Spinning back toward the study where she meant to immediately run and hide, she halted, her eyes suddenly locked with Lucien's pained gaze. Claire had spoken the truth. His expression was frighteningly identical to the one she had seen on his face the night the family had received news of their parents' deaths, only this time, she had caused it.
Remorse lay heavy in her middle, making her stomach roil and pinch. She lowered her eyes, unable to bear witness to the pain, the disappointment and banked rage in his gaze. He was right, she thought. Her thoughtless behavior had, indeed, wrought a moment of scandal for the St. Daine's, and now she could only hope he would set aside his anger with her long enough to find some way to calm the growing buzz of awed speculation before…
“Oh dear, it seems Phoebe and Lucien are at it again. Did he really tell her to change her gown because the bodice was too low? Again?” Alaina's overly loud whisper echoing in the ballroom caused several heads to turn in her direction and Phoebe only barely noticed her subtle signal before she locked arms with Emily and made her way toward the refreshments table, finishing with, “Our brother really does need to realize Phoebe is a woman now and that he should stop with his overly concerned censure of her wardrobe.”
Taking her cue from Emily's slightly raised brow, Phoebe saw her grandmother signal to the musicians, and the ballroom filled with music once more. Lucien, his expression recovered, drew himself up and made his way toward the titian-haired lady who had spent much of her time at Rothwyn House close on Lady Claire's side. After a quick smile from him and a whispered request for a dance, the two moved toward the ballroom. Most of the duchesses remaining guests followed suit, and then Phoebe felt a hand on her arm.
It was Lady Claire.
With a gentle nudge, she led Phoebe past the group of startled ladies still frozen upon the stairs by her unexpected outburst, and up to her chamber.
“I am sorry about your brother and I know this is difficult for you and for your family,” Claire whispered when they reached the top of the stairs. “But I do not think flying into a rage over the unfairness of it all in front of half the ton is the best way to deal with your situation.”
Claire's voice was kindly but firm and, unable to say anything at all at the moment, even to inquire as to how she knew about Tristan and the situation her family now faced, Phoebe only nodded. Mutely, she followed the other woman into her room. Once safely inside, however, away from the blatantly inquisitive, speculating gazes of their guests, she began to shake. Her knees quivered and every part of her body shook from the maelstrom of emotion whirling inside her while icy trails of wetness on her cheeks merely added to the soul-deep chill she felt.
She was crying, Phoebe realized, though she could dredge up no recollection of having begun to do so. Lifting shaking fingers to wipe away the wetness, she stared at her hands in confusion, and then, as if the proof of her tears had somehow broken through an invisible barrier inside her, Phoebe's quiet sniffles turned into great, gulping sobs.
Some moments later, she dimly noted a pair of comforting arms had come around her and feeling equally overwrought yet suddenly numb to the entire situation, Phoebe leaned into Claire's embrace, her face resting on the other woman's shoulder while she cried until there simply were no more tears left to shed.
Through it all, Claire waited in muted silence, soothing her with hushed tones and gentle pats until her flood of tears subsided into snubs and jerky sniffles, and then finally, quiet. Stepping away, now that the crisis was over, Claire moved toward the door. “I will have your maid bring up a glass of warm milk. Your family will be concerned, I am certain, but you should rest. I will let them know all is well.”
“Claire?” Phoebe called out to her just as she stepped through the door. Fighting against tears which threatened once more, she forced her lips to lift the slightest bit, contorting them into a barest semblance of a smile. Somewhat shakily, she whispered, “Thank you.”
* * *
Downstairs, leaning indolently against a column in the gallery that allowed him full view of both the ballroom and the stairs, Lucien felt completely stricken. If not for Alaina's quick thinking to diffuse a possibly explosive situation, he knew he would be cravat-deep in explanations. Now, however, he was simply the object of far too many stares; some sympathetic while others were nigh castigating.
“Bloody everlasting hell,” he mumbled. “Will this nightmare ever end?”
