“As lavender is yours,” Henrietta said.
Amelia’s purple gown had simple lines with one shoulder bared, a testimony to Amelia’s newest obsession with Greek designs.
“Lady Henrietta, you’ll outshine all other ladies at the ball tonight. Except for Miss Amelia who is also exquisite in her new gown. Do I understand that you received the silks from your brother in Paris? What a thoughtful gesture. What else did he send you?”
The hair on Henrietta’s neck prickled. “Michael sent a knife for my younger brother.”
“Didn’t he send Uncle Charles brandy, too?” Amelia asked.
“Oh, you’re right. I’d forgotten,” Henrietta said. “Shall we depart?”
* * *
Henrietta entered the ballroom on the arm of Lucien. Dark blue velvet and pale pink rose garlands were intertwined and draped around the ballroom’s white columns. Crystal vases filled with the same heavily-scented roses sat on velvet-covered tables throughout the sparkling candlelit room. Aware of the evening’s mission, she didn’t enjoy the room filled with merriment and grand decorations. Instead she searched the crowded room for Sir Ramston.
After greeting their host and hostess, Amelia left Henrietta and Lucien to mingle with friends. Ignoring the women’s enraptured glances and open stares, Lucien paid close attention to Henrietta.
She had attracted many men in her first season, but she found Lucien’s determined interest in her unnerving. He was trying to be a part of her daily life and tonight he was trying to claim her publicly by remaining at her side.
Pretending a thirst, she sent Lucien for champagne. She didn’t trust him. She wasn’t sure if her distrust was due to her past courtship by the deceitful Duke of Wycliffe or the result of the comte’s chameleon-like personality.
As if she had conjured him, the Duke of Wycliffe pressed through the crowd, moving toward her. She blinked her eyes to make sure she hadn’t imagined her former suitor. And right behind him was Lord Rathbourne. Could the evening get more complicated?
“Lady Henrietta. It’s been too long.” The duke brought her hand to his wet lips.
She hadn’t seen Marcus Blenseim, the Duke of Wycliffe, since his courtship four years ago. And four years wasn’t long enough.
The duke’s hawk-like features had softened over the last years, the angular lines were filled in with puffiness and bloating, likely from dissipation.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied.
He lifted his eyebrow with the affectation that at one time Henrietta had thought to be charming. She now felt otherwise.
“You’ve grown into a most beautiful woman.” His eyes remained on her décolletage. “I was sorry to hear of your loss. It must have been very difficult for you.”
Henrietta was on the verge of uttering a very unladylike response. What a hypocrite he was to pretend any concern for her or her family. He had been furious that Henrietta had chosen to retire from society and take care of her ill mother, furious that she didn’t remain in London to be courted by his grandiose self.
Lord Rathbourne stepped toward her, pressing the duke aside. “Lady Henrietta, a pleasure.” He bowed over her hand.
The heat of his hand penetrated through her glove. He smelled fresh, like the outdoors, unlike the duke who smelled of musty furniture.
Lord Rathbourne nodded toward the duke but kept his eyes on Henrietta. “I hear congratulations are in order. A second son, I believe, Your Grace? How is your duchess?”
The duke stiffened, his tone prickly. “You’re well informed, Rathbourne. Lady Wycliffe is fine.”
“Rathbourne, excuse us. Lady Henrietta and I have much to catch up on.” The duke took Henrietta’s elbow.
“I would never interfere with friends reminiscing. Lady Henrietta, may I have the honor of the next dance?” Lord Rathbourne asked.
Lord Rathbourne had left for the Continent before she returned to the country to take care of her mother, but he remembered her past relationship with Wycliffe.
Both men stared at her, waiting for her reply. “Yes, thank you.”
“I’ll return shortly.” Lord Rathbourne turned and strolled back into the crowd without further acknowledgement of the duke.
“Is Rathbourne pursuing you?” The duke’s squinted eyes followed the earl.
