Goodness! She came to the ball just to see what happened at such events, to look at the pretty gowns and admire the handsome men, and watch the dancing. She hadn’t intended to be one of the ones actually dancing!
When she managed to dare a glance back up at Stephen, he was displaying that mischievous grin again as he lifted a hand. “You’ve made this ever so easy, Miss Comber,” he said, waiting for Victoria to place a hand in his so that he could lead them to where lines of men and women were forming up for the fourth dance of the evening.
“I shouldn’t wish it to be difficult,” she countered, glancing to her left and right in an effort to determine what she should do next. She didn’t even know which dance was scheduled!
Had she dared to enter the ballroom through the main doors, she supposed she would have been given a card, but she would have no doubt had to display an invitation and then been announced by the butler. When they discovered she didn’t have an invitation, she was sure she would have been escorted back to the vestibule and asked to leave the premises, sans her mantle!
The possibility of such an embarrassing scenario had her suddenly wondering why she would dare try to attend the ball in the first place.
Curiosity, of course.
She remembered it now that she found herself in line with at least a dozen other young ladies facing a line of men who regarded them with varying degrees of interest. Another glance had her realizing she was the only one not wearing a white gown.
Criminy!
She wondered if Mr. Slater... the son of the Marquess of Devonville would have the courtesy title of ‘Earl of Bellingham’. Bellingham!
She wondered if Bellingham thought she was married. Or, God forbid, an old maid! Or, perhaps if what he said was true and this was his first ball, he wouldn’t know the rule about debutantes wearing white.
She could only hope. Especially as she looked rather pink compared to the other young ladies flanking her.
In the meantime, the orchestra’s tuning had ceased and they were suddenly playing “The Comical Fellow”. Victoria wasn’t quite sure what happened next, but she found herself performing the dance by rote, as if she was disconnected from her legs and arms, and they were off dancing without the rest of her. She was forced to follow, of course, but she was also able to watch her partner, who after a stutter-step start, seemed quite able to perform the contradance quite well.
His first ball, indeed.
Victoria found herself having a bit of fun, not caring a whit if her ankles went on display for a moment as she made the turns and twirls required of the dance.
“They’re playing my song,” Stephen said when he met her in the middle, just before they rotated around one another.
Victoria blinked and nearly lost her place in the dance. “Your song?” she repeated, forced to figure out if she knew the name of whatever it was the orchestra was playing at the moment.
“I am having a bit of fun is all,” Stephen said when they met again. “I am actually a rather comical fellow.”
Victoria could have kicked herself—and nearly did when she realized she had taken a wrong turn and had to recover her place in the line—when she realized the name of the music being played. “Do not disappoint me now, my lord,” she replied as she made her turn around him and then went off to the man on his left.
Stephen did his turn with the next young lady, rather amused by Victoria’s comment. When he rejoined her in the middle, he said, “You don’t think of me as a jester?”
Victoria grinned and rolled her eyes as she made her way to the next man. When she was once again moving around Stephen, she said, “Either that, or you are very adept at fibbing.”
Stephen nearly stopped in his tracks.
Fibbing?
Did Miss Comber really think him more serious than a comical fellow? Truly, he wasn’t a jester, although he knew he could entertain a crew of water-weary enlistees when required. He wasn’t a joker, but he could trade barbs and jokes with the funniest of those who populated port city taverns. If any music suited him to a tee, then it was this music, he decided. “You wound me.”
Victoria nearly lost her place in the music as she comprehended his comment.
Wound him? She rather doubted her rebuke could wound a man. Unless he had developed a tendré for her, which she suddenly found a rather interesting turn of events. And one she rather hoped was the case.
Hadn’t she been hoping she might be kissed by his perfect pillowed lips at some point during the evening’s proceedings?
“If I have, I suppose I shall have to kiss it and make it better,” she replied in a voice that suddenly sounded loud in her ears, especially since the music had just ended rather suddenly.
All the dancers stopped, the ones nearest her turning to stare in her direction when her words could be heard over the waning notes of the music.
Victoria felt the warmth of a blush rise up her throat and cover her face. She was quite sure she was as pink as the gown she wore.
Stephen stared at her a moment, his expression not indicating if he took the comment as a dare or if he was offended by her remark. But he realized immediately that her comment had been overheard and that he would be seeking restitution in the form of a kiss.
She had suggested it, after all. And who was he to turn down the opportunity to be kissed by a rather daring young woman dressed in pink but not otherwise looking as if she was anything like the other young matrons in attendance?
Stephen bowed to her curtsy and immediately moved to offer her his arm.
Her eyes wide, as if she realized his intentions and was suddenly having second thoughts, Victoria placed her hand on his arm and found herself being led toward the wide open French doors she had been admiring only moments before. Although the tight dance shoes pinched her feet, she managed to keep an impassive expression on her face in the event anyone turned to take notice of their sudden departure.
The cool air was as bracing as it was a relief when they were suddenly beyond the confines of the claustrophobic ballroom.
