And Then She Fell

by Stephanie Laurens

  Once the group had re-formed, at her instigation they excused themselves and moved on into the, if anything even denser, crowd. “Now . . .” She looked about her with what was fast becoming feigned interest. “Who can we assess next?”

  She felt James glance at her, then he murmured, leaning close so she could hear, so the waft of his breath swept the shell of her ear and sent shivery tingles coursing down her spine, “Perhaps we should take a moment to compare notes—before I forget which of my observations refer to whom.”

  “Yes, of course. An excellent thought.” Her voice was weak, nearly breathless. She cleared her throat and dragged in a breath. “I could do with a break from the relentless conversations. Can you see a spot where we might talk without being overheard?”

  The next instant, his fingers closed about her elbow. She very nearly startled, shocked by her instant response to his touch, totally innocent though it was. Heat and a sensation that strung her nerves tight streaked up her arm, then spread in a slow wave through her, dissipating, yet in its wake leaving her aware as she’d never been before. Aware of the heat and solidity of his body close beside her in the crush. Aware of the strength in his hand, his fingers, even though he was barely touching her gloved arm.

  She glanced at him. He’d straightened and was looking over the heads, searching for a solution to her request. She could only hope he’d missed her odd reaction entirely; she didn’t think she’d actually jumped.

  Once again, she rued the fact she’d long ago given up carrying a fan.

  “There’s an alcove over there. Not large, and no potted palm to hide behind, but at least it should get us out of this accursed crush.”

  She summoned enough strength to say with passable normality, “Lead on.”

  He didn’t, of course—he steered her on—but he knew what he was doing, and in short order they’d laid claim to the shallow alcove at the end of the room, and could breathe more freely. Even though the long windows had been propped open to the night, with so many now crammed into the ballroom, fresh air was in short supply.

  “I’d forgotten how the perfumes rise with the heat, then coalesce into a miasma.” James glanced at her, straight-faced. “You’re not feeling faint, are you?”

  She almost bridled. “Good heavens, no! It’s only a ball.”

  She saw his lips twitch and realized he’d been teasing her.

  But all he said was, “Good to know that you’re not the fainting sort. Miss Alcock, however, apparently is, so I think we can leave her name off our short list. Swooning females can be distinctly wearying.”

  “Indeed. But what about Miss Chisolm, now you’ve danced with her?”

  “She . . . can remain on the list, at least for the nonce.”

  They went through the other young ladies with whom he’d spent time, but other than Miss Downtree, none had passed muster with him. Henrietta frowned. “I had hoped we’d find more candidates here, but at least we still have two.”

  “Hmm.”

  She glanced sharply at him; he was looking out over the crowd and didn’t seem overly concerned with what she considered their still too short short list. She wondered what was distracting him; he certainly seemed to be thinking about something else.

  As if he’d read her mind, he murmured, “Actually, I’m rather amazed the pair of us, given the unlikeliness of my appearance here, let alone what by now must have been noted as your assistance, haven’t raised more eyebrows.”

  “Ah—that’s because I took care to plant the right seeds at luncheon and at the three teas I attended this afternoon.”

  He glanced down at her. “Three teas?”

  She shrugged. “I wanted to spread the word widely enough.”

  “And what was that word?”

  “That I’ve agreed to help you look over the field because your mother is so rarely in town these days and isn’t here at the moment, nor expected up this Season, and as your next nearest useful connection—correct me if I’m wrong—is Lady Osbaldestone?” She paused and arched a brow at him. When he looked appalled, but nodded, she went on, “Well, given that, it wasn’t all that hard to suggest that after your retreat from Melinda Wentworth, you turned to me, Simon’s sister and someone very well acquainted with the unmarried young ladies of the ton, for assistance. Mind you, I took care to paint your interest as being merely idle—the sort of thing a gentleman might do at a certain age, that sort of thing.”

  “So you concealed that I have a deadline looming?”

  She nodded decisively. “You were perfectly correct in thinking it won’t do for the matchmakers to get wind of that. If instead they believe you have nothing more than a vague interest in matrimony, they won’t rush you all at once in case you balk, fling up your hands in horror, and run away to the country.”

  “Ah—I think I’m getting the hang of this now. They’ll happily parade their charges before me in the park and at whatever events I attend, but they won’t see any pressing need to force their charges’ claims to my attention down my wolfish throat.”

  “Precisely.” She paused, then allowed, “Actually, it doesn’t hurt at all that you are an acknowledged wolf. It makes them think twice before offering up any of the very young and truly innocent.”

  James laughed—he couldn’t help it. “What a very nice way of putting me in my place—and ensuring I remain tame.”

  “I wasn’t so much thinking in terms of ‘tame’—more of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  Before he could reply to that piece of impertinence, the strains of a waltz filled the air—and his response was there, ready-made, before him. He turned to her, bowed, and held out his hand. “I believe that’s our waltz.”

  “What?” She looked stunned. “No . . . that is—” She dragged in a breath. “You should waltz with one of the possible candidates for your short list.”

