by Anne Gracie
She had nothing to be ashamed of. She would not give them the satisfaction. She stiffened her spine. The way before her parted reluctantly. Ladies, who only hours before had claimed friendship, turned their faces coldly away. No one would meet her eye; a hundred eyes bored into her.
"Little better than a camp follower!"
“The cheek—to try to pass herself off like that in decent company!"
And one, less elliptical than the others. "Traitorous whore!"
Her body began to shake. She could do nothing. There was no standing up to insubstantial whispers from people who would not even look her in the face. She forced herself to keep walking, desperately hoping the trembling of her body was not visible to the observers.
Was there ever a room so long? Only four more steps. Three. . .two. . .
A powerful black-clad arm snaked out of the dense crowd and pulled her into the centre of the circle again.
"What—?"
"I think you must have forgotten me, Miss Farleigh," said Jack. His normal tone of voice carried in the watching hush. Kate blinked up at him.
“My dance, I believe. Did you forget it?'' He smiled down at her bewildered face, his casual manner belied by the implacable grip on her arm.
"But. . ." With everyone listening, Kate couldn't say it. She hadn't promised him a dance. He didn't dance. Not since he was wounded, anyway. He only leaned against walls and columns, glaring at her. So why would he seek her out now? Now, when the world was turning against her again and she wanted nothing more than escape. Kate tried to pull away, but his hold on her was too powerful.
Ignoring Kate's glance of pathetic entreaty, Jack moved steadily back through the crowd, towing her beside him, greeting acquaintances in a cheery tone as he went, for all the world as if they were not in the very heart of a major scandal, their every movement watched by hundreds.
His uneven footsteps echoed as he led her out on to the deserted dance floor. He finally released her arm, but took her hand instead. Bowing, he kissed it lightly. Kate stared at him in a daze. He grinned at her, a wicked, tender grin.
"Courage, love," he whispered as he straightened up. "Let's show them that an old cripple and a gallant war heroine are not beaten by a paltry bit of gossip."
He nodded to the band. Kate followed his glance. Sir Toby was standing over the band in a very determined manner. He smiled and waved, then turned back to the band. The music started.
Kate's eyes misted as she looked up into the handsome face bent over her. She had been prepared to withstand anything—scorn, mockery, disgust, revile-ment. His kindness had undone her.
Jack determinedly stumped his way through the intricate steps, his bad leg making a clumsy mockery of the movements. Kate gracefully performed her part, making adjustments for his limp where she could.
Jack's eyes never left her face. Her head was held high, but she danced blindly. No one in the audience could see the tears which trickled down her cheeks unheeded. Jack wished he could take her in his arms, wished that strait-laced English society would bend their rules sufficiently to adopt the scandalous Viennese dance which was all the rage in Europe. Jack smiled at her tenderly. Yes, it would be wonderful to hold Kate in his arms for a waltz.
The ballroom might have been deserted, the audience silent ghosts. Only the strains of the band playing, the clumping of Jack's shoes and the faint shuffle of Kate's tiny satin slippers could be heard at first, then the murmuring started again.
The dance ended, but under Tubby's supervision the next one started almost immediately. As the second dance drew to a close, Jack bent over her hand again and murmured, "Two dances are my limit, I'm afraid. A third and people will begin to think you are fast."
Kate stared at him, stupefied. She was being pilloried as a whore and a traitress, and he was concerned that three dances with the same partner would label her fast! A bubble of hysteria rose in her throat. The music started again.
"My dance, I believe, Miss Farleigh. Off with you now, Carstairs. This lady is promised to me." The whole room heard him, but without waiting for a reply Francis swung Kate into a country dance.
There was still no one else on the dance floor.
“Miss Farleigh, would you do me the honour of partnering me in the next dance?" A young man bowed over Kate's nerveless fingers. He was dressed in immaculate evening attire, one empty sleeve pinned neatly back. Kate stared at him dumbly.
"You may not remember me, Miss Farleigh, but we met at Badajoz. Arnold Bentham at your service. Francis's cousin."
