by Farr, Diane
She looked startled. He managed a strained smile. “I’m joking,” he explained.
A tiny smile curved her lips again. She tilted her chin, studying him. “I don’t think you are,” she remarked at last. “Not entirely.” Her smile sweetened. “You joke, but there is something of the knight-errant about you.”
A short laugh escaped him. “I lack the shining armor, of course. Perhaps I should borrow that suit of paperboard over there before I hunt Filey down.”
Her color deepened. She dropped her eyes. “In truth, you know, he did not do anything so very… that is, he did not…” Her voice trailed off and she gave a strange, choked laugh. “He did nothing more than you did.”
Surprise and chagrin jarred him, paralyzing him for a moment. He had to bite his tongue to keep from swearing. It was not as bad as it might have been, but still—Filey had kissed her! The swine had dared to kiss her! It mattered not a whit that the man had done nothing more than he himself had done. Had Filey walked into the room at that moment, Derek felt he must have lunged for the dastard’s throat.
Cynthia looked back up at him. She must have seen the mortifying emotions chasing themselves across his face, for she smiled with what seemed a wisdom beyond her years. “You are thinking that Sir James had no right,” she said softly. “No right to touch me.”
“Yes.” Derek’s voice sounded half-strangled. “Sorry! I know it sounds absurd, coming from me. Can’t help it.”
Amusement crinkled the corners of her eyes. “But it doesn’t sound absurd at all. I agree with you. He had no right to touch me. And he certainly had no right to kiss me.”
“Cynthia, you shame me.” He cradled her face in his hands. Her cheeks were soft as a baby’s. His heart swelled with a remorse so keen it was almost sorrow. “I had no right to kiss you, either.” He opened his mouth to apologize, but she forestalled him by laying one finger gently against his lips.
“Yes, you did.” Her whisper was barely audible. “You had every right.”
Remorse faded, forgotten. Awe took its place. It was suddenly hard to breathe. He shook his head slowly. “How can that be?”
Her eyes were blue as the morning sky. “I don’t know.” Confusion clouded them briefly, and then cleared. She smiled at him. “I don’t know,” she repeated, but the trouble had vanished from her face. “Some things, one can’t explain. They are simply true.”
So of course he kissed her again.
And again.
Eventually he was forced to come up for air. He moved immediately to sweep her back into another kiss, but Cynthia pulled away from him, gasping to catch her breath.
“I ... I can’t ... oh, what time is it?” She sat up, seeming dazed. “What am I doing?”
“Kissing me,” he said thickly. Whatever else she had on her agenda, it couldn’t possibly be more important. He reached for her again, but she held him off.
Her face was rosy from his kisses. She looked delightful, but she pressed her hands to her cheeks as if trying to cool them. “Merciful heavens. I have never in my life—that is—I mean—oh, this is madness! I don’t even know you.”
But on this point, Derek was very sure. “You know me.” He smiled, besotted, and tucked a strand of her spun-sunlight hair back into her coiffure. “Never doubt that, Cynthia.”
She gave a shaky little laugh, seeming to agree with him against her better judgement. “Perhaps you are right. What’s in a name?” she said lightly. With an inward start, he recognized the words; she was not only quoting Shakespeare, she was quoting the same play that— “And yet,” she continued, breaking into his jumbled thoughts, “I would like to know it.”
He took a deep breath. “Of course you would. What a dunderhead I am.” He raked his hair back off his forehead and tried to gather his wits. “My name is Whittaker,” he told her. “Derek Whittaker. At your service, I need hardly add.”
Cynthia’s smile bloomed again. “Derek Whittaker,” she repeated. He thought his name had never sounded so well. “And I am Cynthia Fitzwilliam.” She seemed to expect the name to mean something to him, but he couldn’t place it. After a tiny pause, she added, “My father is the Earl of Ballymere, you know.”
No, he hadn’t known. Derek’s heart sank. This was not good news. Ballymere was obviously an Irish title, but Irish or not, an earl’s daughter was above his touch. Ridiculous, that that would matter so much to him. He barely knew this girl. Was he already planning to court her?
