way she moved to the music, so fluid and graceful, almost like she was a part of it.
The waltz ended and Duncan brought her back to his side, interest evident on his face.
Henry nodded to the man as he reluctantly pulled away.
“Would it be all right if I were to call upon you?”
Laura's eyes widened, and before she could say something foolish like, “oui”, Henry spoke up. “Perhaps we sees you at ano'her ball?”
Duncan nodded, “Yes, monsieur.” He turned to Laura and bowed, “Madame.”
“Did you two have a good time?” he whispered, dreading her answer. He'd seen them together. She'd laughed and smiled the entire time they were together, and Duncan had stars in his eyes. They'd clearly had a good time, which is what Henry had wanted. So why did he secretly want her to tell him how awful it was.
“Actually, it was awful,” she said with a sigh.
“Awful?”
She nodded. “You must be very convincing, because he spoke the entire time. Nonstop. From the time you gave your permission, until he returned me.”
He quirked a brow but doubted she could see it under the brim of his hat. “And his talking is a bad thing?”
“When it's incessant; yes.”
“Perhaps if he were to know you could speak English—”
“You'd better not tell him,” she practically hissed.
He did his best to school his features to continue to look impassive. “Oh?”
“Yes, because then he might expect me to console him.”
“Console him?”
Twisting her lips, she nodded. “Yes, all he wanted to talk about was the young lady he'd been engaged to a few years ago. Apparently she died in childbed.”
This time, Henry couldn't control it and his eyes flared wide. “Pardon me?”
She fanned herself. “It's a long story.”
“One I'm assuming you don't wish to tell? Not that it matters, but I find myself vastly curious.” How could he have been so wrong about Duncan Hodgekiss? Sure, Henry hadn't kept up with the man in many years, but he'd have never pinned him as a debaucher of innocents.
“Well, apparently Mr. Hodgekiss was doing more than just kissing a young lady he wasn't married to named Rebecca and she began increasing.” Her cheeks turned a fetching shade of pink. “For some reason, he didn't marry her immediately, and she died in childbirth.”
“Did he say why he thought you needed to know this?”
“Because I look like her,” she said with a shiver.
“Mrs. Swift, is there something you're not telling me?” He tried not to laugh at her expression but then chuckled when she rapped him on the knuckles with her fan.
“No. Not unless you mean the details of exactly how Mr. Hodgekiss got his light-o'-love into such a delicate condition, in which case, I shan't be telling you any details.”
“And why not? It's far easier if a virgin knows what's expected of him than to be made to guess.”
Her laughter filled the air. “If you expect me to believe for one moment that you're a virgin, you're cracked.” She poked him in the chest with the tip of her fan. “I have a feeling you've had more lovers than you can count.”
He shrugged, “Perhaps.” His father had once had a very frank discussion with him and Elijah when they were fifteen. In a matter of two sentences, he explained that their bodies were theirs to treat however they wished and to share with whom they wished. However, a willing partner was a far better bed partner than one who wasn't. Between those words and the lack of time to find a lady who was looking for a mutual physical relationship, he'd reached the advanced age of seven-and-twenty just as virginal as he'd been the day he was born. From the corner of his eye, he saw a fellow coming toward them. Henry nudged Laura, and like the good actress she was becoming, she flashed the stranger her best smile.
“Good evening, monsieur,” the fellow greeted and then smiled at Laura in a way that made Henry's gut knot. “Madame.”
Reluctantly, Henry gave his permission for her to dance with the man; then scowled. Watching her take a turn around
the ballroom with other gentlemen was becoming nauseating. What he really needed to do was find her a good match and be done with it. How unfortunate that things hadn't worked out better with Duncan. Not that Henry was one to condemn a man for enjoying a lady's company outside of wedlock, he'd never judge another, but to not marry her? That was preposterous!
In the middle of the floor, Laura smiled at her partner and laughed. Behind her, a man stumbled over his partner's feet.
Henry narrowed his eyes. He knew the man who'd just stumbled. That was his cousin's husband, Paul Grimes. Usually Paul was a bit more graceful than that. Perhaps his partner had said something not befitting a vicar's ears.
Or perhaps not.
A sinking feeling started in his stomach and drifted all the way to his toes as Paul escorted his partner to the side of the room, then came in his direction.
“Monsieur?”
“Oui?”
Paul, who was only a few years older than Henry, was also a younger son of a lord. Unlike Henry, Paul had chosen to take up a life in the ministry rather than the military. The older man ran his hand through his light hair. “I'm not sure how to tell you this...”
“Tell moi wot?” Henry asked, forcing himself to keep his French accent despite the blood thundering in his ears.
“Er...sir, I know this isn't my concern...”
“Oui?”
His itch must have migrated to his neck, because his hand slipped lower and he idly scratched his neck. “Sir, your daughter has just agreed to have a tryst with Mr. Walworth.”
“I'm sorry, she what?” Henry burst out, abandoning his French accent all together.
