Marta closed her eyes, completely humiliated. “And then I walked up to you and did not give you the opportunity to follow his instructions. I am so sorry.”
He met her eye. “I had just finished explaining that there was nothing inappropriate about my attentions and that it was my one opportunity a year to talk with you, as any other communication between us would be inappropriate.”
She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat. “You said that?”
He nodded and, finally, softened his expression. “After you interrupted and then left, I explained to him that we are friends and good supports to one another, but we know well where our lines are drawn. Then we played cards for two hours, and I plied him with brandy. All is well.”
“You did all that so that we might preserve our dance?”
“Of course,” he said. “This is the way I celebrate the holiday, and I would not miss it for anything.”
How she wanted to throw herself into his arms and feel the strength of him surround her. But of course she wouldn’t, because he was right—any other connection between them would ruin this. And this was beautiful. “Thank you,” she said, deciding not to explain that she had defended their dance this evening as well.
“I do wonder, however,” he said, drawing her attention back to his face, which was not smiling. His brows were drawn slightly together as he regarded her. “Does our dance negatively impact your marriage, Marta? Is there any interference because of this time we share?”
“No,” she said strongly and surely, even though she had been wondering the same thing. “My marriage is what it is, with or without this dance. I too look forward to this time every year and would be very sad to see it come to an end, especially due to other people’s incorrect assumptions. I consider you a good friend, David, and confirmation that not all men are as unfeeling as . . . some.” It did not feel right to directly malign her husband just now. In fact, she needed to be more careful than ever not to discuss things that were blatantly inappropriate. If Mother was voicing her complaints, other people would be watching and wondering. Marta did not want that sort of attention for David.
“How is Miss Petershod?” she asked, keeping a smile because of course she should smile when she talked about the woman she had told David to make an offer to last Christmas.
“Miss Petershod is now Mrs. Finnigal and, as I understand it, living quite happily in Belgium.”
“Oh,” Marta said, hating that some part of her was glad to hear this report. Her correspondence with Sophie had lessened this year, and when they did write to one another, Marta had felt it too overt to ask after David directly, and so she’d had no news. “I am so sorry.” Even her apology was suspect—was she apologizing that his courtship with the young woman had been unsuccessful or for her reaction to the news?
“That makes one of us.” David grinned, and she could not help but smile along with him, though she sobered quickly when she spotted her mother watching them. David turned them, and Marta saw when he, too, saw her mother’s sentry, because his smile also fell. “I was never actually courting her, just paying her some attention in hopes of determining whether I wanted to attend her more often, which I never quite did. In April, a cousin to the Delecourts came to visit from Belgium. The young man walked her home from church the first week he was there. A month later the banns were read, and a month after that they were on a ship for his homeland. I assure you I was not heartbroken.”
“I am sorry all the same,” Marta said. “You should find yourself a good wife and start a family. You are very old now.”
He laughed. “Perhaps too old.”
“Of course you are not too old. That is the benefit of being a man.”
“Well, I have outgrown any youthful impatience,” he said, sounding rather impatient to have the words out. “My grandfather is ailing, and I am kept very busy with the management of the estate. Sophie’s children are growing and a delightful distraction when they come for a visit. I am quite content in my place, so do not worry for me. I understand congratulations are in order for you a second time.”
Marta hated that she blushed again. “This baby is due in June.”
“And you are happy?”
She thought of that for a moment, so as to give a wholly honest answer, as their pact demanded . . . to a point and within certain margins. After a few moments, she nodded. “I am, as you have said of yourself, content with my life. There are aspects I would improve if I could, but on the whole I am comfortable in my place. I adore motherhood and am excited to welcome a new child.”
He nodded, and she sensed he wanted to ask about Greggory. That he didn’t was probably for the best.
“Tell me about your estate,” she said when she sensed the dance coming to an end. “It seems I am always the one going on and on about my life and hearing so little about yours.”
“You want to hear of my acreage and my sheep?”
“Oh, sheep!” She gave him a brilliant smile. “You have no idea how much I adore hearing of sheep.”
He smiled widely and gave her hand a squeeze. “Well, then, do I ever have a treat for you, Mrs. Henderson. Prepare yourself to be dazzled.”
Eighth
David
In between greeting friends and accepting a glass of cider from the footmen that wove among the guests, David watched for Marta. She was usually in the ballroom before his arrival, last year being the exception when she had marched across the room and asked him for the waltz. So this was the second year in a row that she was not in the ballroom preceding him. Sophie had kept him informed of the struggles Marta had faced this year, and he was eager to see her and assure himself that she was improving.
The dancing began, and still she hadn’t appeared, though Lord Norman had confirmed to him that she’d arrived at Winchester yesterday. Arrived, but had not participated in any of the group activities, not even last night’s dinner. She’d instead taken a tray in her room on complaint that she was very tired from the travel. David was worried.
