by Farr, Diane
“Yes, Mama,” said Cynthia faintly, feeling utterly intimidated. How she loathed being scolded! “Mama, pray—pray let go of me.”
Her mother did let go, flinging Cynthia’s arm away with an angry huff. “The idea!” she exclaimed. “I can’t force him to like me,” she mimicked, in an exaggerated, high-pitched whine.
“Oh, Mama, pray—”
“My point is, you haven’t tried properly! Why shouldn’t he like you? You are the most beautiful girl in the room tonight. Any man present would leap at the chance to enjoy your favor. But you show no interest in Mr. Ellsworth. You barely smile at him. You stand aloof and silent, rather than trying to ingratiate yourself with him. I have warned you, Cynthia, that you will get nowhere unless you adopt a more conciliatory manner. You simply must be more approachable. Is that so difficult?”
“For me, yes, it is,” said Cynthia, agonized. “I don’t know why. I don’t mean to flout your authority, Mama. I know what I owe to you—to my family.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” her mother snapped, fanning herself in an agitated manner. “I believe you mean to be a good daughter, Cynthia. I merely ask that you act on it a little. Follow through, for heaven’s sake. The ten thousand Filey gave us is all but gone.”
And who spent it? Not I. Resentment, thick and black, bubbled up in Cynthia’s heart again. It was unstoppable, like oil seeping from the depths of the earth. And, like oil, she felt she would never be rid of it, that now it had oozed out of whatever cranny had bred it, her heart would never again be wholly clean, never be free of its sticky filth. She would never love her mother the way she had in childhood. That trust, that purity, had been sullied forever by her growing anger.
She had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from saying words to her mother she knew she would regret. It did no good to lay blame, she reminded herself, fighting the ugly feelings. Ten thousand pounds was a great deal of money, but it had not been enough. It didn’t matter why. Her family had counted on thirty thousand, and had received only ten. She must marry a man with sufficient means to make up the difference. A hefty marriage settlement and, with luck, a yearly stipend for the bride’s parents; these were what Mama dreamed of. These were what her parents needed. And Cynthia was their only hope of securing such a windfall.
The music ended with a flourish. Mama darted back to Lady Ellsworth’s side to pursue her portion of the campaign: flattering and fawning upon Mr. Ellsworth’s parents. Cynthia was left alone to observe Mr. Ellsworth and Hannah leaving the floor.
Hannah was in a visible glow of spirits. As Cynthia watched, Mr. Ellsworth leaned in to her, with an indulgent smile, to hear her chatter. Cynthia knew she must detach her friend from Mr. Ellsworth. It was her duty to do so, and quickly. Mama was watching. She braced herself to tackle the distasteful task, but was spared—for the moment. The couple suddenly veered to the left, heading away from her and toward the refreshment rooms. She knew she shouldn’t feel so relieved... but she did.
And then Derek materialized at her side again, the deviltry in his grin causing her heart to do somersaults. She smiled, almost against her will, and felt the knots of tension in her shoulders mysteriously loosen. Just being with him made her feel better. And that made no sense at all, because she knew perfectly well that being with him increased the danger she was in.
“You look pleased with yourself,” she remarked.
“I’m a clever, resourceful sort of chap,” he agreed. “I think you owe me a dance, my lady.”
As he spoke, she heard the musicians starting up again. They were beginning, unmistakably, the pavane. She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “What an odd coincidence, that they would play the pavane. And so soon!”
“Well, as it happens, the musicians didn’t intend to play it at all. They seemed to think no one would expect it. Tried to tell me it wasn’t danced any more.”
“Fancy that,” murmured Cynthia.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it? Fortunately, I was able to convince them that the pavane is danced at all the best balls, and to leave it out would be shockingly remiss.” He offered his arm. “I’m a persuasive fellow, in my way.”
“I know you are.” She let him lead her on to the floor, still struggling to suppress a bubble of laughter. “But if they did not intend to play it at all, you must have been eloquent indeed. They changed their minds so completely as to play it immediately.”
