by Erica Ridley
Well, almost everything. Philippa did not appear gratified to find herself the lucky object of the Duke of Faircliffe’s attentions.
For years Chloe had fantasized she could burst from her dressing room and into a ballroom dressed as her real self, not her blending-with-the-wood-grain self. Not to show up the beau monde but rather to be bold because she could. To just once know what it felt like to strut into a place like this wearing, saying, and doing anything she pleased—and be accepted anyway. Not just to be herself, but to belong.
But she’d given up such dreams long, long ago.
When Lady Ainsworth announced that the second-to-last set of the evening would be a pair of country-dances, Chloe still sat along a forgotten wall with Tommy.
Until a gentleman stepped into her path.
“Is this dance spoken for?” It was Lord Southerby. The handsome rascal who found tigers exhilarating.
“Er…” Chloe said brightly.
She could dance; Bean had seen to that. The siblings occasionally danced with each other or at informal gatherings with middle-class friends. But she had never danced in a place like this. Never in front of people like this. She wished Marjorie were here to sketch the moment so Chloe could remember exactly how she’d looked, the time she was treated like a lady.
“Take her out of my sight,” Tommy blustered in her guise as Great-Aunt Wynchester. “And keep her away from that Faircliffe fellow. He seems shifty.”
“He’s a duke, Aunt,” Chloe murmured, her pulse ticking faster. “And he’s coming this way.”
“Dukes are the dodgiest,” Tommy asserted with a dramatic sniff.
“I’m afraid I cannot be dodged at all this set,” came Faircliffe’s dry voice. “These figures require four partners.”
Which meant…of course it did. Faircliffe’s partner was Philippa York.
Chloe jerked her gaze back to Lord Southerby and allowed him to lead her onto the parquet.
Faircliffe couldn’t dance with her any other way, she reminded herself. People might think it meant something.
Only a fool like her would want it to.
As the country-dance began, she forced herself to smile at the Earl of Southerby as she performed each step. He wasn’t the enemy. He was a kind gentleman, willing to stand up with her when no one else would. Even if he was no more romantically interested in Chloe than the Duke of Faircliffe was.
Not that Faircliffe was a monster, either. His carefully cultivated hauteur wasn’t the result of believing himself better than all others but of believing that if he wasn’t as perfect as possible, he risked his title, his reputation, and the happiness of his future children.
Who could argue with a motive like that?
Chloe’s birth parents hadn’t been able to offer that to her, but the Wynchester family more than made up for it. They didn’t have to try to be perfect. They loved each other just as they were.
She was a Wynchester, first and always. She would only give a second glance to a man willing to come into her fold rather than one whose precious reputation would rip her from those who loved her.
The country-dance switched figures, and she suddenly found herself partnering with Faircliffe instead of Southerby.
Chloe and Faircliffe had never touched publicly. Her fingers trembled as she looped her arm through his. His heat was familiar now, his taste, his scent. All of it seemed bigger than before, including him. He was somehow taller, his shoulders wider, his arm firmer beneath her touch.
It was impossible to be this close without remembering their kiss. The knowledge of it surely showed on her face.
She felt naked before so many witnesses, as if they could see through the innocent dance steps to the carnal way her body reacted to his proximity, his touch, the flexing of his muscles. Even though she could not keep him, he felt as though he belonged to her. His tongue had been in her mouth, tasting her. She had done the same to him.
“I owe you an explanation about why you and I cannot…” he murmured. “But this ballroom is not the place.”
“Nowhere is.”
She did not want his explanation. It would burst the warm memory like a pin piercing a bubble. What had once glimmered like a rainbow would be gone without a trace.
Chloe did not want words he did not mean or promises he could not keep. She wanted his arms about her, his heart next to hers, his mouth claiming her one last time. But in seconds, the pattern of the country-dance would rip him away, sending him back to the woman he chose to give his life to.
There was nothing to do but dance and pretend the music gave her joy.
His gaze rose from her lips to her eyes. “If things were different…”
She shook her head.
Things were too different. He was the Duke of Faircliffe. She was a Wynchester. He was a member of Parliament. She was a recovering pickpocket who still visited her old orphanage bearing gifts for children who didn’t have a Bean of their own. Faircliffe’s good works took place in the House of Lords. He knew nothing of Chloe’s world, just as she did not belong in his.
“You don’t have to explain,” she said. “I understand.”
The music changed and she was back with Southerby. She hoped he did not notice her painful gazes over his shoulder.
Faircliffe and Philippa were an excellent match—if not by Chloe and Tommy’s preferences, then at least by the expectations of everyone else in this room.
Their union would mean more than titles and heirs. Faircliffe aligning himself with Philippa’s important MP father would help both men be better able to enact the exact laws Chloe had been praying to see unfold beneath the stuffy Westminster attic. If anything, she should be the Faircliffe-York union’s biggest champion.
In fact, she would be.
That was what an impartial observer who wanted the best outcome for the greatest number of individuals would do, wasn’t it?
What did feelings have to do with anything?
When the music ended, Faircliffe and Southerby walked away together, their heads bent in conversation.
Chloe rolled back her shoulders and turned to Philippa. “You should marry him.”
