During the dance he’d edged out into the ballroom, just by a few inches and only to keep an eye on developments. But now his face was exposed to public view. If he moved back under cover, Lady Wotton would see him. No, that was ridiculous, the ballroom surrounding her was full of motion, and any additional would hardly catch her eye. But a clear area surrounded the marble columns, there’d be movement where none else was, and she couldn’t help but see that.
Well, she’d certainly recognize him if he stood still or if he tried to duck out the entrance ahead of her, even if all she saw was his back. Being recognized now, so close to their final victory, was unthinkable. In the long term, Lady Wotton couldn’t stop Anne from marrying him, but she could stop their elopement tonight and keep them apart for the next year and a half. And the ache in his heart, the sour taste in his mouth, produced by that thought, taught Frederick precisely how much he yearned for their immediate marriage.
Even if it came at the price of a Scottish adventure.
He had to risk the motion. Frederick eased back, sliding behind the slender pillar of marble, and held his breath. The dance floor remained in view, and if she altered her path toward her left by so much as a foot, at least part of him would be visible; but if he moved back further, she’d see him from her eye’s corner, in profile, as she rounded the corner.
The skirt of her blue gown came closer. Closer. Suddenly she vanished as the column blocked her from his view. Beneath the rollicking music, the rumbling voices, silk swished. Her slippers padded once, twice—
And then she was past.
No time for forehead-wiping. Frederick turned, casual as any upstart attending a ball so far above his station could possibly be, and strode away in the opposite direction, between the crowd lining the dance floor and the seats against the wall. The conservatory was halfway around the room and the door stood open. It was past time for him to leave.
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday, December 24, 1812 (continued)
Anne rose from her curtsey and burst into applause, beaming with that stunning, perfect rose-hued flush. His Grace smiled back. It had been one of the most exhilarating, charming dances of his adventurous life, one he’d remember with relish for the remainder of his years. And it seemed he’d given himself away again. He did so more and more often during these games, and perhaps that was a good sign rather than carelessness; he wasn’t completely lost to all sensibility, all good feeling, and he hadn’t degenerated into a mere caricature of himself. Yes, that was a positive assessment.
Behind her, Lord Roland Melwyn, Fourth Earl of Norcross, he of the clicking mandibles, led the tempting Lady Ivy Plumthorne toward the empty chairs, her chestnut locks a pure delight against her amethyst velvet and lavender silk. Strangely appropriate shades, considering her name. Her eyes strayed to the ballroom’s entrance, rather as if she hoped for someone to arrive on a white charger and rescue her from certain doom… but he shouldn’t permit himself to be tempted, at least not until he’d finished his current game.
“Miss Kirkhoven, your dancing is a gentleman’s lifetime thrill. Will you sit now? Shall I fetch you some refreshment?”
Her smile turned coy then began to fade as if a new idea, or perhaps a remembered one, distracted her thoughts and turned them inward. But before she could answer, Miss Alicia sidled up beside her, dropping a quick curtsey in his direction. Their two lovely heads leaned together, dark and light, and both sets of liquid eyes cut his way. Clearly they wished to speak.
Without his presence.
Ah. The sharing of secrets, and the necessary corollary of the existence of secrets to be shared. With the thought, his pulse quickened.
She’d taken his bait.
Easing back from their whispers, Anne slid a surreptitious hand up Alicia’s forearm and her fingers closed in a gentle squeeze. Alicia swallowed whatever she had been about to say, her dark curls bobbing.
“Thank you for… the dances.” The pause in Anne’s phrase implied a deeper meaning, one she perhaps did not feel comfortable broaching. Or perhaps not in her cousin’s presence. “Our time together has been delightful.”
That sounded as if it were intended to cover rather more than two simple dances. And that meant yes, she’d swallowed his bait. Their time was at an end. Ernst couldn’t stop a smile from breaking through his mask. Nor could he prevent himself from teasing. “Perhaps I might importune you for the quadrille, after supper?”
