by Mary Balogh
A waltz! Claudia had never danced it though she had watched the steps performed any number of times and had once or twice—well, perhaps more than twice—waltzed about her private sitting room with an imaginary partner. Now she was being asked to waltz at a ton ball? With the Marquess of Attingsborough? “I will,” she said. “Thank you.” She nodded at Charlie, with whom she had been sitting and conversing for the past half hour after dancing with him earlier. The marquess was holding out a hand for hers, and she set her own in it and got to her feet. She could instantly smell his cologne and was just as instantly engulfed in embarrassment again. Just last evening… She squared her shoulders and unconsciously pressed her lips into a tight line as he led her out onto the dance floor. “I hope I do not make an utter cake of myself,” she said briskly as he turned to face her. “I have never waltzed before.” “Never?” She looked up into his eyes just as they filled with laughter. “I know how to perform the steps,” she assured him, feeling heat in her cheeks, “but I have never actually waltzed.” He said nothing and his expression did not change. She laughed out loud suddenly and he tipped his head slightly to one side and looked at her more closely, though what his thoughts might be she could not fathom. “You may be sorry you asked me,” she said. “As you remarked when you agreed to allow me to escort you to London,” he said. “I am still not sorry about that.” “This is different,” she said as more couples gathered around them. “I shall try not to disgrace you. Gallantry forbids you to back out now, does it not?” “I suppose,” he said, “I could be overcome by a sudden fit of the vapors or something even more irrefutable, like a heart seizure. But I will not. I confess to a curiosity to see how you acquit yourself during your first waltz.” She laughed again—and then stopped abruptly as he set one hand behind her waist and took her right hand in the other. She raised her free hand to his shoulder. Oh, my! Memories of the night before came flooding in, bringing with them more heat to her cheeks. She determinedly thought of something different. “I need to talk with you.” “Do I owe you an apology?” They spoke simultaneously. She realized what he had said. “Absolutely not.” “Do you?” They spoke together again and then silently smiled at each other. Any conversation would have to wait. The music was beginning. There was a minute or so of desperate fright as her mind blanked to the steps she had never danced with a partner. But he was a good leader, she realized when her mind was capable of rational thought again. She knew that he was using the most basic of steps, and by some miracle she was following along without making any ghastly errors. She was also, she realized, counting in her head, though she suspected that her lips might have been moving. She stilled them. “I do believe,” he said, “you are doomed to oblivion, Miss Martin. You will not make a cake of yourself and no one will notice us.” He gave her a mournful look, and she smiled back at him. “And anyone who does will soon expire of boredom,” she said. “We are the least noteworthy couple on the floor.” “Now that,” he said, “sounds like a challenge to my male pride.” And he tightened his hold on her waist slightly and swung her into a sweeping twirl as they turned one corner of the room. Claudia only just stopped herself from shrieking. She laughed instead. “Oh,” she cried, “that was wonderful. Do let’s try it again. Or is that tempting fate? However did I keep my slippers from beneath your feet?” “Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat. “I believe it had something to do with my skill, ma’am.” And he twirled her again. She laughed once more at the exhilaration of the dance and at the wonderful novelty of actually joking with a man. She liked him exceedingly. She looked into his eyes to share her pleasure. And then somehow there was more. More than exhilaration, more than pleasure. There was… Ah, there were no words. It was a moment upon which she would live and dream for the rest of her life. She was quite sure of that. The music played on, the dancers twirled, she and the Marquess of Attingsborough among them, and the world was a wonderful place to be. “Oh,” she said when the music finally slowed, a sure sign that it was about to stop altogether, “is it over already?” Her first waltz. And doubtless her last. “Your first waltz is about to become history, alas,” he said, echoing her thoughts. And then she remembered that she needed to speak to him, that apart from a little light banter at the beginning of the waltz they had danced in silence. “Oh,” she said, “I need to talk with you, Lord Attingsborough. Perhaps sometime tomorrow?” “Even before the waltz began,” he said, “I was eyeing those open French windows with some wistfulness. Now it has become a downright longing. There is a balcony beyond them. And, more important, there is cool air. Shall we stroll out there if you have not promised the next set?” “I have not,” she said, looking toward the open doors and the lamplit darkness beyond. Perhaps after last evening it would not be wise… But he was offering his arm, and she took it. He steered her through the crowds until they stepped out onto the balcony. Tonight would be different. Tonight they had business to discuss. 12
