by Amy Lake
* * * *
Helène was enjoying herself, an astonishing fact considering the circumstances. Sir Alexander had proved to be a marvelous dancer, charming to a fault. During the times when the steps of the quadrille had brought them together he had entertained her with amusing comments about several of the other guests present. Sir Alex seemed to know everyone of the local gentry. He is not the least puffed up with himself, Helène realized, and this pleased her. She remembered Lady Pamela’s words–
Don’t damn us all. ’Tis an individual you would marry.
Marry? Helène blinked, wondering why her mind had decided to wander off in such a treacherous direction. Fortunately, her partner now interrupted her thoughts to inquire tactfully about her own circumstances as a governess.
“I imagine Alice and Peter are a delight,” said Sir Alex. “I’ve always found children quite relaxing.”
“Relaxing!” Helène laughed. “Then I should imagine you have none of your own.”
“I’ve not yet married,” he told her, “but I have more younger cousins than I can count–”
“Ah–cousins. And are they all quiet, studious children, never turning the household upside-down, or falling out of trees?”
“Well... ” He smiled down at her, blue eyes crinkling. “They don’t run riot all the time.”
“Then,” said Helène, “you must count yourself lucky.”
Sir Alexander protested. “Alice and Peter are well behaved!”
She looked up at him and laughed again. “Well... not all the time.”
He grinned and–good heavens, was that a wink? But the music was now parting them for a pastorelle and Helène’s concentration fixed for a moment on the sequence of steps. She presented her hand to Lord Burgess pour s’élever and they advanced. It was so comfortable to talk to Sir Alex, thought Helène. She did not feel as she did with Lord Quentin, as if they were engaged in battle and each word could mean–victory. Or defeat, conquest, utter surrender.
And her partner for the moment was handsome. Helène watched Sir Alex as he advanced with Lady Dreybridge. Handsome, charming, and possessed of blue eyes in which one might drown. But her heart did not seem to be skipping any beats at the sight of his smile.
Ha! scoffed the little voice. Sir Alexander Northham can be any number of very nice things. He is simply not Charles Quentin.
Helène gave an inward sigh. Enough, she told herself. And thinking about marriage, of all the nonsense! A pleasant young man is willing to dance with you. Don’t make it into more than that. The marquess all but commanded him to do so, after all. No doubt Sir Alex is willing to stand up with any number of young ladies. And as for Lord Quentin–
As for Lord Quentin, there was always the first waltz.
Or was there? The quadrille was now coming to an end, but it had taken up quite some time, as did many of the country dances. Alice and Peter would soon be sent to bed, and if a waltz was not played soon, it might be too late. Helène was half convinced that the marquess had not been serious when he suggested she remain at the ball. Perhaps, once the children’s bedtime had arrived, Lord Sinclair would gently suggest she accompany them to the nursery.
The children... She looked for them during the last bars of the quadrille, only to find Alice and Peter nowhere in evidence. Concerned that they might be disturbing one of the guests–or worse yet, their stepmother–she asked Sir Alex to return her to the marquess. When Lord Sinclair saw their approach he merely shrugged.
“Lady Pamela has taken Alice and Peter to see the ice sculptures,” Lord Sinclair told Helène, looking distracted. “I believe Peter could not be dissuaded of his opinion that the swans were real. Something Cook said, no doubt. At any rate, ’tis close on their bedtime.”
“Very well, my lord.” So soon? Helène felt disappointment threading through her veins. There would be no waltz with Lord Quentin, no chance to feel his strong arms at her back–
She curtseyed to Sir Alex, and received a smiling, courteous bow in return.
“Ah, here’s Cecil,” the marquess was saying. “I believe, Miss Phillips, that Lord Taplow has requested the dance following your menuet italien with Viscount Dreybridge.”
* * * *
Damnation! Would he have to bribe the benighted orchestra to play a waltz? Charles watched Helène as she took the floor once again. What was Jonathan thinking? The marquess had introduced her right and left, until it seemed the Winter Ball at Luton Court was arranged for the sole purpose of Miss Phillips’s debut. He’d barely been able to get near the girl for the best part of an hour.
