by Jane Goodger
“Yes, Mother, he is all those things.” And all those things had been irritating to her at one time. Now, though, she was finding his loud laughter endearing, his palpable energy exhilarating.
She turned her head abruptly away from him. It would do no good if she were to develop feelings for him. It could only end disastrously. A wave of depression struck her at that moment, just as she reached her hand out to take the lace-embossed dance card. She had the sudden urge to jerk her hand back, to refuse to participate in this absurd farce. She was not going to marry, so why was she here, wearing her loveliest gown, her hair intricately styled, her jewels sparkling and inviting stares of both envy and greed? Instead, she calmly took the card and looped the gold-tasseled cord about her wrist. Perhaps with Miss Crawford officially off the marriage mart, her card would once again be filled.
She glanced down at the card and noted the Fieldings had scheduled three waltzes that evening. Perhaps she could save one for Charles; a lady could never decline to dance with a gentleman unless that dance had already been filled. It was a ready excuse to give to her mother, who would no doubt disapprove of her dancing with him.
That thought was still in her head when Charles appeared by their side. “Lady Summerfield,” he said with a bow to her mother before turning to her. “Lady Marjorie, I wonder if you would do me the honor of dancing with me during the second waltz.”
“Oh, dear, Mr. Norris, you are too late I’m afraid, her dance card is quite full,” Dorothea said, with such sugar sweetness, Marjorie wanted to scream. A hundred times her mother had said those same words to gentlemen she’d deemed unworthy of her. And every time, Marjorie had nodded her head demurely and let her mother have her way. Not this time.
“My goodness, Mother, you must be mistaken. We’ve just arrived, after all. It would be my honor to dance with you, sir,” she said, even as she felt her face flush from her obvious rebellion.
She didn’t know what had come over her, she really didn’t. But Marjorie held up her empty dance card and showed it to her mother to prove her point even as she saw the anger flare in her mother’s eyes.
“So it is,” Dorothea said succinctly. She was so very angry, Marjorie thought, and wondered if this tiny bit of defiance would be worth it. She would hear a lecture this night. Her mother would go on and on about how she must be more selective, must find a title, must only dance with men her mother approved of, must must must must must.
“If that is the case, Lady Marjorie, could I be so bold to ask for a galop as well?” Oh, the cad. He must know her mother was livid. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes held the devil in them. Marjorie heard her mother’s sharp intake and felt a warning fissure at the base of her neck.
“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Norris.” Both dances required her to be held in his arms and she could almost feel his warm hand against her back already.
She removed the card from her wrist and handed it to Charles, who removed a pencil from his breast pocket, then scrawled his name boldly on the first galop and second waltz. Marjorie took the card back with a smile that was meant to tell him a bit about how brave that small act was. He winked as he bowed again and Marjorie felt her world swirl, her pulse beat a sharp staccato in her throat. A wink and he very nearly had her heart.
When he’d gone, Marjorie braced herself for her mother’s scathing words, but they didn’t come. And that was a bit worse, she thought. She would get a talking to, but her mother would never make even the smallest scene in public. Marjorie wished she would, if only to get it over with. Instead, Dorothea smiled at her and said, “Let’s see if we can get the rest of your dance card filled. With more appropriate gentlemen.”
Ah, there it was, a small hint of what was to come. Marjorie returned her mother’s smile and looped the dance card back over her wrist.
Before the Grand March started, Marjorie’s card was nearly filled, and her mother seemed to forgive her small transgression. Lord Wentworth had requested the first waltz and she thought her mother would explode with self-satisfaction.
“The first waltz,” Dorothea said. “Leave the last waltz open, dear. One never knows what will happen.”
One knew, Marjorie thought darkly. No doubt her mother would continue her campaign with the poor fellow, who didn’t begin to look like he wanted to be in this room with a gaggle of giggling debutantes. But she supposed attending a ball was better than staying at home with five motherless children all demanding his attention. She knew Lord Wentworth would ask her for that last waltz and she couldn’t stop the dread that formed in the pit of her stomach.
Lord Wentworth, it turned out, was a pleasant fellow who seemed amazingly cheerful for a recent widower with five children at home. He did have an unfortunate habit of spitting a bit as he spoke, but Marjorie supposed if she kept her distance during conversation she could tolerate him well enough.
“Your country home is in Coventry, is it not?” Marjorie asked in an effort to break the awkward silence as they danced. Lord Wentworth was a tall, thin man with pleasant gray eyes and thinning brown hair. There was nothing at all disagreeable about him (besides the spitting), but Marjorie didn’t feel even the smallest twinge of interest in him.
“Yes, it is.”
“I toured St. Michael’s Cathedral in Coventry once when I was visiting a friend. Perhaps you know her. Miss Anne Barnes? Her father is a squire.”
“Of course, I know the Barnes family. Sir Alfred is an avid fisherman and we often fish together. How is Miss Barnes? I haven’t seen her in years.”
“She married Baronet Redgrave. We still correspond, but she is quite busy with her two young children.”
“My goodness. Little Annie Barnes has two children. I’ve five, you know, and I can hardly believe it.”
