Hope's Betrayal

by Grace Elliot

  Her fine-boned hand reached out and touched his arm. “I saw you. I wasn’t spying…Jasper brought me this way….”

  Huntley felt the humiliation afresh. “And now you feel sorry for me.”

  “No, just the opposite in fact.”

  “What? You speak in riddles.”

  Her words were confusing, and with a humph he turned his back and picked up the body brush.

  “It takes a very brave man to admit he is… frightened of the future.”

  Silence. Glad she couldn’t see his face, George closed his eyes. Perhaps Hope was right and he was frightened—of a future without the Navy, with everything he lived for swept aside. His hand shook as he swept the brush over Nero’s neck. He comforted himself with the broad, sweeping motions, intent on ignoring the sprite at his back. He decided to cut her off until she grew bored and went away. He worked intently, focusing on each small hair, burnishing Nero's coat until it shone.

  So when, a few minutes later, he felt a gentle weight on his shoulder—and Hope squeezed his arm—a barrage of conflicting emotions bewildered him. But, most confusing of all was the sense that he wanted to hold Hope, to crush her against his chest and bury his head in her hair.

  "You should go." He growled.

  "No."

  "I don’t want your pity."

  "And I have no pity to give."

  Slowly he turned. "Then why are you still here?"

  "Once you helped me. You protected me when others condemned me…you didn’t judge."

  “But I don’t want anyone, least of all you, to feel sorry for me.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because I am not the man I was. Because I am useless. A wreck.”

  “Well, the man I know is bigger than that. The man I see before me, stood up to his fellow officers for what he believed was right. Your body will heal and you will recover, but the good thing is…." She swept her hand towards the straw, the site of his recent humiliation, "is that your body's weakness has taught you humility…and that’s a very appealing quality.”

  Huntley stared at her, astounded. “It is?”

  “Oh yes, I didn't liked the arrogant bully of a man you were before, but this Huntley, the one who cries into his horse’s mane, is altogether more attractive.”

  Huntley put down the brush. “Well, I’ll be damned if I ever understand women.” His heart thudded as they faced each other, so close he could smell the scent of bedsheets on her skin. Merciful heavens, a man could lose himself in the depths of those tilted green eyes, standing there with her luscious lips softly parted.

  He cleared his throat, acutely aware of the pulse at the base of her throat. “Miss Tyler, unless you want to be ravaged, I would suggest you leave now.”

  She didn’t move. A primal beat throbbed through his blood. He licked his lips and took a step forward to trap her between his muscular arms, as he leant against the stable wall.

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  Without fear she gazed into his eyes. "Because I want to stay."

  He claimed her mouth, so warm and moist, such precious heat as she returned his kisses, gently at first then with urgency. He leaned closer, pressing her against the wall, until the delicious length of her was pressed against his body. It excited him further to know that beneath the redingcote was no armory of stays and petticoats, but just one thin night-rail. A sense of mastery swept through his body, luxuriating in the suppleness of her shoulders as he lowered her hands to caress the undulating line of her waist. Both breathing heavily, he leaned down to taste the skin of her neck. She arched and groaned in response, throwing back her head to expose the milky curve of her throat.

  At his back, Huntley felt Nero’s heat and heard him munching hay, nonplussed by the exploits of his master. Through his lust-filled haze, he became aware of Hope clinging to him—and his aching need. Not only was this woman beautiful and brave, but she was passionate, everything his heart desired.

  He stroked the curve of her hip, gentling her like a flighty horse, while seeking to calm his churning emotions. He found the buttons of her redingcote and with slow, teasing dexterity, popped them open one by one. He felt her stiffen, as she realised only her thin night-rail covered her breasts and belly. With an effort, he stilled—waiting—lest she push him away, but instead she melted deeper against him, burrowing her head against his shoulder. His arm crept around her waist, exquisitely aware of her skin separated by a layer of linen. Her trust humbled him, more intoxicating than any liquor, He rejoiced in her proximity.

