At this impassioned comment, from his new wheeled chair at the head of the table, her father finally dropped the morning newspaper he had been hiding behind and reluctantly came to everyone’s rescue.
‘There is no need for all that, Roberta. You are worrying unnecessarily again and imagining a crisis where there isn’t one.’ He patted his wife’s hand. ‘We are now all agreed Lord Eastwood is a decent sort despite his unfortunate scandal, and you forget he does Faith a great honour in inviting her to the banquet. How many years have you despaired of our dear daughters being excluded from Almack’s? Of being looked down upon by certain sectors of society who always think they are better than them? Than us?’
He chuckled as if he found it all wonderfully amusing. ‘And yet here she is, trumping that fusty prejudice with a trip to the palace! What a splendid coup for this family! I, for one, am thoroughly looking forward to the stories in the newspapers the day after—because for the first time the name Brookes shall appear in the Court Circular instead of the gossip columns. Won’t that be a turn up for the books? And if Faith is mentioned in the gossip columns as well, I sincerely doubt they will be able to make too much mischief when she will have been in the presence of the highest echelons of the government and the Portuguese Royal Court—not to mention Prinny himself—all evening.’
‘But what if they make insinuations about her and Lord Eastwood?’
‘Would it be so terrible if they did?’ The words slipped out before she thought better of them, earning her a strange look from both Hope and Charity. ‘I can think of less agreeable gentlemen to be linked with.’
‘He might well be more agreeable than I gave him credit for, but he is still a D-I-V-O-R-C-E-E, Faith! That is never going to change.’
‘Who foolishly married the wrong woman, Mother, when he was young and impetuous—but then nobly set her free. To the detriment of his good reputation and standing in society and despite all the unfair censure and scandal, so that she could marry her aristocratic Portuguese lover and give birth to his heir in wedlock!’ Technically, it wasn’t her secret to tell, but she couldn’t bear the thought of her own family judging him unfairly for something which wasn’t his fault. ‘Piers is…’
‘Oh, for goodness sake! I’ll go!’ Hope surged to her feet with such force, the china rattled. ‘I’ll forgo my well-earned peace in Whitstable to be Faith’s chaperon next week! I’ll protect her precious virtue even though I would rather gargle glass than waste an entire evening sat at a dreary banquet! Then the thronging masses who have spent all their hard-earned money to fill every seat in the Covent Garden theatre can still enjoy the magnificent Roberta Brookes in Così fan Tutte, and seeing as Charity is apparently able to forgo her important role in that splendiferous production for the banquet, she can stay at home next Tuesday evening, and we’ll all breathe a huge sigh of relief knowing that for at least one night she can’t be distracted by any more cavalry officers and our poor broken Papa won’t be abandoned all alone!’ Then she glared at their mother. ‘Now will you all please shut up about it?’
‘How dare you take that tone with me, young lady!’ And all at once, her mother’s face was purple again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
If my calculations are correct, dear reader, then the Duke of Aveley’s Ball is destined to be the first crush of the Season! As his mother has apparently sent out no less than three hundred gilt-edged invitations…
Whispers from Behind the Fan
April 1814
‘I believe I owe you a huge and grovelling apology.’ Edward Tate’s handsome face was contrite as he kissed her gloved hand. It was the first time she had seen him since the Renshaw Ball and her subsequent enlightening first waltz with Piers. ‘I caused a horrendous scene, I was unspeakably rude and I behaved like a child. I am heartily ashamed of myself, if that helps grease the wheels of your forgiveness.
‘Obviously, if that is not enough, and lord only knows it shouldn’t be after I acted so abominably, then I am prepared to do whatever penance you think fit. I shall wear a hair shirt, flail my bare skin with birch twigs, I shall even pen a long and tragic poem about all my failings and my utter remorse for my actions and send it to The Times to publish with impunity if that is what it takes.’ Then he got down on both knees and stared up at her piteously, not caring that they were in a packed alcove behind the refreshment table and at least thirty people were openly watching.
‘I am sorry, Faith. Please be my friend again.’ His face was so mischievously pitiful, she couldn’t help but laugh.
‘Get up, you idiot.’
‘Only if you forgive me.’
‘I forgive you! Now get up.’
He stood and smiled. ‘I hear huge congratulations are also in order. The Writtle commission…that is quite a coup.’
‘Thank you. Although it came at the cost of poor Papa’s broken leg, so I do not feel that lucky. But it is a wonderful opportunity.’ Which all came thanks to Piers. ‘And Papa gave his blessing that I took it over, so that eases my guilt a little that my good fortune came at his expense.’
‘I visited him earlier, did he tell you?’
She nodded. ‘That was very thoughtful of you.’
‘He seemed in good spirits.’
‘He is happier now that his fingers have healed enough that he can sketch again, and his leg is also mending well, so we are hopeful he will be back on his feet in a month—albeit still with crutches.’ She smiled and dropped her voice. ‘I hear congratulations are in order to you too.’
