“No homage would seem to great,” he said, sincerely. She blushed.
“Stop it, William,” she said. They both blinked as she used his name again. She went redder. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
Feeling the walls around his heart shattered abruptly, he nodded, lost for words. “It's nothing.”
She turned away, fanning herself with a lace fan he would never have imagined her using. Looking at those pale, fine-tapered fingers, his mind flashed to when they were laced with grime, the nails red-rimmed. He sighed.
I liked her then as well as I do now.
He had admired the wild, fighting version of her. He admired this version, too—the one that smelled like lilies and wore her hair caught in bands of velvet. But the contradiction confused and enchanted him equally.
His head floated, sickeningly, and he looked round the room to anchor himself in the present moment. There was Bradford, standing on the other side of the room, in the midst of a group of women, all seeming admiring. All ages, too. He smiled.
“I should fetch you a refreshment,” he said, noticing how carefully Elton was fetching a drink from the table at the back. Even his little brothers had manners more than he had!
“I should rather fancy that,” she said wryly. “Have you lemon cordial?”
William frowned. “We likely do,” he agreed, not having drunk it before.
He headed to the back of the room, looking round for moral support. Bradford was laughing with his small circle of admirers, Elton was with his friends, George was somewhere—he hadn't spotted him yet.
At the door, his parents still stood, looking across at him. He swallowed.
That, he sighed, is going to be a problem.
He wasn't going to tell his father the daughter of Anthony Favor was here.
He was absolutely sure they had no idea who this was. They had, he reckoned, spotting the girl in white, invited her friend. He probably knew her, at least distantly. But they had assuredly not expected her companion to arrive.
She did it on purpose, didn't she?
He felt his face lift in a grin.
The thought that she had come here, dressed up in her finery, simply to get on his nerves, made him want to laugh. It was so typical. He grinned wider at the thought.
“Sir?” the footman, Gorwell, asked him. William blinked.
I must look a prize fool, he thought bitterly. Standing grinning about like I've not got a speck of wit between my ears.
“Lemon cordial, please,” he said quickly.
Gorwell passed it to him silently. William took it and headed back off across the room, heart thumping. He half-expected her to have disappeared already, gone off to find company worthier, someone that didn't gawp at her like a goldfish might.
But there she was, a little on the edge of the crowd, where he had left her. He felt relief sweep through him. He handed her the drink, bowing.
“Milady.”
She laughed and took it. He had taken a glass for himself, too, and they both sipped their drinks. She regarded him over the edge of hers, eyes sparking.
“This is new,” she said.
He nodded. “I suppose.”
It was so strange. He had never met someone on the battlefield, only to have them turn up in his home, dressed like impossibly-high society, sharing a glass of cordial as if the whole of life was a ballroom, with nothing on either side of it.
She grinned. “You weren't dressed like that when last I saw you.”
He chuckled, delighted that she seemed to have noticed him. “My lady, I assure you, my transformation is paltry in comparison.”
She grinned. He might have imagined it, but was that a flush of red in her cheeks? He had made her blush! The thought warmed him.
“Sir, you are obscure in your meaning. You say merely that I have transformed. That could be in one of two ways—for the better, or for the worse.”
He roared with mirth. Her eyes sparkled and he knew she teased him, but all the same he could not help but take pause. It was a good question.
Did he prefer the almost-vagabond? Or the society debutante? He had no idea.
“My lady, a transformation you assuredly have had,” he said carefully. “Whether for better or worse? I cannot say. Save that it is impossible to make improvement on you.”
He surprised himself. His voice dried and he felt his chest go tight. Had he really just said that? She was going to dismiss it, he knew. Think it a fulsome compliment not fitting for a ball. He gritted his teeth, waiting for condemnation.
When he risked it and looked at her, she was staring at him. Her eyes shone brighter than the little sparkles sewn into the gown, about the neck. Her face was blank, as if she was as surprised as he.
“You do me great honor, sir,” she said.
“Not at all,” he managed. His throat felt like it had been brushed with sand and he swallowed hard, drawing a restless breath.
She turned towards the hall, where people were stepping aside, clearing space for the dance floor.
“I suppose we ought to make some room,” she said, stepping back. “A ball is, primarily, for dancing.”
“Indeed it is,” he said, deciding to seize the moment before his nerves took over. “And so, why not join in? Will you dance, milady?”
She stared at him. Her eyes looked surprised. Her full lips fell open into a little “o” that made his loins ache with sudden wanting.
“Why, yes,” she said.
He bowed.
Sure she was as aware of the strangeness of the situation as he was, he took her hand and they walked together toward the dance floor.
When they faced each other, he felt reality stretch a little further. Here, her head high, hair styled, pearls at her neck, she was queenly. But it was the same her who he had seen, hair straggling, on horseback in the rain. He swallowed hard.
I have never felt like this before.
The music started and he bowed, almost forgetting where he was. He drifted forward, dreamlike.
It was a sarabande and he drifted through it, dreamily, glad he knew the steps so well that he could have done it anywhere, anytime. He was not focused at all, his mind in another place.