  He watched as she looked about, searching the throng almost desperately. “Henrietta—it’s just a waltz. And I’m tired of having to converse appropriately and otherwise assess my partners. Come and put me out of my misery, and let me enjoy one waltz for the evening.” He made the last words sound almost whiny, a plea for relief—all pretense, of course. The notion of this waltz—of waltzing with her—had been fermenting in his brain since he’d first set eyes on her as she’d descended the ballroom steps.

  He’d promised himself this in payment for his earlier toeing of her line. He’d done as she’d asked, now it was her turn to play to his rules.

  She glanced at him uncertainly, then her resistance fell. “Oh, very well.” She resettled her shawl, then reached out and set her gloved hand in his.

  He closed his fingers about her slender digits and felt triumph surge inside. But it was such a small win—just a waltz, nothing more.

  Holding her hand high, he led her onto the clearing dance floor, then turned and swept her into his arms, and into the swirling pleasures of the dance. Capturing her gaze, letting his own lock with the soft blue, he let his lips curve, appreciative and encouraging, sensed the lithe tension in her svelte form, and gave himself up to the heady delight—and drew her with him.

  He was a past master at the art of circling a ton dance floor, of using the waltz to his own ends . . . but tonight, he discovered, the shoe was on the other foot, and the waltz used him. Worked on him, certainly, and on her, too; he couldn’t recall ever being so immersed in the moment, so caught in the effortless action, in the swooping glide, the swirling turns, the sheer power that flowed when he had her—Henrietta—in his arms.

  It had never been like this before; no waltz had ever captured him before. His senses had coalesced and locked, fixed, so deeply engaged with her and the moment that there was nothing left of him, of his awareness, for anything else. The world fell away, and they were the only two people revolving down the floor, and he was lost, trapped, in her eyes.

  Caught, ensnared, by the effortless way she matched him, light on her feet, instantly responsive to every subtle direction he gav
e. He hadn’t expected her to be . . . such a perfect match.

  She, and the waltz, took his breath away.

  He’d wanted a distraction from the other young ladies, a reward for his diligent application over the past hours, and she’d agreed and given him all he’d wished for; wholly focused on her, on the waltz, on the welling pleasure, he shut his mind to all else and enjoyed.

  Henrietta couldn’t catch her breath, but not breathing didn’t seem to matter. She felt light as thistledown, floating and swooping in a deliciously delightful way—carried in his arms, swept along by his strength, cradled and protected and powerfully directed, yet free in a way she’d never felt before. As if her senses had expanded and broken their fetters and were no longer restricted to the mundane world.

  The waltz was eye-opening on several fronts. She’d waltzed times without number, with gentlemen beyond count, but none before had held the key to this new and novel and wholly beguiling landscape. The sensations of his hand firmly clasping her fingers, of his other hand at her back, entirely correctly supporting her yet with his touch all but burning through the layers of fine silk, registered, impinged, yet they were only one set of waves amid a sea. The brush of his thigh between hers as they whisked through a tight turn, the sheer power of their movement up the floor, thrilled in ways she hadn’t before experienced.

  And she was enthralled. This was waltzing at a different level, of a different degree.

  Some part of her levelheaded mind wanted to observe and catalog each aspect, yet his eyes were on hers, and the tug of the soul that shone through the brown tempted and lured, and she dispensed with all anchors to reality and let herself follow him, let her senses soar.

  Let the dance, and him, sweep her away.

  Into uninhibited enjoyment.

  When the music finally ended and they whirled to a halt, and, breathless, she had to step out of his arms and curtsy, all she felt was disappointment that the moment had ended.

  That they were back in the real world, with its attendant demands.

  “Thank you.” She could have waltzed with him for at least another hour; she smiled in honest and open appreciation. “That was indeed a pleasure.”

  He was watching her, as if seeing her anew, but he inclined his head and smiled easily in reply. “It was.” He looked around, surveying the crowd about them. “Perhaps we could simply stroll for a while, without any defined agenda?”

  She was ready enough to set aside looking for more young ladies, at least for the moment. “If you wish.”

  He offered his arm. She hesitated for only an instant before accepting and placing her hand on his sleeve; she’d managed to survive a waltz, after all. And if her fingers tingled at the feel of the hard muscle beneath his sleeve, and her still giddy senses purred at the sensations engendered by him standing so close, crowded even closer by the press of bodies all around, she would, she decided, find some way to cope.

  They strolled easily, joining this circle, then that, stopping to chat with acquaintances—some hers, many his, most known to them both. Neither of them was all that young and, socially, they moved in similar circles.

  Henrietta relaxed, and found herself enjoying the interactions, engaged and drawn in, both wits and senses more acute, heightened in an unusual way as she bantered with James, even outright flirted, exchanging views and barbed comments, her attention wholly focused on him . . . they’d been strolling and chatting for nearly half an hour before the warmth of the necklace, especially of the rose-quartz pendant dangling above her breasts, registered, and she remembered she was wearing the charm. . . .

  Oh, God! She stared at James, who at that moment was speaking with George Ferguson and thankfully didn’t see her sudden shock. But even as she tore her gaze away and schooled her features into a pleasantly smiling mask, her mind was scrambling, tripping . . . this couldn’t be what she was thinking, could it?