“Oh,” she gasped as Stephen hurried her along the flagstone path that led to the garden lit with paper lanterns. He slowed his pace when they were beyond the lights of the ballroom.
“I apologize. I had to get you out of there,” Stephen said as he turned to regard her. “I thought it best for your reputation that it look as if...” He paused, realizing his reason for removing her from the ballroom was as necessary as it was an excuse to discover if she was serious about kissing him. “We were... married,” he finally managed to get out.
Victoria blinked, suddenly realizing the man had a point. Damnation! How many people had heard her make that final comment? She must have sounded like a wanton!
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I truly didn’t intend to offend you in any way,” she added with a shake of her head.
Stephen regarded the pretty young chit, thinking it was too bad she wasn’t Aimsely’s daughter. Will could do with a wife like her. Cheeky and brave and ever so daring in a way that had him wondering if she were a virgin or would welcome a tumble later that evening. “I wasn’t that offended,” he admitted, “Although I suppose I should request a kiss to make it all better,” he added with a grin.
Victoria stilled herself, her eyes finding their way to those perfectly pillowed lips. “And if I have no experience at providing such a balm?” she queried quietly, the air escaping her lungs in a rush.
Allowing a slight smile, Stephen leaned over and touched his nose to her forehead, brushing it across the soft skin until his lips took purchase and left a kiss where spirals of her blonde hair fell from her temple.
Victoria allowed a quiet gasp and lifted her face to regard him. “Who are you?” she whispered, feeling as if he had cast some sort of spell over her.
Stephen allowed a wan smile. “A comical fellow, I suppose, who seeks a maiden’s kiss as payment for her doubt.”
Staring into his hazel eyes, which at the moment appeare
d far darker and not the least bit comical, Victoria found herself leaning toward him, her face upturned and her lips slightly apart.
Stephen’s lips met hers, just barely touching for a brief instant. Victoria was sure the hairs on the back of her neck lifted in response, the electricity between them charging the air. She moved closer to him, her lips pressing against his so they locked into place. The charged air between them was suddenly in her, causing her body to feel as if it was weightless and boneless. His arm was suddenly behind her waist, pulling her hard against the front of his body so that she at least felt as if she wouldn’t float away.
The lips she had imagined kissing earlier that evening proved far more adept than they had any right to—they suckled and supped hers as they worked to remove any hesitation she might have had at kissing—and there was a moment when she realized just how it was some young chits found themselves ruined.
For, at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be ruined.
How bad could it be, after all? Perfectly pillowed lips had her entire body coming out of some sort of deep sleep, coming awake to discover just how pleasant and pleasurable it was to be kissed.
To kiss.
A nervous giggle escaped Victoria’s lips just then, briefly breaking off the kiss. She was quick to recapture Stephen’s lips, though, hungry to resume the sensations.
When they finally ended the kiss—a mutual ending, as if they both needed to gasp for air—the two stared into each other’s eyes.
“Damn,” Stephen breathed.
“Oh, aye,” Victoria agreed with a quick nod, her forehead ending up pressed against his shoulder.
Stephen wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her against the front of his body, not sure what else to do. It would take a moment for his arousal to subside, and despite the layers of fabric that separated their skin, he was quite sure he could feel her hardened nipples pressed into his chest.
“I should apologize—”
“Don’t you dare!”
Stephen stilled himself, his lips moving down to kiss the side of her head, a quiet chuckle following the gesture. “If you tell me you are married, so help me—”
“I am not,” Victoria replied, her head lifting so she could stare into his hazel eyes. She thought his expression fierce, as if he might be capable of committing some dark, awful deed just then. She could feel his body relax against hers, feel his exhalation of breath, feel her own body molding to fit against his.
His body suddenly stiffened. “Where is your chaperone?” he whispered, as if he thought someone might suddenly appear and challenge him to a duel at Wimbledon Commons.
“I have none,” she replied in a whisper. When she glanced up at him, she noticed his look of disbelief. “I crashed the ball.”
Stephen pulled away to regard her, as if he didn’t believe her claim. “Crashed?” he repeated.
Victoria nodded, rather liking the way he still held her against his body, as if he needed her frame for support. Which he did, when she thought about it. “I didn’t have an invitation,” she added with a small shake of her head.
“Neither did I,” Stephen admitted, remembering that none of the invitations addressed to his brother included his name.
“But I hear men are always welcomed at these events,” Victoria countered, her brows furrowed.
Stephen’s own brows arched up. “Oh?” he replied.
Victoria nodded. “Oh, yes. There are never enough men at these balls. Or so my mother used to claim,” she added quickly, realizing she didn’t know first-hand if that were the case or not. She had barely made it into the ballroom before Stephen had made his introduction. And then they were dancing and kissing...
She felt Stephen’s hold lessen so that her feet reclaimed their hold on the ground. She allowed a small sound of protest, wanting him to know that he could continue to hold onto her as long as he needed. She wasn’t about to complain.
“What ball will you crash next?” Stephen asked in a whisper, his manner ever so serious.