She pulled her arm away from him. “You assume too much, my lord. Please excuse me. I see my friend Amelia.”
When she attempted to pass by him, he grabbed her arm. “You’re ravishing, Henrietta. I was a fool to let you go.”
Bursts of his wine-sodden breath grazed her neck, causing her body to shudder in revulsion. She tried to pull her arm away. He tightened his grip.
Lord Rathbourne’s menacing voice came from behind her. “I’m sure you won’t importune the lady any longer.”
The duke immediately released her arm. Henrietta turned. She didn’t know how Lord Rathbourne managed to be behind her, but she was grateful for his presence.
“And I’m sure Lady Henrietta is too occupied for the rest of the evening to be bothered by old acquaintances.” He emphasized the word “bothered.”
Wycliffe’s puffy face contorted like some giant sea creature. He bowed to Henrietta. “I bid you good night.”
Lord Rathbourne took her arm and directed her to the open French doors leading to the balcony.
She went from one gentleman’s strong grip to another. She had been at the ball less than an hour and her entire time was spent escaping gentlemen—the comte, the duke and now Lord Rathbourne. Her purpose in attending the ball was to talk with Sir Ramston.
“I believe a breath of fresh air is needed,” he said.
They stepped out into the balmy evening.
“I wasn’t sure if you would be glad to be rid of the duke?” He pressed close to her side, his arm and leg brushed hers. “At one time you had formed a tendre for the gentleman?”
She stopped abruptly. How dare he speak to her about other gentlemen? But when she looked up at him, the moonlight had softened the hard angles of his face and his eyes were warm with concern. Was this the same authoritative man from Abchurch offices?
His voice was quiet but insistent. “I couldn’t allow him to use his past acquaintance to ingratiate himself.”
Lord Rathbourne didn’t seem like the cold and unfeeling man when she gazed into his understanding eyes. “I never developed a tendre for the duke. It was assumed that we would become betrothed, but my mother became ill.”
“You had to leave London to care for her?” He seemed genuinely interested to know about her life in the intervening years since the Chillington Ball.
“My mother developed a fever, and I took her to our country estate to recover.”
His head was tilted toward her, his full attention focused on her. He stood too close for propriety’s sake, but she didn’t move away. No one had looked at her with such intense interest.
“Your mother never recovered from the fever?”
She wasn’t intimidated by Lord Rathbourne’s large size or the way he loomed over her. She felt only his quiet concern. “I thought she would. We all did.”
He turned to face her, as if he might take her into his arms. “It must have been devastating.” His words were quietly spoken, but she felt as if he understood all that she had suffered.
“The fever was the beginning of what the doctor called a wasting disease.”
“I’m sorry.”
She had never shared with anyone the experience of the awful years before her mother’s illness—the agony of watching her mother weaken each day, the glow diminish in her eyes.
“You never returned to London to finish the season?”
“No, I couldn’t leave her.” Her mother had encouraged her to go to London and enjoy the season. The pursuit of social pleasures had never held interest for her. And she wouldn’t leave her mother alone.
“You were very young to lose your mother.”
“Not that young. I was twenty-two years.”
“I wish that I had the same fond memories of you.”
His deep laugh resonated in his broad chest. “You weren’t impressed, but I was entranced by you.”
She searched his face to see if he was sincere. His eyes were focused on her lips.
“I thought of you often when I was in France.”
“You did?”
“Thought about what it would be like to kiss you.” He cradled her chin in his hands.
Pinpricks of anticipation skittered along her skin like the moonlight floating on the balustrades and balcony.
He lowered his head with infinite slowness and touched his cool dry lips to hers. He tasted her as if she were a sweet to be savored, nibbling on her lower lip. He played and pleasured her mouth until a trembling moan rose from her throat.
She had never imagined kisses like these tender caresses, that made the lonely space around her heart swell with joyful need.
The tip of his tongue played along the edges of her lips in sweeps of moist heat. She arched her body toward him reaching for a promise of what she did not know.
