The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet

by Mary Balogh

  “No, Your Grace,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “It is not, is it?”

  10

  T FELT STRANGELY EXHILARATING TO BE AT A LARGE squeeze of a ball with his betrothed—to be at his betrothal ball. Though as a younger man he had dreamed of love and happily ever afters, and as a more mature man—just a few weeks ago—he had considered the necessity of making a dynastic marriage in order to secure his line, he really had not quite expected that he would marry. Marriage was for other men, not for him.

  And yet here he was at Hayden’s and Elizabeth’s, betrothed. He was to be married in three weeks’ time. And rather than feeling depressed or even panicked because he had been forced into a betrothal with a stranger—a woman almost from outside his own world—he was feeling exhilarated.

  He no longer felt nervous. She was beautiful. He had known that before, of course, but now she was a beautiful ornament of the ton. She fit her surroundings perfectly at the same time as she outshone them. He had received a dozen compliments or more on her beauty before the evening was half over. More important, she had somehow acquired the poise and dignity to appear quite at her ease in the ballroom. She smiled at everyone, conversed with everyone, though he noticed that she did so more by listening and looking interested than by talking. And she danced with grace and confidence.

  He felt enormously relieved. He had so feared that she would look as out of place and behave as awkwardly as she had in his mother’s drawing room a week ago. His heart would have bled for her. He would have felt forced to take her away and marry her quietly and keep her in the country for the rest of their days so that she would not have to face the humiliation of such ordeals again. It would not have been a situation conducive to happiness or contentment for either of them.

  He felt so very guilty about the way his own stupidity had trapped her and given her no choice at all of husband. And about allowing her to go on believing it had been all her fault. She had had little enough choice as it was, time being so short for her. But he had taken away even that little. And he had brought her into a world she had never experienced before.

  He was relieved to know that, after all, her birth and education had made it easier for her to adapt than he had feared. He was proud of her. Apart from his mother and perhaps his sisters and sister-in-law, only he knew how much effort it had taken for her to appear thus tonight.

  Like a gauche and eager schoolboy he wanted to stay by her side all evening. He wanted to dance with her all evening. At the very least he wanted to watch her, to feast his eyes on her. But he could do none of those things, of course. He could not humiliate her by making it appear that she could not cope alone in a social situation.

  But he watched her covertly. At every moment of the evening he knew where she was, with whom she talked and danced. It was a new feeling for him. Even when he was younger and had had flirts, he had never been so aware of them as he was of Stephanie. He was pleased when she stepped out of doors with Lady Francis Kneller during the waltz. He had been about to cross the room to her and take her walking himself. But he had engaged her for a set after supper. It would be too much to walk with her now as well.

  He saw her leave alone after saying a few quick words to his mother. He watched for her return as he danced a country set and apparently gave his attention to his partner. His anxiety grew as the set progressed. Where was she that she was gone so long? Had she met someone outside the ballroom who had kept her talking?

  His mother was worried too.

  “I have just looked in the ladies’ withdrawing room,” she told him when he joined her at the end of the set. “She is not there, Alistair. And nowhere else that I can see.”

  He looked into all the rooms on the ballroom floor. He wandered out onto the balcony and down into the garden. She was nowhere to be found. Soon her absence would be noted, if it had not already been. He reentered the house through the garden door on the lower level and made his way to the hall, where a few footmen stood on duty.

  “Miss Gray stepped this way?” he asked nonchalantly, his eyebrows raised, his hands clasped behind him. “The lady in green?”

  “She is in the conservatory, I believe, Your Grace,” one of the footmen said, bowing deeply and hurrying ahead of the duke to open the door for him.

  It was not in total darkness, but it seemed quite deserted. He almost turned back to resume his search elsewhere. But it was clear to him by now that she was either hiding or had left the house altogether. And if she was hiding, she would hardly sit in full view of the conservatory door. He strolled inside.

  She was sitting very quietly behind a potted palm, staring ahead of her. Apparently, she was quite unaware of his presence. She must have been here for longer than half an hour—quite alone and unchaperoned. Yet this was her betrothal ball.

  “Miss Gray?” he said.

  Her head jerked up, confirming his first impression, though she did not turn to look at him. He felt suddenly angry.

  “Miss Gray?” he said again. “You have been gone from the ballroom for a long time—since well before the start of the last set. I grew concerned. So did my mother. This is not quite the thing, you know.”

  For a while he thought she was not going to answer him. She still had not looked at him. Rather, she directed her gaze at the fan she held in her lap. But finally she spoke.

  “No, Your Grace,” she said coolly, and finally she turned her head. “It is not, is it?” She spoke quietly. Why, then, did her words sound like a declaration of war?

  He would not rip up at her, he decided, and then was surprised that he had even had to curb the urge. He never ripped up at anyone. He did not need to. He had learned as far back as boyhood the art of imposing his will by a mere look or quiet word. He must certainly not be angry with Stephanie. Doubtless she had been awed by the occasion. He moved to stand in front of her.

