by Lenora Bell
He might have to grab one of the footman’s silver serving trays for cover.
Thankfully, everyone was looking at Dorothea as well, her mother with an anxious expression, the marchioness with a condescending half sneer, and Lady Vivienne . . . no, her gaze had wandered to the window and she was suppressing a yawn.
Dorothea began to sing. “Pretty lasses love’s summer, remember, ever flies upon gossamer wing; Suffer not then, life’s chilly December, to destroy Cupid’s bow and his string.”
Her voice wasn’t opera quality, but it was strong and true. The tune was simple, adapted from Mozart’s Don Giovanni, if he wasn’t mistaken, but it was the way she sang that arrested everyone’s attention.
She slowed the melody, and, instead of warbling in a high soprano, drew the marrow from the notes in a husky contralto that tingled along his spine.
The simple song became fraught with poignancy—a young girl realizing her beauty would fade, her gossamer gowns no protection from winter’s sting.
“Make haste, and be happy, like me,” she sang. But instead of the blitheness of youth, every note was infused with heartache.
He studied her face. How had an untried debutante learned to sing with such subtlety and emotion?
The countess stopped clutching her chair arms and relaxed back into her seat, smiling with relief.
Dorothea caught his eye, singing directly to him now. “And ye lads, who are constantly changing, for a time though ’tis pleasant to run, from this beauty to that, ever ranging, yet, at last, pray, be constant to one.”
The marchioness flapped a carved ivory fan. Lady Vivienne didn’t yawn.
Dorothea was nearly whispering now, her eyes speaking of heartbreak and longing, almost as if she had a reason to doubt the constancy of men. His mind reverberated with questions. Had she been in love with someone else, and been jilted?
Mine, his traitorous mind declared with primitive possessiveness. She couldn’t love anyone but him.
“Make haste, and be happy, like me . . .” she finished.
The room fell silent.
What had just happened? He’d been expecting something saucy and provocative, and instead she’d taken a standard drawing room ballad and made it ring with truth.
Where did these depths come from?
Dorothea resumed her seat, and Lady Desmond cleared her throat. “Lady Vivienne,” she said with a hint of triumph in her cultured voice. “Will you honor us with another performance?”
“Certainly.” Lady Vivienne settled onto the seat and launched into a Chopin sonata that was as serene and unflappable as she was.
James attempted to concentrate on the soothing technical expertise of her playing, but it was nearly impossible with all those enigmatic diamonds glittering in his peripheral vision.
Lady Vivienne played on, the notes flowing flawlessly. The duke stared at her, seemingly entranced. Charlene had to admit she was skilled, but there was something missing from her performance. It didn’t make Charlene feel anything.
“Psst, Lady Dorothea.” Flor’s sleek head poked between a footman’s legs.
Charlene shook her head. “Not now,” she mouthed.
Flor held up the wooden discs she’d played the night before. What had she called them? Castanelas? She clicked them in her little fingers, a mischievous grin tilting up the side of her lips.
Charlene had seen that grin before. On the duke. Right before he bent to kiss her.
She glanced around the room. Everyone was watching Lady Vivienne, including the duke. She turned back to Flor and held up a finger. “One moment,” she mouthed.
Flor’s head disappeared.
Charlene leaned over to the countess. “I feel a bit faint,” she whispered. “I’m going to slip outside for some air.”
The countess nodded, and Charlene rose as silently as possible and tiptoed out of the salon. Flor was waiting on the balcony outside.
Charlene lifted her up and kissed her soft cheek. “You’re going to land me in trouble, you little imp.”
Flor wrapped her arms around Charlene’s neck. “You don’t want to listen to that, do you?” She wrinkled her nose in the direction of the salon.
“Chopin is exquisite, silly. What are you doing out here, anyway?”
“Practicing my castañuelas. Miss Pratt won’t let me play them in the nursery.” She held out the wooden discs. “Do you want me to teach you now?”