Marjorie laughed at his bewildered expression. “Five is rather a large number. And they are all quite young?”
“The oldest is ten.” His smile became wistful as they skirted the edge of the dance floor. He seemed to realize he was dancing with a potential mother to his large brood, and added enthusiastically, “but you’d never know I have any children. A very quiet bunch. Studious and well-behaved, you know.”
“I’m sure they are all good children.” She might have added, “with such a father as you,” but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t want to flirt with him. She didn’t want to give him any hope. As they danced, she saw Mr. Norris standing along the side of the room, his head dipped slightly so he could hear what a young lady, whom Marjorie didn’t recognize, was saying. Whoever the stunningly beautiful girl was, she was definitely not on her list. Marjorie tried not to stare at the pair, but couldn’t help herself. How could such a lovely young lady have been introduced to society without Marjorie being aware of her? Why, the season was in full swing.
“That’s Isabella DeRiccio. Daughter of an Italian duke. But their titles aren’t quite so lofty as ours here.” Lord Wentworth had obviously noted her interest in the couple, and she blushed at being found out.
“Why is she here, I wonder?” Marjorie said, even though she knew the reason. Why would any single woman attend a ball? More competition in a sea full of pretty little fishes. Her mother would not be pleased. And at the moment, seeing Charles smile down at the lovely girl, Marjorie was none too pleased, either. The Italian was not on her list. And . . . she was completely wrong for him. Marjorie knew what she was feeling had nothing to do with Isabella DeRiccio and everything to do with her feelings for Charles. Her futile, ridiculous feelings.
This was all wrong. This was to have been a grand adventure, a diversion from the boredom that came with every season. She was to have found him a bride so that her brother’s debt would be forgiven. It was a lark. But here she was pining for a man she could not have and loathing a girl she’d never met. It was all so unlike her.
“Why is anyone here?” Lord Wentworth said, with more than a little bitterness. “We must pair up.”
“Do you not want to be paired?”
“Sometimes, Lady Marjorie, what we want and what we do are two completely different things.” He shook his head. “I do apologize, but this being in London and in society after so long enjoying the country has not been easy for me.”
The dance ended and Lord Wentworth released her and stepped back. “Why don’t you go home, my lord,” Marjorie said gently. “London will be here when you’re ready.”
He looked at her and at that moment, Marjorie recognized his deep sadness. “I have five children,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“And right now, I would imagine they miss you terribly and are probably a bit terrified you might actually come home with a new mother for them. I know I would be.”
He furrowed his brow and let out a funny little laugh. “I think I will go home. You are right, London will always be here. Just don’t tell my mother.”
Marjorie laughed. “I do wish mothers would let their children decide their own lives.”
He smiled at her, the first true smile she’d seen from him. Now that she saw it, she realized all those other smiles had been false. “I do promise not to tell your mother that you were the one who drove me away,” he said. “She is frightfully tenacious.”
Marjorie winced. “She will be the death of me. Good luck, my lord.”
The galop was about to begin, and Marjorie looked about for Mr. Norris, silly anticipation making her stomach flutter. But he was nowhere to be seen. Had he asked her to dance only to vex her mother? She was about to give up when she spied him through the opened French doors, his back to the ballroom, his hands resting on the terrace railing. He must have forgotten, she realized, or perhaps lost track of the dances while he was talking to that DeRiccio girl.
This had never happened to her. She’d never been left waiting alongside the room while a man who had claimed a dance failed to show up. Frowning, she made her way to the terrace, skirting the ballroom floor and the couples enthusiastically dancing. It was a game to Mr. Norris, she knew that. He couldn’t possibly know that he had wounded her a bit by forgetting their dance. Perhaps she should let him know precisely what a cad he was.
Of all nights, why would his blasted leg do this to him? He’d been feeling better. He’d actually danced a time or two just one night before. Perhaps that was the problem; he’d overtaxed himself dancing a bloody waltz. Good God, was he to become an invalid, unable to dance or even to converse with a pretty girl? He prayed the cool night air would somehow soothe his leg, but as soon as he stepped out onto the terrace, he was gripped in agony as his leg seized up. Stumbling, he made his way to the railing and said a short and rather vulgar prayer that he wouldn’t scream aloud. It wouldn’t do to frighten all those ladies who were his potential brides.
A cold sweat broke out on his body and his arms began to shake. Don’t scream. Don’t scream.
And then, a hand, small and firm, gripped his gloved hand, giving him enough distraction that the scream bubbling in his throat was forgotten.
“Breathe,” she said.
“My dear lady,” he said through gritted teeth, “if I wasn’t breathing I’d be on the floor.”
She chuckled and squeezed his hand. “You forgot our dance,” she said. “Now you’ll have to make it up to me another night.”
Charles looked at her and smiled grimly. “Your mother just might kill me if I do.” He took a deep breath. “I should not have come this evening. My leg has been hellish all day. I should have known better than to try this. Prajit was very angry with me.”
Another searing pain gripped him and he spat out a curse. It hurt like the devil, but even through it, he still felt her hand on his, gripping even tighter. He still smelled her scent, heard her small gasp, as if she were the one hurting. She shouldn’t be there with him. Anyone could see them, standing too close, her hand on his. God, she was warm. He could feel her next to him, and he prayed for something forbidden at that moment. He prayed he had the strength to drag her into the shadows and kiss her, consequences be damned.
