A Ballroom Temptation

by Kimberly Bell

  • • •

  Jane was mortified. She already felt like an imposter, using Hannah’s town house in a neighborhood that was quite beyond her position, and now their carriage had broken down right in the middle of the square. It was like a great big beacon screaming, Look here, this riffraff does not belong. Even their rescuer sneered at them, but his manners were too ingrained for him not to offer assistance.

  “The house is just over there. Shouldn’t we go inside and—”

  “Miss this excellent display of masculine prowess?” Aunt Mathilda asked, inappropriate as ever. “A woman doesn’t get the chance to witness something like this every day.”

  “A lady shouldn’t be witnessing it at all,” Jane reprimanded, discreetly straightening her aunt’s shawl. There was always something amiss with Aunt Mathilda’s appearance, and it wouldn’t do to have anyone notice. Especially not when they were front and center in a spectacle.

  It was practically obscene, with all the exposed forearms and flexing muscles. The sounds of exertion alone were enough to scandalize any decent woman. And Adam—Lord Wesley, she corrected. He stood in the center surrounded by grooms and footmen. As Jane watched he lifted the fallen corner, leveling out the coach, and held it upright while they slowly pushed the vehicle over the cobbles and out of the way.

  Jane was mesmerized. She told herself it was fear. A lord had no business being that strong. It was too much. Too much power, too much vitality, too much distracting combination of lines and movements that made her want to reach out and . . .

  “Jane, dear. Your mouth’s open.”

  She snapped her jaw shut, glaring at her aunt. “We shouldn’t be out here. We’ll have a dreadful tan on our faces.”

  “Oh no!” Mathilda gasped, mocking her. “Aren’t you trying to be a complete failure this season? What’s a little color going to hurt?”

  Honestly. “I want to be a discreet failure, not a remarkable one.”

  Mathilda hummed thoughtfully. “So you find the sun-kissed Lord Wesley remarkable.”

  “What? I—” Jane snapped her mouth shut again and prayed her aunt would do the same.

  The carriage had been safely moved aside, and Lord Wesley was making his way back over to them. “May I offer you the use of my coach to take you wherever you were going?”

  “We were just going home,” Jane blurted out before Mathilda could invent a reason to accept.

  Lord Wesley turned his attention on her. “Home, then, wherever that may be.”

  “We’re just at Number Fourteen,” Jane said.

  Heat rose in her cheeks as he looked over the fountain in the center of the square to their front door. He knew. They weren’t stranded here in the midst of some errand. She could have been safely home before he’d finished rolling up his sleeves, but she had stayed to watch him, and now he knew it. Jane wished the ground would crack open and swallow her where she stood.

  There was an irritated tightening of his jaw. “Do you require an escort to your door?”

  Of course not, that would be . . .

  “That would be lovely,” Mathilda chimed in. “You’re exceptionally kind, Lord Wesley.”

  Chapter 2

  “My lord?”

  “Hmm?” Adam tore his attention away from the drawing room window, which unfortunately looked across the square, directly at Number Fourteen. How could a woman be so helpless that she couldn’t even walk a few hundred feet on her own?

  “His Lordship will see you now.”

  And suddenly, there was no more room for pondering the ridiculousness of his neighbor. He had to confront his father and hope—if he was exceedingly lucky—that the extent of how angry he was would not manifest itself in violence.

  Adam followed Foster into the study. Behind the imposing mahogany desk, looking even more rigid and pompous than he had ten years ago, sat the Marquess of Clairborne.

  “Lord Clairborne.” Adam did not incline his head. There was no love or respect lost between the two of them.

  His father glared across the desk. “I had hoped the colonies might have at least cured you of your petulance.”

  “And I’d hoped you’d have had better sense than to jeopardize the lives of loyal men to have your way.”

  “If those men have been jeopardized, the fault is on you,” his father fired back. “You could have come home any of the times I asked you to.”

  Adam laughed. “You didn’t ask—you demanded.”

  “For all the good it did!” The marquess’s fist slammed down on the wood. “Can you never do what’s expected of you? Have you completely failed to absorb a sense of responsibility?”

  Absorb. As if his father had ever spent any time with him during which such a thing could have been absorbed. Adam ought to thank his lucky stars the marquess hadn’t taken an interest in him as a child. He would much prefer to be the man he was than a calculating shell like his father.

  The door opened. The slim woman who featured in far more of his memories entered the study. She’d married his father at seventeen, when Adam was eight. Ten years had added lines to her face, but she was still lovely as ever.

  “Is something the matter? I heard shouting and—” Adam’s stepmother stopped short when she saw him. “Adam! You’re home. And you’re so . . .”

  “He’s practically a savage,” Lord Clairborne growled.

  “Lady Clairborne,” Adam greeted. He offered her the bow he’d refused his father, but made sure it didn’t not stray beyond polite courtesy. “You look very well.”

  “And so do you. So healthy!” She beamed at him.

  Lord Clairborne was unrelenting. “He looks like a laborer.”

  “I was a laborer,” Adam said without shame.

  His father turned a shade very near to purple.

  “Adam,” Lady Clairborne said, taking his arm. “Let’s settle you into your room. You and your father can finish your discussion later.”