Alicia’s eyes widened with horror.
But Anne’s eyebrows arched. “You would risk besmirching my reputation by requesting another set during the same ball?”
Ah, the perfect beauty of a confident woman, once she’d set her girlhood aside. He bowed. “Enchanted, my dear.”
Another introductory note from the violinist. Silk swishing, the cousins ducked behind the line of watchers encircling the dance floor, angling their path under cover of the broad, concealing shoulders of Donovan Ellis, Seventh Duke of Gatewood, and headed toward—
—the conservatory door, open in the back corner. Still whispering but not giggling; a certain sign of feminine conspiracy. Among the watching crowd, a few glances followed their path. But many, many more fastened on him. They’d want to know whether he intended continuing his pursuit of the heavenly Anne, or if another young lady’s virtue would attract his assault. Perhaps he should dance with the delectable Lady Ivy; he’d always enjoyed galloping about on chargers, white or any other color.
Gatewood hung on his heel, still blocking anyone’s view of the little corridor down which Anne and Alicia escaped. His remarkably elegant burgundy tailcoat was guaranteed to stop the most roving of eyes; as a distraction from the retreating cousins, he couldn’t be bested. Straightening to his full and considerable height, he peered above the lively crowd as if seeking a particular face. Then his gaze fixed and his lips thinned. Brushing past His Grace with barely a muttered apology, Gatewood started toward Miss Warren and her beau, then veered off in the direction of the refreshment tables, where the second-dance cluster had started to thin as gentlemen fetched drinks and ices for their former partners, now seated.
Ah. Another foolish young gentleman in need of prodding. Perhaps he should dance with Miss Warren, as well. Certainly having her on his arm would be no punishment, at least not for him.
At the conservatory door, Alicia vanished through. But Anne paused. Their eyes met across the ballroom, between the rowdy bodies organizing for the next dance. In that single brilliant flash of recognition, respect and affection shone like gold in her confident smile.
Then she turned and strode serenely away into her new life.
Indeed yes, those two were most certainly up to something. Thrilling thought. Delightful.
And while Lady Wotton had gone off in entirely the wrong direction, she might yet catch on.
Ernst drew a deep breath, settled his invisible ducal mask back into place, and went hunting for the about-to-be bamboozled mother.
All he could do was his best.
****
The disgraceful dance was over. But her daughter wasn’t in sight.
Lady Wotton again scanned the ballroom. Her attention had been distracted for mere moments, while she’d found a footman and sent for her carriage. Now everyone was in motion, dancers claiming new partners or waiting in hopeful desperation for one to present, the facing lines forming, fans fluttering on the sidelines and gentlemen thinning from around the refreshment tables. Was that — no, the gown was wrong. There was Letitia, simpering at the Duke of Gatewood, and good luck to her. But where was Anne?
Cold panic encased her heart. Anne had walked off with that rake when they’d first arrived. But she wasn’t silly enough to do so a second time.
Was she?
Tempting, to throw the situation in Lady Kringle’s face and blame her. But causing a to-do would only arouse attention and even more gossip. Indeed, the worst action Lady Wotton could take would be to create a scene. It should not be difficult to locate her
daughter.
Before disaster overtook them both.
The footman she’d sent reappeared at her elbow. “Your carriage has been called, madam.”
She clutched his sleeve. “My daughter, help me find my daughter.”
“If you’ll give me her name, madam, I’ll ask around—”
And attract unwanted attention. “No. No, no. Help me look. She’s wearing a lilac gown with violet roses around the hem and on her sleeves. Fair hair, short stature. Very pretty…” Her voice trailed off.
There beside her was — beaming, charming, as if he’d never smiled a feral smile in his life, as if he’d never hunted down an innocent, defenseless girl for his own amusement nor caused a whit of harm, and if he was beside her… Then where on earth was Anne?
And what the dickens was the man saying?