“There was some talk, originally, of simply tacking it on to the end of the programme,” he admitted. “But I scotched that.”
“Oh?” She dipped in the customary curtsy, then stepped to his side with a graceful swirl and took her position for the dance. “Why?”
He actually had the cheek to wink at her. “Couldn’t bear to wait that long,” he explained, lifting his hand to accept hers.
* * *
Something had happened while he was upstairs, greasing the musicians in the fist. He had known immediately, by the tense set of her shoulders and the storminess in her eyes. But he also noticed that her unhappiness, whatever its cause, melted away shortly after he arrived on the scene. He was glad of that. His experience of Cynthia was still limited, but it seemed to him that she was subtly different when he was around. Even when ripping up at him she seemed to be enjoying herself. And Cynthia did not have the look of someone who enjoyed herself often.
He stole another glance at her. She was so lovely in that pale blue silk, he could scarcely believe she was real. It was obvious she had chosen to grant him the pavane out of pure perversity, believing that it would not be danced. But now that he had thwarted that bit of mischief, he had to own that she looked exceedingly beautiful dancing it. She glided demurely along beside him, arms daintily upheld in the traditional manner, her hand laid so lightly on the back of his that he could barely feel it. The courtly pose had been invented to show off the flowing sleeves of a Renaissance costume, but it served equally well to display Cynthia’s pretty arms, bared in a way that the pavane’s original dancers would have found shocking. The infinitesimal sleeves and low neckline of today’s fashions exposed so much of her soft, gorgeous skin, the sight of it almost made his mouth water. He had to look away again, swallowing hard.
They were not the only dancers on the floor, much to Derek’s amusement. The pavane was the sort of dance everyone had been taught at one time or another, whether they had ever danced it publicly or no. And the steps were so simple and stately that the floor soon filled with couples—including those too infirm to dance more energetic dances, and those too unsure of their dancing skill to attempt more complex dances.
“We seem to have scored a hit,” he observed.
“Naturally.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Oh, did you expect it?”
She looked amused. “Everyone likes the tried and true. When dancing, at any rate.”
“The safety of the familiar.”
“Precisely.”
“I forget what to do when we reach the end of the floor. Do we hit the wall, or continue on out the door?”
A little choke of laughter escaped her. “I shall pass in front of you, and we then promenade down the floor in the opposite direction.”
“Ah, yes. It all comes back to me now.”
“Why, Mr. Whittaker, anyone would think that you rarely danced the pavane.” Her tone sounded almost flirtatious. Was she teasing him? He devoutly hoped so. If he did nothing else for his lady love, he hoped, at least, to bring a little fun into her life.
He looked down his nose at her in a comical way, and drawled, “Lady Cynthia, you wound me. We have established, have we not, that the pavane is danced at all the best balls? What do you take me for—a bumpkin?”
She actually laughed out loud, although she immediately covered her mouth with her hand to stifle it. “Pray do not make me laugh,” she begged, glancing apprehensively toward the wall. He followed her gaze with his and saw that Cynthia’s eyes had gone to where her mother stood, ostensibly conversing with Lady Ellsw
orth but, in reality, watching her daughter. The coldness in her gaze was so pronounced, even Derek felt its chill.
“What do you fear?” he asked Cynthia, suddenly serious. “Does Lady Ballymere not allow you to laugh?”
“Not in public,” she said hurriedly. “Not out loud. And I never do laugh in public, so if she sees me—here; let me pass before you; we are near enough the wall.”
It was obviously not a good moment to tease her about which partner was supposed to lead and which was supposed to follow. She had interrupted herself before she could tell him what it was she truly feared. But he could guess. He passed Cynthia before him in silence, and they led the procession back down the floor. She seemed to breathe easier once she was on his other side, where her mother’s eyes would find it difficult to monitor her every move and expression.
He chose his words carefully. “It strikes me,” he said at last, “that you live your life on tenterhooks. You seem to especially fear that your mother will discover our—”
“Oh, hush!” Her eyes darted wildly about, as if dreading that spies lurked everywhere. “Do not say it.”