Brushing the tender skin of her throat with open-mouthed kisses, he traced the edge of her gown with overwhelming care.
Shivers of white-hot heat danced on her skin. She threw her head back giving him access to her vulnerable flesh.
His mouth broke from hers. “My God, this is madness.” He dropped his hands from her quivering body. “I’m not usually this clumsy, but I’ve waited so long for you.” He sounded winded, as if he had been running.
His palpable need fed her growing desire. She didn’t want him to stop kissing her. And for once in her life, she was lost for words. “I…I…”
He stared at her as lost as she was. “I never…”
Neither moved, not wanting to break the wondrous moment.
“Lady Henrietta.” Lucien’s sharp tone interrupted their interlude in the shadows.
She moved quickly away from Cord. She couldn’t think of him as Lord Rathbourne after their enthralling kisses.
“Lady Henrietta, I’ve been looking for you all over the ballroom.”
Cord stepped out of the darkened recesses.
“Rathbourne.” Lucien paused as if digesting the implications of Rathbourne’s presence. “Why are you here? Have you lost Isabelle?”
Henrietta flinched as if she had received a physical blow. The mention of Cord’s mistress brought back the reality of whom she had been kissing on the balcony for anyone to see, her fear for Michael forgotten in the arms of the man who wouldn’t confide her brother’s whereabouts.
“I’ve searched everywhere for you.” Lucien stepped closer to her. “I didn’t think to look here.” He emphasized here with a flick of his lace-covered wrist.
She wasn’t fooled by the French aristocrat’s offhand manner.
“Lady Henrietta, a footman has arrived with an urgent message from Kendal House. Let me escort you to him.”
She gasped. “What’s happened?”
“I didn’t speak with the footman. Lady Firth asked me to find you.”
“Mrs. Brompton would never send for me unless…” She shuddered with fear.
Cord reached for her but she took Lucien’s offered arm. “Please take me to the footman.”
Chapter Seventeen
Cord ignored his need to pummel De Valmont into the ground and followed behind the departing couple. It wasn’t the time or place to demonstrate who would be the victor with Henrietta. He needed to find out whether the urgent message contained news of Kendal. Since Henrietta’s visit to his office and no word from France, his worries had heightened exponentially.
De Valmont’s blond head was ahead of him in the crush of people. The bastard had deliberately mentioned Isabelle to get Henrietta to react. It had been effective. Henrietta had stiffened with De Valmont’s accusation. Just moments ago, she had been on fire for him; now she wouldn’t look at him or let him touch her.
He had never intended to kiss Henrietta in a public setting, but when she looked at him, her green eyes wide open with a mix of innocence and frankness, he couldn’t help but respond. He hadn’t exaggerated when he said he couldn’t resist her. She looked at him in her off-kilter, appealing way, and he was lost.
In his hurry to follow Henrietta, he stepped on poor Lady Billingsworth’s dress. The dress flowed in large waves of purple ruffles. He made his apologies to the lady, never taking his eye off the back of De Valmont’s head. He heard the outraged lady bellow, “The nerve of some people!”
He pushed his way through the last crush to reach the foyer as a young boy approached Henrietta.
Not more than fourteen years old, the messenger spoke in a cracking voice, “Mrs. Brompton sent me to bring ya home.” He stared at his feet when he delivered his message.
“It’s all right, Robert. What has happened?” Henrietta’s voice trembled and her face had lost all color.
With the attention of two lords and the lady focused on him, the boy stammered and continued to stare at his feet. “Lord…Lord Harcourt was attacked by thieves in Kendal House. He got a good knock on the head. Mrs. B sent for the doctor and for me to get ya straight away.”
* * *
Henrietta couldn’t move air in or out of her lungs. “Uncle Charles was attacked?”
The candles in the hallway flickered in the periphery of her vision. She felt light-headed. Someone had hurt her sweet, gentle uncle.