It was indeed cool outside—deliciously so, in fact. But they were not the only ones who had taken advantage of the open doors in order to escape from the heat of the ballroom for a while. There were several people out on the balcony. “There are lamps lit in the garden,” Joseph said. “Shall we go down t here and stroll?” “Very well,” she said, using her schoolmistress voice—he wondered if she realized she had two quite distinct voices. “Lord Attingsborough—” But she stopped talking as he set a hand over hers on his arm, and turned her head to look at him. He had to speak first. Last night needed to be mentioned between them. “Were you as embarrassed as I earlier this evening?” he asked her. “Oh, more so,” she said with her usual forthright honesty. “But you are not now?” “No,” she said, “though perhaps it is as well you can no longer see the color of my cheeks.” They were down in the garden, which was not brilliantly lit. He turned them onto a path that wound to the left. “Good.” He chuckled and patted her hand. “Neither am I. I remember with pleasure and am not at all sorry, though I would make abject apologies if I thought they were necessary.” “They are not,” she assured him. He wondered, not for the first time, if she was essentially a lonely woman. But it was perhaps just male arrogance that made him think she might be. She had certainly proved that a woman could lead a full and productive life without a man. But then loneliness was not confined to women, was it? For all the family and friends and friendly acquaintances with whom he was almost constantly surrounded and the busy activities that filled his days, he was basically a lonely man. Despite Lizzie, whom he loved more than life, he was lonely. The admission surprised him. He was lonely for a woman who could touch and fill his heart. But it was unlikely he would ever find her now. He was almost certain that Portia Hunt would never fill the role. “Shall we sit?” he suggested when they came to a small lily pond with a rustic wooden seat overlooking it from beneath the overhanging branches of a willow tree. They sat down side by side. “It is blessedly cool out here,” she said. “And quiet.” “Yes.” “Lord Attingsborough,” she said, resuming her brisk tone, “Miss Thompson, the teacher you saw the morning we left Bath, the older of the two, is taking ten of our charity girls to Lindsey Hall for part of the summer. She is the Duchess of Bewcastle’s sister, you know.” “Ah,” he said, the image of Bewcastle entertaining ten schoolgirls at his table dancing across his mind. “The duchess has invited me to join them,” she said. He felt instant amusement, remembering what she had told him about her experiences as a governess there. He turned his head to grin at her. Her face was faintly visible in the beam of a lamp hanging in the tree. “To Lindsey Hall?” he said. “With Bewcastle in residence? Are you going?” “I have said yes,” she told him, staring at the water as if it had somehow offended her. “Lady Hallmere is going to be there too.” He chuckled softly. “I said yes because I had an idea,” she said. “I thought perhaps it would be a good thing for me to take Lizzie there with me.” He sobered instantly. He felt a sudden chill. He had been hoping fervently that she would consider school a possibility for his daughter. He had al
so been hoping, he realized now, that she would not. The real chance that he might have to part with Lizzie for months at a time smote him. “It might be a good trial,” she said. “She needs air and exercise and…fun. She will surely get some of all three at Lindsey Hall. She will meet Eleanor Thompson and ten of the girls from the school. She will be with me daily. It will give us all a chance to discover whether schooling will be of any benefit to her and whether Eleanor and I can offer her enough to make the experience—and the fees—worthwhile. And yet it will all be done in the relaxed atmosphere of a holiday.” He could not fault any of her reasoning. It sounded like an eminently sensible suggestion. But his stomach clenched with something that felt like panic. “Lindsey Hall is a large place,” he said. “And the park is large. She would be intolerably bewildered.” “My school is large, Lord Attingsborough,” Miss Martin said. But that would be different. Would it not? He leaned forward on the seat, rested his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loose between them. He lowered his head and closed his eyes. There was a lengthy silence between them while the sounds of music and voices and laughter coming from the ballroom wafted on the air. She was the one who spoke first. “You conceived the idea of sending Lizzie to school,” she said, “not because it would solve the problem of who was to take care of her and not because you wished to be rid of her—though I believe those are what you fear are your motives. You need not fear any such thing. I have seen how you love her. No child has