Dancing With A Devil

by Julie Johnstone

  Kicking out at the still-twirling clock that had been on his desk, he caught his foot on his chair, lost his balance and went down hard on his back. His head smacked the wood floor, making his teeth rattle together in his head. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, and all the rage and bitterness pent inside flowed out in peals of laughter.

  His study door swung open with a bang, but he could not seem to make himself care or move. Footsteps tapped slowly across the floor and Pickering loomed above him, his bushy silver eyebrows raised. “I take it you fell, my lord, and tried to use the desk to catch yourself?”

  Pickering’s offered theory was utterly implausible, but Trent nodded, knowing they would both cling to the charade to keep a semblance of normalcy.

  “Indeed.” He pushed to a sitting position, his boots sliding against paper and his palm landing in a wet ink spot. Without a word, Pickering produced a cloth, which Trent gratefully took and wiped the dark ink off his palm as best he could.

  The first thing he needed to do was protect Audrey from himself. Stretching to his right he grabbed several sheets of parchment paper scattered on the rug. Before he could search or ask for his quill, Pickering reached behind the overturned desk, and when he stood again, had Trent’s quill in his hand and the inkpot. Pickering eyed the pot. “I believe there is enough ink in here to write a few correspondences.”

  Despite everything, Trent chuckled and took the inkpot and quill Pickering handed him. “Where is the stack of invitations I was going to have Jones respond to?”

  Pickering glanced around the floor, his mouth turning down in a frown. Then he moved toward Trent’s chair, knelt and reached under it. “Here, my lord. But the steward can do this. Why don’t you―”

  He waved his hand at Pickering. “I want to do it. Give them to me, please.”

  Without a word, Pickering handed him the invitations. Trent glanced at them briefly before fanning them against the crimson and green carpet. Dinners. The theater. A trip to the museum. All social events where Audrey would likely be present. He reached beside him, grabbed one of the tomes that had been on his desk and a sheet of foolscap and responded no to the first invitation he had been intending before to respond in the affirmative to.

  Once finished, he reached for another invitation when Pickering cleared his throat. Trent glanced up at his butler. “Go to bed, Pickering.”

  “My lord, I can straighten your study and allow you to answer these correspondence in a dignified manner.”

  “No,” Trent said more sharply than he had intended to. “The business that has brought me low is not dignified. It’s messy and occurred because of a single mistake I made.” Giving his trust to Gwyneth would never quit costing him.

  “As you wish, my lord,” Pickering responded with a steady, no-nonsense voice. He bowed out of the room and shut the door. Trent did not move. He stayed on the floor, legs thrown out in front of him, and summarily responded no to each invitation that would put him in contact with Audrey in the next week. He knew he would see her in public eventually, but he needed a bit of time to reestablish his guard.

  The thought that she might be betrothed to another man the next time he saw her filled his mouth with a bitter taste, but the knowledge that his abruptly ending their friendship would likely make her despise him twisted his insides into knots. And knowing there was no way to explain his actions made it all the worse.

  So Gwyneth might be alive. If he were still a praying man, he would pray it was not so. Looking around him, he spotted Dinnisfree’s letter, and leaning on his side, stretched his right arm out and picked the letter up with his fingertips.

  Once resettled, he unfolded it and read.

  I should be home within a week.

  Your loyal friend,

  Lord Justin Holleman, the Duke of Dinnisfree.

  A wry smile pulled at Trent’s lips. Leave it to Dinnisfree to leave me in the dark. A week? He glanced to the top of the letter for the date. If this letter had gone out the day Dinnisfree had written it, that meant the duke would be home in roughly seven days, if travel went well.

  He set the letter down, stood and picked his way around the mess on his floor toward the bar. Three glasses of whiskey later, the iciness inside his chest hadn’t thawed in the least and the same acute sense of loss gnawed at him. Audrey had never been his, and now she never would.

