The Last Waltz: Hearts are at stake in the game of love... (Dorothy Mack Regency Romances)

by Dorothy Mack

  “How is Luc these days? It seems ages since I have been home for more than a few minutes at a time.”

  “Lieutenant Gifford says he is making progress with his studies, but his heart is still with the army. Not that he would tell me, but I suspect he spends all his free time listening to the tales of the soldiers who are billeted in town. And of course his tutor is a military man also. There is no escaping the military presence in Brussels.”

  Dominic said nothing for a moment. Adrienne had ceased to expect a reply when he looked up and nodded. “Brussels isn’t the ideal spot for Luc at present.” Another silence settled over the room, and again it was Dominic who broke it. “How is Jean-Paul?”

  “I am persuaded you will think him vastly improved. The doctor has not seen him recently, though we have sent several messages to him requesting him to call.” She leaned forward and said earnestly, “Dominic, Becky and I are convinced Dr. Hume will agree to his traveling to England when he has seen him. Will you please see about a passage for us soon?” As a bleakness descended on her cousin’s countenance, she said pleadingly, “You have just admitted that Brussels is a bad place for Luc to be these days.”

  They exchanged a long look, searching but guarded on the part of both in the beginning before Dominic’s expression became more controlled and Adrienne’s more beseeching.

  “Very well. I’ll have Hume over here tomorrow, and I’ll set about making arrangements for the journey from Brussels and alert my mother on her end.” He summoned up a smile and said with a touch of his former sportiveness, “There are only a couple of days until the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. Wait until after that so I can claim a last waltz.”

  Adrienne swallowed once before producing an answering smile. “Of course. I’d hate to miss a last waltz with the best dancer in Brussels.” She averted her glance, afraid that he might discern the sudden rush of tears she was struggling to suppress, and rose hastily. “Ex-excuse me, please, Dominic, I … I promised Jean-Paul I would be with him at three, and it is past that now. I’ll see you at dinner, or … no, I suppose you will be dining with Lady Tremayne.” She could hear herself babble to cover her hasty exit, but couldn’t seem to stem the flow of inanities.

  When she reached the door at last, Dominic was there before her to open it. He reached out his hand in the familiar gesture of pinching her chin, then recollected himself. One finger barely touched her cheek as she slipped out the door.

  CHAPTER 17

  Rumours were flying around Brussels. The same could have been said at any time since Napoleon’s escape from Elba, but now as the second week in June drew to a close, the reports were mainly concerned with troop movements of the enemy on the frontier. Unconfirmed reports that the emperor had already left Paris to join his army had been circulating for days. Word of a great military review, the so-called Champ de Mai on June 1 in the parade grounds of L’École Militaire, had gone out from Paris to Brussels followed by accounts of a spectacular celebration on June 4, during which the citizens of Paris were regaled with free wine flowing from fountains along the Champs Elysees and an enormous cold collation for all. The day had been declared a public holiday, and the festivities included open air concerts, theatrical presentations and other free entertainments that were capped by a magnificent display of fireworks at night. Napoleon’s movements following these fetes were shrouded in mystery and speculation, but one thing was clear. His army was gathering and advancing preparatory to an attack on the British and Prussian forces guarding the entrance to the Low Countries.

  Suddenly the holiday mood among the English in Brussels changed to one of apprehension. The town was always teeming with French sympathizers and agents of the Bonapartists, and the Bruxellois themselves were by no means united against a resumption of French control. They weren’t universally delighted to be aligned with the Netherlands under the rule of the House of Orange. The stolid native population went about its business, taking little interest in rapidly changing events. The farmers trekked in from the countryside each morning with their produce, and the shopkeepers and citizens continued their normal activities.

  Many of the English socialites who had been participating in a Season to rival that of London made hasty preparations to leave the city. The Staveleys were among those fleeing the expected invasion. Lady Staveley and her daughters called at Rue Ducale to take leave of Miss Beckworth and Adrienne and issue a cordial invitation to call on the family when they were settled at Harmony Hall with Lady Creighton. Miss Staveley and Miss Eleanor were much chagrined at being forced to quit Brussels and the legion of soldiers who had made the Season so enchanting, but their parent confided to Miss Beckworth that Lord Staveley had no intention of exposing his daughters to the depredations of a victorious French army. She inquired into the plans of the Castles, but they could give her no definite information on the subject of their own departure except that it would not take place until after the fifteenth, the date of the Duchess of Richmond’s ball.

  The uneasiness of the British visitors was infectious. To Adrienne’s general unhappiness over her doomed love affair was now added the element of fear for Dominic’s safety. She was becoming more adept at dissembling her feelings, but there was a strained look about the delicate features and a dimming of her brightness that represented such an intrinsic part of the girl’s appeal. The object of her concern was kept increasingly occupied with his military duties so that the ladies caught no more than brief glimpses of him coming home to change his clothes during the two days that preceded the Richmond ball. He dined each evening with the field marshal, and they had no opportunity to inquire whether he had completed arrangements for their journey.

