by Farr, Diane
Chapter 11
He was pursuing her. Cynthia felt it. She saw it. And she was terrified that everyone else would see it, too.
Gone was Derek’s perfect, circumspect behavior that had so relieved her mind the previous evening. It was as if her words, her explanation, her farewell, had had the opposite effect from what she intended. He did not behave like a man who had been given his congé. He behaved as if she had encouraged him! What ailed the man? Was he blind? Was he dense? Or was he merely rude?
She was forced, all day long, to go to extraordinary lengths to avoid him. It wasn’t that she minded spending time with Hannah. Hannah was her dearest friend. But she was keenly aware that the only reason she clung to Hannah’s side like a burr was her fear that, if she did not, Derek would pounce and spirit her away somehow. And she dared spend no more time alone with him.
The Oldham Park party was to attend a subscription ball at public rooms in Rochdale tonight, and her mother decreed that Cynthia should wear the glacé silk they had been saving. By the time she went upstairs to don it, she was as cranky as a two year-old who had skipped his nap. She felt mutinous and unsettled, and it didn’t matter one whit to her whether her anger was rational or irrational. She was angry with Derek for ignoring her stated wishes, angry with herself for failing to resist him, angry with her mother for ordering her about, angry with Mr. Ellsworth for comparing so poorly to Mr. Whittaker—why couldn’t he be attractive and interesting? Why must he be so humdrum?—and angry with life in general, for placing her in a position she wished she were well out of.
She stared moodily into the mirror while Lucy dressed her hair. There was no easy way to get through what promised to be a wretched evening. She supposed her best course—the one that would simultaneously please her mother and thwart Derek—would be to flirt with John Ellsworth, although she shrank from the task. She was not animated enough to be an accomplished flirt, and Mr. Ellsworth was a difficult subject to target. Plus, she suspected that Derek would do everything in his power to get in the way. On top of that, she had no real desire to spend the evening in Mr. Ellsworth’s pocket. And on top of that, she agonized over Hannah’s probable reaction. How badly would Cynthia wound her friend if she finally attracted Mr. Ellsworth’s interest? How angry would Mama be, if she did not? She hardly knew which outcome she dreaded more: success or failure.
At last Lucy’s ministrations were done, and Cynthia stood before the pier glass while her mother walked all round her, noting each detail with a critical eye. The pale blue silk, so pale it was nearly white, gleamed beautifully in the candlelight. It clung to every curve of Cynthia’s slim body. Her mother tugged expertly on the tiny, puffed sleeves to lay the dainty rosettes that bordered them perfectly flat. She smoothed the delicate ridge of silk piping and made an infinitesimal adjustment to straighten the single strand of pearls clasped round her daughter’s throat. Mama’s eyes sparkled with all the suppressed excitement that Cynthia wished she felt, but did not.
“Perfect,” said Mama at last, and she broke into a smile. “Looking at you makes me wish I were young again, facing an evening of flirting and dancing. You will accomplish much in this gown tonight, Cynthia. I feel sure of it.”
Cynthia forced herself to smile back. “You would handle this evening much better than I shall,” she confessed.
“Nonsense,” said Mama. “I was fair enough in my day, but I never had your beauty, my pet.” Still, she looked pleased, evidently thinking Cynthia meant to compliment her. Which she had... but now that she thought about it, Cynthia wondered why it was considered such a compliment, to be told, basically, that one could break hearts. Was the ability to hurt other people something to be proud of?
Something of this dark train of thought must have shown in her face, for Mama frowned at her. “What’s amiss? You look lovely, Cynthia.”
That was not what was troubling her. In the irritated state of her nerves, her mother’s shallowness disgusted her. It was, she thought cynically, characteristic of Mama that she assumed, when seeing that something worried her daughter, that whatever it was must have something to do with her appearance.
“Yes, Mama,” she said automatically. Then, realizing how that sounded, she amended it. “I mean, nothing is amiss. Are these the gloves you wanted me to wear?”