  With a week passing since Audrey had last seen Trent and the deadline for her accepting Mr. Shelton’s proposal arriving tomorrow night at the Lionhursts’ fete, Audrey’s nerves made it fairly impossible to stand still, let alone think clearly and rationally. Luckily, she, Whitney and Mr. Sutherland stood close to the balcony, which put them out of the line of direct sight and most people mulling around the Marlow’s ballroom were either dancing or trading the latest on dits and paying her no heed. Gripping Whitney’s arm she whispered, “Are you sure Trent said he was coming here tonight?”

  Whitney gave her a sympathetic look and nodded. “He said he was recovered from whatever ailed him all week and would be here. I feel certain he will. Aunt Millie specifically requested he attend, and I’ve yet to ever see him deny his mother a thing.” Whitney quirked her mouth. “Except, of course, getting married, but I’m certain that will change with you!”

  Audrey wished she felt as certain, but after a week of not seeing him, the warm feeling that had infused her at Whitney’s wedding breakfast when she had caught him gazing at her from across the room had now all but disappeared.

  Once more, she glanced around the ornate ballroom for him and groaned. Mr. Shelton was striding toward her. “This night has taken a decided turn for the worse,” she muttered. For a moment, she contemplated giving Mr. Shelton the cut direct, but there was no reason to start a war with her father before absolutely necessary. She forced a half smile as Mr. Shelton strode up to the little group she was standing in.

  He bowed slightly, which made the excess skin under his chin jiggle. Audrey struggled not to wince as she acknowledged him. “Mr. Shelton.”

  “Lady Audrey,” he said in a stiff, formal tone. “I believe this is our dance.”

  Only because she glanced up and caught sight of her father staring down at her from the overhead balcony did she relent. “Yes, indeed, my lord. I hope you have light feet,” she said in way of joking. “I’ve been known to crush some toes.”

  Mr. Shelton raised his eyebrows but didn’t crack a smile. “I assure you, you’ll not step on my feet.”

  Was that a command or a reference to his superior dancing abilities? She didn’t know, but she didn’t care for the haughty way he spoke to her. Yet if she could just keep her father happy long enough so that she could see Trent tonight, perhaps he would indicate his feelings and she could offer her father a very real and promising reason not to try to make her marry Mr. Shelton. With an inward sigh, she took his preferred elbow and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.

  Once the dance began, and Mr. Shelton started moving her about with jerky motions. She forced herself to smile, so her father would think they were getting along nicely. “Tell me, Mr. Shelton, what hobbies do you enjoy?”

  “Hobbies are frivolous. I’m a busy man.”

  She nibbled on her lip. She could ignore his superior attitude, if only she were the meek kind of woman. “I suppose I’m rather frivolous,” she said gaily. “I love horseback riding, gardening and painting. Oh, and I like to pound away on the pianoforte, though I must confess I’m dreadful.”

  He regarded her for a long, silent moment with an odd expression before a faint smirk twisted his lips. “Women are frivolous by nature and need a good husband to show them better ways to occupy their time. Speaking of a good husband, has your father talked to you about anything special?”

  “No,” she immediately lied, feeling no qualms about it. Father had not talked. He had demanded.

  Mr. Shelton’s eyebrows bunched together. “Hmm. I’m surprised, but I’ll say no more.”

  “That’s probably best,”
she said, struggling against the instinct to clench her hands. “Father really likes to do things on his own terms.”

  “Understandable,” Mr. Shelton agreed. “I like to do things my own way as well.”

  She did not care for his suggestive tone, but she cared even less for the slow slide of his beefy hands down her back. He came to a stop just above her derriere. Glaring at him, she arched her back away and stepped back a pace. “I believe you have lost control of your hands,” she snapped, turning her face purposely away from him. Not even to keep the peace with her father would she allow this man to maul her. She swept her gaze around the outer edge of the ballroom, past the refreshment table, the line of wallflowers, the chairs of six staring matrons and toward a shadowy alcove near the hall that she knew led to the portrait gallery.