  For a long minute they stood pressed together. The length of his arousal strained at his breeches. He had no idea how well-schooled Hope was in the ways of the world, but he had no intention of forcing himself on her. If anything happened, it would be at her behest. With an ache which reached his soul, he knew he would wait forever if necessary to make her his.

  Through the depth of his passion-filled fog, his voice grated.

  “You know I desire you?”

  She snuggled her head deeper. “I know. You understand why I can’t…don’t you?”

  “Your mother's disgrace?”

  Hope nodded. “She mistook lust for something deeper and her love was betrayed, leaving her with child and alone. I cannot make the same mistake.”

  With shaking hands and supreme effort, George drew the front of her redingcote together, and refastened the buttons one-by-one. He wanted nothing more than for her to be happy, his desire no longer important.

  “I will wait…but go now, for my resolve won’t hold much longer.”

  With such sweet reluctance, she drew away. Jasper had fallen asleep in the hay, and gathering the pup under her arm, with a darting smile over her shoulder, she left. His heart went with her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  On a pleasant autumn afternoon, Hope took Jasper for his walk. Those trees which still had foliage were now dressed in russet and gold, the ground bright with fallen leaves. It had been a subdued summer of mists and fog, which slipped seamlessly into autumn, and Hope sensed a hard winter was around the corner. A smell of damp ground and bonfires, pervaded the air. She enjoyed her walks with Jasper and the fresh air, it gave her time to think, and as usual, her thoughts rapidly turned to Captain Huntley.

  Since that time in the stable, the atmosphere between her and the Captain had changed. George was no longer offhand and abrasive—quite the opposite in fact, addressing her like an equal in a way which made butterflies flutter in her chest. And there was the way he looked at her when he thought he was unobserved. From his attentiveness and respectful manner, from the chance glances and occasional touch, it was almost as if he were courting her—but she wouldn’t allow herself to hope.

  Reaching the orchard, Hope sighed. It was time to return to the house.

  "Here, Jasper."

  Obediently, Jasper trotted to her side and waited while Hope attached the leash to his collar. The puppy had grown, no longer a fluffy barrel, but taller and leaner with a smoother coat and constantly wagging tail.

  Once back at the house, the maid relieved Hope of her shawl and hat.

  "Her Ladyship and guests are in the parlor."

  "Thank you, Ruby." Hastily, Hope checked her appearance in the hall mirror and then made her way upstairs. "Come on, Jasper, you too."

  As the footman opened the parlor door, Jasper pushed his way through and ran ahead, pulling the lead from Hope's hand.

  "Steady boy." Lady Ryevale laughed, as she reached down to fuss the dog's ears. Four people grinned idiotically as Jasper jumped up on the settle and rested his head in Her Ladyship’s lap. Jack and his wife had been staying this past fortnight, but with Eulogy's confinement fast approaching, and reassured of his mother's improved health, Jack was now anxious his wife return to London and the midwife.

  Not wishing to be an interloper in this family group, Hope took a chair beside the door.

  "Come, sit with us." George said, as if talking privately to Hope.

  F
eeling awkward, Hope rose and took the seat beside him. Eulogy caught her eye, and smiled. Over the past two weeks she had got to know Eulogy and liked her immensely; she was a rare thing—possessed of both beauty and kindness. Jack adored his wife to the point of obsession, always solicitous for her comfort, especially now she was large with child.

  Lady Ryevale continued the conversation which had been interrupted by Hope's arrival. "So Eulogy, dear, it has been such a tonic to see you, but I quite understand it's time to go home."

  "Once the baby arrives I won’t be able to travel for a while, and we were so anxious to see for ourselves that you are recovered."

  "You are welcome any time, my dear."

  "What about me, Mother?" Jack joked.

  "Always, dear, that goes without saying, but it's such a tiring time carrying a child. Eulogy has coped so well with the traveling."

  Eulogy rested her hand on the swell of her belly. "But poor Jack finds it almost as exhausting—especially when I get cravings for pomegranates at two in the morning and he takes it upon himself to find some."

  Jack smiled indulgently at his wife—a tall, broad man, with quick eyes which missed nothing, “Nothing is too much trouble for you, my dear.”