Their hands met, and touched, and parted. She stepped beside him and he felt his throat go dry as he had to rest his hand on hers, palm up. Then take her waist to lead her through a turn.
The music wove round them, holding them, binding them fast. It was a spell, and she wove it, her brown eyes, steady, drawing in his soul.
When the music ended, finally, he blinked.
He felt himself return to the present, unreality rushing in with the familiar sounds—the light clap as the dancers congratulated each other, and themselves. The slight scrape of a stool from the musicians’ place as they shifted, ready to begin the new melody. The sound of talking, louder now as the music receded and the hall came to life again.
He faced her. She looked as confused as he. The two scenes shifted—her in the bleak countryside, and her here, merging and lapping and becoming one person...a woman who owned her own soul, and his heart.
He sighed. Swallowed hard. In that moment, he knew the truth.
He was falling in love with her.
He blinked and the moment shifted, allowing him to focus on the room once again. He stepped back, heading into the crowd around the dance floor. At that moment, he spotted his father. He was looking at them.
He swallowed. She was standing beside him and he glanced at her, seeing a flash of recognition in her eyes. He didn't have any time to think further. His father was already opposite.
“Son,” he said, grinning cheerily. “I am afraid to say I stand in need of an introduction. I do not know our fair guest's name.” He bowed to Catharine, who curtsied elegantly.
“Um...it's...” he paused, the words sticking his throat.
“Claudine Farlane,” she said.
“Oh,” his father bowed low. “Well! Welcome to these parts, milady. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. If
I might ask, are you related to the Marquess of Stanmore? I believe his aunt was a Farlane, but I might be confused.”
“I am related, distantly,” she nodded. “My family comes from the coast. Close to those parts.”
“Oh,” he nodded. “Well! Capital! Don't manage to get down there often enough. I should. I should,” he added, turning to his son. William noticed he had gone a little florid.
Thank heavens she thought so quickly, he thought, letting out a sigh. A shock could kill his father, he knew.
“The coast is beautiful,” he agreed quickly.
“Indeed it is. Well! I think we should plan a visit down there soon, eh? While it's warm.”
“Yes, sir.”
When his father moved on at last—after some polite inquiries about her family, which she answered without a single pause—William felt as if he might expire of sheer relief.
“What a nice man,” she said. “I can't understand what all the fuss is about.”
“Me neither,” William said hastily, knowing exactly what she meant, but not wanting to voice it now. Not, he thought admiringly, that she would. He couldn't quite believe what he'd seen! The woman had a talent for setting people at ease.
I don't know how she thought of all that so fast.
He sighed, sheer amazement filling him.
“Would you care to see the grounds?” he asked, feeling the need to get out of the room. He looked towards the back of the hall, where the door to the terrace stood. It was not open—the nights were a little chilly currently—but he was sure some other people had ventured out to escape the press and crowding in the ballroom.
“I would,” she nodded.
As they walked across to the door, William felt as if he had never been more excited about anything than he was to show her the gardens.
They went out onto the terrace. Sure enough, the place was dotted with people, talking in low voices. The air was crisp out here, but not overly cold. He sighed.
“A beautiful evening, yes.”
“It is,” she murmured.
William stood beside her, looking out over the silent garden. The place seemed to radiate a deep peace, or maybe that was the peace that seemed to have settled on his soul.
He smiled and looked down into her lovely face. He knew two things at that moment. Firstly, that he loved her, and secondly, that, even though his family would fight it, he didn't really care. This feeling—this strange, magical wonder that filled his heart and flowed down his body and almost choked him with its sheer, sweet intensity—mattered more than any other thing.
Chapter 8: An unexpected occurrence
It was after he had been at home another two days that the message arrived. William, sitting in the parlor, a cup of early tea in his hand, frowned when Laney called him.
“What is it?”
“Message for you, sir.”
The old butler's soft voice sounded strained. William felt his frown grow more intense. What was wrong.
“Who brought it?”
“He's waiting downstairs, sir,” he said. “He has to deliver it to you alone.”
This heightened William's interest, and he stood, setting aside the tea. Opposite him, George looked up from his book, frowning.
“Is it something worrying?” he asked.
William shook his head. “I'm sure it's nothing bad, George.”
All the same, as he walked down the hallway after the butler, he wasn't so sure.
At the door, he was met by a young officer. Cheeks shaved to rawness in places, the youth seemed crisp with efficiency.
“Sir,” he said, saluting as William came to the door. “I have a message from the colonel, to be delivered to Lieutenant-colonel North in person.”
“I am the person you're looking for,” William nodded. “Can I take the message here, or...?” he frowned, encouraging. If the young man had memorized the message, he'd like as not want to give it somewhere more private.
“The colonel wishes to speak with you in person, sir,” the youth said crisply. “If you could meet him in Wexfield tomorrow afternoon.”
“I can, assuredly,” William nodded, as Wexfield was an easy afternoon ride from the village. But who was he to meet? And why? “I do, however, have an inquiry to make.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Who is the colonel?”
