“I do not blame her for being upset. Thomas used her.”
“I believe Thomas did worse damage to the woman…pardon me, the women he married and yet I do not recall a counting of their such vulgar vocabularies.” Keenan raised an eyebrow. “Unless you are holding out on me?”
“Blythe is a lady,” Michael replied. To the very tips of her toes. “And so was Anne, for her lack of genteel birth.”
Keenan’s expression sobered. “Michael, is this wise?”
“Is what wise?”
“Your betrothal to Miss Darlington. You are obviously still in love with Blythe.”
“What does it matter?” He’d racked his brain for hours looking for a way out.
“Just break the betrothal. So what if there is a scandal about Thomas? You did not cause it. Blythe did not cause it. And yet, you are both the ones to suffer for it!”
“I cannot.”
“Why?”
Irritation needled Michael. “It is done, Keenan. Leave it alone.”
“I will not leave it alone.” He stepped forward until his face was only inches from Michael’s. “You are the closest thing to family I have, Michael, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you ruin your life without even a discussion.”
Michael grabbed Keenan’s lapels with his left hand. “I said, leave it alone!” He raised his other fist, primed and ready to pummel.
Keenan shot his chin out. “Go ahead. I don’t bloody care if it gets through your thick-as-a-donkey’s-arse head! You cannot do this. That woman will make you miserable. Why are you so hell-bent on taking on the responsibility of this?”
Michael dropped his hands and let go of his friend. “It is my responsibility. Thomas was my family.”
Keenan frowned. “Who the devil cares?”
Resignation settled on Michael’s chest like a mantle. “I do.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I am doing the only thing I know how, Will, the only thing that keeps everyone safe from ruin: my daughter, Anne’s child. Blythe. And yes, Abigail’s child as well.
“Thomas preyed on them all. He put everything I have worked my life for at risk, including Bethie’s future. If I do this, if I marry Abigail, it all goes away. And everyone is safe.”
“And what about Blythe? You just forget about her?”
If only he could. “She will marry again. I only pray she…I hope she finds love.” The very thought rammed like a knife into his heart. She hadn’t even turned to another man, and he already wanted to smash a fist into his face.
Sadness crossed Keenan’s face for a brief moment. “And on we march.”
“And on we march,” Michael replied softly.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The following night, Blythe attended yet another ball against every protest she could muster. But her mother was a force larger than God himself, and so here she stood, backed against the wallpapered walls of the Davenport’s ballroom.
She sighed. Why had she not worn a dress in the colors of cream and rose? If she had, she would blend so much better with the flowery print behind her and not be expected to—
“My dear Lady Ashton, there you are!”
She closed her eyes for a brief second of self-pity, before opening them to meet Lord Wittleton’s discomforting gaze. He had the grand misfortune to have eyes that nearly bugged out of his head. When aimed downward at her cleavage and added to a grin that more resembled a leer, it rather made Blythe feel like he would stick out his tongue and drool on her at any given moment.
“Lord Wittleton.”
“I have come to claim you for the next dance.” He reached a hand out and leaned in entirely too close.
“I am honored, truly….” Blythe deftly scooted against the wall until she could maneuver herself past him. “But you see, I was just excusing myself—.”
He snatched her hand and brought it up to his mouth. “Oh, but I must insist.”
She grimaced as his mouth neared her fingers. “I absolutely could not.”
“Lady Ashton,” a smooth, most welcome voice intruded.
Blythe yanked her hand back and seeing Michael standing just to her right, she sighed in relief. “Your Grace.”
“I have been looking for you to claim the dance promised.” He leveled a gaze at the other man. “You do not mind, Wittleton.”
Blythe took a small step toward Michael.
“Well, in fact—.” Wittleton started to say.
“I thought not.” Michael held an arm out to her. “Shall we?”
She glanced down at the offered arm and with a small smile, slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. His warmth suffused her fingers and sent shivers up her arm. She chanced a look at him. “Thank you.”
He met her gaze with a smile. “You looked trapped. It was either steal you for a dance or smash his face in. I thought a dance would attract the least amount of attention.”
Elation rushed through her at his words. “A dance it is,” she managed to say casually, somehow, even though her entire body tingled.
Michael led her to the edge of the dance floor and just as they stopped, a waltz started. He grinned. “Fortuitous, don’t you think?”
She could only look up at him with a smile. His arm slipped about her waist, and his hand came to rest on the small of her back.
She placed her other hand in his and resisted the urge to lean into him. Sounds of Mozart filled the room and with a light push against her back, Michael whirled her into the dance.
With each turn of the dance, she breathed him in, the scent clean, musky, and yet uniquely his. Her gaze locked with his.
She drank in the love that shimmered in his beautiful blue eyes, and, she imagined, echoed in her own.
They whirled with the music, holding on to each other with just enough distance as to not be shocking. Blythe reveled in the feel of being in his arms, the warmth of his hand on her back, her hand grasped tightly in his own creating a circle where only they existed. The crescendos of the music soared through her heart until the music softened again and began to fade away.
