by Mary Balogh, Jo Beverley, Sandra Heath, Edith Layton, Laura Matthews
She curtsied, reflecting on how amazing it was that she still had such an effect. And all because she and Edward fell in love and married eight long years ago! It wasn’t even as if one or the other of them hadn’t been free, just that he came from prideful aristocratic stock, and she from mere gentry. If she’d been the heiress daughter of a wealthy mill owner, or if, through judicious dealing, her father had risen from the position of mere clerk in the East India Company to become a nabob, all would have been well, for that was the double standard that ruled this stifled society. It wasn’t really one’s breeding that counted in the end, just the plumpness of one’s purse!
She rose from the curtsey, and gave the duke and duchess a false smile, which they duly returned. The duchess allowed her glance to wander witheringly over the strawberry silk gown. It was a glance Rebecca found provoking in the extreme. How dared such a tasteless creature presume to criticize, when her own gown, a gaudy confection of vermilion satin, made her look like a varnished orange! And as for the towering plume in her hair, on anyone taller it might have dusted the chandeliers! For all her blue blood and title, the Duchess of Almondsbury was a person of atrocious taste, and yet had the front to register contempt for others.
Piers watched from the head of the staircase behind them. His sharp glance took everything in, and he read Rebecca’s expression like a book. He silently applauded her dignified hauteur. However poor relations might be between them, he couldn’t help but admire her spirit. There were times when he had to concede she conducted herself with more style than many a more blue-blooded lady. It was a pity there were also times when she displayed a mulishness that was decidedly unbecoming!
He waited until Sir Oliver had led her further into the ballroom, and then nodded at the waiting master of ceremonies, who immediately commanded attention by announcing his name.
There was another ripple of whispering, but Rebecca didn’t turn to look. For her the ordeal of the evening had now begun in earnest, and each passing moment served only to verify her worst fears. She hated being the object of such interest, but Sir Oliver was positively wallowing in it. Watching how he preened and basked, she was forced to wonder if marrying him would indeed prove a disastrous move. If he didn’t care a fig for her discomfort now, he clearly wouldn’t after she’d become his wife. And if she felt as ill at ease in his company now, how much worse would it be when they were married?
But there was no time to consider her doubts. Being the cause celebre of the moment, she was very much in demand, and required to dance a succession of measures, from polonaises, cotillions, and minuets, to allemandes, gavottes, and contredanses, each one with a different partner. It was exhausting physically as well as mentally, but as midnight approached she at last managed to slip away on her own. The hour was to prove opportune, for an appropriate diversion had been planned to usher in Christmas Day itself.
But the entertainment had yet to commence as she made her way around the ballroom to a quiet corner by a greenery-entwined column. She paused thankfully, finding the scent of the evergreens pleasantly refreshing after the exertion of so much dancing. High above the dance floor, the mistletoe bunches turned gently in the heat, and the mysterious net with its white contents still defied her powers of conjecture.
The last dance before the Christmas diversion was in progress, and by cruel fate it happened to be the very landler that had brought Edward and her together. The remembered tune drifted achingly over her, and she had to close her eyes. Memories engulfed her then. In his arms she’d allowed the spell of the dance to carry her away. How improperly they’d behaved, gazing ardently into each other’s eyes, and holding each other so close their bodies touched. But she hadn’t cared, for there had been something unbelievably magical about that night. Her senses had stirred so strongly that just to meet his gaze had made her breasts tighten with desire. Physical attraction had devoured them both, and she’d been oblivious to everyone and everything, except him.
She knew he felt the same way too, when for a moment he’d held her even closer, so she could feel his maleness pressing to her. She should have been shocked by such a very forward action, but already things had gone too far between them for her to play the coquette. One touch of his hand, and she’d known he was the one for her. And when the dance was over, and they stood beneath the mistletoe, she’d gone more than willingly into the reprehensibly overt kiss that had brought the ball to a stunned halt.
Rebecca opened her eyes unhappily. That was how she’d tried to convince herself it had been; the truth was very different. Oh, she’d danced with Edward, she’d done nothing to spurn his advances, and at the end she’d consented to the kiss that had eventually led to a happy marriage and two wonderful children, but there was an important aspect of it all that she’d striven to obliterate from her memory ever since. It was an aspect that lay at the heart of so much, and the pain didn’t lessen with the passing years. Tonight it was like a fresh wound, because nearly everything was the same as it had been then. Edward was no longer here, but Piers was, and he felt as little for her as ever.
She exhaled slowly and tremulously as she confronted the truth about herself. It was because of Piers’s indifference that she’d danced with Edward that night and relinquished her reputation. She’d been young, inexperienced, and wretched with unrequited love for Piers, whose lack of the right sort of interest hurt her so much she turned instead to the cousin who looked so like him.
That was why she’d stepped onto the floor with Edward, and allowed the headiness of the landler to sweep her along. But if it was with Piers that she’d mentally stepped out to dance, it was with Edward that she finished the measure. His bold smiles and engaging charm had captivated her, and in spite of all his faults, she’d never regretted marrying him or bearing his sons. But at moments like the present, when events conspired to recreate that long-past evening, she knew that her love for Piers had always marched alongside her love for Edward, and probably always would.
