“I thought…” she said hesitantly, “we all thought that you were simply…amusing yourself…”
“Hardly surprising, since that was precisely the impression I wished to give.” Henry shrugged. “What better way to convince people that I was interested in little beyond women, gambling and the set of my neckcloth? Very few people know the truth of it, and only those I can trust completely.”
Polly registered the implied compliment with a little glow of pleasure. “Then, all through the Season you were intent on finding Chapman?”
“Yes, indeed, at Hampstead Wells and during the riot and even at the the Royal Humane Society! A fine dance he has led me! And all the time, you were basely suspecting me of being the criminal!”
Polly blushed. “The riot…I see now why you were carrying the pistols! But you put your search aside to rescue us, which surely you should not have done—”
There was a harsh note in Henry’s voice. “Do you think I could possibly have left you there unaided? Why do you think I intervened?”
Polly did not answer. She could feel the tension between them now and turned aside from the question. It felt too soon to consider it.
“But Chapman is not taken yet and you are here in Woodbridge…” Her eyes widened at the implication. “No, it cannot be that he is here!” She cast a swift look through the glass door to where the couples still swirled around the dance floor, as if expecting the felon to declare himself. Henry took her arm in a comforting grasp.
“No, he is not here, not tonight. But your deduction is as faultless as ever, Lady Polly! Chapman is close by and others I seek are closer still. You will do well to be vigilant until the matter is finally resolved!”
“I suppose your midnight foray at the House of Tides is all a piece with this,” Polly said a little dazedly. She sat down on the cushioned bench by the ornamental pool and watched the candlelight reflected in the cool water. “The turret door in my bedroom at the House of Tides led down to the cellars and no doubt to the sea…”
“Yes.” Henry shifted slightly on the bench beside her. “There are indeed compensations to my work, ma’am!”
“Outrageous! It mattered not one whit that I was asleep in there, I suppose!”
“It certainly made the business more enjoyable!”
Polly refused to let her attention be diverted by this.
“Why have you told me all this?” she asked.
Henry’s amusement faded. He looked at her. There was such a clear, innocent look in her eyes. He knew he should lie to her, but he could not. This was important.
“For lots of reasons,” he said, as lightly as he could. “Maybe I did not wish you to have such a low opinion of me any more! You suspected much already, but I wanted you to know the truth. It mattered to me.”
Polly could tell that he was utterly sincere. There was none of the teasing mockery that had been present a moment before. She could sense the tension latent in him as he sat, not touching her, but very close. His face was still in shadow.
Polly got up and moved across to the window, looking out across the silent gardens to the lake shimmering in the silver moonlight. His honesty had prompted her to say something herself, something that she had always wanted to tell him but had always held back.
“When you said to me—that night at Lady Phillips’s ridotto—that I had played my part in making you what you had become, then I thought—” She broke off. “I had not really thought of it that way before, but I suppose my rejection of your suit five years ago must have had its effect on your actions. I am sorry, so very sorry, that I ever refused you. Matters could have been so very different—” Her voice broke on a sob.
“It was very wrong of me to attribute any blame to you,” Henry said swiftly. He had moved until she could sense he was very close behind her. “I must take the responsibility for my own behaviour. I did not choose this path simply because you refused my proposal of marriage five years ago. There were many factors that influenced that decision, of which only one was seeing the reversal of my hopes of a life with you.”
Polly studied his reflection in the glass behind her. He was so close that she could feel the warmth emanating from his body, a contrast to the cold draught from the window and the emotion which was making her shiver a little.
“When you asked me to run away with you I was too immature to cope with the situation,” she said slowly. “I did not really understand what love meant. Oh—” she made a slight gesture “—I thought I loved you and it was all very girlish and romantic, but the depth of feeling that would have given me the strength to go with you was lacking. I have thought about it so often…About what might have been had I had the courage to accept…I wish…I wish so much—”
Henry put his hand on her arm. “Lady Polly. Do not. Sometimes it is not good to be so honest. Sometimes it can only be painful…”
Polly swung round to face him. Her eyes were bright with emotion and the chestnut hair curled about her flushed face. Henry found himself wanting to kiss her very much, not with the calculated seduction of that night at Lady Phillips’s ball, but with such genuine passion that it shocked him.
“I know now,” he said, a rough edge to his voice, “that I miscalculated when I thought you incapable of deep feeling. I was wrong…”
Polly’s mouth was just below his own. It was easy to put a hand to her cheek, then tilt up her chin so that their lips met, tentatively at first, then with a sudden flood of desire that threatened to carry them away. All the suppressed emotion and tension of their encounter was suddenly in the kiss, as Polly’s lips parted in surprise and swift acquiescence and her arms slid around his neck to draw him closer. Henry knew a second’s hesitation before he allowed himself to let caution go. Polly knew no such moment of doubt. She had been aware of the feeling building between them, the thoughts and emotions unspoken, the dizzy sense of awareness and anticipation. When he touched her, the love and expectancy had fused into one overwhelming need. She pressed closer, pliant against him, and Henry moved to draw her closer.