Victoria blinked. She hadn’t given it any thought. She had only heard about Lord Weatherstone’s ball. About the assignations that took place in the library and out in the gardens.
She remembered the cluster of couples outside what must have been the library and realized they were probably queuing up to use the room. Perhaps Bellingham would like to continue whatever he intended to do next in that room. She was about to suggest they move there when she realized how truly wanton she would sound should she make that suggestion.
“I hadn’t given it any thought, my lord,” she replied with a shake of her head.
Stephen’s eyes widened, realizing she spoke the truth. “When will I see you again?”
Victoria gave the question a good deal of consideration. “I have absolutely no idea.”
Stephen’s lips were suddenly on hers again, as if the answer would lie there instead of in her words. When he finally pulled away to rest his forehead against hers, he allowed a sigh. “I am not who everyone thinks I am,” he whispered urgently.
Her eyes widening, Victoria listened and then lifted her head so she could see his eyes. “If not Stephen Slater, then who are you?” she wondered.
Stephen blinked, realizing he had given his own name when introducing himself to her. “I am Stephen Slater, son of Devonville,” he admitted. “But I am not who they think I am,” he indicated with a nod toward the ballroom.
Victoria allowed a glance toward the ballroom before returning her attention to Stephen. “A comical fellow?” she wondered in a hoarse whisper.
Will shook his head before letting go his hold on Victoria. “I am, actually. But they do not think so,” he whispered before giving her a deep bow and then hurrying off into the gardens.
Victoria watched him go, wondering at his words. If he truly was the son of Devonville, then he was the heir to a marquessate. But she was quite sure there was only one son in that family, and his name was William, which had her wondering about Stephen’s claim.
Who are you, Stephen Slater? she wondered before she turned and headed back to the ballroom. And when will I see you again?
Chapter 17
A Man Finds a Woman
The following afternoon
“Donald!”
The sound of a feminine voice calling out his uncle’s name had Will pulling back hard on the reins. Thunderbolt, not happy about his gallop being interrupted, threatened to rear back, but Will quickly exerted control and managed to slow the horse to a trot just as he heard the word, “supper” appended to the call of the name.
Redirecting Thunderbolt, Will allowed the Arabian to regain his speed. He was forced to slow him down again, though, when they cleared a hedgerow and a small cottage appeared silhouetted against the setting sun.
At first glance, Will thought the cottage appeared rather charming. The light gray-colored stones were nearly covered with ivy, the thatched roof golden in the late afternoon light. Just as Susan from The Five Bells had described, a square of newly-turned earth lay off to one side of the building.
A second glance had him frowning, however. Some of the stones had obviously shifted a bit, forcing one of the windows to appear crooked. The shutters, once green but now missing most of their paint, hung crooked. And the obvious hole in the roof had Will wondering how many buckets were lined up beneath it to collect the water that no doubt made its way into the hovel every time it rained.
By the time Thunderbolt picked his way up the rocky drive to the cottage, there were no signs of the woman whose voice had called out to Donald. Glancing around the yard—there was a bit of lawn and a few early spring flowers scattered about—Will quickly realized there weren’t any outbuildings other than a privy. Nor was there a dog to guard the premises.
Will dismounted and quickly hobbled Thunderbolt, the Arabian obviously unhappy about being left just beyond the reach of the flowers. Digging into a saddlebag, Will pulled out an apple and offered it to his mount. Placat
ed, Thunderbolt took the apple and made short work of eating it as Will made his way to the front door. About to knock, he paused a moment, noticing the rusty hinges that barely held it in place. He feared if he knocked too hard, the door would crash to the ground.
Allowing a tentative knock, he stepped back and forced himself to breathe. There was no guarantee that the Barbara the proprietor of The Five Bells had mentioned was the same Barbara he sought. No guarantee his Barbara would even be here. No reason to suppose she would still be living in Oxfordshire. Except that this cottage did match the map that Mr. Barton had drawn for him.
For a brief moment, he rather hoped he wouldn’t find her here, for it meant something awful must have happened to change her circumstances—or those with whom she lived.
The door slowly opened a crack, and given how dark it was so close to the cottage, Will couldn’t make out anything about the person who opened the door except that she had hands with long fingers—and given their rough appearance—fingers that performed work.
“Pardon the interruption, miss,” Will said with a bow. “I come in search of a woman I understand might live here. Your mistress, perhaps? Lady Barbara?”
There was a pause before the door slowly opened more, the woman’s face finally revealed by the light from a candle lamp she held in her other hand. In her left hand. A tiny gold band encircled the base of her fourth finger.
Will blinked. And blinked again when he realized it was Barbara who stood before him. Although her face appeared blank at first, her eyes widened and her mouth formed an ‘o’ when she recognized him.
“Barbara?” he murmured, his head angling as his eyes did a quick sweep down and back up. She wore a serviceable day gown in a drab brown that had obviously seen better days, the threadbare fabric faded and patched near the hem. A mobcap covered most of her hair, but blonde tendrils spilled out near her temples.
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