Remorse rushed hotly over her. “Oh, go away, go away,” she breathed, addressing the feelings she wished so much did not exist. She wanted freedom from Piers Winterbourne, not the endless sentence of being affected by everything he said or did.
As tears of frustration filled her eyes, her glance fell suddenly upon Piers himself. He was laughing as he stood with a group of gentlemen beneath the orchestra apse, and it seemed she could single out his laugh from that of all the others. The perfection of his profile cut through her, and the curve of his lips seemed to taunt with the invisible kisses she would always be denied. What would have happened during that other landler if he’d been the one she’d danced with? Would caution have been tossed aside then too? Would he have made her as physically conscious of his virility as Edward had done? Would he have kissed her beneath the mistletoe with the same passionate abandon as his cousin? She furiously blinked the tears away. No, of course he wouldn’t, for Rebecca Newton was too lowly for him!
To her relief, the Christmas diversion commenced. As the final note of the landler died away, the floor was cleared and a murmur of interest ran around the gathering as footmen on tall stepladders carefully extinguished most of the chandeliers. Then, when the ballroom was in semidarkness, carolers were heard approaching. They were singing “Deck the Halls With Boughs of Holly,” and carried lanterns which swung to and fro as they descended the ballroom staircase and formed a circle in the center of the floor. There was great applause as they finished, and then silence fell again as they began another carol, this time “I Saw Three Ships.”
The carol singing went on for about half an hour, ending with “Good King Wenceslas,” when at last the mystery of the ceiling net was explained. Ropes were attached to it, and several footmen began to pull on them, slowly opening a small hole in the net through which the contents began to fall. Illuminated by the carolers’ lanterns, thousands of tiny pieces of white paper and cloth fluttered gently down like snow. It was so simple, and yet the perfect Christmas touch, and
the duchess smiled with elegant satisfaction as her guests gasped and clapped with admiration.
Rebecca clapped too. Gazing at the “snow,” she was suddenly reminded of the strange draft that had blown Clifford’s papers around the Abbotlea library. But it was only a fleeting thought, for her attention returned once more to Piers. He was gazing up at the artificial snowstorm, and the expression on his face suggested that he too might have been reminded of something.
Suddenly a disapproving face among his group seemed to leap out at her, and her heart almost stopped with shock as she stared into her late father’s eyes! The artificial snowflakes fluttered silently all around him as he continued to hold her gaze, and his visage was so darkly reproachful that she felt like a disobedient child again. “Father?” she whispered.
As she watched, he raised a hand to wag a scolding finger at her. What had she done to make him angry? Her bewilderment was replaced by confusion. This was foolish. He couldn’t be angry with her, because she couldn’t possibly really be seeing him. She was imagining it. But as the chiding gaze remained upon her across the ballroom, she knew she was seeing him. She also knew beyond all doubt she’d seen him on the riverbank and at Abbotlea church.
She remained motionless with shock as the carol singers left the floor and the chandeliers were relit. It wasn’t until the master of ceremonies announced a minuet, and sets began to form, that the strange paralysis left her. She had to go to her father!
Leaving the shelter of the column, she hurried blindly onto the crowded floor, but as she pushed through the crush of dancers, she momentarily lost sight of the group beneath the apse. The last of the artificial snow still fell, clinging to her face and gown as at last she reached Piers and his friends, but there was no sign of anyone who looked even remotely like her father.
She seized Piers’s sleeve agitatedly. “My lord?”
Startled, he turned. “Madam?”
His companions were taken aback, but she ignored them as she held his gaze. “My lord, the gentleman who was with you a moment ago...”
“Gentleman?”
“He was elderly, with a wig. He was with you, but has gone now.”
“There was no elderly gentleman, madam.”
“But I saw him,” she insisted.
“There was no such gentleman,” he repeated.
She felt the others’ quizzical eyes upon her, and knew she was making a scene. Dull color rushed into her cheeks, and she hastily removed her hand from his sleeve. “Forgive me, sir—evidently I was mistaken.”
“Evidently.”
Gathering her skirts once more, she hurried away, threading her path along the edge of the floor until she reached the supper room. Her heart was now pounding so much she felt dizzy and unwell.
She didn’t realize Piers had followed her, until suddenly he took her arm to steady her. He steered her through the supper room into an unoccupied antechamber, where he ushered her to a sofa and made her sit down. “You appear more than a little overwrought,” he said, reaching out to brush off some of the tiny fragments of white paper and cloth that still clung to her hair, but then thinking better of making such a gesture. “Shall I, er, bring you something cool to drink? Some lime cup, perhaps?”
She shook her head. “I’ll be all right in a moment or so.”
He knew there was more to it than merely feeling unwell. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he said gently.
She hesitated. “I—I thought I saw my father.” Fresh tears sprang to her eyes, and she searched her reticule for a handkerchief.