Philippa did not pretend to misunderstand; nor did she appear pleased with the unsolicited advice. “You know me well enough to know which specific person I should spend the rest of my life with?”
Chloe paused. Together as allies, Lawrence and Philippa’s father could make great strides in the reforms Chloe had been fighting for. Doing it for the orphans and workhouses seemed more than enough reason to her, but perhaps not to the beau monde.
Philippa sighed. “If it will take the bee out of your bonnet, you may be pleased to know that my parents have threatened to burn my bookcases if I don’t accept Faircliffe’s suit.”
“He offered?” The words came out as a whisper. The parquet seemed to tilt.
“Not yet.” Philippa twisted her lips. “He seems to be waiting for me to give him a sign of encouragement first.”
Chloe frowned. “Is that a bad trait?”
“It’s an admirable trait. He’s splendid, a dukedom would be splendid, the whole thing is splendid.”
Philippa did not make any of it sound splendid.
“But I’ll do it,” she said dully. “Mother wants a title for her only child, Father wants more hooks in the House of Lords, and Faircliffe wants my dowry. He admitted as much.”
Chloe winced. Although her spirits leapt at confirmation that the union was practical, rather than a love match, she would not wish anyone into a life of misery.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“To escape.” Philippa’s steady gaze met hers. “I suppose Faircliffe is my chance.”
Chloe swallowed. She well remembered the panicked desperation to escape her old life—and the blessed relief of finding sanctuary at last.
She could not stand in the way.
16
Lawrence stood off to the side with his butler as men from Christie’s auction house carr
ied the last of the expensive carpets out of the door. The spring weather had brought an overabundance of rain. Several of his tenants needed new roofs more than Lawrence needed his grandfather’s carpets.
Once the men had gone, Hastings handed Lawrence his hat. “Off to woo a bride, Your Grace?”
Hastings knew perfectly well Lawrence was headed to Miss York’s town house in hopes of catching the reading circle. The butler’s wording seemed to imply there was some doubt about who the bride would be.
“I’m off to see Miss York,” Lawrence said firmly.
His butler politely refrained from pointing out that if seeing Miss York was Lawrence’s only aim, a private call without her reading circle present might be more romantic.
Very well, the company Lawrence yearned for was Miss Wynchester’s.
After their practice supper, all he could think of was their kiss. After their brief moments together in the country-dance, all he wanted was her back in his arms.
He could not have her. Not her kisses, not her humor, not their lively conversations. But he could glimpse her, secretly. Be closer in proximity, even if her body was not his to touch. He had the memory.
It would have to be enough.
After crossing the square, he strode down the Yorks’ now-familiar corridor toward the sound of voices. When he entered the parlor, more than a dozen faces smiled up at him in surprise. Lawrence did not slow until he reached Miss Philippa York and could make the appropriate pleasantries.
Then, and only then, did he allow himself to dart a brief glance toward Miss Wynchester.
His chest clenched as if his heart had stalled, then picked back up at twice the tempo. His blood rushed far too fast. Looking at her made his mouth water, his fingers twitch to reach for her even though he knew he could not.
In her beige-on-beige lap, she wrung her soft hands. No one else might have noticed, but Lawrence’s heightened senses were solely attuned to her. He had not missed the widening of her eyes at his entrance, the hitch in her breath as her gaze met his.
She clearly hadn’t anticipated his presence here today. Nor would he admit to her that she was the reason he’d come.
He had missed her, damn it all. A few fleeting moments of interchanging partners in a country-dance was not enough.
Now that he’d witnessed how others in his social sphere treated Miss Wynchester—or, rather, now that he’d seen her and her aunt shamefully overlooked for the entirety of an evening—he worried the same might be true everywhere.
The thought had him ready to grab his shield and his sword and ride into battle.
Or into a reading circle.
He knew what it was like to want the acceptance of one’s peers. Except Lawrence had a title to fall back on—one that outranked almost everyone else’s. Miss Wynchester was not bon ton. She did not have “Lady Chloe” to use as both armor and weapon. She had no power, parents, or cachet.
But she did have Lawrence.
A fierce protectiveness rushed through him. She was doing all right, wasn’t she?
The other ladies weren’t talking to her, but neither were they not speaking to her. They were discussing goings-on at Almack’s or had been, until he barreled into the room.
Miss York smoothed out a lace hem. “Will you join us for tea?”
“Tea sounds lovely,” he forced himself to say.
It did not sound lovely. It sounded like torture. Except for the fact that tea would forever remind him of the kisses he’d shared with Miss Wynchester. No amount of sugar would ever taste as sweet.
He darted another secret glance at her. Was she thinking the same thing? Did she relive those moments again and again, as he did, or had she already forgotten their shared embrace?
Now was definitely not the moment to ask.
He offered his arm to Miss York and accompanied her into the adjoining room. Because this was a reading circle, rather than a formal dinner party, her guests were welcome to take any seat they pleased. His place, presumably, was at Miss York’s side. But Miss Wynchester’s place…
Quickly he scouted the table for the best seat. A comfortable chair, close enough to him to allow the exchange of words, but not so close as to raise suspicion, and positioned in such a way as to avoid the many elaborate gilt-framed mirrors decorating the York parlor.