ever been more loved.” She was using her other voice—her pure woman’s voice. “Then why do I feel I am betraying her?” he asked. “Because she is blind,” she said. “And because she is illegitimate. And you wish to protect her from the consequences of both by smothering her with your love.” “Smothering,” he said, a dull ache in his heart. “Is that what I do to her? Is that what I have always done?” He knew she was right. “She has as much right to live as anyone else,” she said. “She has as much right to make her own decisions, to explore her world, to dream of her future, and to work to bring those dreams true. I am not at all sure school is the right thing for her, Lord Attingsborough. But it may very well be the best thing under the circumstances.” The circumstances being that Sonia was dead and he was about to marry Portia Hunt and there would be very little place for his daughter in his life. “What if she does not want to go?” he asked. “Then her wishes must be respected and some other option found,” she said. “This is my condition, you see—if, that is, you approve my plan. Lizzie must agree to it too. And if at the end of the summer I decide to offer her a place at my school, then Lizzie must be the one to accept or reject it. That is always my condition. I have told you that before.” He rubbed his hands over his face and sat up. “You must think me a very sorry creature, Miss Martin,” he said. “No,” she said. “Merely a concerned and loving father.” “I do not always feel like one,” he said. “I have seriously considered taking her to America with me and setting up a new life there. I could be with her all the time. We would both be happy.” She did not reply, and he felt foolish. He had thought of taking Lizzie to America, it was true, but he had always known that he would not actually do it—that he could not. He would be Duke of Anburey one day, and many lives would be dependent upon him and many duties incumbent on him. The notion of freedom of choice was often an illusion. And then a thought struck him and he was surprised it had not occurred to him sooner. “But I will be close by,” he said, lifting his head and turning to look at her. “I am going to be at Alvesley Park for the Earl and Countess of Redfield’s anniversary. Alvesley is only a few miles from Lindsey Hall. Did you know that?” “Yes, I did,” she said. “I also knew of the party because Susanna and Peter are going there. I had not realized you were to be there too, though.” “I will be able to see Lizzie,” he said. “I will be able to spend time with her.” “Yes, if you wish,” she said, looking steadily back at him. “If I wish?” “Your family and friends may wonder at your interest in a mere charity girl from my school,” she said. “A charity girl?” He frowned. “I will pay double your fee, Miss Martin, if Lizzie is willing to go to your school and is likely to be happy there.” “I told the duchess that the girl I may take with me is a charity case recommended by Mr. Hatchard,” she said. “I take it you do not wish the truth to be known?” He stared at her in some anger before turning his head away and closing his eyes. His mother and father, Wilma, Kit’s family, Bewcastle’s family—all would be offended if they discovered that his daughter was at Lindsey Hall while he was at nearby Alvesley. Not to mention Portia Hunt. Gentlemen just did not expose their illegitimate offspring to their very legitimate families and acquaintances. “And so I must behave as if I am ashamed of the most precious person in my life?” he asked. It was, of course, a rhetorical question. She did not answer it. “I will see her there and spend time with her, regardless,” he added. “Yes, it is agreed, then, Miss Martin. Lizzie will go to Lindsey Hall—if she will say yes, of course, and you and she and Miss Thompson will decide among you whether she will then go on to school in Bath.” “You are not, you know,” she said, “agreeing to her execution, Lord Attingsborough.” He turned his head to look at her again and laughed softly but without humor. “You must understand,” he said, “that my heart is breaking.” Too late he heard the sentimental hyperbole of his words and wondered if they could possibly be true. “I do,” she said. “Now, I must meet Lizzie again. I must have a talk with her and see if I can persuade her to come to Lindsey Hall to spend a few weeks of the summer with some other girls and me. I do not know for certain how she will answer, but I believe there is more to your daughter than you have been willing to recognize, Lord Attingsborough. You have been blinded by love.” “A nice irony, that,” he said. “Tomorrow, then? In the afternoon? At the same time as usual?” “Very well,” she said. “And I will, if I may, bring the dog with me. He is a friendly little thing, and she may like him.” She was still sitting as before. With her face half in light, half in shadow she looked very appealing. It was hard to remember his first impression of her when she had stepped inside the visitors’ parlor at her school, looking stern and humorless. “Thank you,” he said. He reached out and covered her hands with one of his own. “You are very generous.” “And perhaps