“Nightmare? As in we are but dreaming? Oh, ho!” Tony rubbed his hands together in expectant glee. “In that case, allow me access to the ballroom, old man. There are quite a few debutante skirts in there I should like nothing more at the moment than to chase. Within the boundaries of Dreamland, of course.”
“Hmm,” Lucien murmured, his lips turned up in a smirk. “Are their bodices scandalously low as well? I should have a word with them and send them all screaming to their rooms.”
Tony snickered at his self-directed sarcasm. “That girl is going to give you problems, Lucien. Your little Al is far too quick witted for her own good.”
“Alaina, please. We certainly do not need her entertaining notions of what would be possible could she easily assume a male identity,” Lucien cautioned. “Still, I am delighted at least one of us had the presence of mind to do something about the situation,” he said in defense of Alaina's hastily invented little falsehood.
After a moment, he sighed, shifting his stance from one foot to the other before admitting, “Despite a brief moment of terror when first it happened, I must admit I found myself both appalled by and ridiculously proud of Phoebe for saying and doing precisely that which I, myself, wished to do.”
“Aye, I agree it is a hellish situation,” Tony offered with a commiserating nod. “I have eyes and ears watching and listening at every possible avenue, Lucien, but despite how admirable Phoebe's display as tragic heroine might seem at the moment in light of what we know—or more specifically, what we are still unsure of—we need to keep this one close to our breasts.”
“Speaking of,” Lucien interrupted. Straightening, he nodded in the direction of the stairs. “You do have somewhere else to be at the moment, do you not?”
Tony glanced over and his eyes narrowed studiously while his lips kicked up sideways in a slightly mocking grin. He shook his head. “No, I do not believe so, actually. Nowhere as interesting as staying right here promises to be, at any rate.”
He peered at Claire and then back at Lucien, his gaze questioning. “You haven't taken a fancy to her, have you? Because if you have, your timing is wretched, old man.”
“And your presence is undesired, for the moment,” he growled as Claire drew near though he was wont to agree. With the latest news regarding Tristan being what it was, the last thing he should be thinking of was a woman. Still, he could not look away as she slowly descend the stairs. Tony threw back his head, laughter exploding from his lips loud enough to bring several curious glances swinging in their direction and to make Claire falter in her graceful approach. He ducked into the shadows just as, having realized Lucien was not alone, her steps halted.
“Good evening, Lady Claire,” Lucien greeted before she could change her mind and run away as her now skittish approach warned she was about to do.
At his greeting, a quick, timorous smile spread across her lips.
“Your Grace,” she returned, her gaze sliding warily toward Tony, whom she probably assumed was waiting for an introduction. Rather than give his friend away—that was one card he would hold on to for now—he asked, “You were with Phoebe?”
She nodded, nervously picking at the fingers of one hand with the other. “Your sister has retired to her room for the evening, Your Grace. I sent a maid up.”
“Then she is not merely changing her attire for something more appropriate, I take it?”
His attempt at humor was apparently lost on her because she glared at him, her eyes flashing. “Your sister is very distraught, Your Grace. I hardly see how changing her gown would
matter. What did you do? Call her into your study and tell her your brother is to hang at dawn?”
“Oh, I do hope you didn't, old man. The process will require a fortnight at a bare minimum, I am sure,” Tony intruded, and Lucien cut a glare in his direction. His scowl, he turned on Claire.
“I did no such thing. I attempted to explain the situation to her—rationally, I might add. But Phoebe being Phoebe, she flew into a girlish fit. What else was I to do?”
He sighed, averting his gaze from the commiserating look in Tony's eyes and the faintly damning one in Claire's. His short bark of laughter preceded the hint of mockery in his tone. “She is always distraught when it comes to Tristan, I am afraid. At least there is no doubt for which of her brothers she holds the most affection.”