He helped a few other guests into chairs that were not the seat he’d earmarked for Miss Wynchester, then motioned her to the safe one.
As she lowered herself into the chair, he could not tell whether she understood that he was protecting her as best he could in what he knew to be an uncomfortable situation for her. But whether she realized didn’t matter. He wanted her to be comfortable.
At least one of them would be.
Footmen arrived with silver trays. The quartered sandwiches and little cakes looked scrumptious, but Lawrence couldn’t tear his gaze from the delicate teapots.
For the past two and thirty years, he’d avoided any public situation in which he might be expected to choke down a few drops of tea.
Until today.
He filled his cup halfway with milk and stopped the maid before she poured tea to the brim. The moment called for sugar. Loads of it. But as Miss Wynchester had rightfully pointed out, sugar was dear. Lawrence would not make a favorable impression on Miss York or her mother by hoarding their supply for himself.
His trepidation rising with every passing moment, he waited until the ladies had taken their sugar before dropping one lonely lump into his cup.
He picked up his spoon as slowly as possible. If he wasted enough time dissolving the lump, perhaps he wouldn’t have to drink the tea at all. He eased the silver spoon below the surface of the steaming liquid.
The spoon immediately stopped moving. Frowning, he gave it a little wiggle. A half dozen sugar lumps briefly broke the surface.
He stared at his cup. If a half dozen sugar lumps were visible, that half dozen must be resting atop another four or five lumps. If he stirred this much sugar into the mix, it would taste more like syrup than tea. With a squeeze or two of lemon instead of milk, it would practically become…
Marmalade.
He jerked his startled gaze toward Miss Wynchester.
The corners of her mouth twitched. She could not hide the wicked twinkle in her eyes.
“How?” he mouthed to her.
She lifted a dainty shoulder, then brought her teacup to her lips to hide a grin.
He narrowed his eyes.
She pursed her lips as if about to blow him a kiss, then covered her mouth with her teacup.
Impertinent minx.
Her actions were not materially different from his own quest for the chair she would hate to sit in the least. He’d been trying to make an unpleasant thing more palatable for her, and she had done the same for him.
But why must they suffer through distasteful things? Could he not provide something for her that she liked, without qualifications or compromise?
Of course he could. He was the Duke of Faircliffe. What good were all of his privileges if he could not use them to make someone happy?
Pensive, Lawrence stayed long enough to speak to Miss York and pay his respects to her mother. Ostensibly, that was why he’d come.
But the moment he could gracefully escape, he leapt into his coach and directed his driver to the best milliner in all of London.
He would have to sell a few more books, but bringing a smile to Miss Wynchester’s face would be worth it.
If the milliner found the duke’s shopping list curious—a dozen plain bonnets in varying styles, feathers of every shape and size, a rainbow of ribbons, handfuls of wax fruit and several fake birds—he was far too polite to comment.
Within the hour Lawrence had it all unpacked atop his dining room table. He and Miss Wynchester would part ways after the gala, but before then he would give her a moment they would both remember forever.
One of the maids passed through the dining room and skidded to a stop.
&nb
sp; “Might I inquire,” Peggy said, failing to hide her obvious amusement, “what Your Grace is doing?”
His voice dripped with icy haughtiness. “I am trimming a bonnet.”
They looked at the table, then at each other.
“Badly,” he added.
They both burst into laughter.
“Ring for the others,” he said with a sigh. “If I’m to make an utter fool of myself, I might as well do so en famille. We can all be mad as hatters.”
In moments Lawrence and every remaining member of staff hunched over the dining room table, fighting over wax fruit and trading spindles of colored thread to match decorative ribbons.
Peggy and Dinah, the maids, proved the most competent with a needle. Mrs. Elkins, the cook, had a heavy hand when pasting adornments to the crown of her bonnet.
“It’s not marzipan,” Hastings chided her, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
Mrs. Elkins sniffed in disdain, but twin spots of color bloomed on her round cheeks.
“Miss Wynchester will love these, Your Grace,” Dinah assured Lawrence.
Jackson, the footman, beheld his lopsided creation doubtfully. “Will she?”
“I didn’t say this was a gift for anyone,” Lawrence protested.
Nobody paid any attention.
“I’ll pray she accepts it,” Mrs. Elkins promised him.
A sharp pang slashed through Lawrence’s chest.
How he wished this were a romantic gesture and not a platonic gift between friends. He didn’t just want to make her smile; he wanted to taste the sweetness of her tongue, to explore every curve of her body with his hands and his mouth.
He didn’t want to hide his glances in her direction. He wanted her to know what she did to him, to never doubt his ardor for a moment. But he could not indulge those desires.
A decorated bonnet was the most he could give.
17
The door to the Wynchester family coach was flung open and a blur of jangling brass soared inside.
Tommy caught the flying ring of keys with her left hand. “You did it?”
“Of course I did.” Graham leapt inside the carriage and threw himself on the rear-facing seat next to Jacob and the short-tailed field vole in Jacob’s lap. “Have I ever failed to deliver on a promise?”