When he would have drawn back, Polly pulled him closer still, tangling her hands in his hair so that she could bring his mouth down to hers again.
Henry held her away from him, pressing a kiss against her hair, breathing hard.
“Seldom have I made such a mistake,” he said, the rueful amusement audible in his slightly shaken tone. “Polly…”
Pressed close in his arms, feeling the thud of his heart against hers, knowing instinctively just how difficult it was for him to let her go, Polly had no incentive to help him. She wanted to show him just how far he had misjudged her. All the years of restraint could be unlearned very easily. She slid her hands under his jacket, relishing the hard strength of his body under her fingers, and when she heard Henry catch his breath on a groan, she raised her lips to his again.
Henry spun her round so that she was trapped against the wall. Polly could feel the cold through the thin silk of her gown but was barely aware of it. All her senses were concentrated on the heat of the sensuality between them. She wanted it to sweep her away. The explicit demand of the kiss eased into gentleness, then Henry’s lips left hers to trace the delicate lines of her throat, to tease and caress the sensitive skin and rain kisses on her upturned face.
“Polly…” he spoke between kisses “…this has to stop…We cannot…This is neither the time nor the place. Until this business is over I am not free…”
Polly opened her eyes with reluctance. She felt intoxicated with kissing, aching with a need that could not be appeased. She understood that it had taken a tremendous effort of will on Henry’s part to let her go, that he felt as shaken as she did. Nor could she misunderstand his last words. He intended to woo her properly when he could, to make a declaration…Her eyes lit up like dark stars and Henry smiled gently.
“I love you,” he said softly, “and you may believe me when I say that I have never said that to anyone but you.”
Chapter Fourteen
Despite his good resolutions, it was a considerable time before Henry let Polly go, whispering to her that she should go back into the ballroom as unobtrusively as possible and that he would follow as soon as he was able. Polly, dazed with kisses and happiness, almost floated into the room, convinced that everyone would immediately notice that something was different. No one seemed to do so, however. The supper dance was in progress. Lucille was still surrounded by a circle of family and friends at one end of the ballroom and looked up only briefly as her sister-in-law wafted past. Hetty and Peter were sitting together in an alcove, their heads bent very close together, their words and smiles for each other alone. Lady Bellingham and Sir Godfrey Orbison were still dancing together. Polly had paused when her arm was unexpectedly seized from behind.
“Lady Polly,” Tristan Ditton hissed in her ear, “I must have speech with you. Immediately!”
Some of Polly’s euphoria faded as she looked into Mr Ditton’s thin, secretive face. It was all she could do to avoid shuddering. Once again, his look appraised her in the most unpleasant manner. Polly, fresh from the enchantment of Henry’s kisses, found Ditton’s behaviour deeply repellent.
“Perhaps some other time, sir,” she began, as courteously as she was able. “I was about to rejoin my mother—”
“The Dowager Countess may spare you for a moment, I am sure,” Ditton said insinuatingly. “There is a matter of supreme importance which we must discuss. I have been thinking of it ever since that distressing episode at the House of Tides and I feel it my honour and duty to offer you the protection of my name!”
Polly almost gaped at him. Henry’s words of love were still in her mind and it was nearly impossible to accept that Tristan Ditton had just made her an offer of marriage. And yet he seemed quite serious. He drew her aside from the other couples who were jostling them as they made for the supper room, and in a moment they were in the deserted and dimly lit hall.
Polly struggled with her feeling of unreality.
“You do me great honour, sir,” she said politely, “but there is no need. Everyone knows of the incident and realises it was entirely innocent.”
In the darkness she thought she saw Ditton smile. “I had been led to believe that you were so proper a lady, so careful for your reputation, that you would not refuse me, Lady Polly! Was I then mistaken?”
Polly felt her temper rise at the insinuation that she had been in any way to blame. “I am sure that my reputation is as good as that of any lady,” she said coldly, “but I feel no need to protect it from so imaginary a threat! It was a generous offer, sir, but I must refuse.” Through the open ballroom doors she saw the Dowager Countess pass on her way to supper and took a step forward. Tristan Ditton put a restraining hand on her arm. A servant, scurrying across the darkened hall, gave them a curious look.
Polly’s patience snapped. “What is all this about, sir? I have already said—”
Tristan Ditton put his thin face very close to hers.
“It is about a young lady who is not as careful of her reputation as you are of yours, Lady Polly! How do you think your brother would feel were he to discover that the lady he desires to marry has already been free with her favours? That Lord Edmund Grantley was before him?”
Polly recoiled a step in disgust, staring at him in disbelief. “You are loathsome, sir! How dare you insinuate—?”
“It is no insinuation.” Ditton spoke with satisfied certainty. “I have heard the whole tale—that they were alone at the inn, that Grantley was boasting of deflowering Miss Markham, and that the innkeeper confirmed the next day that Grantley had succeeded! She had been with him all night! And if you do not agree to our betrothal, Lady Polly, I will make sure that every guest at this ball knows Miss Markham’s disgrace!”