  Either it was her imagination, the flickering candlelight or something had truly moved. She held her breath, a strange feeling consuming her and her heart beginning to race. The notes of the waltz picked up pace and Mr. Shelton danced them closer to the alcove. She squinted, unsure, and then her breath caught. Her gaze locked with Trent’s. He leaned casually against the wall, but his rigid stance and fisted hands at his side bespoke of anything but calmness coursing through him at this moment. A happy thrill shot through her body. She grinned and gripped Mr. Shelton’s hand tighter. When he squeezed her hand back, she immediately lessened her hold.

  The rest of the dance passed in silence and when the song ended, Mr. Shelton led her back to Whitney, her husband, Sally and the duke. Squeezing her hand with entirely too much familiarity, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, so as not to seem too unsociable. Whether things went her way or not, she would never dance with this man again. When he departed she turned to Whitney and Sally. “Trent is here!”

  “Where?” Sally demanded, gazing out toward the dance floor.

  “Not there.” Audrey cocked her head toward the alcove. “Over there, but do not look at―”

  Before she could get the rest of her warning out for Whitney and Sally not to look at once so they would not indicate they noticed him, both women had turned to stare at the alcove and then began to wave Trent over.

  Audrey huffed out a breath. “I had hoped he would come to me on his own accord.”

  Sally patted her hand as she exchanged a smile with her husband. “I’m sure he would have, darling, but this way we have just hurried things up a bit. No need to waste perfectly good time waiting for a man to be sensible when they so rarely are.”

  Sally’s and Whitney’s husbands both grunted in unison.

  He approached slowly. Too slowly, as if reluctant, but aware that to ignore his own cousin would be a terrible faux pas. Something was not right. Audrey’s stomach flipped. Perhaps it was her imagination. The closer he came, his facial expression grew clearer. His eyebrows slanted into a frown, but in four more steps he had smoothed them. Audrey clenched at her dress, then forced herself to release it as he came upon them. She tilted her head and forced a trembling smile to her lips. “Lord Davenport, I’m so glad to see you well once again.”

  “Thank you,” he mumbled.

  She frowned. Trent didn’t mumble. He’d never mumbled once in all the time she’d known him.

  “Oh, the quadrille,” Whitney exclaimed. “How lovely. Audrey was just saying this is her favorite dance and she luckily still has it free.”

  Audrey gaped at Whitney, not sure whether to be thankful or angry. If Trent was trying to avoid her, she did not want Whitney forcing his hand, no matter how much she longed for his strong hands to belong to her. Forever.

  When Trent scrubbed a hand over his face, Audrey’s stomach flipped again. It was not her imagination. He did not want to be with her.

  Heat singed her cheeks and she peered down at her slippers for momentary respite. She’d say she needed to freshen up. That was what she would do. Then she would go home and bury herself under her covers. She glanced up to make her excuse, and his gaze was on her.

  An uncomfortable silence stretched as he stared and she cursed the burning shame no doubt made evident by her flaming skin.

  His expression darkened before softening. “One last dance can hurt no one.”

  Last dance? Was he upset with her? Was that this sudden change? Had she gone too far in flirting with Lord Thortonberry? As all the couples headed to the dance floor, she determined to ask him. Once they took their places in the dance line, she hurriedly tried to speak with him before the quadrille began. “Trent, are you upset with me?”

  “No.”

  That was it? No. One word, nothing further! The man was infuriating. The tempo of the music started to rise, signaling that soon she’d have to move. “Are you jealous? Is that why you’re acting so different than last time I saw you?”

  His brittle smile softened slightly. “I’ll always be jealous when another man touches you.”

  Everyone around them started moving. Blast, blast, blast. She went through the motions while counting the seconds she’d be with Trent long enough to continue their conversation. After a few beats they came together and she hissed, “There’s no need to be jealous. You must believe me.”

  The dancers moved again, forcing Trent to step away from her. She watched him for a moment and when he appeared to think she was no longer looking she caught him staring at her with the special look he’d given her before―the one that pierced her to her soul and branded her his. Gooseflesh rose on her arms as her hope was renewed. Absently, she finished the dance and curtsied to him at the end. Now they could talk. “Trent―”

  “Lady Audrey,” a low voice said behind her. “This next dance is mine.”