Carte blanche was one thing; as his mistress she would appear in society to a limited extent, and Lord Quentin easily admitted that Miss Phillip’s deportment lacked nothing. But here, at Luton–the chit was a governess, for heaven’s sake! She had no business dancing with the likes of the viscount or, even worse, Cecil Taplow. Why, the man was a rake of the worst sort, he couldn’t believe Lord Sinclair had sent a young girl off in his arms–
“A charming couple, don’t you think?” said a voice in his ear. He turned to see Amanda Detweiler standing at his right hand, smiling dryly.
“Lady Detweiler,” he acknowledged, with a small bow. He was in no mood right now for thinly veiled sarcasm.
“Charming, as I said. Cecil will lead her right out the terrace doors and we’ll have no more trouble with pretty young governesses for the rest of the night.”
How dare she? Charles felt his fists clench, the blood roar through his veins.
“Madame,” he told her, “If you are impugning Miss Phillips’s honor, I must tell you that I take great exception.”
Amanda laughed. “Dear Charles! Even tempered to a fault as usual. But there’s no need for formality between us,” she added, “after I’ve done you such a favor.”
“A favor?”
“Yes. The first violinist is an old acquaintance, you see. I believe the next dance will be a waltz.”
* * * *
Helène relaxed against Lord Quentin’s strong arms and thought–so this is waltzing. They swept around the ballroom in easy, measured circles, and any worry she may have had about stumbling soon faded. It seemed almost impossible to make a misstep in his arms.
“You’ve had a fine dancing instructor,” said Lord Quentin. It was said without a trace of question, but Helène realized he must find this very odd.
“My father... ” Helène hesitated. “My father danced.” Lord Quentin raised one eyebrow, but had no reply, and she wondered if he thought she was spinning a tale. It was the truth, in fact, although she neglected to mention that Aunt Matilde had instructed them both. Perhaps her mother had enjoyed dancing as well–
Helène had a sudden, sad image of her mother and father in each other’s arms, waltzing alone through a silent house. Perhaps Matilde had played the pianoforte for them. Her aunt said there had been such an instrument in earlier, better days, together with money for gowns and parties, perhaps even enough to hire a few musicians. Helène was too young to remember any of it.
“But not your mother?’ He was smiling and Helène realized, with gratitude–or was it regret?–that Lady Pamela had been as good as her word. He must know nothing of her history.
“My mother has been dead these eighteen years. My father passed away last autumn.”
Silence. They whirled through another figure of the waltz, Lord Quentin regarding her with grave attention. “And you were left with nothing? No family at all?” His eyes flicked downward for a moment, and Helène realized he had seen the ring. How could she ever explain that? The truth, she decided. Or something close to it.
“ ’Tis a family heirloom, so I was told,” she said to Lord Quentin, “and the only thing of value that was never pawned.” That was plain speaking, and as much as it pleased her to say. The man thought Helène below his touch, and she would not rework her existence in London to win his favor.
“It is a fine piece,” commented Lord Quentin. “A sapphire, I assume?”
She nodded.
“And your father taught you Latin and French as well?”
Helène sighed, more aware than she wanted to be of Lord Quentin’s warm hand against her back, the strength of his forearm under her own hand. Her body had no questions about what felt right, but her mind... that was a different matter. Lord Quentin would never love her for herself, thought Helène. He might applaud the refinement of her French, her Latin conjugations, a costly ring–but not her, herself. And all this interest in her family, what could he possibly mean by it?
Her father was a tradesman and, at the end, with his illness, a drunk. Those particulars would never change.
Lord Quentin was still waiting for her answer. “No. My... aunt,” Helène told him. “Matilde.”
She dared say no more, and a part of her was cursing even this. Fool! All he needs do is ask her last name!
Would that be so awful?
“And your parents?” she heard herself asking. Lord Quentin looked down at her and something passed between them, the barest hint of sadness, unacknowledged regret–
She would have been perfect for him. If she had been a lady.