  There was nothing to finish. He would stay in this house because he had no choice, but the moment he secured the funds and convinced the new owner to sell the land back to him, he was going back to the colonies.

  She led him upstairs to the room that had been set aside for him. They could call it his, but it might as well have been a guest room. Until he turned sixteen—with brief exceptions for Adam’s schooling—Adam had lived on one of the far-flung country estates. After she’d dutifully produced a son in their first year of marriage, Lady Clairborne had been exiled as well. For a long time, they’d had only each other for company. It hurt less than he’d thought it would to see her again.

  Adam looked to the closed door across the hall. “Is Sebastian in?”

  “Oh no. He keeps a flat on Jermyn Street,” she said. “It’s better that way. A mother doesn’t need to see everything her son gets up to.”

  “How is he?” Adam asked, trying to ignore the fact that the half brother eight years his junior was living independently while Adam shared an uncomfortable roof with his parents.

  “Oh, he’s . . .” Lady Clairborne blinked, frowning. “I . . .”

  Something was wrong.

  “Lady Clairborne? Are you all right?”

  She’d gone incredibly pale, and there was a dazed look in her eyes.

  “La— Regina. Answer me.”

  She started to crumple. He caught her before she could hit the ground.

  “Foster!” Adam bellowed. He started down the hallway toward her rooms. “Foster!”

  “My lord, what—” Foster’s face fell. “Oh no. I’ll send for the doctor.”

  Adam kicked open the door to her bedroom and put her down on the bed. Her lady’s maid took charge of her, shoving Adam out of the room to stand uselessly in the hall. Foster came back up to tell him the doctor had been summoned.

  “Where is my father?”

 
Foster’s brow creased even further. “He doesn’t like to be bothered with Lady Clairborne’s episodes.”

  Episodes. “This happens often?”

  Foster nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

  “And he just ignores it?”

  “The first few times he was quite attentive, but the doctor said there isn’t much to be done . . .”

  So Lord Clairborne chose to leave his wife to suffer alone, rather than be inconvenienced. Adam wished he could pretend he was surprised.

  • • •

  She had to do something. The entire square had witnessed their carriage breakdown this morning, and Lord Clairborne’s subsequent rescue. Jane had barely been in London a fortnight and already she’d embarrassed herself. And by extension embarrassed Hannah. She had to do something.

  “Are you quite all right, dear?” Aunt Mathilda was looking at her like she’d grown a second head. Her aunt wouldn’t understand. Mathilda didn’t give a fig for decorum or reputations or the basic decencies of moving about in polite society. Speaking of which, Jane made a mental note to have the wrinkles in her aunt’s skirt pressed out before they tried to go anywhere.

  Jane looked at the vase again. The flowers still weren’t right. She had deep pink roses and yellow agrimony for gratitude—nearly impossible to find this time of year—with French willow woven through to represent his bravery. Still, it needed something. “It’s not finished.”

  “I understand completely,” Mathilda said, sounding utterly unconvincing. “But perhaps you should take a break. Eat something. Maybe it will clear your head?”

  “Just give me a moment longer. I’m sure it’s just about to come to me.”

  “A few more minutes, then I’m going to insist.”

  Jane nodded and returned her stare to the vase. It had to be perfect.

  Charlie came home in a cacophony that broke her concentration. He tossed his hat and gloves to the footman and came to stand with their aunt in the doorway. “What’s all this?”

  “Jane is making an arrangement for the neighbor.”

  “It looks lovely.”

  “It’s not right,” Jane said without looking up.

  The long pause that followed was welcome. If everyone would just be quiet, Jane was certain she would sort it out. Lady Mary must have mentioned some variety for apology. It would be ludicrous not to have something to represent it.

  “Do we have any blue periwinkle?” A splash of early friendship couldn’t hurt. Or sweet William for gallantry! The red might go nicely.

  “How long has she been at this?” Charlie asked Mathilda.

  “Three hours.”

  Charlie sighed. “Jane—”

  “Can you find a copy of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s letters on the flower language of the Ottoman Empire? I’m forgetting something, and I can’t think what.”

  “I—”

  “Charlie will buy them for you if you will sit down and have some tea,” Mathilda interrupted.

  “I just need—”

  “Tea,” Mathilda insisted. “Now.”

  Jane sighed. “Fine, but if the flowers start wilting before I have it sent over it will be entirely your fault.”

  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Mathilda led her away from the table—by the arm, when she tried stop to adjust the petals of a sprig of French willow—and into the drawing room. “Sit.”

  “Honestly, Matty.” She wasn’t a child. She could take tea without having her every action ordered.

  The butler came in with the tray, followed closely behind by Charlie. “Thank you for putting up with us, Ambrose. I know Hannah sprung us on you on rather short notice.”

  “It’s wonderful having someone in the house again, my lord.” Ambrose straightened.

  Aunt Mathilda started pouring.

  “What are you doing?” Jane asked her brother, who was making himself comfortable on the opposite end of the settee.

  “Having tea?” he asked.

  “No, you are not.” Honestly. Her family would be the death of her. “You are going to find a copy of Lady Mary’s letters for me.”