Her mother’s brow magically smoothed, her concerns vanishing as she addressed the all-important question of gloves. “Yes, I think the short gloves look well enough, don’t you? The longer gloves would look well, too, if you prefer them. No? Then let us leave it as it is. If your arms are cold, you may drape a shawl over your elbows—the white silk, I think. The wool would be warmer, but its color would not complement that delicate blue you are wearing.”
Her chatter continued, but Cynthia ceased to listen. Few of the things that struck her mother as important mattered to her. This rather depressing fact was reinforced when they gathered in the hall to board the carriages that would transport them to Rochdale. When Mama learned of the travel arrangements that had been made, she was visibly put out. It was obvious to Cynthia that Mama had hoped to be placed with the Ellsworths, but the Ellsworths were going in Lord Grafton’s carriage. It was the largest, and could seat six passengers, so Lord and Lady Grafton—and their daughter, Hannah—were taking up Sir Peter and Lady Ellsworth and their son, John. The duke and duchess were not going, and neither, of course, was Lady Malcolm or the younger Chase girls. That left Lady Ballymere and her daughter to ride in Lord Malcolm’s coach, with Lord Malcolm and his brother-in-law, Mr. Whittaker.
It was a logical arrangement. But Mama’s mouth turned discontentedly down when she heard it, and Cynthia—although careful to give no outward sign—felt her heart beat faster with anxiety. How long would the trip to Rochdale be? Nearly an hour. Nearly an hour, confined in a coach with Derek... and Mama. She could scarcely think of a worse way to begin the evening.
And then Derek walked in.
The sight of him, resplendent in impeccable evening attire, struck her like a physical blow. She felt almost as if the breath had been knocked out of her. There had never been another man as handsome, as desirable, as Derek Whittaker. Not to her. He appealed to her on some visceral level she could neither control nor alter. Everything about him—the way he looked, and spoke, and moved—his smile, his voice, those magnificent shoulders—oh, it was terrible! She felt drawn to him in some unfathomable, deeply rooted, utterly instinctive way. And the sight of him in full evening dress somehow made the attraction even stronger. What a catastrophe.
She could not let her eyes linger on him, much as they longed to. She wrenched her gaze, feeling dazzled nearly to the point of blindness, away from Derek and to his companion, Lord Malcolm. Looking at Lord Malcolm was safer. She gave him a perfunctory smile and bow, still too rattled by Derek’s presence to react to the way Malcolm’s brows had climbed. But then his lordship strolled over to shake her hand, remarking, “Lady Cynthia, you outshine the stars tonight. I am allowed to stare and pay you extravagant compliments, you know, because I am a safely married man.”
She wished she had a talent for easy banter, but she did not. She knew Lord Malcolm was only being friendly. She liked Lord Malcolm. And still, from long habit, her Frost Fair persona immediately surfaced. Her face went blank and expressionless. “Thank you,” she said, in a voice devoid of emotion, and she pulled her hand from his.
A man had touched her and paid her a compliment, and Cynthia had frosted him the way one swats at a fly: automatically.
Her chilly reception of Malcolm’s friendly remark seemed to embarrass him. Cynthia was heartily sorry for it, but could not think how to salvage the situation. Beneath her vacant expression, she was horrified by what she had done. She could imagine other girls, less shy, more socially skilled than she, able to apologize to him, or to turn what had just happened into a joke. Cynthia, however, became petrified. She simply could not think what to do or say.
The last thing in the world she expected was that Der
ek would save the day, but he did. He laughed, drawing Malcolm’s attention back to himself. “Safely married, my eye! Get back here, you rogue, or I’ll call Natalie down to keep you in line.”
Everyone laughed and Malcolm returned to Derek’s side, complaining, in a jocular way, about Derek’s suspicious nature. Cynthia forced herself to smile, too, and pretend that her icy set-down had been part of the joke. How easily Derek had intervened! How did one think, so quickly, of the right thing to do? It was a talent she recognized and admired, but could not seem to cultivate in herself. One more way in which you need him, a treacherous voice seemed to whisper in her ear. She quashed the thought—with some difficulty—and returned her attention to the room.