The youth blushed. “Begging your pardon, sir. It's Colonel Wallace, of the—”
“Yes, I know which regiment he's colonel of,” William nodded, thinking. More importantly still, he knew precisely what role the man played. He was in charge of military intelligence. He was, more or less, the man Catharine Favor now worked for.
If she was indeed working and hadn't decided to come home. To his shame, he realized he hadn't asked her. He had been so enchanted with having seen her again that the thought had entirely slipped his mind.
In front of him now, the officer tensed. “Yes, sir.”
“I'll be there tomorrow,” William nodded. “I thank you for coming all this way to bring that message. Can we offer you refreshment?”
“No, sir. Thank you, sir. I'd best be on my way.”
“Good day, Lieutenant.”
“Good day, sir.”
When the younger man had gone, William stayed where he was, in the downstairs hallway, thinking hard. His mind raced. What was this about? He himself took orders from Wallace, the commander of the regiment in which William was lieutenant-colonel. He had a great deal of respect for the man. But what, now that he was here in England, did he want to see William for?
“I don't understand any of this.”
He sighed. He spent the whole day worrying about it and went to bed early.
It was three o' clock in the afternoon by the time he reached the village the next day, a golden autumn afternoon. He sighed. He would have enjoyed the ride, if not for this vague, uneasy feeling that there was something wrong.
He also had the feeling it had something to do with a certain spy.
“Why would it have?” he admonished, trying to cheer himself up. “It's probably something to do with your orders. Perhaps he's discharging you for disappearing to England. Who knows?”
He sighed. He knew very well he had permission to return home—he wouldn't have, otherwise. It certainly wasn't about that. But then, what for perdition's sake was it?
“Only one way to find out.”
He rode down the hill into the village.
When he reached the old hotel, which had been turned, somewhat hastily, into a headquarters for the returning troops, William frowned. He was anxious, and the heightened secrecy around the place disturbed him. The officer on the door discreetly searched him for weapons before he entered. William sighed.
“Yes, I am carrying a pistol. The woods are dangerous after dark. If you must take it, I'll hand it over.”
“Yes, sir. Colonel's orders, sir.”
William sighed again and handed over the fine, French-made pistol with a worried frown. The officer at the door eyed it the way someone might eye priceless porcelain from Cathay, and William only hoped his sense of duty and honor was strong enough to make him return it to him.
“Thank you, sir.”
William strode inside. Another man conducted him, with some solemnity, across the hotel's fine entrance hall and up the carpeted stairs towards the second floor. There, he was shown into what must have been a parlor or the games room, but which was now the military HQ.
“Sir,” he said, saluting crisply. He was in civilian clothing, his top-hat held smartly under one arm. The colonel stood opposite. He was in uniform.
“Ah! William!” he said jovially, shaking his hand. “Capital to see you. Welcome home, eh?” he grinned.
“Thank you, sir. You, too,” William added, feeling thrown off-guard, as he always did, by his superior's informality.
“Ah! Now I hope you've got a spot of riding in, eh?” he asked. “Ah! This countryside! Does a man good, I declare it. I'm sick of French fields
.”
“Yes, sir. Me too.”
“Sit, do!” Colonel Wallace said, waving William to an upholstered stool that sat before the colonel's vast table.
William sat. He looked around the red-papered space, a luxurious hotel room, and tried not to feel uneasy.
“Sir, I had a message...”
“Yes, William.” The colonel's face was abruptly serious again. “We have a matter of greatest secrecy and urgency to attend to.”
“Oh?” William felt the blood drain from his head. That sounded like it was about to be followed by a request.
“Yes! You see, we have this message—needs to reach the chaps on the ground. The ones still stuck out at Lille.”
“Oh.” This time William sounded resigned. He waited for the request. The colonel cleared his throat.
“We have made our decision, and that is why I needed to consult with you.”
“Oh?” William frowned. That sounded decidedly odd. It wasn't him, then, that was clear. But then, who was it?
“Sir?”
William felt his heart sink into his boots as the voice spoke behind him. It was the voice that had drifted into waking dreams for the last weeks. He turned round and stared.
“No,” he said. “No. I can't allow it.”
“What?” Colonel Wallace sounded outraged. “I tell you, it will be so,” he said. “The lass is perfect! Speaks French like a native, passes undetected wherever she goes. Can't say fairer, can you?”
“No,” William ground out. “I am certain she is an excellent spy. But, sir, you cannot allow her to do this. It's too dangerous.”
The colonel blinked as if the idea was outlandish. “Dangerous?”
“William...” she said. She sounded pleading, and William sighed. He could even argue with his superior officer. But not with her. Not now.
“Why did you call me here?” he asked the colonel.
“Well, to ask if you think we should let Gray go with her.”
“Gray?”
“The fellow who brought you the message. Lieutenant. Clever officer. Very promising. His mother was French, you know. Speaks it well. What say you?”
“No,” William said before he'd stopped to think about it.
“No?” The colonel's voice was dangerously soft. William remembered, belatedly, that he might be so jovial that everyone called him Colonel Grin behind his back, though his other nickname, Belter, was as well-earned.
Her Fiery Heart: Brides for the Earl's Sonsa Page 6