It was a warm evening, with the lingering smell of sunlight and bee pollen on the breeze. The piano music was faint out here, a tinkling accompaniment to the moonlight.
Charlene set Flor on her feet. She should go back to the salon, but she felt such a kinship with this girl. It hurt dreadfully to think she’d never see her again.
She put her arm around Flor’s shoulders and squeezed her slight frame. She hoped with all her heart that Lady Dorothea would feel the same way, that she would nurture Flor’s independence instead of taming it in the name of propriety.
“No matter what happens, please remember that you are strong,” Charlene said. “England can’t change you unless you let it. There are some changes you might choose to make, and others that you can refuse.”
Flor tilted her head to one side. “What do you mean?”
“Well, even if you don’t like Miss Pratt, and she doesn’t like you, it’s important for you to listen and receive an education. Knowledge gives you power, Flor. I want you to promise to read as many books as possible, to never stop reading and thirsting for knowledge as long as you live.”
Nodding solemnly, Flor crossed her heart with her finger. “I swear.”
Charlene smiled. “I’d better have that lesson now.”
Flor placed the two wooden discs in Charlene’s hand and wrapped the red silk cord around her thumb. “Now open your hand, and then shut it again.” She demonstrated the motion.
Charlene tried, but the wooden discs wouldn’t cooperate. They flopped from her fingers, soundless.
“Here, watch me.” Flor clicked the two pieces of hollow wood together, controlling the motion with her fingers.
This time Charlene managed to make a clicking sound. It wasn’t so difficult. A few controlled flicks of her fingers. Soon she was lifting her arm and clicking along to Flor’s delighted laughter.
“Wait,” Flor said. “You need this.” She unloosened her mother’s red shawl from around her shoulders and draped it around Charlene’s hips, tying it in a side knot. She ran to the balcony railing. “And this.” She plucked a late summer rose from the vines twining through the iron railing.
Charlene bent down, and Flor tucked the rose behind her ear.
Flor stepped back to survey her handiwork. She nodded. “Now you are ready to dance.”
Of course James found Dorothea dancing in the moonlight. She couldn’t possibly sit demurely in the salon, and she’d obviously exceeded her quota of polite conversation during dinner. He’d pretended not to notice that she’d slipped away, and he’d waited a decent interval before following, on the pretext of hand-selecting a port from the cellars.
He couldn’t help himself. He was the moth, and Dorothea was lit by a thousand dancing diamond flames as she twirled in Flor’s red silk scarf, with a red rose tucked behind her ear.
If her red bandeau this afternoon had been maddening, the ember-colored silk knotted around her hips, hugging her tempting arse, was the equivalent of an army of matadors flourishing an entire line of capes.
Flor directed the dance, her dark hair absorbing the night, her small wedge of a face furrowed with concentration. She struck a pose, hip thrust to one side, back straight, neck held high, arm raised gracefully. “Follow me,” she called.
Dorothea followed Flor across the balcony, easily imitating the steps and adding her own sensual flourishes into the dance.
James shut his eyes
, but the enticing vision of Dorothea’s full hips outlined in red silk continued rippling across the inside of his eyelids.
Turn around. Return to the salon. Propose to calm and cultured Lady Vivienne.
None of this reckless dancing in the moonlight.
Yet . . . Dorothea was so good with Flor. Even if she wasn’t the most proper of young ladies, she obviously cared for Flor and would be kind to her.
He stood on the edge of the balcony, hovering between the two possibilities.
Damn it all. Moth. Flame.
He cleared his throat. Both females spun around with the same guilty expression on their faces.
Flor ran to him, but instead of flinging herself into his arms, as she normally would, she hesitated, stopping short, hands hanging by her sides.
What had he done?
He touched her hair, intensely aware of Dorothea glowing behind her. “You’re supposed to be asleep, Flor.” His voice was gruff and harsh to his ears.