* * * *
Lady Sinclair watched Lord Quentin and Helène through narrowed eyes. As they glided through a turn she noticed the ring on Helène’s hand, its huge sapphire glittering in the candlelight.
Another hand-me-down from Jonathan’s sister, thought Celia, with a sour smile. Although, she reflected, with dear Lady Pamela’s inclination for expensive jewelry, you’d think I would have seen that piece before.
“The governess! Celia, I really can’t believe you are allowing–”
Beatrice Harkins, of course. The marchioness turned to greet her, donning a small, tight smile.
“The marquess’s instructions,” she told Lady Harkins. “Such a soft touch, you know.”
“It’s shocking! Putting herself forward, and the gown is positively indecent!”
This was dangerous territory to explore, considering Lady Sinclair’s own neckline. When all was considered, Beatrice Harkins was sometimes an ally, but no real friend of the marchioness. Celia said nothing.
“And those pearls!” added Lady Harkins. Her enormous, laquer-red turban waggled as she stuck one stubby finger in Celia’s face, jabbing the air. “Wherever could she have gotten them? I shall making a thorough check of my own jewelry case tonight, I will tell you that!”
Celia pursed her lips. The ring might still be a mystery, but the string of pearls twined through Miss Phillips’s hair was not; it belonged to Lady Pam and she had seen both her sister-in-law and Amanda Detweiler wearing it on many occasions. Would Beatrice take offense if she pointed that out?
Probably so, thought Celia, with an inward sigh. And it wouldn’t do to offend Lady Harkins. The marchioness was aware that her own claim to ton respectability was somewhat tenuous; it depended in large part on the continued presence of people like Lady Harkins at Luton Court. Celia had been lucky that Beatrice was a notorious pinch-purse; the free food and drink extended by the marquess’s hospitality ensured her return year after year.
No, ’twas probably best to say nothing further about the pearls. But there were other ways–
“I understand your concern,” she told Lady Harkins. “Have you seen the ring the chit is wearing? I’d wager any amount ’twas stolen–”
“My dear marchioness,” said Beatrice, “what you put up with! It’s in their blood, you know–you can’t trust a single one of that class. Now when Henry was alive . . .”
The conversation moved to other topics, but Celia’s eyes continued to stray to the dance floor. As Lord Quentin and Miss Phillips circled the room, as she saw his arm tighten, just perceptibly, around the governess’s waist, as she sensed the fire that consumed him growing hotter–
As she saw all this her determination to strike back at the girl intensified, and her attention turned again to Helène’s ring.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
To Helène’s dismay, the waltz was coming to its end. She felt she could dance forever as long as it was Lord Quentin’s steps guiding her, Lord Quentin’s arm at her back.
She wasn’t being sensible. She knew it. A few minutes in this man’s company, and she had forgotten... everything.
Stupid to forget. He insulted you with carte blanche, called you a dirty little nobody! Helène reminded herself. And he is as good as Lady Sinclair’s lover. You’ll never be good enough for the likes of him.
She tossed her head, willing these thoughts to be gone.
“Miss Phillips?”
Lord Quentin seemed no happier than she. His arms pulled her closer, and Helène could sense his agitation increasing as they made a final circuit of the ballroom. How could I have thought him arrogant? she asked herself. Or pompous, or over-bearing, or–
The last notes of the waltz faded away. They stopped, silent, and Lord Quentin stepped back.
“Perhaps... perhaps a moment’s breath of air out on the terrace?” he asked. It was little more than a whisper.
Helène nodded, wanting this as much as she’d wanted anything in her life but worried all the same. She had seen Lady Celia’s eyes following them during the waltz. Fortunately the terrace doors were wide open by this point–even in cold weather any ballroom got stuffy–and other couples were wandering in and out. True privacy was impossible with so many people, but at least the end of the dance could no longer part them. She didn’t think she could stand that. Not yet. Not so soon.
“You will drive me mad,” said Lord Quentin. It was little more than a murmur, but Helène was startled into looking up, directly into his eyes. She saw a hunger that robbed her of her own breath. He must care for me, she told herself. He must.