“Yes, she’s a beautiful young woman, refined, accomplished, and a credit to her parents and someday soon, I hope, to a husband worthy of her.” His eyes crinkled. “Almost, dear Lady Wotton. Almost.”
If he laughed at her, he’d be limping home. At best.
“Sir, where is my daughter?”
Those classical eyebrows shot up his forehead. “We parted at the dance’s end, I assure you. And anyone here can attest to that fact, should your doubts remain. However, I believe your lovely Anne and her cousin Alicia were going out to stroll in the cool air of the front gardens.” He pointed past the marble columns to the walkway and anteroom beyond, leading to the gallery and main entrance. “I believe the young people like to gather around the fountain.”
“Thank you.” With all the dignity she had left, Lady Wotton turned and followed his directions.
She’d find her daughter and they’d leave at once.
No matter how long she had to search.
****
Back through the conservatory, pushing beneath the dark, dangling lobelia, the pale ghosts of spindly orchids backed by fans of ferns, and finally past a tray of geranium cuttings, thick little stems jutting from a smooth sea of dirt. He might be too late, the lovers could be gone, but still he yearned to see them off.
Lanterns dotted the back garden, little beads of still light like fireflies glowing in the velvet dark. But on the terrace, raw torches flared and danced, at the corners and beside the stairs leading down to the lawns and beds. The smoke tugged at his memories; the flames beat against his eyes. But no, there, beyond the last greenhouse but before the sighing stand of beeches — two dark forms flitting past the knot garden and ducking into the trees.
Only for a moment.
And then they were gone.
She was gone.
Chapter Fifteen
Friday, October 24, 1806
Pillnitz Castle, Dresden, Kingdom of Saxony
The torches in the courtyard flickered, driving back the ugly night. Wilhelm started to hand him the cloak, then drew it back with a jerk and stepped behind him. The weight of the heavy wool settled on his shoulders, another burden to carry. Instead of the golden and azure eagle of their house, Wilhelm fastened the cloak with a simple silver brooch.
As if the quality of the cloak, his clothing, the horse, and the tackle didn’t proclaim his identity to every spy.
He’d organized the resistance, led the fighting, called out against tyranny. Despite all his father’s cajoling and fury, his name had been tossed from stronghold to garrison to barricade, until some heroic, impossible image of him had hovered over the front lines like a marauding eagle. And now, with the battle all but over, with the enemy at the gate and spies already in the town, his options had dwindled to escape. To protect his parents, his family, the town, everyone he loved, he had to run.
Like a rabbit.
Despite the reality, his little brother’s thoughtfulness wrenched like another wound. Ernst reached back and drew Wilhelm into a fierce hug, and ached again at the crushing strength he received in response.
“I will return,” Ernst whispered into his brother’s ear. “Start looking for me as soon as that Sicilian is defeated. Don’t forget. Don’t let Mama or Father forget, no matter what he must say of me while I’m gone. And don’t let—” But the name died in his throat. He stepped back. Wilhelm’s face twisted with adolescent heartbreak and bravery. Ernst squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t let anyone else forget, either.”
“Anyone else?”
The soft voice came from the shadows of the courtyard wall. He whirled, and even as instinct yanked his hand toward the sword at his side, he knew.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
She ran toward him. The massive hooded cloak flared and rippled behind her. Despite its bulk, her figure was so small, so slight. The flickering heat from the torches could bowl her over. And yet she stood straight as a sword blade in front of him. The curve of her chin, one perfect cheek, her tantalizing Cupid’s-bow lips peeked from beneath the hood. No tears; those were for lesser women.
He’d sent word with a trusted servant, told her not to come. The Sicilian’s armies crowded near the city’s gates; of course spies had infiltrated, were reporting everything they saw to their controllers beyond the walls. If she were seen with him — if she were stopped on the street. Attacked. She knew the risks to the last full stop.
A lesser woman would have listened to his warning, would not have come. But a lesser woman would not have captured his heart.