The assembled persons made an elegant group. Mama wore a dark blue silk specifically chosen to create a suitable background for Cynthia’s palest of pale blues, but despite her altruistic motives, Lady Ballymere was still an attractive woman and looked exceptionally well in dark blue. For their part, Lord and Lady Grafton resembled illustrations in La Belle Assemblee come to life. And Hannah looked much prettier than she usually did, dressed in the only pastel shade that actually became her: yellow.
The Ellsworths were dressed more conservatively than fashionably, but John Ellsworth had done justice to the occasion by combing his thinning hair into a fairly convincing approximation of the coup de vent, and at least there was nothing of the country squire about him tonight. Lord Malcolm Chase was a tall man and, like most tall men, looked highly distinguished in evening dress. Derek, of course, was simply the best-looking and most naturally elegant person in Creation, and was so gorgeous tonight that she could not bear to look directly at him.
Too soon, the carriages arrived. Too soon, she was seated beside her mother in the dark confines of a narrow coach, with Derek sitting across from her and Lord Malcolm across from Mama. A lurch, a rumble, and the journey to Rochdale began.
Mama and Lord Malcolm carried on a desultory conversation; about what, Cynthia could not tell. She could neither speak nor follow what was said. She sat silent, as motionless as the swaying of the coach allowed, enduring a maelstrom of jumbled thoughts and bubbling emotions.
Derek’s eyes never left her. She stared, unseeing, out the tiny window in the door beside her, but felt Derek’s unwavering gaze upon her whether she looked at him or no. His regard was so intense it seemed to heat her skin. She sensed that he was willing her to look at him, but she stubbornly refused to do so. It felt, to her, as if staring out the window were the last bit of defiance her wilting resolve could muster.
Occasionally the movement of the coach brought their knees into brief contact in the darkness. Every time it happened, a shock of sensation shot through her, hot and cold together, racing along her nerve endings. It made her shiver and burn. It curled her toes with some indescribable longing, an impulse to do... what? She hardly knew, but whatever it was, it was wanton and wild—and stronger than she was, for she could not control it.
She could not make the sensation go away. She could not make it stop happening. She could not avoid the intermittent touch, and she could not suppress the way it made her feel. It awakened a peculiar craving in her, a craving to experience that unsettling shock, that shiver and burn, over and over. At first, she could not help grazing his knee with hers from time to time. But before long, she realized that she was deliberately provoking it, angling her body ever so slightly to increase the chances that a random bump in the road would throw Derek’s body into contact with her own.
When she realized what she was doing, a hot thrill flashed through her. Recognizing her wantonness should have caused her to repent of it. Perversely, it did the opposite. Her desire to touch him, once acknowledged, increased. And it instantly occurred to her that Derek must be doing the same thing: he must be touching her knee with his deliberately. Being Derek, he had doubtless been doing it deliberately all along. With her mother right there—and Lord Malcolm! How did he dare?
Why, it was... exciting.
She could not resist. She had to test his audacity. How far would he go? Still staring disinterestedly out the window, she eased one slippered foot an inch or two forward. It may have been a tiny gesture, but her own brazenness thrilled her; she had never known that so much boldness lurked, unsuspected, in her heart.
It was doubly thrilling when, almost immediately, she sensed Derek responding to her advance, shifting his weight on the seat bench across from her. At the next rock of the carriage she felt his knee insinuate itself between hers—and the inside of his leg, knee to ankle, pressed lightly along her own.
She had never guessed how sensitive the flesh was on the inside of her leg. The intimacy was shocking. All that separated them was a thin barrier of silk. She could feel the warmth of his flesh. She could sense the muscles in his calf. Her lips parted on a swift intake of breath, and her eyes, as if of their own volition, stopped obeying her will and surrendered to his. She turned her head and looked at him.
Their gazes met and locked. Cynthia felt her breath quicken. He was closer to her than she had thought. The divide between the two benches was narrow, and his limbs were long. His dark eyes were luminous in the dim, reflected light. His shirtfront glimmered in the near-darkness. He loomed across from her, as desirable as he was forbidden. Feverish fantasies scampered, unbidden, across her mind. Had they been alone, what might have happened?