Kate glanced at his empty sleeve. The young man smiled. “No, Miss Farleigh, that arm I lost at Salamanca. You saved the other one at Badajoz, and I offer it now at your disposal. Shall we?" With his one remaining arm, Arnold Bentham swept Kate into the next dance.
Two other couples joined them on the dance floor—Francis and Andrew Lennox and their partners. There was no sign of Jack.
“Miss Farleigh, may I present my son as a desirable partner? He. . .he is a little out of practice, but I'm sure you will not mind that." The well-modulated voice broke.
Kate turned, then stopped dead. Her prospective partner stood very still, smiling in her general direction, his hand resting on the arm of a middle-aged woman.
Kate's face crumpled. It was too much. All this unexpected kindness. All this support. And now this.
It was Oliver Greenwood. Oliver Greenwood, whom she had first met as a terrified young lieutenant at Torres Vedras, with blood gushing all over his face. She had visited him several times since she had come to London, but he was the last person she'd expected to see at a ball. Oliver Greenwood was blind.
"Miss Farleigh, I would be most honoured if you would stand up with me," said Oliver Greenwood, bowing in her direction.
Kate glanced at Mrs Greenwood. His mother's face was working with emotion. She nodded at Kate, her eyes filled with tears.
Kate curtseyed. "The honour would be all mine," she whispered through a mist of tears, and took her place. Immediately they were surrounded as others joined the set.
Francis, Tubby, Andrew Lennox and others, unknown to Kate, some whose faces were vaguely familiar to her, others who were clearly friends of Oliver Greenwood. And their partners, girls for the most part unknown to Kate, girls who smiled encouragingly at her and nodded their heads.
Somehow they got through the dance, Oliver being gently steered in the right direction by his fellow officers, and Kate too, for by this time she was completely blinded by her tears.
And by the time it finished she was not the only person with wet eyes.
"May I escort you to your guardian, Miss Farleigh?" said Oliver Greenwood.
"Not yet, young Greenwood," a bluff voice boomed heartily from behind them. "I want to talk to this young lady."
"Sir!" All the young officers snapped instantly to attention, Oliver Greenwood included.
Kate turned. Jack and a man in a plain, neat, dark blue coat were approaching her—a smallish, thin man, whose blue eyes twinkled at her from over one of the most famous noses in all Europe.
"My Lord!" she gasped, and sank into a curtsey.
"So it's little Kate Farleigh who's got my officers in knots, is it?'' said the Marquis of Wellington. He smiled again at Kate, bowed and kissed her hand. A gasp ran round the room.
"Knew your father, m'dear. Very fine man he was. Sorry to hear about his death. Your brothers, too. Brave boys, brave boys. Know they would be proud of you."
He took her hand and tucked it into his arm. "Shall we take a turn about the room?'' Without waiting for a reply, he moved off, lowering his voice so that only she could hear.
“Young Carstairs filled me in. Pack of worthless gabble-mongers. But we'll fix them. Face 'em down, what? Show 'em for the cowards they are, eh?"
Wellington moved slowly towards the crowd which pressed forward, eager to speak with the great man. As he did so, he introduced Kate, mentioning to this person that he was a friend of her family, to th
at person that she was a gallant young heroine, to another that she was a brave little lady, one of England's finest.
They were soon joined by a group of older ladies, one of whom linked arms with Kate, clearly declaring her support. Kate blinked at her. The woman was a complete stranger.
She bent towards Kate. "Lady Charlotte, my dear. I'm so terribly sorry this happened. If I'd known. . .but we were all in the card room, I'm afraid, and only just heard what was happening." She indicated the rest of her party. Kate recognised Lady Courtney and several others, but this glittering matron was a complete stranger.
Seeing Kate's continuing puzzlement, the lady added, "I'm Arnold Bentham's mother—you know my nephew, Francis." As Kate suddenly nodded in comprehension, the lady continued, "You saved my Arnold's life, Miss Farleigh. For that, you have my undying friendship and support, and that of these other ladies too."