Well, yes. He was. No doubt about it.
Her smile faded. She regarded him gravely. “I must go back.” He felt her anxiety suddenly return. Tension ran through her slim body, although her face betrayed none of it. “Sir James will have returned to the box by now.”
He stared down at her in amazement. “Sir James? Never tell me you came here tonight in Filey’s company!”
Cynthia closed her eyes in an expression of pain. “Yes, I did,” she whispered. Then she placed her palms over her face, sagging with misery. “Oh, what will you think of me?”
Derek placed his arm around her and drew her close. He said nothing. What could he say? Attending the opera with a bachelor, let alone such a one as Filey, was not the sort of thing a respectable young female would do. Had she not already told him she was an earl’s daughter, and had he not already fallen more than halfway in love with her, Derek would have doubted her virtue.
Cynthia was shaking again, and seemed inclined to burrow into his warmth for comfort. “I did not come here alone with him,” she said into his shoulder. “It’s not as bad as that. My mother is here as well.”
Relief flooded him. “Then I shall restore you to your mother,” he said firmly. “Not to Filey.”
“You don’t understand.” She gave a mournful little sigh. “But how could you? I haven’t told you all.” She sat up and faced him, her expression woebegone. “My mother and I are here tonight as Sir James’s guests. He is…he is her favorite of all my suitors. I see you find that incredible, but it’s true. She was so pleased when he invited us.” Another shiver went through her. “She will be very angry with me.”
Derek frowned. “For going off alone with him?”
Cynthia shook her head. “No. For running from him.” Distress was in every line of her tense, quivering body. “But I couldn’t help it,” she whispered. She gazed helplessly up into Derek’s eyes. “He wasn’t you.”
Emotion closed over Derek’s heart like a fist and squeezed. He felt his chest tighten. Their eyes had locked again, and again he felt the undeniable tug of their connection.
But a question had evidently occurred to Cynthia. Her delicate brows knit in puzzlement. “Derek, how do you know Sir James? For it is obvious that you do.”
He gave a short laugh. “All the world knows Sir James Filey.”
Her puzzlement seemed to deepen. “But he did not know you.”
“Oh, there’s nothing odd in that. Nobody knows me.” He grinned, but felt his grin slip a bit. For the first time, his anonymous state struck Derek as a handicap. Whoever this girl was—and she had mentioned “suitors,” plural—she was unlikely to bestow her affections on a nobody. Miss Fitzwilliam was plainly somebody.
My father is the Earl of Ballymere, you know. Hell and the devil confound it. She wasn’t Miss Fitzwilliam. Earl’s daughters bore a title. She was Lady Cynthia. A small thing, perhaps, but it seemed to place her even further out of reach. Damn, damn, damn.
She must have seen the shadow cross his face. “What’s amiss?” she whispered. Anxiety filled her eyes.
He was trying to form an answer when a strange roaring suddenly swelled in the air around them, echoing faintly in the halls above. Derek was so lost to his surroundings that, for a fraction of a second, he failed to recognize it. Then it hit him: it was applause. Off in the forgotten world where his duties awaited him, the interval had arrived. If he did not hasten back to Lord Stokesdown’s box, his absence would be noticed.
“Good Gad!” he exclaimed. He leaped to his feet,
pulling Cynthia peremptorily up with him.
“What—what—” she stammered.
“Sorry! I lost track of time. It’s the interval, dear girl. Everyone will be leaving their boxes and milling about.”
“Oh, heavens.” She paled. “What will we do?”
“Join them, I think, and pretend we’ve been milling about, too.” Still, for a moment he cupped her face in his hands, loath to let her go. “I cannot stay with you,” he said reluctantly. “I wish I could. Cynthia, what do you want of me? Shall I take you back to your mother? Or is there somewhere else you might go? I will gladly escort you to a friend—an aunt—”
“No. There is no one. No one who is here tonight, at any rate.” She gave him a shaky smile. “You may take me back to my mother and Sir James. After all, I must face them again sometime.”