  “You have been overwhelmed by it all?” he asked her gently.

  She lifted her shoulders, but did not answer him. She was gazing at her fan again.

  “You have done remarkably well,” he said. “Your manner has been as poised as if you had been accustomed to this way of life for years. You are lovelier than any other lady present. I have had numerous compliments on your beauty.”

  She raised her eyes again. “Have you?” she said. There was an unidentifiable edge to her voice. He waited for her to continue, but she did not do so.

  “Talk to me,” he said. “How can I help you if I do not know what ails you?”

  Again he thought she would not speak. He remembered the way she had talked and talked in his carriage, her face animated and framed by the foolish bonnet. Somehow it was hard to realize that this was the same woman.

  “ ‘You have performed a miracle, Mama,’ ” she said so quietly that he thought he must have misheard.

  “What?” he said, frowning.

  “ ‘You have performed a miracle, Mama,’ ” she repeated a little more loudly. “It is what you said earlier, Your Grace. Almost your first words, in fact.”

  Oh, good Lord. She was right, was she not? That was what he had said. He had been so delighted at his first sight of Stephanie, so … dazzled, that he had spoken without thinking. Words of congratulation to his mother. None to Stephanie herself. Surely, he had congratulated her too? But he could not remember saying anything. It was his mother who had pointed out that the transformation was the result of hard work rather than of a miracle.

  He went down on his haunches before her and rested his wrists over his knees. “You are quite right,” he said. “I gave you no credit at all, did I? Will you forgive me? I know—I knew at the time—that it was you who made the miracle happen, that my mother merely guided and advised. You have worked incredibly hard during the past week. And I spoke as if it was all my mother’s doing. Forgive me, Stephanie.” It was, he realized, the first time he had used her given name. He had not asked her permission—another error uncharacteristic of him.

  “Of course,” she said
. “Are you pleased then, Your Grace? Will I do? I have not embarrassed or shamed you tonight?”

  “You know you have not,” he said. “And you must know that I am pleased—even if I was doltish enough to phrase my pleasure quite wrongly at the start of the evening.”

  “Then the hard work has been worthwhile,” she said. “I have done it for you, you see, because I am so very deeply in your debt. I believe I owe my life to you.”

  “No.” He felt distinctly uneasy. He reached for her hands and held them tightly. He rested one of his knees on the floor. “You owe me nothing. I seem to have caused you more misery than anything else.”

  She smiled at him for the first time. He was startled anew by her dimple, by the sunshine of her smile. “There are thousands of women who would give all they possess for such misery, Your Grace,” she said. “Have I been gone very long? I meant to sit here only until the set had ended. But I believe I lost track of time. You cannot know, perhaps, how bewildering this is for me. All my life I have been accustomed to quietness and even to solitude. I enjoy both and must have them occasionally.”

  He squeezed her hands. “I will remember that,” he said. “But you will, of course, learn when solitude is appropriate and when it is not. It is not appropriate in the middle of a ball, especially when you are the guest of honor.”

  “Yes.” She visibly drew breath. “I still have much to learn, Your Grace. I will try to achieve perfection. Will my absence have been remarked upon? Will I have brought disgrace on you?”

  “By no means,” he said, bringing one of her hands to his lips. “We will return to the ballroom from the garden and balcony, and it will be assumed that we have taken some time to stroll together. It is quite unexceptionable to do so since we are betrothed. And it will be understood why we have done so during this particular set. It is another waltz.”

  She listened to the music, which was quite audible. “Yes,” she said. “So it is.” It seemed to him that she sighed.

  “Do you know the steps?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I was required to teach them to the eldest daughter at the Burnabys’. I always thought it would be wonderful to waltz with a real gentleman at a real ball.”

  “Am I real enough?” he asked her, getting to his feet and retaining his hold on her right hand. “Is this ball real enough?”

  Her smile was rueful. “I am not allowed to waltz here,” she said. “Her Grace said that perhaps it would not be quite improper since I am well past the age of majority, but she also said that I must be very careful not to give anyone even the slightest reason to frown.”

  “She is quite right, of course,” he said. “You must never risk censure unnecessarily. But I meant here. Our own private ballroom. Shall we?”

  Her smile grew slowly and caused strange fluttering sensations in the regions of his heart and stomach. He could not understand now why he had once thought it was the smile of a coquette. There was too much of pure joy in the expression for it to proceed from anything else but innocence. He was beginning to find innocence far more alluring than experience had ever been.

  He took her hand in his and set his arm about her slender waist.

  WALTZING WITH A pupil while playing the role of the male partner, and waltzing with a gentleman were two entirely different experiences, Stephanie realized immediately. His shoulder was well above the level of her own and felt solidly muscled beneath her hand. His hand was large and warm. She could feel his body heat, smell his cologne. He held her very correctly so that she touched him only at the hand and shoulder. But she knew instantly why so many people had been dubious about the morality of the waltz not so many years ago.

  It was an intensely intimate dance.