When David had heard of her father’s passing last spring, he’d considered writing to her, but to do so would be stepping over the invisible line they had drawn for each other. Instead, he’d asked Sophie how Marta was doing and resisted the suggestion that she include a message from him in one of her letters. Anything outside of their Christmas waltz felt inappropriate, though he hated that he could not offer her comfort at this difficult time. It was through his sister that he’d learned how very hard Marta continued to take the loss, that the birth of her son had also been difficult, and that, by October, Marta was no longer responding to Sophie’s letters.
Last year’s waltz had been as enjoyable as the others, but different. Knowing that people were uncomfortable with their dance had put them both on edge, and he had felt the sidestepping of topics that in the past they had discussed freely. He had hated the tension and yet understood and respected it as well. As had become his habit, he’d considered not coming to the ball, but in the end he had not been able to deny himself the chance to see her.
Once the dancing had begun, Paul invited him to join a set of whist in the study. It had been years since he’d danced anything but the Christmas waltz at the Yuletide Ball, so it was not out of character for him to accept the invitation of cards, but he did not want to leave the ballroom until he’d been able to confirm that Marta was here. If she did not feel up to dancing, he would like to at least talk to her for a few minutes. How he would arrange that within the bounds of propriety, however, he did not know.
David waited as long as he felt he could, then turned toward the east doors that led to the card room. He cast one more look at the main entrance, just in time to see Marta enter the room, seeming to trip over the hem of her dress as she crossed the threshold. He paused as she caught her balance on the arm of an older matron who looked rather appalled as Marta righted herself and apologized too profusely. She was dressed in the same navy gown she’d worn last year, but it hung upon her th
in shoulders. Her hair, though perfectly styled, was free from any of the adornments she usually effected.
The woman shook her off, and Marta gained her balance but looked around the room with a sloppy grin on her face. Was she . . . drunk? She took a few steps and leaned against one of the pillars as though catching her breath. She was not wearing gloves . . . making her the only woman in the room without them.
He was not the only person watching her. Two women whispered behind their hands while shooting curious glances in her direction, but it seemed the dancing had captured most of the crowd’s attention. He hesitated a few more seconds, sure that one of her friends or family members would go to her rescue at any moment. This was her aunt and uncle’s party, after all—half this room was likely a relation of one degree or another. She pulled at the bodice of her gown rather indelicately, then spotted a waiter with a tray of glasses and pushed herself away from the pillar toward him.
David put his glass of cider on the nearest stand and crossed the room as quickly as he could, catching up with her in time to take hold of her wrist just before she reached the tray of drinks. She attempted to twist out of his grip until she looked into his face and stopped. For a moment her expression was frozen, then it brightened and she grinned widely.
“Oh, David,” she said as she reached up with her free hand as though to touch his hair. He took hold of that wrist too, then tried to hold both of her hands in a way that didn’t look too restraining. “Don’t do that, Da-vid,” she said, drawling out his name as she leaned toward him. He could feel more and more eyes turning their way.
He smoothly let go of one of her wrists and turned to stand beside her, tucking her other hand into his elbow. She leaned into him as he began walking quickly toward the nearest exit, stumbling over her feet in the process but managing to stay upright. The footman stationed at the door anticipated his intent and opened the door quickly to let them pass through.
“Oh, I like this,” she said as they stepped into the hallway, her mouth so close to his ear that he could feel her hot breath on his skin. He shivered, realizing that in another circumstance he would likely have found her proximity invigorating. In this circumstance, however, he found it embarrassing. And rather frightening. The door to the ballroom closed behind them, leaving them very much alone in the hall, the sounds of the holiday crowd muted.
“Where are you taking me, Da-vid,” Marta said in a singsong voice that made his stomach turn even as his heart ached. He felt sure she had tried to remedy her anxieties with too much drink. Had that become a habit these last months, as she’d tried to cope with the difficulties life had laid at her feet?
He could hear people arriving through the foyer to their right, so he steered her left. She tripped over her feet again and giggled at her attempt to right herself. There was an open door leading to a lit room further down the hall, and he set his sights upon it. A brief pause in the doorway gave him time to assess that the room was the library. Three silver-headed men lifted their heads from the newspapers or books they were reading at various positions around the room. Two of them quickly looked back to their materials, and the other continued to stare, prompting David to look for more private accommodations. There were French doors on the far side of the room, and he steered Marta toward them. With a little luck the doors would lead to the veranda, where the cold air would help her sober up.
David opened the door to the veranda and ushered Marta through ahead of himself, gratified by the gasping reaction she had to the cold. Lazy snowflakes drifted from the Christmas sky, and the cold was bitter enough that David shivered in his coat. She must be feeling the cold far more acutely in her thin dress, with sleeves set off each shoulder.
He pulled the door closed behind him and had just opened his mouth to speak when she stepped forward, pressing her body against him with her face lifted toward his. “Are you going to keep me warm, David?”