And just like that, she heard chatter around them. The blurs of colors became distinct, gowns of the women around them, the waistcoats of the men dancing with them.
The dance came to an end and they stopped. Michael’s hand slid away from her waist and after a quick squeeze, he let go of her hand and took a step back.
She broke the gaze and looked about, noting the none-too-discreet curious glances their way. “If this was intended to not attract attention, I believe it was a poor choice.”
His eyes held a warm glimmer. “But I had not danced with you yet.”
She frowned. “But we just arrived.”
He leaned in a tiny bit. “I meant, in our acquaintance.”
She thought back. “You are quite right.”
“So, my lady, I thank you for allowing me to rectify that,” he said most properly. He held out an arm again. “Shall I escort you back to Lord Wittleton?”
She narrowed her eyes and placed her hand back inside the turn of his arm. “Not if you wish to remain friends.”
“Friends?” he repeated softly as he led her from the floor.
Her heart raced. She would forever be in love with him, she knew. But to keep his smile close, to be able to dance with him on occasion…If she could simply keep him in her life, then perhaps her life would not be so lonely.
They stopped near the refreshment table, and Blythe turned to him. She nodded. “Friends.”
A burst of laughter pulled Blythe from her thoughts and she glanced to the left. Miss Darlington stood there, surrounded by a group of friends.
“She is quite lovely.” Blythe smiled, hoping it might ward off the sadness that began seeping into her heart.
An odd shadow crossed Michael’s face. “Yes, she is.”
“When is the wedding?”
“Three days.”
His words punched through Blythe’s thin resolve to stay cheerful and unaffected. “I am…Please, if
you’ll excuse me.”
Without another word, she turned on her heel and hurried toward the nearest door as tears pushed at the back of her eyes.
She had to get out of the room before she cried. That would certainly give the ton something to gossip about.
She turned down a hallway once she made it out the door and continued forward, until she found a slightly open door. With a glance back the direction she came to ensure no one had followed her, she went into the room. It was partially lit by a few candles, and obviously intended as some sort of sitting room. She found her way to the nearest couch and sank into it.
Three days.
In just three days, Michael would be someone else’s husband. And no matter how many nights she managed a single dance with him, no matter how many casual yet completely chaperoned conversations they had, she would never be his wife. She would not be the one to share his bed. She would not be the one to love him.
She snorted delicately. There was a silly thought. Of course she would love him, she just would not be the one allowed to do so openly. She could not imagine her life without him in it, even in the smallest of ways, and yet she could not imagine her life with him as anything but the man she loved.
A stream of light filtered into the room and Blythe glanced up after a quick wipe at the wetness on her cheeks. She blinked in surprise at the figure standing in the doorway. “Miss Darlington.”
She glided into the room, careful to shut the door behind her, until they were once again surrounded only by low candle light. “Lady Ashton, I wanted a moment to speak with you.”
“Of course.” Blythe stood as the petite woman came closer. Shadows hid part of her face, but Blythe could still see her perfect, statue-like beauty.
“I thought we should discuss things between us.”
Blythe frowned. “What things?”
Abigail took another step closer. “Thomas. The Duke.”
Blythe wasn’t sure how to respond.
“You see, I was unaware that Thomas was married when I got involved with him,” Abigail told her. “The bloody bastard lied to me.”
Blythe blinked at the sharp undertones in her voice. “I see.”
The other woman turned slightly into the light, and Blythe could see her face more clearly. The beauty contorted as Abigail sneered at her. “So do I.”
“I am not following,” Blythe said slowly, trying to understand.
“I slept with your husband. Now you think to sleep with mine.”
Blythe gasped. “You could not be more wrong.”
“I saw you on the dance floor. Do not deny you want him.”
“I—” Blythe stopped. She couldn’t deny that. “I would never dishonor Michael’s wedding vows.”
“Frankly, I could care less where he whores after we are married,” Abigail said with an impatient wave of her hand. “But you…he cares for you. An imbecile could see that. But the Duke is mine, and I will not be made a laughingstock.”
Blythe felt ashamed. She had been so focused on her own wants, her own desires that she had not considered what it would do to the woman Michael would marry.
Abigail stared at her, anger hot in her eyes. “I am telling you, stay away from my husband.”
Blythe frowned. “He is not your husband yet.”
“Three bloody days and he—” Abigail cut herself off. Sucking in a breath, she put a hand to her chest and looked down. “Forgive me, please. I am not myself lately.” She reached down and patted her stomach. “It has just all been so overwhelming.”
Despite herself, Blythe felt empathy for the young woman. She had been used by Thomas, too. “Of course it is.”
Abigail looked up, her expression one of angelic sweetness, as if the coldness and rage just there was simply a figment of Blythe’s imagination. “I do beg your forgiveness, Lady Ashton. It is just that I need Michael so very much right now. Whatever was between you, it is in the past, I’m sure. I know you would never dishonor me or his promise to marry me.”
Blythe was sure she imagined the sharp edge in the sweetly spoken words. The woman was pregnant, overwrought, and deserved every kindness. Whatever had happened here was simply due to her condition. “It is forgotten. We should return you to Michael.”