He barely nodded back. ‘They are—though it’s not public knowledge yet and likely won’t be until we can work out a way to tell Catherine’s father about our engagement. A task I am dreading, as I am sure you can imagine. He’s not the most approachable sort.’
‘I’ve always found the Earl of Burstead terrifying.’
‘We all do. It well might be Gretna Green at this rate as he had her earmarked for a marquis at the very least, so the prospect of his only daughter settling for a lowly, ever so slightly scandalous jobbing poet isn’t likely to go down well. Especially after he banned her from seeing me when he thought we were getting a little too friendly.’
‘Let me guess…you saw her anyway?’
‘I tried to abide by his wishes…we both did for two long years and tried to move on to more acceptable pastures new…’ He winced a little, clearly apologising that his pursuit of Faith hadn’t been entirely heartfelt. ‘Because he threatened to disown her and banish her from the family completely. He is that callous we are in no doubt he will still carry out that threat once the truth is out. But we have both come to the conclusion we would much rather be scandalous, shunned and impoverished but blissfully together than hideously miserable and apart because…’ He huffed out a sigh, his handsome face filled with such sadness for a moment until his eyes drifted across the room to Lady Catherine and the sadness was instantly replaced with love. ‘When your heart has picked its soulmate, there is absolutely nothing that can be done about it.’
Instinctively, her gaze flicked to Piers, who was typically stood alone in the opposite alcove watching the dancers, doing his very best impression of a man determined to blend into the wallpaper and doubtless counting the minutes until he could escape. She already knew him that well. He wasn’t one for crowds, and likely never would be. But when you got him alone…
She found herself smiling. As much as Faith enjoyed parties and balls and crowds and noise, she always had the best time alone with him. There was no point trying to deny any longer that she was in love with him. As each day passed, and they spent more time together, another of her reservations melted away. Not that they had spent much time together this week. Poor Piers had been swamped with banquet preparations, so busy he’d only been able to snatch a few minutes here and there. The fact that he was here only because she was, was lovely, especially when he hated social functions so much.
As if he sensed her watching, he turned and their eyes met across the crowded room, and her heart seemed to skip a beat. Good heavens, he was handsome! But it wasn’t just his broad shoulders and smouldering, compelling eyes which warmed her. It was simply him. Inside and out.
It was funny, she had always feared her judgement in men was skewed, but she now knew in her heart that Piers was different. It too had met its soulmate. A momentous revelation she was still trying to pluck up the courage to tell him, and likely would have too if he wasn’t still so determined to stick to the strict parameters of their unsatisfyingly platonic friendship for the duration, rather than succumb to the simmering lust which still bubbled no matter how much they tried to ignore it. Not that Faith could ever really ignore it. She had never felt so ripe and wanton and ready to sin in her life.
‘How go things with your Viscount?’ Edward was grinning and had clearly seen the yearning written all over her face, so there was no point in denying it.
‘It is going well…we are going to attempt a proper courtship once the painting is finished. Piers wants to do things traditionally and completely above board.’ Although she had pretty much decided that once the courtship commenced, she was going to actively encourage they indulge the lust too. ‘Neither of us want to rush into anything.’
‘Do his family know?’
‘They have their suspicions.’
‘And are they disappointed by his choice?’
From anyone else, she would have taken great offence at the question, but Edward came from her world and understood better than most the stark difference between being tolerated by the aristocracy and welcomed into it.
‘So far, they are doing everything in their power to actively encourage it.’
Margaret had even tried to force Piers to pencil his name into her dance card this evening for both waltzes and he flatly refused to even agree to an impersonal cotillion. She understood and appreciated why. He wanted to spare her the speculation while they tentatively found their feet. For him, their relationship was intensely personal and private—not in the clandestine way that Rayne had insisted upon—he merely wanted them both to be sure before they made things public. And they both knew that their waltzing together could be dangerous.
Still…dangerous or not, she would have loved to waltz with him again tonight.
And maybe she still would? If she brazenly took his hand and tugged him to the floor, he wouldn’t be able to refuse her. Then, if they twirled breathless enough, perhaps she might even convince him to forget his iron reserve long enough for her to tempt him out on to the Aveleys’ secluded terrace and throw caution to the wind.
Her pulse quickened at the thought.
‘I am happy for you both and delighted that his family approve of you—because I always have. I hope we are allowed to remain friends when I am a social outcast and you are a countess.’
‘Of course we will.’ The speed of her answer shattered another one of her doubts. ‘Piers cares little for rank and I will always be a Brookes at heart and we Brookeses have never been strangers to scandal.’
‘I hope you are right. But just in case I am not, how about one last dance for old time’s sake? From one scandal to another? While I tell you the entire turbulent and tumultuous tale of my illicit romance with the woman of my dreams.’
* * *
Piers had watched them talk, reassuring himself that Faith had absolutely no interest in the frilly Adonis at all, but then the poet led her out on to the dance floor, and something snapped. It was primal, wholly irrational, and no matter how much he tried to tell himself it was just a dance, the sight of her waltzing in another man’s arms sent him into a jealous rage. Because the Adonis wasn’t just any other man—he was a man who had never made any secret of the fact he wanted her.