Finally, the pain subsided and settled into an incessant ache. He could deal with an ache. He could carry on a conversation, even manage a waltz. She released his hand and stepped back.
“I imagine you’ve seen doctors?”
“Yes. Three. It was a grievous wound. They all say the same thing—that the leg should have been taken. Perhaps they’re right. I wonder sometimes if it would have been better to lose it than to suffer this.”
She let out a little sound. “Surely the pain will subside in time.”
“It has, actually.” He laughed at her expression, as if she could hardly believe he’d been worse.
“I’m glad I didn’t see that. It’s difficult to see you this way. I don’t know how you hide it.”
He wondered the same thing, actually. When he’d been talking to the Italian woman, he’d nearly cried out and she’d been perfectly oblivious, even as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. It occurred to him that Marjorie had known he’d been in agony. “I obviously didn’t hide it from you,” he said.
“I knew earlier your leg was bothering you, when you were standing in that group of men. You were clutching your cane so tightly.” She looked about. “Where is your cane?”
“I put it aside. It was drawing too much attention.”
“For goodness’ sake, Mr. Norris, women think canes are quite dashing.”
“Do they?”
“Of course.”
“Then I shall have to retrieve it—” He stopped abruptly. She was so damned pretty, so nice. Why she had been passed by was a mystery to him, even with her brother. He actually found George an interesting character. Surely that alone could not explain why she wasn’t married. Surely someone in the ton could appreciate her. He knew he did. He did. He . . .
“Have you ever considered what it would be like to kiss me?” Her eyes widened right before her gaze dipped to his mouth.
“Of course,” she said. “I wonder what it’s like to kiss every man I meet.”
Now she’d surprised him. “You do?”
“If one cannot picture kissing a man, one certainly cannot picture being married to him.”
He smiled. “Ah, but you knew that I was not a man you would marry. So why would you imagine kissing me?”
Her cheeks flushed slightly and she lifted her head haughtily. “Why are you trying to get me to admit I would like to kiss you?”
“Because it’s all I can think of. Kissing you, I mean. I’d like to someday.”
She smiled then, and he nearly groaned—not in pain this time, but from a far different sensation. Something about that smile felt like a caress, one that sent a heavy heat to his groin. She tapped one index finger against her chin as she contemplated his words, then slowly said, “I think that would be . . .”
Lovely, he thought, please say “lovely.”
“. . . a mistake.”
Damn. Wrong word.
“And I think it would be a very good thing indeed,” he said, aware of how husky his voice sounded. For some reason, all this talk of kissing her was making it difficult to speak.
She wrinkled her brow. “Do you?”
He stepped toward her and she gave a nervous look toward the ballroom. “Not now, you ninny. But someday soon. I really don’t know how long I can resist it.”
“I think you should try. To resist it, I mean.” She added the last in a rush of words.
“Do you really wish for me to resist kissing you?”
She pressed her lips together and backed up another step. “The galop has ended. I have to go meet my partner for the next dance.” She continued backing up, the oddest sparkle in her lovely eyes. Just before she entered the ballroom, she said, “As to your question—no, I don’t wish you to resist.” And then she spun about, her gown swirling around her so that he got an enticing glimpse of her trim ankle. He took a step and felt a sharp twinge in his leg, but he didn’t give a damn. He’d suffer just about anything to get that kiss.
&nb
sp; The ballroom in the Fielding house was bookended by a gallery and library, both of which were filled with ball-goers who moved from room to room looking for friends or trying to avoid speaking with enemies. A wide hall separated those rooms from Lord Fielding’s study (this night set up for card playing) and one of the home’s parlors.
Charles peeked into the parlor and frowned when he spied a large group of chattering debutantes, who instantly stopped speaking when he looked into the room. “Good evening, ladies,” he said, and nearly winced at the smattering of giggles and instantaneous curtsies that resulted from his greeting. He bowed and continued farther down the hall, hearing the giggles grow louder, accompanied by some fervent hisses for quiet.
After ten years overseas, Charles realized he knew almost no one. His chums were all married, surrounded by growing broods of children, leaving him to wander the halls of balls alone. It was damned depressing. When had everyone become so young?
Or rather, when had he gotten so damn old?
He passed one of the entrances to the ballroom and spied Lady Marjorie dancing with Lord Pemberton, an ancient gentleman who’d outlived three wives already. It might be suspicious had not all of his wives died of natural causes. The old fox was leering at the lady’s bosom and she was valiantly trying to ignore him. Charles chuckled, and at that moment she looked up and met his gaze, a smile flashing across her face—one that made his gut feel decidedly strange.
It was one thing to lust after the lady, to flirt and perhaps someday—someday soon—steal a kiss. It was quite another to start feeling all starry-eyed when he looked at her. Lust could be turned off. Love, on the other hand, could leave him reeling for months, he’d learned. He turned abruptly away and started to search for some pretty young thing to distract him from the lovely Marjorie and her brilliant smile.