  On the afternoon of the ball itself, Dominic sent word that the ladies should go ahead in the carriage at their own convenience, since he would not be free to attend until later in the evening. In due course they did this, though it could not be said that their spirits were an accurate reflection of the frivolous engagement on which they had set forth. Luc had come home full of talk of the French having crossed the River Sambre into Belgian territory. There was an ill-concealed air of excitement and anticipation about the boy that divided the sexes on the question of war and gave an added fillip of uneasiness to the ladies’ natural apprehension at such a time.

  Adrienne had taken extraordinary pains with her toilette for the duchess’s ball. That last unsatisfactory talk with Dominic the other day lingered in her mind and was continually recalled and dissected for hidden meaning in the interval since they had met. All of the customary ease of manner between them had vanished, to be replaced by constraint rising from fettered inclinations and the fear of expressing that which must, for the sake of honour, be repressed. Until that session over the coffee cups, Adrienne had accepted that hers was a one-sided passion that must be concealed and ultimately suffocated for the good of all. The stilted conversation in the study haunted her, played constantly upon a mind struggling to act in accordance with its owner’s principles. There had been something in Dominic’s unusual want of openness, in his meticulously formed sentences that bespoke an inner conflict. When considered in conjunction with the intensity — one might almost call it pain — with which he had gazed upon her, Adrienne’s hard-won calmness of spirit had been threatened anew. Try as she might to put the matter out of her mind, her resolution was not equal to her good intentions. An element of hope that her feelings might possibly be returned in some measure had crept into her consciousness and destroyed her tenuous peace of mind. There could be no mutual future for them; Dominic was irretrievably committed to Lady Tremayne, but still she could not subdue a tiny thrill of comfort in the possibility that her cousin did hold her in tender regard. She was not blind to the dangers of mental self-indulgence along this line, but very soon now she would have removed herself from his life forever. At this moment Dominic might already have their departure all scheduled. This evening could be the last time she would see him before the final parting. Surely she could not be censo
red for wishing him to remember her looking her best? It was he who had mentioned a last waltz, but she clung to this promise of a few minutes of perfect happiness before their lives, which had merged for a short shining moment, should diverge forever.

  Miss Beckworth, closely observing her charge’s barely contained excitement, felt her own spirits edge closer to melancholy as the carriage drew near the house the Duke of Richmond had hired on the Rue de la Blanchisserie. Her heart ached for her darling girl. It had been her lot to be a silent spectator to Adrienne’s recent misery, knowing there was nothing she could do to alleviate the situation. She could not even speak words of encouragement or sympathy in the face of the girl’s obvious intention of battling through her unhappiness alone. She owed it to Adrienne to preserve her dignity. She too suspected tonight would mark their last real contact with Dominic before their departure from Brussels, and it was with a heavy heart and no expectation of pleasure that she climbed down from the carriage to join the procession of guests heading for the ballroom.

  The ballroom in the duke’s magnificent house formed a wing on the ground floor, quite separate from the family apartments and spectacular enough in appearance tonight to draw forth a gasp of admiration from Adrienne despite her preoccupation. It was papered in an attractive trellis pattern and had been decorated with tent-like hangings in crimson, gold, and black, and royal colours. The night was breathlessly hot, and the air was heavy with the scent of hundreds of wax candles competing with the perfume of masses of roses and lilies. More flowers, ribbons, and leaves were wreathed around the supporting pillars. It was altogether a scene of visual enchantment, but tonight the guests provided a jarring note. The young people danced, but many of the older guests gathered in small groups to discuss the rumours of a French advance on Charleroi, not forty miles from Brussels. The company included numerous representatives of the military, from ensigns to general officers, but nobody seemed to know exactly what was going to happen next. And amid all those attendees of rank and prominence, there was one glaring omission. The absence of the Duke of Wellington could not but lend substance to the rumours that the army was getting ready to move out.

  For Adrienne, going from partner to partner during the early part of the evening, there was an even more significant omission. She could not prevent her eyes from searching repeatedly for Dominic’s gold-streaked head. Though she laughed and chatted with her various escorts, her smile was a mechanical effort and her thoughts never left the man for whom she waited. With the other guests she applauded the members of the Highland regiments who had been induced by the duchess to perform reels and Scottish dances to the music of their pipes, but her eyes strayed to the various exits. Soon after her arrival she had spotted Lady Tremayne, resplendent as always in an eye-catching gown of silver gauze that was nearly transparent. Much later, when it became impossible to avoid meeting, the two had exchanged frigid bows and immediately changed course.

  It was after midnight, and Adrienne had begun to fear that her cousin had been prevented from attending the ball by the pressure of the military situation, when a whisper went through the room that Wellington had arrived. The chill emptiness settling in the region of her heart stirred into hope again as she caught sight of the field marshal talking quietly with the Prince of Orange and a lady unknown to Adrienne. He looked his usual calm self, and the knot of tension inside her subsided somewhat as her eyes swept the room seeking that beloved tall figure. A group near the French doors dispersed and reformed, permitting a glimpse of a pair of familiar shoulders in an embroidered coat walking purposefully away from her. Adrienne’s heart lurched in gladness as she murmured an excuse to her partner, taking a few hasty steps in pursuit.