Kate slowly circled the room; on one side of her, the Marquis of Wellington, on the other, a collection of society's most formidable matrons. She was dazed by the turn in her fortunes, unable to comprehend quite what was happening. She nodded, curtseyed and smiled, oblivious of whom she was meeting, who was shaking her hand.
Jack was there, a pace or two behind her, hovering protectively. She could feel his presence, sense his strength. She wanted to touch him, but she couldn't. She turned to look at him over her shoulder. Their eyes met, caressed, clung, but she was moved forward inexorably, and they were separated by the crowd, pressing closer, eager to meet the Great Man and his protégée.
Kate could hardly believe it. She had been snatched from her worst nightmare, and now was engaged in an almost triumphal procession on the arm of England's greatest living hero. But it was Jack who'd saved her. He had risked social ostracism, had stood up with her in the most public of places, had declared his support of her for all the world to see. Jack, who'd been a recluse, hiding his wounds from the world— he'd come out and danced with her, when no one else would even look her in the eye.
And it was Jack whose arm she wanted to be on, whose arms she wanted to be in.
Kate glanced back. He was no longer there. Her eyes scanned the room anxiously. Where was he? She could see him nowhere. He had stood up for her in her hour of need. Surely he wouldn't desert her in her moment of triumph? Didn't he know it would mean nothing to her if he was not with her?
She caught Francis's eye across a dozen heads and asked him the silent question. He returned a sombre look, then shrugged and shook his head hopelessly. Kate's face dropped. Jack had left. But why?
With a leaden heart, Kate returned to the hollow greetings of well-wishers and sycophants.
"What do you mean, she's gone? Gone where? She hasn't been seen since that blasted ball, and let me tell you, Grandmama, nothing could be more ill-judged. She needs to be out there, circulating, seeing people, showing them she's nothing to hide. We've scotched the worst of it, but if she's hiding herself away. . ."
"I said she's gone, Jack. Gone away. Left."
"Left where? What do you mean?" Suddenly Jack turned white. He sat down in a rush. "You mean gone? She's left London?"
Lady Cahill looked at him in some compassion, then hardened her heart. He'd been acting like a fool.
"Gone where?"
"Back to that village I found her in."
"Good God, how could you let her do something so . . .? What is there for her anyway? Why would she do such a thing?" He rose to his feet again and paced about, raking his fingers through wildly disordered locks. Suddenly he looked up sharply.
"Who is escorting her? How is she travelling? And who is to meet her?"
His grandmother shrugged.
"You mean you let her go alone!" he roared.
"I was not exactly consulted, Jack, and do not take that tone with me. I'm as worried about the dratted girl as you are!" snapped his grandmother. "The foolish child slipped away at dawn."
"So how is she traveling?"
"I don't know, Jack, the Mail or stage, I presume!"
"Good God! Mail or stage! Rubbing shoulders with God knows who! Doesn't she know the dangers? Footpads, highwaymen! Doesn't she know how often accidents happen? Pray God she took the Mail; at least they have a guard!" Swearing, he rushed from the room.
Lady Cahill sat back, a satisfied grin on her face.
"What the devil do you think you're doing?"
The roar, which seemed to echo from the heavens, almost startled Kate into dropping her basket. It was, however, a very familiar roar. She looked around. There, on a horse flecked with foam, its sides heaving, legs trembling, sat Jack Carstairs, glaring at her yet again.
He looked dreadful. Covered with mud, his jaw unshaven, his neckcloth all awry. Her eyes softened. She glanced around. The narrow country laneway in which she'd been walking was by no means deserted; several farm workers were within earshot. She smiled up at him for the benefit of their observers.
"Good afternoon, Mr Carstairs," she said in a clear calm voice. "As you see, I'm just off to the village."
"Just off to the village, are you? And with no thought for how others might be worried about you?"
She looked up at him in silence. Why would he be worried? And why so angry?
"How the hell did you get here anyway?"
"I hired a chaise and outriders."
"A chaise and outriders? A chaise and outriders!" He seemed outraged by the notion. He was breathing heavily, his eyes positively crackling with blue rage.
"Well, and what is so wrong with that?"