The horses slowed. Light bloomed outside the coach. They were arriving. And still Cynthia could not tear her eyes from Derek’s. It was only when the coach rocked to a standstill that she woke from her trance, at least sufficiently to exit the vehicle and pick her way across the street to the assembly rooms. Once freed of Derek’s spell, she took care not to look at him again. Even so, the lingering effects of what had passed between them in the coach left her feeling drugged and strange, as if nothing around her were real. As if reality waited behind her, in the darkness, with Derek.
Standing in the foyer, waiting for a servant to take her shawl, Cynthia felt her mother tug on her elbow. “Why, this is first-rate,” Mama whispered, sounding pleased. “I had no notion we would encounter so much elegance here.”
Cynthia, still feeling a bit shaken, murmured her assent. Her response had been automatic, but as she looked around her she found that what her mother said was true. The assembly rooms comprised most of the ground floor of a fairly modern-appearing building. It seemed to have been designed specifically to house such entertainments, since the rooms were large and well-lit, opening out of each other in a way that lent itself well to a public ball. There were small rooms on one side of the entry hall for cards, refreshments, and cloakrooms, and on the other side of the hall was a spacious ballroom. A flight of stairs ahead led to a mezzanine; this apparently opened out into a balcony or gallery above the ballroom floor.
Mama craned her neck, then tapped Cynthia on the arm with her fan. “There is our party,” she said triumphantly, nodding to where Lord Grafton’s tall head could be glimpsed above the throng. “Come along.” She began threading her way through the chattering people that crowded the hall and Cynthia obediently trailed behind her. They were leaving Lord Malcolm and Derek behind, but she supposed that was, on the whole, a good thing.
As they traversed the narrow room, Mama turned her head to issue last-minute instructions, in a lowered tone, over her shoulder. “Bear in mind, my love, that this is not Almack’s. We have no notion who most of these people are, and I daresay many of them are persons with whom we would not normally associate. You must dance only with members of our own party, or those whom the Chases introduce to you.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And no more than two dances with any one gentleman, mind you. Not even the married ones.”
“I know, Mama.”
“Unless, of course, Mr. Ellsworth should happen to ask you for a third dance—but I cannot imagine him doing anything so improper.”
“No, Mama.”
There was not time for more; they ha
d reached the corner where Lord and Lady Grafton were holding court. The presence of members of the Chase family had, inevitably, caused a stir. By the time Lady Ballymere and Cynthia reached them, Lord and Lady Grafton were surrounded, busily greeting and renewing their acquaintance with a steady stream of the local gentry. Cynthia’s mother lost no time in attaching herself to Sir Peter and Lady Ellsworth, who were standing to one side of the mob, and engaging them in conversation.
“Such a press of people,” she remarked, smiling brightly at the Ellsworths. “I am glad to have a few friends among the crowd. I do not entrust my daughter into the hands of just anyone, you know; I insist she dance only with the men she has met at Oldham Park.” She looked significantly at John Ellsworth, including him in her smile. “You are such a gallant group of gentlemen, I feel sure my Cynthia will not be left among the wallflowers.”
Thus prompted, Mr. Ellsworth energetically agreed, voicing his opinion that it would be impossible for Lady Cynthia to be overlooked, even among their own small group. After a painful pause, during which Lady Ballymere stared expectantly at him, he solicited Cynthia’s hand for the quadrille. Cynthia, naturally, accepted.
Apparently satisfied by the result of her labors, Cynthia’s mother then drifted away, arm in arm with Lady Ellsworth, and left Cynthia to stand with Mr. Ellsworth and wait for the music to begin. It was rather awkward, Cynthia found. She had formed such a habit of ignoring men that it was difficult for her to unbend and converse naturally. And poor Mr. Ellsworth was, beneath his hearty bluster, as shy as she. They stood side by side, Mr. Ellsworth rocking on his heels and humming under his breath, looking about in a vague sort of way.
Cynthia cleared her throat and ventured a remark. “I suppose they will begin with the quadrille,” she said.
“Eh? Oh, yes, yes. I fancy they will. It’s generally done, isn’t it? To begin with a quadrille.”