  He waltzed expertly. After the first few moments she found that she no longer had to concentrate on counting steps and following his lead. All she had to do was move her feet and float and enjoy the moment.

  She did not believe she had ever enjoyed any other moment as she was enjoying this one. She closed her eyes and trusted that he would prevent them from colliding with plants and chairs.

  “Come,” he said after several minutes, “confession time, Stephanie. You have not been a teacher of general instruction for the past six years. You have been a teacher exclusively of the waltz. You dance it superbly.”

  She was so very susceptible to praise from him, she thought as she opened her eyes to smile up at him. Just as she had been easily hurt by his unintentional slight at the start of the evening. But perhaps the reason was that her life for so many years had been starved of praise or even approval.

  “I am merely good at following the lead of a superb partner,” she said.

  He laughed, and she realized how rarely he did so and how very attractive he was when he did. Not that he was unattractive even when he was at his most pokerfaced, of course.

  “Touché.” He stopped waltzing even though the music continued from somewhere above their heads. “When we are seen entering the ballroom from the garden, you know,” he said, “it will be assumed that I have stolen at least one kiss from you. I would be thought a remarkable slowtop if I had not tried.”

  She had dreamed all week about his kiss, about what he had done with his lips and tongue. She had relived, with some guilty shame, the effects his kiss had had on her body. She had wanted to be kissed again. She had wondered what the intimacies of the marriage bed would feel like.

  “May I?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  She had grown up in the country. She knew what happened between male and female, though she was not quite sure how exactly it was done between man and woman. For years she had longed to find out and had expected never to do so. In three weeks’ time she would know finally—with this man. Unsuspected muscles deep inside her contracted and left her shaken and breathless.

  He kissed her as he had kissed her the week before, briefly and lightly on the lips before lifting his head and looking into her eyes. Instinct told her that she wanted to feel him with her breasts, that tonight she did not want her hands to be trapped against his chest. She slid them upward and clasped them behind his neck. She let her body sway against his as his arms came about her waist. She could feel him from her shoulders to her knees. All warm, solid masculinity. She closed her eyes.

  Yes, the kiss continued as before—his slightly parted lips, his tongue touching the seam of her own lips, the sizzling sensations in other parts of her body. But she wanted more. She parted her own lips tentatively and felt his tongue come through them to stroke the soft, sensitive flesh behind. She opened her mouth.

  After that her mind ceased making a running commentary of what happened. It was only afterward when she thought about it—she spent all night thinking of nothing else—that she remembered sucking inward on his tongue until he moaned. And his mouth against her throat and her breasts, which his thumbs had bared by drawing her dress down beneath them. And his hands spread firmly over her buttocks, holding her against masculine hardness. It was only afterward that she thought to feel shock—and shame.

  He was breathing hard, his face turned in against her hair, when his hands covered her breasts with her gown again. He held her by the shoulders for a few moments and then put her away from him and turned his back on her.

  “The music has stopped,” he said, his voice sounding quite normal, if a trifle breathless. “Thank God. Miss Gray, did your mother never warn you against situations like this? Or my mother?”

  A pail of cold water flung in her face could not have more effectively brought her back to the present.

  “Yes,” she said. “And experience has taught me how to handle situations like this. A governess is often prey to lascivious attempts at seduction, Your Grace. I thought this was different. I thought I need not fight. You are my betrothed.” If truth were known, she had not even considered fighting.

  “We are not married,” he said. “It would be folly indeed to anticipate the marriage bed, Miss Gray. What if I should die
before the day? What if I should leave you with child? Even failing that, what if I should leave you a fallen woman?”

  Hurt and anger—and shame—warred in her. And confusion about which was uppermost held her silent.

  He turned to look at her. “I am sorry,” he said. “Deeply sorry. The fault was all mine. I asked a kiss of my betrothed and then proceeded to use you as I would a—” He stopped to inhale deeply. “Forgive me. Please forgive me. It will not happen again.”

  “No.” She brushed past him on the way to the door. “It will not, Your Grace. It seems I have more to learn than I have realized. It seems I have more in common with a whore—that is the word you stopped yourself from saying, is it not?—than a true lady. But I will learn. By the time I am your duchess, I will behave like a duchess. I will remember that kisses are meant to be brief and decorous.”

  “Stephanie—” he said, coming after her.

  “We must return, Your Grace,” she said, “before the next set begins. If we leave it longer, the ton will no longer think that you have been stealing a kiss. They will think you have been tumbling me, and my reputation will never recover. You and your mother will be disgraced.”

  “Stephanie,” he said again, drawing her arm through his even though she tried to resist, and leading her out through the garden door she had been unable to find earlier. “What I said was unpardonable. I was horrified by my own lack of control and blamed you. I seem to have done nothing but insult you this evening. It was unpardonable. I will not even ask your pardon. I will bear the burden of my own guilt. But please do not blame yourself. Not in any way. When you look back later, as you surely will, you must take none of the blame on yourself.”