Not that it mattered, he told himself. Except that it did. Knowing precisely how Phoebe greatly preferred to spend her time with Tristan stung, but it seemed there was naught he could do to change her rather sorry opinion of himself.
Claire's brow rose. “Perhaps you could have told her you are as troubled by what has happened as she? Or barring that, mayhap you could have admitted that, although you must appear strong for the rest of the family in the face of this tragedy, you, too, are frightened by the possibility of losing your brother?”
“I think the lady is right, Luc. Show a little more of your softer side. Maybe shed a tear or two...” Tony concurred with Claire. Crossing his arms over his chest, his lips twitched, but his attention returned to the lady who was clearly growing more offended by his casual mocking than he intended. His shoulders shook with silent laughter, yet his expression remained that of a deeply concerned friend.
Clearly appalled by the timing of their humor, Claire's brows dipped low and she straightened, her hands sliding down to disappear into the folds of her pale lemon gown. “Shame on the both of you. How can you poke fun at a time like this?”
Her gaze swung from Lucien to Tony and back again. “Poor Phoebe has just spent her last tear in fear of her brother's life, and who can say what he must be feeling at the moment, as I presume he is not actually guilty for that which he is charged?”
Drawing in a deep breath, she continued. “You two are behaving like children, and yet I can clearly see the fear in both your eyes. Would it not be more productive to spend your time and nervous energy in formulating a strategy meant to free your brother and friend from the false charges levied against him? Or are you both truly content to sit back and allow an innocent man to be lost to such a horrible fate?”
Tony, having apparently lost the battle with both his laughter and keeping his mouth shut, shook and scoffed and sputtered. Grinning, still chuckling, he shook his head and clapped Lucien on the shoulder.
“Oh, I like this one, Luce! Just look at her, all stiff and prickly, with the light of battle in her eyes!” He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers as if to point out the 'stiff-and-prickly' bits. “This one is nothing like Bethany, m'boy. Nothing at all!”
Lucien, on the other hand, was not amused. He felt as if she had struck him.
Far more affected by what amounted to an uninformed comment from a passing stranger he had barely met than he should have been, Lucien drew himself up and, after rudely elbowing his friend out of the way, grabbed Claire by the arm to tow her through the gallery toward the opposite wing until he was sure they were out of Tony's range of hearing. Then, scowling down at her, he bit out, “Are you going to accuse me of doing nothing to save my brother, as well?”
Shaking her head, Claire said, “No. I have no reason to accuse you, Your Grace. It is just that your sister is so very upset and you two were behaving as if you held little concern for a matter which obviously means a lot to her. I thought...”
“You thought our bit of forced gaiety in the midst of a bad situation must mean we care nothing for what happens to my brother, yes? Well, like Phoebe, you are wrong. Tony and I are doing everything we can to get Tristan out of shackles and safely home, back into the bosom of his loving family—where he belongs!” He looked away, unwilling to let her see how much Phoebe's disbelief in his abilities as both her brother and the duke of Rothwyn affected him. Nor did he care to see a reflection of Phoebe's doubtful accusations in the depths of Claire's beautiful eyes. “This does not concern you, Claire. It is enough for you to know that Phoebe will never listen long enough for me to explain...”
He stopped, suddenly realizing he was actually trying to convince her to believe better of him than his own sister did. The touch of her hand, warm and delicate upon his wrist, brought his gaze back to hers and he thought he might happily drown in the misty pools of her eyes at that moment.
There was no accusation in her gaze, as he had feared, but there was a warm concern shining in the depths of her lovely eyes.
“I believe you,” she said after a long moment, her words quietly spoken but sincere, and it was as if something inside him sprang open, freeing his soul from the dark turmoil of the past several years of his life, at last.
He wanted to hold her, to draw her into his embrace and simply share the relief her words had brought him. He breathed her name on a whisper, but before he could reach out his hands to her, before he could draw her close and lower his head, to press his lips to hers in a kiss of gratitude as he meant to do, she stepped away.