And the waltz wasn’t just any old dance. It was exclusively their dance.
Or so he had foolishly thought.
But watching them now, his hand around her waist, hers on his shoulder, all much too close for comfort, there was something about the way the pair of them were looking at one another which made the acid in his gut, which he had battled for a week, churn with a vengeance.
Their eyes locked while deep in conversation, which then set the familiar alarm bells ringing. Only this time, instead of just listening to them and accepting them and pragmatically preparing for the aftermath, they clanged like a battle call, invading his brain until the irrational voices at the back of his mind controlled it.
It was then Piers kicked himself for not writing his name next to the first waltz on her dance card as he had desperately wanted to, and to hell with all the gossip and speculation such a possessive move would have caused. In fact, those previously ignored voices made sense. He should have written his name next to both waltzes! All the dances! Carved his name in huge letters across her dance card and guarded her like a sentry to prevent any other man from daring to come near. Then perhaps…
What the blazes was the matter with him?
This violent reaction was neither sensible nor rational. The toxic new voices dangerous and nonsensical. Thanks to the blasted banquet on the morrow, he’d been working too hard again, and that, and the looming prospect of seeing his former wife again had obviously set his nerves on edge. He wasn’t normally a jealous person. Jealousy was a futile and base emotion which only ever caused grief! It wasn’t logical or pragmatic. It wasn’t measured or sensible. When he knew in his heart it wasn’t fair to transfer all the negative feelings Constança churned within him on to Faith.
This was just one dance. And if she had been dancing with any other gentleman than the ridiculously handsome Edward Tate, he would have reacted in a much more pragmatic and sensible way. He’d have watched the dance simply to enjoy watching her, then counted the minutes until he could have her all to himself again. Well away from the crowds which always made him self-conscious.
Feeling better, he glanced at them again and in horror glared as the poet said something to her which touched her heart. Piers recognised it by the way her head tilted and even from his spot in the alcove, yards away from the dance floor, he saw that her lovely violet eyes were filled with something which looked dangerously like regret, before she tenderly cupped his rival’s cheek and he realised he was done for.
A wave of acid burned his throat as the poison permeated his brain. What a blasted fool he was!
Of course she would ultimately choose her handsome poet over him! Some things were as inevitable as night following day. Even in his rage that made perfect sense. Edward Tate was charming and erudite, interesting, fascinating, talented. A man who stood out from the crowd and revelled in it. Like Faith, he was nauseatingly unique. Flamboyantly so. Whereas Piers was merely Piers.
Predictable. Mundane, staid and unexciting.
The poet kissed her hand and they parted, and his poor heart wept when he watched her watch him leave with a winsome smile. And like the colourful social butterfly she was, she was soon engulfed by the crowd, laughing and chatting and blithely unaware she had just destroyed him.
He considered leaving then, before he punched a wall in his anger, or better still a poet, but the now distant voice of reason screamed over the noise of the blood rushing in his head, urging him to stay and to give her the chance to explain. In despair, he listened. Took himself out on to the terrace to get some air while he tried to get his emotions in check, reminding himself that Faith wasn’t Constança.
Oh, God, how he hoped Faith wasn’t like Constança! He couldn’t go through all that again.
‘I knew I would find you hiding somewhere.’
The sound of her voice had him spinning around. She was smiling. Not one of her usual smiles. It was the sultry one. The one he had first seen when he kissed her in the carriage, and when he had filled his greedy hands with her sensitive naked breasts, the one she gifted him whenever
the lust between them reared its head…
Only this time it wasn’t him that had caused it. How could it be when he had purposely avoided her all night? Because he hadn’t trusted himself not to look at her like a man hopelessly in love looks at his woman, and inadvertently alert the whole damn ballroom to that undeniable fact.
Hopelessly in love?
Good grief!
The terrace spun around him as he absorbed the truth. All too fast. All too terrifying. He felt his lips curl as the rushing blood in his head drowned out all else, hating himself for feeling so out of control. ‘How could you?’
He was being pathetic! Of course he was… He was tired. Overworked. Off-kilter. Up in the air. Organising a damn banquet when he couldn’t even bear to dance one dance at a ball… Hopelessly in love.
She had the gall to appear confused instead of contrite.
More damn alarm bells!
‘How could I do what, Piers?’ It was a convincing performance, he had to give her that, much better than any his former wife could have managed. But then the theatre was in her blood. And he was an idiot. An irrational, overwrought and oversensitive idiot. ‘What’s wrong?’
She touched his arm and he tugged it away. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t fair. But it was visceral. ‘I saw you! Dancing with Edward Blasted Tate! Flirting with Edward Blasted Tate!’ Something vile and spiteful had taken over his tongue, making him lash out instead of listen. He barely recognised himself. Loathed himself. But vented the poison anyway.
‘Was it the pretty apology?’ The sarcastic tone he was using disgusted him but he couldn’t seem to stop it. ‘I saw him on his knees. Did he write you a poem? Did he confess his undying love? Did he tell you he couldn’t live without you?’
Harlequin Historical February 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 21