He could not argue with her. What she said was logical, and besides—there wasn’t time. He escorted her up the stairs and quickly to the edge of the common areas, where people were, indeed, milling about. But he hung back at the edge of the light, pulling her slightly toward him. “You will see me again,” he said in a low tone.
She tilted her chin to look up at him. Her eyes were luminous, filled with longing. And, strangely, sadness.
“I hope so,” she whispered. Then, before he could stop her, she slid from his grasp and melted into the crowd.
Chapter 2
Hyde Park, unlike the haut ton’s elegant ballrooms, did not require an invitation—even during the fashionable hour. For the next three days, Derek Whittaker arrived in the famous gardens promptly at five o’clock, dressed to the nines and neat as wax, and joined the army of exquisites parading up and down. The park was so crowded at this time of year with like-minded gentlemen that Derek had no trouble hooking up with cronies bent upon encountering their latest inamoratas. In company with this one or that, pretending to converse while surreptitiously scanning the crowd, Derek spent several frustrating afternoons patrolling the most-frequented areas of the park…to no avail.
On the fourth day, he hired a hack. The expenditure was more than he could comfortably afford, but the advantages of being on horseback were immediately apparent. Not only could he scour the park more thoroughly, he could view the throng from a height that enabled him to see farther and better. He trotted purposefully along the Serpentine, then doubled back to the more crowded areas of the park. Halfway down Rotten Row, his efforts were crowned with success. He spotted Cynthia.
She was seated in an open barouche, facing him. The barouche’s progress toward where Derek rode was impeded by the crush of other vehicles, a circumstance for which Derek was thankful. The slowness of its approach gave him a bit of time to regain his composure. On seeing her, his heart had given such a bound that the horse, sensing his sudden tension, danced and fretted beneath him.
She was a vision. Sunlight filtered through the plane trees and struck the edge of her parasol, illuminating the lace as it fluttered high above her face. Her face was slightly averted as she listened to her companion’s conversation, but she looked up when Derek’s eyes fell on her, as if she felt his gaze. As their eyes met, he felt again the shock of recognition and the irresistible pull of attraction between them. There was something beyond her beauty that drew him to this particular girl. He felt it as surely as he felt the sunshine on his face.
He urged his mount forward, smiling eagerly. He was actually lifting his hand to his hat brim, preparing to bow, when he realized that Cynthia was not acknowledging him. She had glanced away, back to her companion.
Confused, Derek hung back. It was the lady’s prerogative, of course, to recognize their acquaintance or—or not. But surely, surely his Cynthia did not intend to give him the cut direct. They had not been formally introduced, but—
Well, of course! Ignoring him was a mark of her good breeding, nothing more. They needed an introduction.
He spied an opening. The middle-aged lady sitting beside Cynthia he had never seen before in his life, but he recognized the portly chap sitting across from them. What the deuce was the fellow’s name? Henderson. Something Henderson. He had attended a political dinner at Lord Stokesdown’s residence a few weeks ago.
It was a feeble excuse to approach the carriage, but desperate men take desperate measures. Derek approached, tipping his hat to Something Henderson.
“Henderson!” he exclaimed, with every indication of pleasure. “How are you, sir? Fine weather we’re having.”
“Eh?” Henderson blinked doubtfully at him. “Ah. Yes, indeed. Very pleasant.” It was painfully obvious that he had no idea who Derek was. “How d’ye do?”
“Very well, thank you, sir.” Derek turned to include the women in his easy smile. “Ladies.” He touched the brim of his hat in a polite salute, being careful to do no more than glance at Cynthia. Then he turned back to give poor Henderson a clue. “You may be interested to hear, sir, that Lord Stokesdown means to give an address next week. On the taxation dilemma, I believe.”
Light seemed to dawn. The association with Lord Stokesdown had obviously brought Derek’s face into focus for him. “Is that so? Well, well. In the Upper House, I suppose?”
“Just so, sir.” He thought he had better change the subject before Henderson realized that Derek’s face, although vaguely recalled from the Stokesdown dinner, had not been among those actually at table with him. He bent his most charming smile upon the middle-aged woman sitting with Cynthia. “But we mustn’t bore the ladies with political talk.”