Cord wrapped his arm around her waist, supporting her upright. “I’ll take you home.”
Lucien stepped forward. “I’ll accompany Lady Henrietta.” He took her hand.
Lucien’s cold grasp shook her from the shock. She didn’t want a stranger to witness her uncle in a vulnerable state. She withdrew her hand from his tight grip. “I don’t need an escort and we’re wasting time. Robert, please get my wrap.”
“I’ll take Lady Henrietta home.” Cord pulled her closer to his body.
Lucien turned slowly to face Cord. “I’m the lady’s escort for the evening.” His French accent intensified with the strain.
She pulled away from both men and took her wrap from Robert’s arm. “I’m leaving.” She was outraged that these men continued to argue over who would accompany her while Uncle Charles was hurt and most likely confused.
Cord stepped in front of her to stop her progress toward the door. “Lady Henrietta, as a close acquaintance of your uncle and dear friend of Sir Ramston, I should be the one to accompany you and assess Charles’ injuries.”
The reminder of Uncle Charles’ injuries caused her knees to buckle. She willed herself to take small breaths and moved toward the door.
Cord took her arm and pulled her close to his body to steady her. “Let me help you.”
She spoke over her shoulder. “Lucien, would you notify Amelia of my hasty departure because of…” Her voice broke.
Cord placed her shawl around her shoulders. His warm hand on the small of her back guided her to the carriage.
She offered no conversation during the carriage ride. The thought that her uncle had been assaulted in his own home was too difficult to grasp, too difficult to believe. Why would anyone want to hurt a bumbling linguist? Unless of course, the French realized he was England’s code breaker, but England had been at peace with France since March.
She rummaged through her reticule for a handkerchief to dab her tears and touched the worn leather book. Michael was the only one who knew she had the French codebook. No one else could possibly know about the codebook, could they?
Chapter Eighteen
“Petite garce,” Lucien uttered the expletive under his breath and bowed to Lady Henrietta. No one dismissed Lucien De Valmont. She treated him as if he were a servant. He, the Comte de Valmont, had been pursuing the bitch for weeks and her response was to have him fetch and carry while she departed with Rathbourne.
He couldn’t imagine w
hy she wasn’t succumbing to his Gallic charms. She was part French. It must be her emotionless English blood.
He scanned the ballroom, searching for her friend as he reached for the glass of champagne from the footman in blue velvet livery. He needed something stronger than champagne.
Later he’d have to clean up the mess his men had made at Kendal House. He wasn’t going to pay the agreed sum for a botched job. He shouldn’t have employed the dockside gang known more for brawn than finesse, but he didn’t want anyone French connected to the break-in.
“Quel idiots.” He should be cursing the day Fouché decided to seek revenge for his father’s errors. His father would disown him if he knew his son was forced to work for the peasant Fouché. Lucky for him, his father had lost his head and would never know what happened to his heir. He gulped the champagne and reached for another.
He walked outside, ignoring the beckoning looks from the ladies. He needed a break before having to work his charm on another frigid English woman. Couples mingled on the brick terrace in the warm night air. Descending the candlelit steps, he sauntered toward a darkened area of the manicured garden.
De Valmont sensed him before he heard the rustle of the bushes and then the barely audible heavy breathing. He was tired of the bastard acting as if he were in charge of their mission. His title was as high as the fucking English mongrel. It was bad enough that they worked together for Talleyrand, but now they both were caught in Fouché’s Machiavellian game of bringing Talleyrand down.
“I’m hoping that those weren’t your thugs who perpetrated this stupidity—assaulting a peer of the realm in his own home.” His words were spoken in a menacing taunt.
The sounds of the ballroom could be heard in the garden, giving the English lord’s voice an eerie, otherworldly quality. Laughter and the clinking of glasses made a strange backdrop.
“Your silence is answer enough. You and your incompetents have drawn attention to the Harcourts. This is most indiscriminate.”
A Code of Love (The Code Breakers 1) Page 12