  The couple exchanged such a loving glance that Hope fidgeted, because deep inside, she saw a mirror of her feelings for George.For a few minutes she was lost in thought and came too with a jolt, to find George was now the subject of conversation.

  “Well, I never thought to see the day, brother dear, when you sat in a parlor taking tea, like a regular human being.” Jack teased.

  George’s face gave nothing away. “I tell you it takes more courage to make polite conversation, than it does to fight Napoleon.”

  “Oh, we aren’t that bad, surely?” Lady Ryevale responded.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Besides,” Jack interrupted, “Who would have predicted that heaven was a wife and child on the way. Who knows George, perhaps the day isn’t so very far away for you too.”

  Mortified, Hope felt everyone’s eyes turn on her. What made the silence even more excruciating, was that George colored crimson.

  Eulogy interjected. "I feel so much happier knowing Lady Ryevale is in such improved health. My mind is quite at rest."

  "And being ill has made me count my blessings and I intend to get out and about more."

  "Mother, why do I not like the sound of that?"

  "George, don’t be so stuffy. You know you will enjoy the Latham's ball once you get there."

  Captain Huntley muttered something undecipherable.

  "And besides, Hope is coming with us."

  "Me?" Hope said with alarm. Memories flashed through her mind of her last ball, of George's confusing kisses and Her Ladyship’s sudden illness.

  "Of course. The last time I was ill, and so you know what they say—if you fall off a horse, get straight back on—so I'll need your encouragement."

  "Mother, isn't the Latham's do always fancy dress?"

  "Yes, dear, that's half the fun—and I have a marvelous idea for costumes."

  "You aren’t plotting, are you Mother?"

  "Me?" Lady Ryevale looked affronted. "I can’t think what you mean."

  *****

  Hope's costume was exquisite; an iridescent blue-grey silk which changed color as she moved. The gathered sleeves were slashed to reveal an ivory under-dress, the skirts full and heavy, and even in her smuggling days swaddled in French lace, never had Hope been so expensively attired. The stomacher was laced so tight Hope could hardly breathe, accentuating her tiny waist and the dome of her breasts. Even Jasper seemed entranced.

  "Look at you!" Lady Ryevale clapped. "You could be Anne Boleyn herself!"

  Hope let her fingers slid over the silk gown. "I don’t know what to say. It's stunning…."

  "My pleasure. You were so kind when I was ill, it's the least I can do."

  "Thank you so much."

  "You look beautiful, my dear, fit for a king," Her Ladyship exclaimed. "And your hair is perfection."

  Hope touched the elaborate confection of braids and rolls, laced with seed pearls, to check it was still in place.

  There was a tap at the door. "May I come in?"

  At the sound of his master's voice, Jasper leapt up, wagging his tail.

  "Come." Lady Ryevale commanded. "But brace yourself, Hope looks beautiful."

  Dressed as Henry VIII in a scarlet tunic embroidered with gold, short pantaloons and silk stockings, George Huntley entered. Hope stood riveted.

  "Miss Tyler…or should I say, Boleyn." He swooped a courteous bow.

  She dropped a curtsy. "Your Majesty."

  They grinned sheepishly at each other and then laughed.

  "And who, Mother, are you?"

  "Don’t tell me I'm wearing this red wig for nothing? Why, Queen Elizabeth of course."

  George cleared his throat. "But as Henry, that makes me your father."

  "I couldn’t have you upstage me, and Elizabeth seemed the natural choice."

  "Well Mother, in the interests of harmony, I shall ignore the incongruity and compliment your costume."

  The Latham's ball was unlike anything Hope had ever seen. Any concern she might have had about being overdressed, was rapidly dispelled when she saw Cleopatra arm-in-arm with a gentleman dressed as the Duke of Wellington, complete with false nose. She gazed in wonder at the costumes; the Grim Reaper in the company of an angel, and a milkmaid with a gladiator.

  She was so busy looking at the costumes, she almost forgot how oddly George had been acting in the carriage, as if he had something on his mind.

  "Shall we?" He inclined his head toward the ballroom. It struck Hope afresh that he seemed furtive and it puzzled her. She glanced at Lady Ryevale to see if she had noticed, but Her Ladyship was staring toward the card room.