He had always had a way with older women. She visibly unbent, permitting herself to smile at Derek. “Not at all, young man. I don’t believe we’ve met,” she remarked, arching a brow in polite inquiry.
Derek silently blessed the woman. To save the unfortunate Henderson from further embarrassment, he lifted his hat and bowed. “Derek Whittaker, madam, at your service.”
“Very pleased to meet you. I am Maria Henderson, as you have no doubt surmised. I see that you are acquainted with my husband, but have you met Lady Cynthia? Cynthia, my dear, allow me to present Derek Whittaker. Mr. Whittaker, Lady Cynthia Fitzwilliam.”
Derek bowed very low. “I am honored.”
Cynthia lifted limpid blue eyes to his and murmured something polite. Her poise was remarkable, but he noticed that her cheeks were pinker than they had been two minutes ago. She lowered her gaze modestly down to her lap, but a tiny quirk of mischief trembled at the corner of her mouth. It stayed, although she steadfastly regarded her gloves while Derek fell into easy conversation with chatty Mrs. Henderson.
He dared not overstay his welcome. He and Cynthia had been officially introduced; that was enough for today. After a few more pleasantries, he bowed and bade farewell. As he gathered the reins and prepared to ride off, however, Cynthia threw him a bone. She looked up again, actually daring to meet his eyes, and uttered two sentences.
“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Whittaker,” she said. Her expression was perfectly neutral and there was no hint of warmth in her voice. He had to admire her show of indifference. “I daresay we shall meet again at the embassy ball.”
Mrs. Henderson laughed. “Oh, all the world and his brother will be there.”
Derek, naturally, knew nothing about the embassy ball. But he instantly resolved to attend it, by hook or by crook. He managed a bland smile, expressed a conventional hope that Cynthia’s prediction would prove true, and with a last bow—nicely aimed at the air precisely in the middle of the carriage, rather than to any one person in it—rode away.
He lost little time in returning the hack and striding purposefully back to Lord Stokesdown’s town house, where he tossed his hat on a table, shut himself in the library, and dug briskly through a stack of discarded invitations. If >all the world and his brother’ were expected at this ball, Derek had no doubt that Lord Stokesdown had been included in their number. Ten minutes later, he emerged from the library triumphant with a square, white card in his hand.
The embas
sy ball would be held three nights hence, and the embassy in question was that of the Austrians. All that remained was for Derek to convince his employer that the ball would be worth attending…for political reasons. This would doubtless be a stretch, but political reasons were the only considerations likely to weigh with his lordship—which is why Derek’s duties took him to many excellent dinners and occasional theatrical excursions, but few balls. An embassy ball was even less likely than most to appeal to Derek’s employer, since his tastes ran to domestic policy rather than foreign affairs. Still, Derek did not despair. Lord Stokesdown had come to rely on Derek’s judgment regarding which invitations to accept and which to decline, so if Derek recommended that he attend this particular ball, his lordship might agree without a murmur.
The more difficult hurdle would be to convince Lord Stokesdown that his secretary’s presence at the ball would prove useful. Derek decided, after nervously weighing and discarding several arguments, that he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
As it turned out, however, no convoluted arguments were required. When Derek casually suggested that Lord Stokesdown appear at the embassy ball, secretary in tow, a strange little pause ensued. Then his lordship gave a sudden bark of laughter. “Ha!” he exclaimed, clapping his startled employee on the back. “You’ve met a girl.”
Derek felt himself flush to the roots of his hair.
Lord Stokesdown waved this off. “No, no, my boy, no need to color up. I’d be glad to see you creditably established.”
“Oh, as to that—I—I—sir, I have only just met her.”
“Pho! Who cares for that? You must be well and truly smitten, to try cajoling me into attending some rubbishy ball, just to catch a glimpse of her.” Another crack of laughter escaped him. “I’ll go, never fear! If only to watch you trying to wheedle your way into the ton. Should be most entertaining. If you expect to encounter this chit at the embassy, she must be well-connected. Eh? Excellent! A very good thing for you.”