“I believe I hear the first strains of a waltz lilting out from the ballroom, Your Grace. If you will excuse me, I must find my partner lest he give up on me and seek a dance from another. If you join us, perhaps you could ask Melisande? I am sure she would enjoy it.”
Lucien watched her walk away, strangely disappointed for want of the embrace they had not shared. When she stopped at the entrance to the ballroom, he thought for an instant that she meant to return, but she merely spake over her shoulder to him. “Do what you can to save your brother, Your Grace, but in the meantime, perhaps you could look in on your sister?”
She met his gaze, the look in her eyes both imploring and filled with compassion and whispered, “She needs you.”
8
Near the door, Melisande watched as Claire slipped quietly into the ballroom. After a brief pause during which she seemed to be gathering herself together, Claire hurried to her mother's side where a tall, lovely, blond-haired gentleman was waiting to whisk her away in a waltz.
Less than a minute passed before the duke also wandered into the ballroom.
Melisande followed him with her gaze as he made his way to a corner where his grandmother sat with several other elder ladies of the ton, though his attention, she noted, was clearly engaged elsewhere. His eyes followed Claire around the ballroom as she was swept around the floor in the arms of Lord Michael Avigney, if she correctly recalled.
While the duke kept his eyes on Claire, Melisande studied him from her solitary post, desperately trying to imagine herself beside him. Her hand would rest gracefully upon his arm as he greeted his family, she thought, trying to immerse herself in the imaginary scenario. But each time she saw his eyes light with the fire of jealousy as they followed her friend around the room, she felt her dream of winning the heart of this particular duke slip further and further away. Clearly, his interest lay elsewhere, though whether Claire was aware of it or no, she was not sure.
Her throat grew tight and she felt the sting of tears prick against the backs of her eyelids, but rather than risk a display like the one to which the duke's sister had given vent earlier, she drew in a deep breath, clenched her fingers so tightly against her palms her nails practically cut into the tender flesh, and quietly slipped through the entryway into the gallery outside.
Much like Claire had done inside the ballroom, she paused for a moment to rein in her emotions and then turned to make her way up the stairs to the chamber she had been given for the duration of her stay, thinking how cruel life could be, for it seemed she was destined to remain invisible for the rest of her miserably lonely life.
“Hello, beautiful.”
If not for the
hand which swept out from the shadows in the corridor to pull her in, Melisande would have continued on her way, certain the deep, sultry voice calling out from the darkness had been intended to be heard by someone else because there was one thing of which she was absolutely sure: she, of all people, was not beautiful.
Claire, with her dark tresses and pale skin, was beautiful. Lady Phoebe, for all her temperament, was beautiful. Princess Helena was beautiful, but Melisande...
“I hoped you might forgo the dancing a bit early,” the sultry voice teased, and Melisande's breath hitched. “But I will admit I was fully prepared to wait out the night, if I must, to see you again.”
Snatched from the depressing limbo of her thoughts by strong male fingers that corded her upper arms, she realized too late that she was being drawn against the searing warmth of a dangerously well muscled, deliciously wonderful smelling body.
A male one.
Any girl with proper sense in her head would have pulled away in fear, or for the sake of propriety, at the very least with eyes wide and mouth open, fully prepared to demand her release or even to scream for help. But the only words whispering from Melisande's parted and now trembling lips as her head slowly turned from side to side in denial were, “I am not beautiful, sir.”
* * *
Morning came far too early for Claire.
After her brief conversation with Lucien the night before, she had spent the remaining hours until just before dawn dancing in the ballroom. Not that she had enjoyed herself. She would have much preferred to slip away and chat with Melisande in the privacy of her chamber, or to look in on Lady Phoebe once more, or anything other than play the pretty for her parents but her father did expect her to choose a husband this year. If he thought she was giving the matter less than her best effort, he might feel inclined to make the choice for her and that simply would not do—but the dancing was not her only excuse for a fitful night with little sleep.
An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1) Page 7