“Very well, I won’t finish my sentence.” He lowered his voice. “But I have hit the mark, have I not? If your mother sees that I make you laugh, she might conclude that you enjoy my company.” He could not keep the dryness from his voice. “And we can’t have that, can we?”
“No,” said Cynthia, lifting her chin at him. “We can’t. As I have told you more than once.”
“Why hasn’t she noticed anything yet?” he demanded. “Does she know you so little? I can tell from across the room what you are feeling.”
She looked strangely at him. “You are the only person who can,” she said softly. “Don’t you realize that? I am generally thought impossible to read.”
His eyebrows flew up. He was about to pooh-pooh the notion as preposterous, and tell her she was transparent as glass—when he remembered her reputation. He had heard from more than one source that Lady Cynthia Fitzwilliam was the coldest fish in nature. He had heard jokes to that effect—had even, in the depths of his heartbreak, repeated them.
“Egad,” he muttered. “You’re right.” He digested this revelation in silence for a few seconds. It struck him as further proof, had he required any, that he and Cynthia were meant for each other.
Cynthia spoke, sounding thoughtful. “I do wonder, however, why she hasn’t voiced more distrust of you. Not that she doesn’t view you with suspicion.” Ironic amusement lit her voice. “But she seems no more hostile toward you than she is toward every other personable man who crosses my path.”
“She hasn’t noticed my fascination with you?” He chuckled. “That’s because it doubtless strikes her as no more than your due. Are you not aware, my love, that I am presently the envy of every man in the room?”
A tiny frown appeared between her brows. “Ridiculous.”
“Not at all. We have escaped detection for two reasons: no one can tell what you are feeling, and my admiration becomes lost in the crowd. My single-minded focus on you does not stand out, my lady, because so many other men stare at you with their mouths agape.”
She looked startled, and not at all pleased. “That’s an exaggeration at best, and utter nonsense at worst. Stare at me, indeed! I would hate that. I am exceedingly careful to draw no attention to myself.”
Fascinating. She seemed really to believe that circumspect behavior—never laughing out loud, for example—would keep people from noticing her. Was she really unaware that she could cause a sensation simply by walking into a room? Come to think of it, the way she floated through social events, withdrawn and blank-faced, indicated that she might honestly be too detached to feel the stares.
Why, then, did she react immediately when he looked at her?
He glanced again at the angelic face beside him, now averted in a futile attempt to avoid his scrutiny. “You always seem to know when I am looking at you,” he said quietly. “All this time, I thought you were uncannily sensitive. Aware of every set of eyes that fastened upon you.”
“Only yours,” she assured him, then bit her lip. A faint pink suffused her cheeks. “Oh, I am so vexed with myself,” she exclaimed, clearly rattled. “Lately I seem to blurt out every rash thought that passes through my brain.”
“These are trying times for you,” he said sympathetically, but his eyes were laughing. “It’s difficult to chase after money when your heart is leading you in a different direction.”
She must have heard the laughter in his voice, for she looked indignantly at him. “Is everything a joke to you?”
“Many things. Not all. And never this. But it’s better to joke than to weep.” The tempo of the music slowed slightly, indicating that the piece was drawing to a close. Derek was forced to drop Cynthia’s hand, face her, and bow.
She curtseyed, her expression still stormy. He immediately offered his arm to escort her off the floor, but she ignored it and turned away. He fell into step beside her.
“I have angered you again. I am sorry for it.”
She glanced fleetingly at his face and seemed to relent a trifle. “I am over-sensitive these days,” she acknowledged stiffly. “It must be the trying times.”
“You thought I was joking about that? I wasn’t.”
“Never mind.” She spoke in a low tone, but she did not sound angry any more. They were nearly back to where their group had clustered. Lady Ballymere, Lady Ellsworth and Lady Grafton all were seated on spindly chairs while Lord Grafton and Sir Peter lounged nearby. Mr. Ellsworth, Hannah, and Lord Malcolm were nowhere to be seen.
