Tokens of Love

by Mary Balogh

  “So I am told, though I must confess that I have never much cared for blood sports.”

  “But then, it would not do for us all to be alike, and you are so ideally suited to gentler pursuits, are you not?”

  There was more than a hint of pity in the gushing observation, as Lady Alice gathered her cloak around her and swept indoors.

  “Well, honestly!” exclaimed Fanny.

  But Charlotte hardly felt the slight. She was still shaken by the intensity of emotion that had flared momentarily between herself and Luke. It was foolish, irrational, to attach any importance to what was no more than the briefest of exchanges. But the incident continued to preoccupy her, so that when she presently visited her sister, nestling into her pillows and sipping her chocolate, Annis was moved to say sharply, “Lottie? Is anything wrong?”

  She sighed and turned away from the window. “No, of course not.”

  “Are you quite sure? You look a trifle distrait. I remember thinking so when you first came into the room. I do pray you did not take any harm visiting that sick child yesterday.”

  The note of despair in her sister’s voice brought a faint smile. “No, really, my dear. There is nothing contagious about little Molly Allan’s weak chest. I merely have a slight headache, which will be gone in no time at all.”

  “Well, I do hope so. The girls are so excited, they will be of little use to anyone, and I simply cannot cope with Lady Grayshott and Mrs. Egerton on my own. I had no idea they were at daggers drawn! It is really most provoking, not to say embarrassing, just when one wishes everything to be quite perfect.”

  ———

  By evening, Charlotte had somehow contrived to bring both ladies to a tolerable understanding, and everything augured well; the preparations were complete, the ballroom filled with flowers and greenery beneath gleaming chandeliers, and the orchestra had arrived from Bath, and was already to be heard tuning up.

  They were to sit down thirty-two to dinner, the numbers being swelled by several near neighbors, including Lord and Lady Bingham, who had been prevailed upon to allow Edgar and James to accompany them.

  Fanny and Kate were twin visions in white spider gauze, embroidered with tiny silver flowers that sparkled with every movement of the delicate material as they fluttered from one guest to another, their eyes a brilliant blue, their golden curls threaded with silver ribbons.

  Miss Taylor, who had come to help them with their finery, sighed, confessing to Charlotte, “It doesn’t seem five minutes since the girls were Oliver’s age and playing with their dolls. Now their talk is all of love knots and Valentine tokens—and they spend hours peering into the mirror, applying Denmark lotion to nonexistent spots.”

  Charlotte laughed. “I know. One tends to forget the importance such imaginary imperfections can assume at seventeen. But the degree of sophistication is highly superficial, and is apt to crumble on the instant if Oliver should challenge them to a game of spillikins.”

  Charlotte did not voice her reservations about Fanny, although the way she and Edgar had looked at one another that morning at the meet had not escaped her notice. It was to be hoped that his presence at the ball would not fill her niece with any fanciful ideas. Love at seventeen could be as painful as it was sweet, as she could vouchsafe, though, she hastened to assure herself, their cases were quite different. And Edgar I would soon be back at college. As for Annis, she was torn between pride and distress as the two girls, having presented themselves for parental approval, began to mingle among the guests. “Oh, Edward! They are so lovely… but seventeen! I am getting old!”

  “Gammon, m’dear! The girls are well enough, but they’ll never hold a candle to their mama,” the duke declared gruffly, his eyes warming as he beheld his wife looking enchantingly ethereal in mauve silk, her hair softly dressed to frame her face and adorned with a diadem of amethysts and diamonds.

  Annis grew pink with pleasure, though she insisted, half laughing, that Edward was prejudiced. It was left to Charlotte to convince her.

  “My dear Annis,” she teased good-naturedly, “if you will not believe your husband, than I must tell you Pel was remarking to me not five minutes since that you looked more like the twins’ sister than their mama.”

  “Dear Pel,” Annis said, sighing. But she was pleased.

  Luke, standing nearby, had overheard the exchange. To his own way of thinking, he regarded Charlotte as the more striking of the two sisters; she had never been conventionally beautiful, but the youthful inner radiance that had once captured his heart had been translated by the years into something more lasting than mere prettiness: she had acquired a bloom—an indefinable sense of style and sureness that made one look, and look again.