  She sighed and turned to greet Lord Tilly. She would throttle her father if she could for requiring she accept any lord who asked her to dance tonight. “Yes, of course, Lord Tilly. Let me just say goodbye to Lord Davenport.”

  Lord Tilly smiled kindly at her. “He’s left, Lady Audrey.”

  Denial closed her throat as she swiveled around to empty air. Trent had slipped away without so much as a goodbye. There was no denying something was dreadfully wrong. The teasing, laughing man who had kissed her at the picnic and the one who had stared longingly at her a week ago at Whitney’s wedding breakfast was gone. Along with her hope for a marriage filled with love between the two of them. Tomorrow, her time was up with her father and once she disobeyed him she’d be kicked out of his home and become an outcast in Society.

  The pounding on her bedchamber door early the next morning did not wake Audrey up, because she had never actually fallen asleep. She had spent the night worrying. “One moment,” she called as she dragged herself out of bed, threw on her dressing robe and went to the door. She gasped in surprise to see her Aunt Hillie, her mother’s sister, standing there. She threw her arms around her aunt and hugged her. “When did you arrive? I did not know you were coming for a visit.”

  Her aunt gave her a firm hug back. “I just arrived and I did not know I was coming for a visit either, until my financial circumstances became so dire that they took my home yesterday.”

  “Oh, Hillie,” Audrey murmured, pulling away enough to look at her aunt in the face. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be, dear,” Hillie said with a cheerful note. “I get to visit with you and I’m certain I’ll be all right. I somehow always am.”

  Audrey nodded and took in her aunt’s appearance. A bit of dust clung to the outrageous ensemble her aunt wore. Audrey bit her lip. Clearly, her aunt’s unusual way of dressing had not changed, even if her financial circumstances had. Seven feathers of various hues of green adorned Hillie’s hair, and her gown was two sizes too big, in an altogether outdated fashion and made of Hillie’s signature color of carrot―according to her. In truth, the color clashed horribly, as it always had done, with Hillie’s red hair, but Audrey happened to know orange had been Uncle Fred’s favorite color.

  Audrey took her aunt’s hand at patted it. “How long h
ave you been here?”

  “Not even twenty minutes,” Hillie said while reaching up to straighten one of her feathers. “I went straightaway to speak with your father, but after assuring me I could stay, he refused to hear the rest of what I wanted to say. He told me to come fetch you, because he needed to speak with you and then he said he would endure listening to the mess I had made of my life later.”

  Audrey squeezed her aunt’s hand. “I’m sorry, Aunt.” Her father had never liked Hillie. He said she was dicked-in-the-nob, but Audrey knew that wasn’t true. Hillie was different, with her insistence on every gown she owned being orange, never wearing less than seven feathers in her hair and adding a proverb to almost every conversation she had, but being different didn’t bother Audrey. She knew firsthand Father’s lack of tolerance for anyone who didn’t fit the mold Society expected. Audrey tugged her aunt inside of her room. “I’m glad you have finally come for a visit, despite the circumstances.”

  “As am I,” Hillie said, warmth infusing her tone. “I would love to visit with you now, but your father demanded you come right away and I’m to get my chance to plead my beggarly case afterwards.”

  Audrey nodded as she plodded over to her wardrobe, chose a gown and went behind her dressing curtain. “You are never a beggar with family,” she called from behind the screen.

  “Hmph,” Hillie replied. “That’s not what your father thinks. But enough about me for a moment. Do you know what your father wants to speak with you about?”

  Audrey came out from behind the dressing screen and turned her back to Hillie. “Would you fasten me?”

  “Of course, dear. Where are the servants?”

  “Gone,” Audrey replied as Hillie tugged on her gown. “Father has gotten rid of them. I believe we may be on hard times.”

  “Oh, my,” Hillie murmured. “Is that what your father wishes to speak with you about?”