very foolish,” she said. “How on earth can I offer any sort of an education to someone who cannot see? I have never thought of myself as a wonder worker.” He had no answer for her. But he curled his fingers about one of her hands and raised it to his lips. “Even for what you have done and are prepared to do I thank you,” he said. “You have looked upon my daughter not just as an illegitimate child who has the additional disadvantage of being blind, but as a person worthy of a meaningful life. You have persuaded her to run and laugh and shout with glee just like any other child. Now you are prepared to give her a summer of fun that has surely always been beyond her wildest dreams—or mine.” “I believe,” she said, “that if I were a Papist I would be eligible for sainthood, Lord Attingsborough.” He loved her dry humor and chuckled softly. “I believe the music has stopped,” he said, pausing for a moment to listen. “And it was the supper dance. May I escort you to the supper room and fill a plate for you?” She took her time about answering. Her hand was still in his on his lap, he realized. “We waltzed together,” she said, “and then left the ballroom together. Perhaps we would create the wrong impression if we sat at supper together too. Perhaps you ought to go and sit with Miss Hunt, Lord Attingsborough. I will remain here for a while. I am not hungry.” To the devil with Miss Hunt, he almost said aloud. But he stopped himself in time. She had done absolutely nothing to deserve such open disrespect, and indeed it could be said that he had neglected her somewhat this evening. He had danced with her only once. “You are afraid,” he said, “that people will think I am dallying with you?” She turned her face, and he could see that she looked suddenly amused. “I very much doubt anyone would think that,” she said. “But they might very well think that I am angling for you.” “You belittle yourself,” he said. “Have yo
u looked at yourself in a glass lately?” she asked him. “And have you?” She smiled slowly. “You are gallant,” she said, “and kind. I am not angling for you, you may be relieved to know.” He raised her hand to his lips again and then, instead of releasing it, he laced their fingers together and rested their hands on the seat between them. She made no comment and did not try to snatch her hand away. “If you are not hungry,” he said, “I will sit here with you until the dancing starts again. It is pleasant here.” “Yes,” she said. And they sat there for a long time just as they were, without speaking. Almost everyone else must have gone for supper, including the orchestra. Apart from a few stray voices coming from the direction of the balcony, they might have been all alone. The lamplight beamed across the small pond, outlining a few lily pads. A slight breeze caused the fronds of the willow tree to sway before them. The air was cool—and then perhaps a little more than just cool. He felt her shiver. He released her hand and removed his evening coat—not an easy thing to do when it had been made fashionably form-fitting. He set it about her shoulders and kept his hand there, to hold it in place. With his other hand he took hers again. Neither of them spoke a word. She made no objection to his arm about her shoulders or her hand in his. Beneath his touch she was neither stiff nor yielding. He relaxed. The extraordinary notion occurred to him—not for the first time—that perhaps he was falling ever so slightly in love with Miss Claudia Martin. But it was an absurd idea. He liked her. He respected her. He was grateful to her. There was even a touch of tenderness mingled in with the gratitude because she had shown so much kindness to Lizzie without demonstrating any moral outrage toward him for having begotten an illegitimate child. He was comfortable with her. Those feelings did not equate with love. But there had been last evening. If she had turned her head, perhaps he would have kissed her again. He was glad she did not—perhaps. At last he could hear the orchestra tuning their instruments. And once again he thought about Miss Hunt, to whom he was honor-bound to make a marriage offer. “The dancing will be resuming soon,” he said. “Yes,” she said, and she got to her feet a moment before he did. He struggled back into his coat. His valet would probably weep if he could see how his shirt wrinkled beneath it. He offered his arm and she took it before they walked in the direction of the ballroom. He stopped after they had climbed the steps to the balcony. “I will come for you tomorrow, then?” he asked her. “At the same time?” “Yes,” she said, lifting her eyes to his. He could see them clearly in the light spilling from the ballroom. Wide and intelligent as always, they also looked something else now. Something he could not quite identify. They looked very deep, as if he could fall into them if he chose. He nodded to her and indicated with one hand that she should precede him into the ballroom. He hung back for a moment or two after she had stepped inside. He hoped no one had noticed how long they had been together. He would not willingly sully her reputation. Or willingly humiliate Miss Hunt.