“I know, Papa. I’m sorry.” She took his hand, and the feeling of her soft little fingers brought back a memory. Standing on the deck of the ship back to England, Flor’s small hand in his. Her sad eyes. The way the sea breeze whipped her hair around her face and she pushed it out of her eyes impatiently, not wanting to miss anything.
Flor pulled on his hand. “Papa? I taught Lady Dorothea how to use the castañuelas. Did you see?”
“I did see. You learn quickly, Lady Dorothea,” he said, avoiding her gaze. She’d be quick to learn everything, he had no doubt. And there were so very many things he wanted to teach her.
“Fetch your guitar, Papa, and play for us,” Flor suggested.
That was the last thing he needed—Dorothea’s sumptuous hips undulating while he controlled the rhythm on his guitar.
Dorothea shook her head and unwrapped the silk cord from around her thumb. She handed the castañuelas, or castanets, as they were called in England, back to Flor. “It’s late, dear, your father must return to his guests. Time for you to go back to bed.”
“No.” Flor stamped her foot. “I want Papa to play for us.” Her lips pressed together in the mutinous expression he’d come to know so well in the last year. It signaled she was on the verge of erupting into one of her fits of temper.
Dorothea didn’t scold his daughter; she only bent down until her eyes were at a level with Flor’s and said, with careful patience, “Remember what I said to you earlier? We can’t always have our way. Sometimes we have to bend, just a little bit. Sometimes we might even sway, like a tree in a storm, but we won’t break. We only become stronger.”
To his surprise, Flor nodded. “I understand,” she said softly. “I’ll go to bed.”
James smiled. “Maybe just one dance before bed.”
Flor’s eyes sparked with excitement. “Really?” She brought his hand to Dorothea’s hand. “Dance with Lady Dorothea, Papa.”
He took Dorothea’s hand. He couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to touch her, in whatever way was available.
“May I have this dance, my lady?” He bowed over Dorothea’s hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles, breathing in the scent of crushed rose petals.
For a moment, he had the strangest feeling that Dorothea was about to cry, but then she smiled and inclined her head, the polished debutante. “With pleasure, Your Grace.”
Flor started humming a triple-meter waltz.
“I thought this was a Spanish dance?” James asked.
“No.” Flor shook her head emphatically. “A waltz. You are in a fashionable ballroom, and everyone is watching you.”
James laughed. “A waltz then.” He clasped his arm around Dorothea’s waist. She stiffened for a moment, but relaxed as he guided her into the movement. They glided across the balcony, with Flor humming and giggling beside them.
There were shadows in the hollow of Dorothea’s neck, in the cleft of her breasts, her eyes.
He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “The song you sang. It sounded as if you might have experienced a gentleman’s inconstancy. Was there . . . is there . . . someone else?”
He tightened his grip around her waist. There’d better not be.
“No, there’s no one.”
Thank God. He believed her. She was a talented performer, that was all.
Dancing with her almost made him wish he’d been able to attend the season. To waltz with her in as many different ballrooms as possible.
She broke away from his grasp. “Dance with Flor now.” There was a catch in her voice. Why did she sound so sad? He tilted her chin toward him.
“Please,” she pleaded. “Dance with Flor.”
James stepped away and bowed to his daughter. “May I have this dance, Lady Flor?”
She smiled shyly and curtsied. “Yes, Papa.”
He lifted her into his arms, spinning her around the balcony. His daughter was full of light, and life, and laughter tonight. He realized he hadn’t heard her laugh much. It was a lovely sound.
He glanced over Flor’s head and met Dorothea’s eyes. She smiled, but was that a tear glittering in her eye?
“You dance divinely, Lady Flor,” he said with great gravity.
Flor wrapped her arms tighter around his neck. “Thank you ever so, Your Grace,” she replied, with her best imitation of a society lady.
The murmur of voices from the salon grew louder. “Where is the duke?” he heard the marchioness ask loudly.
He set Flor down.
“Time for bed now,” Dorothea said. She kissed Flor’s cheek. “You’ll remember what I told you?”