  "I do believe that was Gloria Beauchamp, dressed as…well, I don’t know what. I must catch up with her. If you want me I shall be in there."

  Hope made as if to follow, but Lady Ryevale smiled and patted her arm.

  "No dear. I want you to enjoy yourself. Go with George, there's a dear, have a good time."

  "Oh, but that's not proper!" Hope said, startled. "People will be scandalised."

  "This is a costume ball, dearest. The rules are more relaxed—go—see if you can’t get my son to dance."

  From the Captain’s distant behavior in the coach, Hope wasn’t at all sure he'd welcome her company, but nonetheless he smiled, and tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow, made toward the ballroom.

  The Lathams had opened two adjoining rooms to make a room big enough for dancing. Candles burned on the wall sconces, their light magnified to infinity in a myriad of mirrors. Hope felt as if she was walking on air, with George, the most dashing man in the room, as her escort. People crowded around, greeting George as old friends do and her head spun from the introductions. But when it threatened to become overwhelming, George threw her a reassuring smile.

  The string quartet struck up a polka.

  "Shall we dance?"

  Hope wanted nothing more, and yet hung back. “You forget I was not born to this. I might get the steps wrong.”

  Huntley winked. “And with this gammy leg, so might I. Blame it on me.”

  Locked in his unblinking gaze, she grinned. “On your own head be it.”

  In a stately manner as befitted Anne and Henry, they walked onto the floor. For short times George could manage without his stick now, although Hope knew the leg still pained him. Amidst the press of people, Hope needn’t have worried, no one noticed the odd missed step. But after five minutes, she noticed George's brow furrow, and in her tightly laced costume, she was beginning to feel hot. The style of her costume with its restricted bodice made it difficult to breathe and a sheen of perspiration peppered her brow. She fanned herself.

  "It's very warm in here. Might we rest?"

  "Some refreshment?"

  "Oh, yes, I could do with a dri
nk. Thank you."

  They elbowed their way through the throng, out of the double doors and onto the landing. But if anything, the press of people was greater in the supper room and George searched in vain for a way through. His arm went protectively around Hope’s waist, the possessive weight of his hand thrilling her. And indeed she felt light-headed. She tried to take a deep breath, but the stays crushed her ribs. Hope started to fear she might faint.

  "I'm so sorry, but might we get some fresh air instead?"

  "Of course."

  They found a quiet terrace overlooking a formal garden, where couples strolled arm-in-arm down the paths lined by box hedges, released from the strictures of society by the pretence of their costumes. Torches, driven into the flower beds, lit the way on a wonderful moonlit evening for romance.

  Hope's head spun as she leaned against the balustrade. That George still had his arm around her waist, his hand hot through the layers of fabric, did little for her composure. Then it struck her he was unusually taciturn, but felt too woozy to question him.

  "Sorry about this." She closed her eyes to concentrate on breathing. "I'm not unwell, it's just these stays are so tight and then the heat in there…"

  "I quite understand. It defies logic, trussing women up that way."

  "Shall we sit?"

  "Absolutely." George glanced around. "Over there."

  They found a bench beneath a window; screening palms on either side offered some privacy but not enough to be compromising. Music and chatter drifted out through the sash window. Hope sank gratefully onto the seat.

  "That's better." She leant her head back against the high window ledge. After several deep breaths the garden stopped spinning. "I'm so sorry. This isn’t like me at all."

  "How can I help? Perhaps some lemonade?"

  She licked her lips, suddenly struck by an overarching thirst. "Oh, that would be wonderful."

  "No sooner said than done." Huntley glanced around for a footman, but there was none. "Back in a minute."

  Hope felt humbled as she noticed his stiff gait, a sign his injury troubled him and yet he'd put her needs first. They had grown close recently, and she hated to think of him in pain, but knew well enough not to smother him. As her head cleared, she tapped her foot to the distant music, looking forward to his return. After the crush inside, being outside was soothing, she felt better in the fresh air and suspected Huntley felt the same.