  He was no authority on women’s dress, but it seemed that tonight this was more than ever apparent, for she had eschewed mere prettiness in favor of a simply cut open robe in a soft green embroidered with gold, worn over a slip of ivory satin. It had a brief bodice and tiny sleeves, and her hair was skillfully dressed into a high knot secured with a gold-tipped opera comb, and her side curls had been brushed until they shone.

  “My word,” murmured Lady Alice, drifting close to him in a cloud of azure-blue gauze. “Poor Charlotte is looking very fine tonight.”

  He frowned. “Why poor Charlotte? Miss Wynford does not seem in need of anyone’s pity.”

  “Of course not.” Lady Alice laughed lightly. “I’m sure I did not mean to imply any such thing. Charlotte is an excellent creature. My heart was simply going out to her, knowing how hard she has worked to ensure the success of this occasion.” She cast a roguish look up at him through fluttering lashes. “Not quite to our taste, perhaps. I fear the dancing may tend towards the more exuberant country dances—’Sir Roger de Coverley’ and the like—in deference to the birthday girls. So energetic! But Annis assures me that we are to be allowed at least one quadrille and a waltz or two.”

  She watched Sir Pelham Ballard enter the ballroom and greet Charlotte with affection. “There, now—is that not a pretty sight?” she said with a sigh. “Annis is convinced that Sir Pelham will propose this evening.”

  Affected as she appeared to be, she nevertheless did not fail to notice the colonel’s preoccupation. Something would have to be done.

  By ten o’clock all the guests for the ball had been received, and the duke led Fanny out for the opening country dance, while Lord Freddie claimed it as his privilege to partner Kate. Soon the happiest of atmospheres prevailed, as the guests mingled and entered into the spirit of the occasion.

  Charlotte, determined to enjoy the evening, had been danced off her feet from the start, for she was known to everyone, and was clearly popular. Luke had resolved to avoid her, but the more he watched her being swung round with easy familiarity in the arms of other men, conversing with ease, laughing up at them in a way he found not at all to his liking, the more jealously he longed to be in their place. And the more she seemed deliberately to avoid him, the more it became an object to thwart her. Finally, at the end of yet another country dance, he made his way to her side. Her partner bowed and melted away, and ihey were momentarily alone.

  “Why, Colonel Valentine, where have you been hiding yourself? I thought Edward must have spirited you away to the card room.” She was talking much too fast, laughing up at him, her breathlessness not entirely due to the exertions of the dance.

  “No. I have been here. Perhaps you have simply been too much occupied to notice me.”

  “Oh, dear. You may be right. But is this not the greatest fun? I declare, I have scarce been off my feet all night!”

  “You look and sound exactly like…,” he had been about to say “someone I used to know,” but stopped himself just in time… “like one of your nieces.”

  “And you, my dear Luke, are a flatterer. Lud, I would not be seventeen again for all the tea in China.” Charlotte stopped short, embarrassment flooding her face with color as she realized, too late, how easily her words might be misinterpreted. She s
earched his face, but found its expression inscrutable.

  In fact, he was shaken to the core by the sudden revelation that he still wanted her as much—no, more, much more—than he had all those years ago. She was more beautiful, more desirable in every way. This time he must not let her escape him. The orchestra was tuning up for a waltz, and he saw Sir Pelham making his way purposefully toward them.

  “This waltz is mine, I believe,” he said with an assurance that took Charlotte’s breath away.

  She saw Pel’s disappointment and managed a belated protest. “I’m sorry, Colonel,” she began, “but I am already promised. Perhaps a little later…”

  “Afraid?” he challenged, his fingers iron-hard as they gripped her arm.

  “Certainly not.” Oh, Lord! Pel was already looking puzzled. “This is very silly,” she murmured, striving for composure.

  Luke turned to Sir Pelham. “You wont mind, will you, Ballard? I have waited a long time.”