“Stay a moment.” He touched her arm and she halted, turning reluctantly to face him. “Grant me another dance, Cynthia,” he whispered, his eyes searching hers with utter seriousness. “Please.”
She shook her head. “I cannot be seen to favor you over Mr. Ellsworth.”
“Then—if I ensure that Mr. Ellsworth stands up with you again? Will you give me equal time?”
Her lips twitched in a reluctant, nearly invisible smile. “I suppose I must,” she said softly. “Mama told me I must dance only with the men of our party. But that includes you.”
She turned to go, but he stopped her again, leaning in for one more word. “Cynthia, do not marry a man who cannot tell what you are feeling,” he urged her softly, with utter seriousness. “That’s a recipe for misery.”
“On the contrary.” She lifted her chin, gazing defiantly straight ahead. “It’s a recipe for privacy. Something I have learned to value highly, Mr. Whittaker.” And she walked away from him to join the group by the chairs.
Chapter 13
Cynthia was beginning to understand why being angry was sometimes called being ‘mad.’ As Cynthia’s resentment toward her mother grew, she more she felt as if she were losing control of her own thoughts.
A dim sense that her dear family was, in reality, taking shameless advantage of her, seemed to be coalescing into a firmly-held and unshakeable opinion—despite her frantic efforts to suppress and discourage the notion. A near-mutiny boiled beneath her calm facade, and its rising pressure threatened to blow the lid off her carefully-lived, dutiful little life. Thank goodness she was kept busy tonight, smiling and dancing and making polite, meaningless conversation. She had a strong suspicion that if she were given five minutes alone in which to think, she might very well run screaming into the night.
She had quashed her rebellious feelings and forced herself to dance a second time with Mr. Ellsworth. And during this second dance, she had determinedly set out to charm him. She had smiled. She had flattered. She had made a concerted effort to draw him out and get him to talk about himself.
And the man was dull. There was no way around it. He was a boring little man who led a boring little life, and in ten minutes on the dance floor they could find not a single subject on which to have a sensible conversation. They had no interests in common. They had no experiences in common. She felt no spark of attraction or interest in
him whatsoever, and if he felt attracted to her he certainly hid it well.
And then, by lucky chance, Cynthia mentioned Hannah. Immediately Mr. Ellsworth’s eyes lit with enthusiasm. “Now, she’s what my old Scottish nurse would call a grand lass,” opined Mr. Ellsworth, beaming. “Not a selfish bone in her body.”
Cynthia sincerely seconded this, and congratulated him on his ability to see it. “For Hannah is so modest, you know, that she never puts herself forward.”
“No, very true, by Jove. Very true. She never does, does she? But that’s one of the things one particularly admires in her. A very quiet, modest spirit, upon my soul! A grand lass.”
Cynthia still wasn’t sure what he meant by a ‘grand lass,’ but was happy to hear her friend spoken of so warmly. They spent the remaining minutes of their dance sharing anecdotes that illustrated Hannah’s goodness and loyalty, and eventually left the floor much more in charity with each other than Cynthia would have thought possible half an hour ago. For several seconds, she felt almost optimistic.
And then she saw Hannah.
Hannah was standing stock-still near the ballroom entrance, staring at her friend with a stunned, tragic expression that sent a chill down Cynthia’s back. Cynthia had never seen such a look on Hannah’s face. She knew at once that Hannah had guessed, at last, what Cynthia was trying to do. Her poor face was a study in hurt feelings and betrayal. And before Cynthia could say one word, Hannah turned and bolted out of the room.
Something inside Cynthia suddenly snapped.
Hannah’s stricken face was the first thing, she felt, that she had seen clearly all night. Perhaps in years. Seeing her friend so hurt, and by her actions—her witless, heartless, scheming actions—was a revelation. She had feared this, had she not? Well, she had been right to fear it. Right to fear it, and wrong to ignore her fears. Wrong to obey her mother. She had chosen obedience over her own better judgment.