Flor nodded.
“I must go back,” Dorothea said to James.
James carried Flor to the nursery and tucked her into bed. As she curled up and fell immediately into a deep sleep, the realization struck him like the flat of a heavy sword across his chest.
He was going to miss his fearless little Flor. Dearly.
And it had taken an equally outspoken woman with blue-gray eyes glowing brighter than diamonds in moonlight to make him see it.
Chapter 18
Manon unfastened velvet buttons and removed diamonds.
Tomorrow, Charlene would never wear diamonds again, never be wrapped in the luxury that was Dorothea’s birthright. Dorothea would perfect her trousseau of fine linens and silk in preparation for her wedding night while Charlene returned to gray worsted flannel nightgowns and a lonely, narrow bed.
In her mind, she’d dropped the “Lady” when she thought of her half sister. Didn’t impersonating Dorothea entitle her to claim a more intimate acquaintance? It was probably silly, but Charlene was beginning to feel connected to her half sister. As if she was preparing her a gift.
Here, take this duke. Be his perfect duchess. Be a good mother to Flor.
The countess sailed into the room, still dressed in black silk and pearls. “Well, Miss Beckett?” she asked. “You were absent for quite some time, and the duke was as well. What happened?”
“We waltzed on the balcony in the moonlight.”
“And?”
“He kissed me.” Well, he hadn’t actually kissed her, not this time. He’d been thoughtful. Pensive. But he’d wanted to kiss her. And he had kissed her, twice before.
“Splendid.” The countess motioned to Manon. “Now for the coup de grâce. Run and fetch Madame Hélène’s creation.”
Manon curtsied and headed into the dressing room.
“You will go to him tonight,” the countess said. “We have the location of his bedchamber on good intelligence. Blanchard will spirit you there, under cover of night. I will give you some time before I appear.”
Charlene shook her head. “He won’t be in his bedchamber.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Don’t worry, I know where he’ll be.”
The countess narrowed her eyes. “Where?”
“The kitchens.”
“The kitchens? Why would he be there?”
“He has difficulty sleeping. His . . . cook told me he goes to the kitchens to prepare cocoa.”
The countess removed her gold-embroidered wrap and compressed it into a small square with neat, precise folds. “Very well, then, I will meet you in the kitchens after a suitable interval. Need I remind you of the stakes here?”
Charlene met her calculating gaze. “I’m perfectly aware of the terms of our bargain.”
The countess gave a curt nod. “Despite your unfortunate upbringing, you’re a remarkably resourceful girl, with surprising backbone.”
Charlene smiled. “Why, thank you, your ladyship.” It was as close to a compliment as she’d ever receive from the countess.
“I’m counting on you, Miss Beckett. Lady Dorothea is counting on you. Don’t fail us.” The countess left, her black silk skirts rustling across the carpet.
Manon entered and held up a filmy negligee. “You will be irresistible in this, Miss Beckett.” She laid the garment reverently across the bed.
A long length of creamy satin. Thin straps and lace insets. Pure seduction, the finest the countess could buy.
Manon brushed Charlene’s hair. Twenty strokes. All the snarls gone. Fifty. One hundred. Waves of wheat-colored silk falling to Charlene’s waist.
“The duke is very handsome and commanding, non?” Manon’s brown eyes twinkled. “Are you sure you can control him?”
Charlene bit her lip. “What if I can’t control myself?”
Manon smiled. “Perhaps you shouldn’t.” She helped Charlene out of her shift and slipped the negligee over her head. The heavy satin slithered down her body and settled against her curves in a whispered caress.
Manon drew a cut-glass perfume bottle from her apron pocket. “This is from Paris.” She dabbed scent onto Charlene’s wrists, behind her ears, and in her hair.
Vanilla, jasmine, and something sharper and herbal. Almost like rosemary. More sophisticated than Dorothea’s simple roses. A scent that would linger in a man’s memory.