Abigail nodded. “That would be best, I think.” As they veered toward the door, Abigail stopped for a moment and looked at her, slightly panicked. “I need him so very much right now.”
A heavy sadness sat in Blythe’s chest. “I know you do.”
Michael had chosen to marry Abigail, to rectify Thomas’s wrongs in the only way he knew how. Blythe understood, completely, for she knew what drove him. And she would do nothing to make this situation even more impossible.
****
The next night, Cordelia pleaded with Blythe to act as her chaperone to a dinner party at the home of a family friend. Their mother had not been feeling well and Adam had plans of his own. And rather than face Cordelia’s tremendous ability to act as if the world had crashed around her because she missed even a single party of her season, Blythe gave in, only because she doubted Michael would be at such a small gathering.
She sat on the far side of the room next to Cordelia and across from their hostess, who was a friend of their mother’s. And in Blythe’s current seat, she had a prime view of the doorway. She almost groaned as Michael strode through it. Dread and excitement congealed inside of her as he stopped and surveyed the room.
Finally, his scan of the room landed on her and his face lit up. He offered her a smile and a slight nod of his head. To hide the burst of love that flew through her, Blythe turned back to face her sister.
“Blythe, the Duke is here,” Cordelia told her needlessly.
Their mother’s friend pounced. “Do you know Ravensdale? Oh, but of course you do. You were married to his cousin.” She glanced back at him and twittered. “I cannot believe he showed! Tonight should prove exciting after all. And here I was afraid we’d created such a dullard of an evening.”
“Why?” Cordelia asked before Blythe could.
Lady Heseltine leaned forward. “The Duke is an automatic invite, but he rarely shows. I certainly did not expect him to appear tonight, especially since…” She trailed off and gasped. “Oh, my. I imagine he does not know yet.”
Blythe’s heart skipped a beat. “Know what?”
“Your mother will be sorry she missed this!” Lady Heseltine said, her tone high pitched in her own excitement as she turned again and watched Michael greet Lord Heseltine. “Tonight will be one for the gossip pages, I am sure of it!”
Blythe tamped down impatience. “Whatever has you so excited?”
Lady Heseltine jumped up from her seat and quickly brushed her skirts. “I must go and say hello.”
“But—.” Blythe said in vain, as their mother’s friend was already halfway across the room.
“I wonder what that was about,” Cordelia said. “You do not think she knows anything, do you?”
“About…our time at Rosemead? Don’t be silly. She couldn’t possibly.” Blythe frowned. She assumed no one would be the wiser. Those privy to the information were her family, herself, Michael and Captain Keenan—-all of whom she trusted to keep quiet.
Perhaps someone had learned that she and Michael had been betrothed. She couldn’t imagine how, but if they had?
That was not so terrible. It could be explained. Somehow.
She chanced a peek at Michael and noted with relief that Miss Darlington was nowhere to be seen.
If his betrothed was not by his side, it would be perfectly acceptable for Blythe to say hello. See the warmth of his smile directed at her.
Just once more. Then she could walk away, and find it in herself to be happy for him.
The level of chatter in the room rose dramatically. Blythe looked at Cordelia. “What is going on?”
Cordelia looked about. “I don’t know, but it has something to do with that woman, I believe.” She pointed a finger at the doorway, where
a striking, elegant woman of their mother’s age stood, framed by the gleaming wood. Her gown was of the first order, a rich burgundy satin with little embellishment save for her ample bosom. Her hair reminded Blythe of Michael’s, the same satiny dark brown, only swept up into an elegant chignon. The woman held herself like royalty, her chin slightly raised as her eyes surveyed the room with a slightly disinterested curiosity.
“Who is she?” It seemed as if everyone else in the room either knew the answer to that or wanted to know, for every set of eyes was on her.
Including Michael’s.
He stared at the woman with hard eyes, his mouth set in a grim line. Whoever she was, Michael was not happy in the slightest to see her.
****
Michael could not decide what urge was strongest—-to leave the bloody party without a single word or stride up to the woman he’d hoped never to set eyes on again. He knew every single eye was trained on his reaction and he was not about to give her the satisfaction of providing one. He had learned long ago that any reaction was pounced on as a sign of weakness and used against him.
But what the hell was she doing here?
He glanced in the corner Blythe was sitting and took in the sight of her. Just her smile could lift his spirits, and right now, he was desperately in need of something positive.
Before he realized what he was doing, he headed in her direction. He stopped at the edge of the settee she sat on and looked down at her with a warm smile. “Lady Ashton, how lovely to see you again.” He nodded at her sister. “Miss Willoughby.”
“Your Grace, who is that woman?” Cordelia asked bluntly, looking at the doorway.
He could see the faintest twinges of curiosity in Blythe’s expression, though she fought hard to cover it.
He sighed. If he didn’t tell them, someone else would.
“She is my mother.”
Blythe’s gaze snapped to his. He could practically see the stories he had confided in her running through her mind, until her eyes focused with…He frowned. Was that a protective glint he saw?
“Your mother,” she said.
He nodded and gestured toward the empty space next to her. “May I?”
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