He held open his arms. Without fear, she stepped close. For a moment her dark eyes glowed from the hood’s shadowed depths, bottomless wells of love, then she buried her face against his chest and he engulfed her.
“I will return,” he whispered. “I swear it.”
A touch on his cheek, rasping against his stubble. He’d had no time for a shave. For days he’d sorted out the affairs of the Electorate, sending family members and beloved servants and valuable livestock and priceless treasures to safety behind his father’s back. To Russia, to Sweden, to Greece, to anywhere that seemed safe.
To England.
If he stayed, if he humbled himself before their conquerors and swore fealty to criminals, he could marry this priceless treasure in his arms, continue to represent his father as the heir apparent, perhaps protect the Electorate’s citizens from the ravages of the enemy armies. But in return, he’d have to fight for the Sicilian. Watch the gradual, steady erosion of his father’s authority and confidence as the family’s power slipped away. Wonder when the knife would slip into his own back.
A lesser woman would beg him to stay, beg to go with him. A lesser woman could never deserve the title that would someday be hers: Duchess of Saxony.
And, with the Holy Roman Empire tottering on its ancient foundations, perhaps even queen.
Never could he hope to deserve her. Ernst eased the hood aside, stroked his fingers into her glistening pale hair, found her lips, and claimed her as his own. He kissed her once with fire, again with tenderness, and finally with longing, a humble peck on her forehead. The hand entangled in his shirt, beneath the coat, burned his skin with a heat beyond flames.
She stepped back. Behind her, Wilhelm fastened a hamper to the sidling warhorse’s saddle.
“What’s that?”
One quick mischievous glance between his brother and his love. “Sandwiches,” Wilhelm said.
“And a flask,” she added.
His saddlebags already contained dried meat and fruit, soldier’s biscuits and cheap wine, but she’d thought of comforts for the early part of the journey. Truly a woman beyond him. “Ever practical.”
Her chin lifted. Behind the hood, pain filled her eyes. Still no tears. “Now go.”
He had to; the enemy armies were tightening the ring and soon it would be too late to escape. But he hesitated. There was no guarantee he’d reach the cold northern coast and find the waiting ship, and certainly no guarantee they’d slip through the Bight to English waters. And while he had no doubts of her intentions, anything could happen before peace allowed his return. The twisting ache in his chest rivaled the dull one
from the half-healed wound in his side. Chances were, these were their last moments together.
Then her swollen lips curved and the fire returned, driving out the ache.
“I’ll dream of you.” One hand swooped up, slid back her hood, and she shook her head with artless grace. She hadn’t pinned her hair; the pale gossamer mass flew, danced, settled on her shoulders, demanding his fingers’ attention.
But if he fell for that temptation, she’d know he didn’t deserve her. Which of course was why she’d behaved in such a blatant, seductive, shameless manner. To tempt and test him one final time.
Ernst turned away, took the reins, and swung up into the massive warhorse’s saddle. Wilhelm stepped back, the edges of his mouth curling up, but his face still twisted.
The horse sidled, shifting beneath him. “Then dream of me,” Ernst told her.
Love and pride radiated from her, glinted off her mane like a halo. “And someday you’ll return and make my dreams come true.”
He kneed the horse sideways, bent down, and stroked a finger across that perfect Cupid’s bow. “I swear it.”
Her eyes refused to release him. Finally he had to rip his gaze away, to his brother’s embarrassed smile.
“Remember, Wilhelm.”
His brother ducked his head. “I promise.”
The silent soldier at the gate lifted the latch and swung the postern aside. Ernst squeezed his legs and the warhorse leapt for freedom.
Only later, while eating her hearty beef sandwiches within the darkest depths of an oak grove, did he find the stash of jewelry hidden in the hamper. Nothing big or flashy, nothing that could be traced to a specific house or family. Just enough gold, diamonds, and rubies to keep a running man going, no matter where he found himself. Keep him going for decades if necessary.
Scandal on Half Moon Street Page 9