  Hell and the devil, could it be?

  Was the damned necklace working on her after all?

  She didn’t know whether to feel aghast or ecstatic. But when she looked again at James . . . it was as if the proverbial scales fell from her eyes and she saw him in an entirely different light, from an entirely new perspective.

  The shift in view was disorienting.

  But before she’d done more than frame the obvious questions—What should she do now? Should she act on her newfound understanding, and if so, how?—a stentorian bellow of “Ladies and gentlemen!” rolled across the room.

  Conversations broke off and the crowd turned toward the source of the salutation—Lady Marchmain’s butler, standing to rigid attention at the top of the steps leading down into the ballroom.

  Alongside her butler, Lady Marchmain stood beaming. She raised both arms in a commanding gesture. “Friends, all, it’s time for the highlight of our evening—the fireworks! If you could all make your way onto the lawn—and yes, the best view will, as usual, be had from the bridge over the stream. If you would?” Her ladyship made a sweeping gesture, directing the crowd out of the French doors that had been opened to the terrace and the lawn beyond.

  As one, the crowd turned and obediently started shuffling out.

  With James, George, and the others in their group, Henrietta had been standing not far from the long windows; they were among the first to gain the terrace. They descended quickly to the lawn and strode toward the wide stone arch that spanned the stream bordering the other side of the lawn.

  On James’s arm, grateful for his support amid the jostling throng, Henrietta leaned closer to say, “Head for the left side of the bridge—the fireworks will be set off from the gardens further down the stream on that side.”

  “Good notion,” George, walking on James’s other side, replied.

  Their group, all much of an age, lengthened their strides, picked up their pace, and succeeded in claiming a prime position on the bridge, not as far as the top of the arch but along the raised stone side to the left. Although ancient, the bridge had been built wide enough to allow drays to pass, and so could accommodate quite a crowd across its span. There were, however, more guests than there was space on the bridge; as, eager to gain the best view, more people squeezed on, the crowd shifted and rippled, and Henrietta, James, and the others found themselves strung out in single file along the bridge’s side.

  While the bridge was solid enough, the low stone sides reached only to the top of Henrietta’s calves; she shuffled into a better, more balanced stance. Beside her, the side of his arm pressed to her shoulder, James glanced at her, sharply assessing in a protective way; the press of the crowd had forced him to lower his arm. Settled and stable, she smiled reassuringly back. He met her eyes, then his lips curved just a touch, and together they looked out over the swiftly running stream to the swath of dark gardens further along the bank.

  As if detecting some inexplicable sign, the crowd quieted.

  A brief flare broke the darkness, then the first rocket hissed and surged into the sky, trailing tongues of flame as it soared into the velvet blackness before exploding in a corona of golden light, throwing out a shower of bright red and gold sparks that slowly fell, winking out as they trailed back to earth.

  A communal “ah” of appreciative delight welled from the watching crowd.

  They all stood with their faces upturned, watching successive fireworks light up the sky. A particularly bright rocket had just exploded when someone in the crowd behind Henrietta slipped and staggered, causing others to jerk and turn, some crying out in surprise.

  Henrietta glanced around, started to turn—

  A sudden shove sent the lady and gentleman behind her cannoning into her.

  Henrietta tipped—fought for balance.

  Lost.

  On a gasp, she fell—desperately, she reached for help. For James.

  She saw his shocked face, saw him reach for her, but they were both too late.

  On her back, she hit the water with a splash, and sank into the racing stream.


  In the instant before the waters closed over her face, she managed to get her lungs to work enough to haul in a breath. She held it and struggled to right herself and regain the surface.

  But the stream was running high—there’d been rain earlier in the week—and this close to the river, the streamlets had coalesced and were racing strongly for the Thames; the tumbling waters tossed her like flotsam and dragged at her limbs. Her skirts trapped her legs; her spangled shawl tangled her arms.

  I can swim!

  She screamed that at herself, fought desperately to push away the enveloping panic.

  But—oh, God!—the currents were so strong, and she could already feel the cold sinking into her flesh, feel heat and strength leaching away.

  Still she fought.

  On the bridge, horrified beyond thought, James dallied only long enough to toe off his shoes and jerk off his coat before diving into the swiftly running stream. Henrietta had already disappeared, swallowed by the darkness and the rushing, tumbling waters. The stream might be only ten yards wide, but this close to the river it was deep.

  James struck out strongly, swimming downstream as fast as he could, trusting that she would be flailing at least enough for him to find her in the dark.

  He didn’t let himself think—couldn’t afford to let the myriad thoughts shrieking in his brain distract him . . . he only allowed one through. He couldn’t afford to lose Henrietta.

  He didn’t fight the current but harnessed it and let it sweep him on. Panic was nibbling at the edge of his mind when he sensed movement in the water ahead—and then he was on her.

  Reaching for her, he scooped an arm around her waist, caught her firmly to him, then surfaced, hauling her up before him.

  Her face broke free of the water and she gasped and dragged in air, and he all but sagged with relief.