He pressed his own into her hand. “Your father? But that can’t possibly be so, madam. As I recall, he passed away from influenza at least ten years ago.”
“You think I don’t know that?” she replied a little edgily, twisting the handkerchief agitatedly in her hands. “But he was there beside you; I saw him as plain as day.”
“There was no one such as you describe in my group,” he insisted as he sat down next to her.
“So I gather.”
“You make it sound as if you don’t believe me, but I’m telling the truth, and, with due respect, you were not only on the other side of the ballroom, but that damned snow was between us as well.” He glanced away, for the snow had reminded him of the odd incident with the ripped note he’d tossed on the fire at the castle.
“I know what I saw,” she whispered, twisting the handkerchief in hands that still shook.
“You know what you think you saw,” he corrected gently.
“It hasn’t just been tonight,” she said suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
She looked away. “If I tell you, you’ll think I’m losing my wits.”
“Try me.”
Drawing a shaking breath, she told him about the ghostly hands, and about the mysterious cloaked man. When she’d finished, she looked at him. “I realized tonight that the man in the church door reminded me of my father, and then, just now, I definitely saw my father standing with your group. He was angry with me about something.”
For a moment Piers didn’t say anything. A cloaked man? Wasn’t that just what he himself had seen on the way here?
She searched his face. “Have you no comment to make? No crushing observation upon my diminishing mental faculties?” she asked at last.
“I merely think the strain of this ill-judged betrothal is showing,” he replied, deciding against mentioning his own cloaked man. She was upset enough already, without that as well.
She colored. “Now I wish I hadn’t told you; indeed I don’t know what possessed me to confide in you of all people.”
“Nor I, but you did.” He looked at her. “There was a time when you and I were much in each other’s confidence.”
“I thought so too, sir, but I swiftly learned how poor a friend you really were. The truth is you always looked down on me, but didn’t show your true colors until I was presumptuous enough to welcome Edward’s attentions.”
“You clearly have a very low opinion of me,” he observed dryly.
“Under the circumstances, you surely don’t expect anything else?”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I expect you to be more reasonable after all this time,” he replied.
“I was never unreasonable,” she answered.
“As you wish.” He rose to his feet again. “But I swear upon my honor that there was no one such as you describe among my party a moment or so ago, and I respectfully suggest you’re in no condition to remain at a crowded, overheated function such as this. Home, and a restorative medicinal draft would seem advisable. I’m sure Sir Oliver would be only too glad to see you safely back to Abbotlea.”
“I can see myself safely home, sir.”
With a stiff bow, he turned and walked away.
She closed her eyes and struggled to regain her shattered equilibrium. It was several minutes before she’d recovered sufficiently to return to the ball, and when she did she was immediately snapped up again by Sir Oliver, who’d been searching all over for her. It was her intention to tell him she was going home, but a cotillion was announced, and instead she found herself being ushered into one of the sets, which, to her consternation, also contained Piers and the duchess.
The dance commenced, and she avoided Piers’s eyes, even when they were face-to-face because of the measure. In the heat of the moment she forgot that the sequence of this particular cotillion included a kissing forfeit, nor did she realize that it would be Piers to whom she had to pay it. Not until he actually took her hands and drew her toward him did she remember, and by then it was too late.
She moved as if spellbound, allowing him to pull her into his arms and kiss her on the lips. It meant nothing to him, he was merely going through the motions of the dance, but for a wonderful moment she could surrender to the sorcery of her secret. Her lips softened and parted beneath his, and her eyes closed as she savored the brief intimacy she’d always longed for. It was all she could do not to give in completely to the emotions that coursed th
rough her veins like fire. She wanted to link her arms around his neck, to draw his tongue deep into her mouth, and know the exquisite pleasure of feeling his dormant masculinity begin to stir against her. It was Piers she wanted, Piers she’d always wanted... Oh, forgive me, Edward, please forgive me.
In all too few seconds the forfeit was over, and Piers released her as the dance continued. Fresh color warmed her cheeks, and she couldn’t meet his eyes when next they faced each other. How much had she given herself away? Had he realized the truth? Please don’t let that be so, for she couldn’t bear it. But when she glanced at his face, it was expressionless. She could read nothing of his thoughts.
More and more guilt tumbled through her. It had been a terrible mistake to have come here tonight. She’d tried for so long to deny the way she felt about Piers, and usually succeeded in fooling herself, but not now, not here. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to stay a moment more, and as the cotillion ended, she told Sir Oliver she had a dreadful headache and intended to go home.
At first he insisted on seeing her safely back to Abbotlea, but she was equally insistent that he should remain at the ball. She was polite but firm, and to her relief he at last gave up trying to persuade her of anything. She slipped away from the ballroom just as the clock struck one.
The night was still wet and galeswept as her carriage commenced the long climb over the hill. But Piers had also decided to leave the ball early, and as his carriage passed hers, the weather fled from her mind as she saw her father gazing sternly at her in the light of the lamps. This time he was so close she knew there was no mistake. It wasn’t simply someone who resembled him, it was him!