  It seemed a strange way of putting his request, but Sir Pelham, ever amiable, accepted the remark at face value. “Oh, quite. Very popular, is Charlotte… mustn’t be selfish, I suppose…”

  And so Luke accomplished his aim smoothly, without a shot fired in anger, as it were, and as the first lilting notes began, Charlotte found herself being swept away in his arms, held with a familiarity that would have been thought wicked eight years ago—was wicked even now in the sensations it evoked, as with every fiber of her being she longed to smooth away the harsh lines around his mouth, to trace with her finger the mobile, sensual mouth, to feel it against her own, warm, demanding… Dear God, she must not let her imagination run on.

  She tried, but it proved impossible with his hand warmly possessive through the silk of her gown, drawing her ever closer, his breath moving against her hair.

  “You must not hold me so. People will notice,” she said in some confusion.

  Luke laughed softly and drew back a little. “Oh, Charlotte, my dear delight, you haven’t changed a bit—not deep down. I don’t care if people notice. Would they notice, I wonder, if I were to kiss the pulse beating so wildly in your neck?” She gasped inaudibly as her eyes met his. “Oh, my love, can’t you see that this meeting was meant? Your nieces have not been slow to remind everyone that this is the night for lovers.”

  “Luke, stop! I can’t think—you aren’t being fair.”

  “True. I am just a rough soldier, used to getting my way. But you are fair enough for both of us, my dear delight. Oh, come, we have wasted so much time. Why waste more?”

  My dear delight, he had called her—twice! He had not forgotten. The pulsating music filled her senses, mingling with her own fast-beating heart until she knew not which was which. This could not be happening. She was a sensible woman of mature years, long past the foolishness of youth. And yet…

  “You weren’t really contemplating marrying that bumbling fellow, Ballard, were you?”

  “I am very fond of Pel. He is the kindest of creatures.” She was driven to defend her dear friend.

  “Undoubtedly. And I am seldom kind,” he murmured against her hair. “But is he capable of loving you as I would love you?”

  The question took her breath away, set her heart racing with absurd hope. The music must end at any moment, and if she were sensible, she would wish the end to come quickly. But it was hard to be sensible when his very presence made her feel like a girl again. “Luke! You mustn’t… how can you expect me to take such an impossible question seriously after all this time?”

  “What has time to do with it? We are still the same people deep down. Give me five minutes alone with you somewhere quiet, and I will prove it to you. How about showing me round that magnificent conservatory when everyone is occupied at supper?”

  “I cannot… oh, this is foolishness beyond belief!” But even as she spoke, her heart was already ruling her mind. Then the music came to an end.

  “The conservatory at midnight,” Luke repeated softly as he released her, bowed politely, and escorted her from the floor.

  From that moment on, the minutes seemed to drag interminably.

  “Are you all right, m’dear?” inquired Sir Pelham as she almost missed her timing in the quadrille. “It ain’t like you to be air-dreaming.”

  “Are you all right, Aunt Lottie?” Fanny asked, when during supper Charlotte twice failed to answer a question. “You do look a trifle flushed.”

  “Oh, what nonsense! It is a trifle hot in here. Do you not find it so?” I must pull myself together, Charlotte thought, resisting the urge to look yet again at the pretty ormolu clock on the dining-room mantelshelf, which must surely have stopped, and feeling like a schoolroom miss who had taken leave of her senses.

  Yet when the fingers of the clock finally came together on twelve, and its tinkling chimes rang out above the buzz of conversation, she almost jumped out of her skin. She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, but Pel was listening with patient good nature to some long tarradiddle of Mrs. Egerton’s, and everyone else was similarly engrossed in conversation. Of Luke she could see no sign. As though she had no control over her limbs, she smiled and rose, excusing herself with a somewhat incoherent remark about seeing that all was in order.