His eyes were burning with an excitement that sickened Polly. She was about to reject his words utterly when the memory of Hetty’s arrival at Dillingham Court stopped her. With hideous clarity she remembered Peter’s insistence upon an early wedding and Hetty’s distress at the Dowager Countess’s objections. Hetty, whose natural liveliness had been tempered by a mysterious unhappiness. Could it be true? Perhaps Peter knew and was trying to protect his betrothed the only way he could? Even worse, then, if he was prepared to make that sacrifice, for Mr Ditton to expose the truth before such a multitude.
Polly froze as an even more hideous thought occurred to her. What if Hetty were expecting a child? Her faint the previous day was now very suggestive of more than simple wedding nerves and exhaustion. How horrible would be her disgrace if it were true! The thought took a lot of the strength from Polly’s response.
“You disgust me, sir! You wish me to consent to a betrothal on the grounds that you will denounce Miss Markham if I do not? You must be mad!”
“Not so!” Tristan Ditton caught Polly’s arm in a cruel grip. “You will do as I ask, Lady Polly. Think of Miss Markham’s dishonour, think of your brother’s anger and disgust! And think of all these prurient gossips who will turn it into the biggest scandal in years! You cannot refuse me!”
“I cannot even believe it! You must be mistaken, or lying…” But Polly knew that her response lacked conviction and she saw Ditton smile.
“I have witnesses who can prove Miss Markham was at the Rose and Crown that night! She would crumble under the first accusation! Aye, and all the world would be there to see it!”
Polly’s breath caught in her throat with the shame and horror of it. She could not think clearly. She knew she must be mad to even think of agreeing, but Ditton’s hand was like a claw on her arm, his eyes burning into hers. Madness! She could not throw away her own future because of Hetty’s behaviour. Then, through the open door she saw them, Peter smiling down into Hetty’s face with such love, his hand covering hers as it lay on his arm…Polly remembered his unhappiness over the broken betrothal, how he had made a fool of himself with Lady Bolt, how he had got drunk through his misery on hearing the false news of Hetty’s betrothal to Grantley.
“I am at the point where I need a rich wife,” Ditton was saying conversationally, only heightening the horror of it all, “and you are both rich and well connected. I could never aspire to marry an Earl’s daughter under other circumstances. Come, my dear, we could make a good match of it! What do you say?”
There were a hundred people at the ball, Polly thought with dread. If Ditton were to announce Hetty’s downfall before them all, the effect would be too devastating to contemplate. If she could only buy some time, prevent the disclosure. She need never go through with it and she would be able to talk to someone, sort it all out, explain…
Polly’s mind was a whirl of thoughts and images. Henry’s face was before her, the scene between them in the conservatory suddenly so distant it seemed almost imagined. Or was this the unreality? Ditton was like a coiled spring, unpredictable, unstable.
“Very well,” she said weakly, and heard his breath hiss with satisfaction, “but the betrothal must be kept a secret until I have had chance to tell my family—”
It had been a gamble and it showed at once how far she had underestimated him.
“A secret!” Ditton exclaimed gaily. “No such thing! I want to shout it from the rooftops!” He had grasped her hand and was drawing her with hideous inevitability towards the supper room, where the chink of china and buzz of voices could be heard. Polly hung back, suddenly terrified.
“Oh, no! You cannot! I did not intend…We must wait—”
But her words fell on deaf ears.
“Come, come, my dear, do you think I shall give you the chance to cry off! Credit me with a little sense, I beg of you! What a sensation this will be—almost, but not quite, as good as telling the guests of Miss Markham’s debauchery!”
Polly gave a faint moan.
“Oh, never fear,” Ditton continued in the same light tone, “I shall keep my part of the bargain for as long as you keep yours! And here we are—ready to break the news!”
A curious silence fe
ll on the room when they entered. The tables, in long rows that stretched towards the picture windows at the end, were laden with a harvest supper and almost full. At the top table, the whole Seagrave family were chatting animatedly to the friends and neighbours around them. Worse, to their left, the Duchess of Marchnight, Lady Laura and Lord Henry were enjoying the repast. Henry’s head had been inclined towards his mother as she expressed some view on the sweetness of the strawberries. He looked up as Polly came closer and the glad light sprang to his eyes, to be banished only slowly as he saw Tristan Ditton pulling her forward by the hand.
Ditton reached the top table and stopped. He addressed the Earl of Seagrave.
“Lady Polly has done me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage,” Tristan Ditton said with oily complacency. “She has made me the happiest of men!”
There was absolute silence. The Dowager Countess put down her wineglass with a clatter that sent her dessert spoon spinning away.
“Polly? Engaged to Mr Ditton? What nonsense is this?”
Polly felt Tristan Ditton stiffen beside her. Afraid of his instability, convinced that he would suddenly blurt out what he had just told her, she hastened into speech.
“It is not nonsense, Mama! I assure you, I have consented to marry Mr Ditton. After all, we have known each other all our lives, and I esteem him greatly—” She broke off as she saw the look of contemptuous amusement cross her elder brother’s face. Polly knew that she had started to rattle on out of nervousness, here in front of all these people. And, as yet, Nicholas had said nothing at all. Beside him, Lucille’s face was a blank mask.
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