  “Can’t I just—”

  “My flowers are wilting as we speak, and who knows how long it will take you to find a copy of Lady Mary’s letters. There is no time.”

  He looked at Aunt Mathilda, who shrugged her shoulder. He looked back at Jane, who gave him her most serious stare.

  She needed those letters to make sure the arrangement was just right. If he had to miss a tea, it was his own fault. She’d never wanted to come back here, with all the eyes constantly watching your every move and gossiping about your missteps. But they were here, and Jane would be damned if they didn’t make a good impression while they were.

  Charlie left, grumbling about the madness of women as he reclaimed his coat and hat.

  Jane waited until she heard the door close to make sure he would actually go.

  Once he was gone, she added milk to her tea and pondered what could be missing from their knight-errant’s bouquet. Knight-errant. Knight-errantry. “Monkshood!”

  The corner of Aunt Mathilda’s mouth tilted up behind her teacup. “Now, dear, I don’t think poisoning your brother is the answer.”

  “Not Charlie. Lord Wesley.” Jane jumped up, abandoning the tea.

  “I don’t think that’s advisable either. We could probably find a way to hide it if you poisoned Charlie, but an earl—”

  Was no one in their family sane? “Monkshood means knight-errantry. It’s the perfect sentiment, and the blues will go perfectly.”

  “That there is even a plant for knight-errantry . . .”

  Jane wasn’t listening. She was already calling for her cloak. Where on earth could she find monkshood?

  • • •

  The door to the shop was shadowed. Adam checked the sign hanging from the side of the building again to make sure he was in the right place—Lovet’s Apothecary. This was where he’d been told to go. He took the steps down from the street level and ended up in a dimly lit establishment rife with smells.

  Light angled through the shop’s single window, positioned high on the wall. A pedestrian passed in front of it, temporarily blocking out the glow. Five pillar candles were placed around the tiny room—the flames flickered in the draft. The astringent smell of liniments hit Adam’s nose, followed by the musty undercurrent of dirt and herbs he couldn’t name.

  Adam angled his shoulders sideways to pass through the narrow space between shelves. “Mr. Lovet?”

  “In the back,” a voice called.

  Adam squeezed his way to the back of the long room, contorting his body to get past a corner with narrow boxes jutting from the top. A half-height counter rattled as a skeletal man unfolded himself into view. He had a permanent hunch that looked like it came from crouching to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling.

  The sight of him took Adam aback. “I was told you might have something to help fainting spells.”

  The apothecary looked Adam head to foot.

  “Not for me. For my stepmother.”

  He sighed. “Ladies faint for a number of reasons. Without more information—”

  “She became disoriented and then pale,” Adam recited. “I’ve been told it occurs regularly, every few days.”

  Mr. Lovet pursed his lips. “I might have something. Wait there, please.”

  Adam waited while the proprietor disappeared behind a brown curtain. He tried not to breathe too deeply, lest he jostle one of the overstuffed shelves and send all of the tiny bottles and jars crashing to the floor.

  The door opened briefly, letting in the sounds of the street above. Adam hoped the new arrival was willing to wait their turn, because he couldn’t imagine fitting another person in such close quarters.

  Like most of his hopes, this one was quickly dashed
.

  The gentle clinking of glass marked someone’s slow and dainty progress down the tiny aisle. Adam laughed. It reminded him of a bear moving slowly through the brush. How strange that this crowded little underground shop would be the first thing to remind him of home. The clinking stopped at his chuckle. Maybe more like a deer. The new patron was a timid sort.

  “Lovet’s looking in the back,” he said. “He should return shortly.”

  There was a long silence. The clinking started up again, and a sky blue skirt peeked around the corner. No wonder. How she’d ever expected to make it through in those ridiculous baskets women wore around their hips, Adam couldn’t imagine. A dainty wrist appeared next and eventually, an elegantly pinned head of blond hair atop a perfect face.

  A perfectly familiar face. It was the woman from the square. The one who couldn’t walk to her house half a block away without assistance.

  She looked equally surprised to see him. “Lord Wesley.”

  “Miss . . .” He struggled to remember her name, but he couldn’t do it.

  “Bailey,” she offered, frowning. “Jane Bailey.”

  “Right.” Adam rolled his shoulders, sending the shelf behind him swaying dangerously.

  “These aisles are very narrow.” Miss Bailey shifted closer to the tiny open space in front of the counter.

  “Yes.” He should say more—that would be the polite thing to do—but what could they possibly have to talk about?

  “Thank you again for your help this morning, and for walking us home.”

  Adam nodded. What the devil was keeping the apothecary? The shop couldn’t be any larger in the back than it was in the front.

  The curtain parted, and the proprietor reappeared. Adam saw Miss Bailey take a step back. Englishwomen. What was she even doing, doing her own shopping? All of these ladies had someone to send rushing around at their beck and call. Never mind that Adam himself had been a bit unsettled by the apothecary. Miss Bailey was likely unsettled by everything.

  “Try this.” The apothecary handed him a soft packet wrapped in brown paper. “Tell your stepmother to brew it in tea. Twice a day, no more than that.”