Her arms came around his waist, and he quickly stepped back before she could clasp her hands together. She smiled, undeterred, and leaned toward him again. He put his hands on each of her shoulders to keep her, literally, at arms’ length. Her shoulders, now prickled with gooseflesh, were so thin. “Marta,” he said strongly. “What has happened?”
“Nothing,” she said, widening her eyes as though surprised by his question. He still held her shoulders, and she attempted to wriggle out of his grasp a moment before giving up and letting her thin arms flop to her sides.
“If nothing is wrong, why are you drunk?”
“I am not drunk,” she said with a laugh, stepping back so that he could return his arms to his sides. He stayed in place, tense and solid in his stance. She waved a hand through the air filled with languid snowflakes, losing her balance slightly with the momentum but righting herself before he had to help her. He did not dare to touch her if he could avoid it. “I am just . . . happy. It is a party, is it not? Am I not allowed to be happy even at a party?”
“How much have you had to drink tonight?”
She scowled and narrowed her eyes at him. “Not nearly enough.” She looked around and focused her attention on the doors behind him that led back into the library. He took a long step to the side in order to block her way. If she returned to the ballroom, she would humiliate herself and all of her family in short order. But what was he to do? Being alone with him on the veranda was no solution, and though she was not yet complaining about the cold, it would not be wise to stay out here much longer.
“I want to go inside,” she said, enunciating each word with crisp elocution.
“I think it best if you stay out here a bit longer. You’ve had too much to drink, Marta. You will embarrass yourself if you go back. Can we talk for a few minutes? I’m worried about you.”
She blew a breath indelicately through her lips and waved a dismissive hand again. “Don’t be such a fishwife, David. I am fine. No reason for anyone to worry.” She crossed her arms over her chest and shuddered. “It is freezing out here. Let me go inside.”
“Marta,” he said softly, reaching for her hands. Her expression softened, and she tried to step close to him again. He kept their clasped hands between them. “What is wrong? What has brought you to this?”
“This?”
“It is Christmas Eve, you are surrounded by family and friends, but you’ve had to take courage in liquid form to be among us,” he summarized, giving her hands a squeeze and bracing for her potential offense. “This is not the Marta I know. What has happened?”
Tears instantly rose into her eyes, and her chin began to tremble. “Oh, David,” she said, hanging her head so that he could not see her face. “It has all been so awful.”
He stood there, holding her hands between them as she began to cry. After a few seconds, he pulled her into his chest. Her anguish fell around them like shards of ice on the marble veranda as her thin shoulders shook within his embrace.
“What has been so awful, Marta?” he said into her hair, resisting the temptation of planting even a chaste kiss on the top of her head. “Tell me what’s happened.”
Through the tears she told her tale. Heartbreak over the loss of her father had blended with sorrow after the birth of her son—neither of which could seem to be remedied, no matter what she did to try and rise above it. And then, in September, when her son was only three months old, she learned of the woman Greggory had kept in London since before their marriage, whom he was now being seen with publicly in Town. Now that he had an heir, he apparently did not want to bother keeping up the pretense of faithful husband.
“I do not love him, and so my heart is not broken,” Marta said, while clinging to the back of David’s coat. “But must he humiliate me in such a way?” Her body shook. “I am tired and lonely, and there is no joy for me in living this life any longer.”
“Oh, Marta,” he said, resisting the urge to rub her back, touch her skin. His motivation was only comfort, but having her so close . . .
“The only thing that could draw me f
rom my room tonight was the mulled cider my uncle has on hand every Christmas,” she said, her cheek against his now-wet lapel, her body shivering against him. He pulled back enough to remove his coat and place it around her shoulders. She pulled the collar tight at the neck, then turned her head and inhaled the scent of him, closing her eyes as though savoring that level of closeness.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and reflecting the light coming through the French doors behind him. “And you.”
“Me?” he repeated, having lost the train of thought as she snuggled into his coat and he began to shiver.
“Thinking of you.” She reached a hand up and brushed back the hair that had fallen over his forehead. The heat of her words washed through him like the very cider she’d partaken too much of tonight. “Of our waltz. That’s the only reason I even came this year.” She stepped forward and rose on her toes, bringing her face almost level with his. “I came for our dance, and because if there is anything in the world that can make me feel something more than this darkness that besets me, it is you.” She raised herself a fraction of an inch higher and then let go of the coat, letting it drop to the ground at her feet as she put her arms around his neck.
She was not shivering any longer, and the heat surrounding them made it feel like June. He could see the dark circles beneath her eyes and smell the spicy cider on her breath. But he could also see the deep blue of her eyes and the fullness of her lips. It would be so easy to lower his head just an inch, press his lips to hers, taste the cider, share the pleasure she was begging for. He could justify such an action for a hundred reasons—she’d been rejected by her husband, publicly and privately; she was so very unhappy; she made him feel what no woman ever had; and he seemed to have a similar effect on her. They were alone, no one would know, and . . . then what?
The moment would pass.
The circumstances of their lives would not be changed.
A Christmas Waltz Page 7