  It was quiet in the conservatory after the noise of the dining room, only the gentle splash of water breaking the silence. Charlotte stood just inside the door, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The atmosphere was somewhat humid, and she longed for a draft of cool fresh air to calm the delicious confusion that filled her. I am too old for such sweet madness, she told herself with deliberate self-mockery. If I had a grain of sense, I would leave now, as silently as I came…

  And then a movement over by the central fountain caught her attention, and she moved forward on a surge of elation, knowing her way so well that she needed no light. A giant frond reached out to brush her lightly as she approached the fountain, and at the same moment, the moon sailed from behind a cloud to illuminate two figures, intimately entwined. There was no mistaking Luke’s imposing height, or the floating draperies of his companion. Nor was there the least doubt about their purpose in seeking the privacy of the conservatory.

  How could you, Luke? Oh, how could you? The accusation reiterated itself over and over in a corner of Charlotte’s mind as she stood there, twice betrayed. She must have uttered a strangled cry, for the two drew apart with the suddenness of guilt, and in those seconds before the moon slid once more behind the clouds and she turned to stumble away, there was all the time in the world to see Luke’s discomfited face, to hear his muttered “Damnation!”

  Charlotte had no idea how she got through the remainder of the evening. It was as though someone else took over—laughed and danced, taking great care never to let Luke come near her. And when, toward the end of the ball, Sir Pelham proposed yet again, she heard herself saying with every appearance of happiness, “Yes, oh, yes, dear Pel. You have been so patient with me. I would be honored to marry you.”

  Amid all the congratulations that followed, the kissing and the back-slapping and the toasts drunk in their honor, a tiny corner of her mind was acutely aware of Lady Alice looking like the cat who had stolen the cream, of Luke’s face, livid beneath its tan, as her glance momentarily encountered his blazing eyes and shied away, and his “Oh, you little fool!” so quiet that only she heard it.

  When the last of the night’s guests had departed, Charlotte made quite certain that she was never in any danger of being alone with Luke. And when the duke finally carried Sir Pelham off to the library with the remaining gentlemen to drink his health yet again, she accompanied the twins to their rooms. Fanny was in a dream, her mind still filled, Charlotte suspected, with thoughts of Edgar, but Kate, in an ebullient mood, was full of her aunt’s betrothal.

  “Of course, we are glad for you, dear Aunt Lottie. And it was splendid that you should choose this special night to make your declaration. Sir Pelham is very agreeable, and will make a jolly sort of uncle for us.” She
could not, however, quite hide the hint of regret in her voice. “Though we had rather hoped for a more romantic outcome, had we not, Fanny?”

  “M’m?” Fanny roused herself. “Oh, quite. Very romantic.”

  “Fanny, do stop thinking of Edgar, and pay attention.”

  “Girls,” Charlotte intervened as lightly as she could manage, for the last thing she wanted was to discuss her rather precipitate betrothal. “You have had a wonderful birthday ball, and I had not meant to steal your thunder.”

  “You didn’t,” Fanny exclaimed. “It was only…”

  “Not now, dear. It is much too late, and we are all tired.”

  Kate opened her mouth to speak, looked at her aunt, and with a maturity that had hitherto eluded her, closed it again, contenting herself with an extra loving hug.

  ———

  Luke undressed, but found sleep hard to come by. Freddie had insisted on toasting Ballard in the library after the ball, and he was given no opportunity to absent himself. As a result, he had drunk liberally of the duke’s brandy, which, far from making him forget, had left him remarkably clear-headed.

  Now, pulling on his dressing robe, he paced the floor, castigating himself over what had happened. No use blaming Alice Verity because too much wine had made her so indiscreet as to pursue him to the conservatory. He should have been more careful. And he could hardly blame Charlotte for thinking the worst when she found Alice with her arms entwined around his neck.

  For what had happened, the blame was his, and his alone.

  How his fellow officers would laugh, could they but see him now, for his reputation with the ladies was second only to his military prowess. What had begun as a bid to banish all memory of his dear delight became a kind of game. Lucky Luke, the regiment, almost to a man, had dubbed him. In Lisbon, Salamanca, Madrid, Paris—he was invariably the one with the prettiest woman hanging upon his arm. It was all quite harmless, a release from the rigors of the campaign, and when the army moved on, he left behind him not a trail of broken hearts, but fond sighs and happy memories. And in the process, he thought he had forgotten.