  A regal brunette in floating silver draperies emerged from a group of officers surrounding her, smiling, her hands extended in a graceful attitude. Adrienne watched in agonized fascination as Dominic briefly raised the hands to his lips before taking Lady Tremayne’s arm and leading her toward the alcove at the end of the room. Until the movement of the crowd blocked them from her sight, the girl stood there staring after the retreating couple. She drew a painful breath of air into her lungs, but it took a solid bump from behind to reactivate her frozen muscles. After an exchange of apologies, fairly incoherent on Adrienne’s part, she spied Becky talking with General Forrester and thankfully headed in their direction.

  Lady Tremayne allowed herself to be escorted toward a corner of the room where they could be assured of relative privacy. So far Dominic had not uttered one syllable. She studied the impassive features of her fiancé out of the corner of her eye, thinking him a trifle pale. “Are the rumours true, then, Dominic? Will there be war?”

  “Yes,” he replied, seating her on a settee in front of some screening palms and taking his place at her side. “We leave in the morning.”

  “You will take care?”

  “Yes,” he said again.

  They measured each other in a silence that threatened to become permanent, two pairs of eyes seeking something, questioning but not informing.

  Lady Tremayne shifted her gaze to the feathered fan in her lap. “You wish to say something to me, Dominic?”

  “Yes. I beg your pardon for electing to speak privately in such a public setting, but we seem to have run out of time. Pamela, do you feel, as I have come to feel, that our betrothal has been a mistake?”

  The fingers smoothing the red feathers on the fan stilled for an instant before resuming their idle motion. Cool amber eyes lifted to his. “No, Dominic, I have thoroughly enjoyed being engaged to you.”

  Some violent emotion flickered in Lord Creighton’s blue eyes and was gone. He pressed his lips together and continued to examine the lovely face of his betrothed. She did not flinch from his scrutiny, and it was he who finally said softly, “I do not think you would enjoy being married to me, however.”

  Two perfectly arched brows elevated, though the eyes beneath them remained cool and undisturbed. “For shame, Dominic. You are being much too hard on yourself. I am persuaded you will make a delightful husband.”

  “I am not in the mood for arch games, Pamela. I am asking you to release me from our engagement.”

  “And I, dearest Dominic, am refusing your request.” She was rising from the settee as she spoke. The earl got to his feet mechanically, struggling to reconcile the harsh words he had just heard with the dulcet tones in which they had been delivered.

  “Forgive me if I end our little talk now, Dominic, but I am bespoken for the next set and I see my partner approaching.” Lady Tremayne smiled sweetly at her fiancé, whose teeth were clenched together to prevent any impulsive words from escaping. He watched impotently as she glided forward toward the Dutch officer hurrying to claim her.

  By dint of reminding herself in the strongest possible terms that she hadn’t the shadow of a right to be upset by the sight of her cousin singling out his affianced wife for private conversation, Adrienne had recovered her mental equilibrium before Dominic came to claim her for the long-anticipated waltz. She was appalled at her own behaviour and could only be grateful that on such a night as this the usual rigid decorum obtaining in public was cracking on all sides, so that her indiscretion might hope to pass unnoticed. Girls who had been gaily dancing and flirting earlier stood white-faced and tearful after taking brief public leave of relatives and lovers. Women wished their sons and husbands Godspeed with heads high and prayers on their lips.

  Adrienne had just bidden farewell to a jaunty Lieutenant Markham and was blankly staring into space when her cousin appeared at her side as the orchestra struck up a waltz. He held out his hand without speaking and she put hers into it. A fleeting glance at his face told her nothing. Dominic was smiling at her with his usual kindness. If there had been a shadow of sadness in his blue eyes at first, it was banished by the smile as he took her into his arms and whirled her onto the floor, which had been emptying rapidly. For two whole turns around the room they were silent, letting their bodies and feet take pre
cedence over thinking, mutually seeking to prolong the moment of perfect communion. Dominic looked down at the dark red curls gleaming in the light of a thousand candles. A spasm of pain crossed his features and a muscle twitched in his cheek, neither of which was observed by Adrienne, who was gazing fixedly at the buttons on his coat. Gently he gathered her a hair closer than propriety allowed, and they continued their wordless duet until the music ended. As Dominic lingeringly lowered her right hand and removed his own from her waist, Adrienne stared at the palm trees in the alcove behind them.

  “Our last waltz.”

  Adrienne’s questioning eyes winged to his in the wake of the quiet words. Dominic’s lips smiled but his eyes were sombre. Her glance slid away, back to the palm trees, while she endeavoured to steady her voice.

  “Does that mean you have … completed our travel arrangements, Dominic?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to do that, my dear. The English are fleeing Brussels in droves, it seems. It will have to wait now until afterward.”

  Adrienne’s complexion lost what little colour remained, but she faced her cousin bravely. “After the war, you mean?”

  He hesitated. “At least until there is room in the packets once again. Moulton has the authority to make the necessary arrangements, so do not be concerned on that head.”