He wants you, the little voice pointed out. Not the same thing at all.
But–
“I can’t endure being apart from you,” Lord Quentin said. His hand moved up her arm, trailing fire over her skin. Helène was silent, wondering–what do I say? What do I do? She was afraid that if she opened her mouth there would be no end to what she would admit to, what she would be willing to do to hold his attentions. Her own body was warm, shaking, traitorously weak.
“Lord Quentin, I don’t... ”
“Let me come to you tonight, I beg you.” His body shielded her, as she leaned against the balustrade, from the view of others on the terrace. His hand moved from her arm to the side of her bodice and his fingers traced the line of one breast.
Helène’s eyes closed against her will, her head tipped back just slightly, the long curve of her neck vulnerable and pale in reflected moonlight. Lord Quentin’s breath was harsh, his lips close against her hair, she could feel his hands touching her in places that, in truth, they did not. Not here, not almost within sight of the Luton Court ballroom–
Time slowed. For a few, untold moments no one else shared their corner of the terrace, and Lord Quentin crushed her to him, his mouth hard on hers. They swayed together, and he moaned her name over and over, his voice hoarse. She heard him telling her that he would care for her forever, they could be in London within the sennight, in her own beautiful townhome, her own bedroom, with him, with him, with him–
A dirty little nobody.
Helène’s breath caught in her throat. I don’t care, she told herself. Why should I? I’ll never be more than a glorified servant to these people and I’ve no home anywhere else. Why should I care what anyone thinks? She had forgotten, for a moment, the many kindnesses of Lady Pamela, and Lady Detweiler, and even Viscount Dreybridge and Sir Alexander. The hurts of a lifetime gathered like storm clouds, and tears threatened, snuck under her closed eyelids, trickled down her cheeks. She didn’t know they glistened like white fire in the moonlight, didn’t know that Lord Quentin could see them and guess their cause–
She didn’t know that his own guilt–unbidden, unwanted–threatened to overwhelm him. And that he very much did not wish to feel guilty, or acknowledge himself to be little better t
han any pompous lobcock of the ton, smug and sure and overly concerned with his own consequence. People he had always affected to disdain.
People like him?
* * * *
Passion had robbed Charles of reason. He had been on fire since the first steps of the waltz. And then, feeling Helène’s resistance weaken as they embraced, his mind had raced ahead to the nights to come. He had seen the delicious Miss Phillips unclothed, underneath him– It had all lasted far too long for Lord Quentin’s self-control. And now, to see the girl in tears.
What about the disrespect of offering carte blanche to an innocent of not yet twenty years? He heard Lady Pamela’s voice yet again, for what seemed the hundredth time, and inwardly cursed all the interfering, busybodies of the world. Would they keep her from him? Would they have her spend a lifetime alone? Fury rose inside him, an anger commensurate with desire. He stepped back from Helène and heard a harsh voice, speaking almost in his ear–
“Don’t be a fool. How much can you possibly think your low-class virginity is worth?”
Only when her eyes snapped open and focused in stunned outrage on his face did Lord
Quentin realize the voice was his own.
Miss Phillips’s hand flew up and she slapped him, hard, across the cheek; then she pushed past him and ran.
“Helène! No!” Charles ran after her. “Miss Phillips! Helène!”
What had he said? He couldn’t have said that–
She stopped, turned to face him.
“I do apologize,” began Charles. He extended his hand.
“Leave me alone!” hissed the governess. She ran.
* * * *
Lady Detweiler was the first to notice that Helène was absent from the ballroom. Another quadrille had begun and, to Amanda’s disgust, Lady Pam had consented to partner the ox-footed Jeremy Burgess. This was taking one’s duties as the host’s sister entirely too far, in Lady Detweiler’s opinion. The man could hardly perform a tour de main without falling on his face, most likely taking his partner with him. Recalling the last time she had danced with Lord Burgess, Amanda felt the toes of her right foot curl under in protest.