"Only that I stopped every bloody stage and Mail coach between here and London, searching for you!"
"Oh, no. You didn't, did you?" Kate looked up at him, her eyes wide, imagining the scene. She giggled.
As far as Jack was concerned, it was the giggle that did it. With a groan of fury he leaned down, grabbed her under the armpits and dragged her up on to his horse. Ignoring her outraged squeaks, he clamped her to his chest and moved off. Kate struggled, but as the horse moved faster she clung to Jack to save herself from falling. The farm labourers came closer, several of them carrying sticks and cudgels.
In a trice Jack clamped his mouth over hers. Kate's struggles suddenly ceased as the familiar magic of his kiss washed over her. She was, after all, where she most desired in the world to be. One hand slid around his neck, her fingers tangling in his wild, damp hair. The other hand gently stroked his rough, unshaven jaw. Abandoning all defences, she opened her heart and allowed herself to simply love him.
By the time the kiss had finished, they had left the grinning farm workers long behind. Kate sighed, nuzzling her face against the underside of his jaw. She leaned against him, relishing the taste of him on her lips, the strong embrace of his muscular arms around her.
"There was no need to run away, you know," he said after a time. "We had everything under control. You will be completely accepted in society, no shadow of a doubt. There was no need to hide here."
"Run away?" she said quietly. "Did Lady Cahill not tell you?"
“Oh, she told me all right. How else do you think I knew where to look?" He swung her round to face him, eyes blazing, hands gripping her hard. He shook her. "What is there here for you? A small dirty village? A falling-down cottage? The company of rustics? You cannot possibly prefer this to London!"
Her eyes clung to his. "Everything I want in the world is right here," she said slowly. "Nothing I want or need is in London." She leaned back into the curve of his body.
He turned ashen. His hands loosened their hard grip. He looked away, staring blankly across the top of her head. "Nothing?" he said at last.
"Nothing in London. Everything I want in the world is right here," she repeated.
He sagged in the saddle. "So be it."
Defeated, he turned his horse back towards the village. They rode in silence, the only sound the twittering of birds and the slow clip-clopping of the horse's hoofs. Kate lay back against his chest, rocking against his hard, warm b
ody in rhythm to the horse's gait. She could say no more. How could she, not knowing how he felt? She had told him as much as she dared.
Why had he come after her? Had his grandmother sent him? Was it duty? Or a constitutional dislike of being crossed? He'd saved her reputation, but then made it clear that he wanted nothing further to do with her. Oh, he desired her all right, but she wanted more than that.
They drew closer and closer to the village until at last the cross on the spire of the tiny stone church was clearly visible. The horse stopped.
"Damned if I do, damned if I don't, so I bloody well will and damn the consequences!" Jack suddenly growled. He wrenched the horse around and started to gallop in the opposite direction. Kate clung on for dear life.
"Where are we going? This is not the way to the village," she shrieked. His only response was to clamp her more tightly against his chest and spur the horse onwards.
"The cottage is in the other direction!" she shouted, bouncing up and down.
The horse galloped on. Jack said not a word. Kate thumped at his chest in frustration. "Jack! Where are we going?"
His arms tightened around her. "I'm kidnapping you."
Kate was stunned. Kidnapping her?
"Everybody else does, so why not me?" he shouted into her ear.
"Oh, Jack, no. Not you, Jack, please, not you," she cried tremulously. She began to weep.
Appalled, he wrenched the horse to a halt. Awkwardly he slid off it and lifted Kate to the ground. Her legs buckled under her and she crumpled on to the grass. He followed her, gathering her into his arms. "No, Kate, don't, please don't," he said brokenly. "Don't cry, please."
He pulled out a large handkerchief and clumsily started blotting her cheeks with it. "Don't cry, sweetheart. I can't bear it if you cry."
Kate just sobbed harder.
He held her against him, rocking her gently. Finally her sobs shuddered to a halt. He continued to hold her in his lap, her face pressed against his chest, stroking her tumbled hair with a gentle hand.
After a time she pulled away. "Why?" she whispered.