Annalise held him tight, bit the edge of her lip, and looked down at her feet when the music started. She was stiff but responded readily to his prompting touches that sent her in the proper directions. As she moved down the column of dancers, farther from him, she would flash him a comical look each time she made a mistake. When they were rejoined, she proudly declared, “I only stepped on three toes.”
“All you require is a little practice, and maybe you’ll only trounce one toe next time.”
“I don’t think there will be a next for me. Well, at least not in England.”
He didn’t want her to talk this way. “Are you truly leaving?”
She glanced at her aunt. “I sent missives to my Dutch cousins this morning. I don’t know when I shall receive a reply, but I shall tell my uncle tonight. I’m sure he will be relieved to see me go. This will undoubtedly be my last appearance in Society.”
“After all my heroics?”
She tilted her head. “But my last cherished memory of London Society will be dancing with the handsome Marquess of Exmore.” She delivered her flirtatious words with comfortable ease, making it obvious that she didn’t have any designs on him. This realization shouldn’t have angered him, yet it did. “It’s very romantic,” she continued. “Worthy of the stage, in my cousin Phoebe’s opinion. Of course, to be truly stage-worthy, I would have to die a tragic and dramatic death now.”
“Well, I hope you won’t die this tragic and dramatic death before next Tuesday. That day is part of the secret.”
“Oh yes, the secret. You have to tell it now, for I’ve done what you asked and attempted to dance and injured several men.”
“I don’t know,” he teased. “Perhaps I was presumptuous. It’s a dark, lascivious secret and may involve a ritual sacrifice. It might be too much for your delicate ears.”
She raised an amused brow. “Very well, keep it to yourself. Don’t think of telling me.”
“But it’s practically bursting to be told.”
“No, I shan’t hear a word of it. Not a word.” She moved down the line of dancers again, flashing him an impish grin.
He felt a jolt of arousal and forced himself to focus on the dance steps and his new partner.
“I saw that mischievous smile,” he accused when they came together again. “Now I must tell you my secret. It can’t be contained.”
“I didn’t smile mischievously at you.” A light rallied in her eyes.
“I’m well-versed in the language of smiles, and that one was particularly mischievous, milady.”
“Oh, you mean that one. I was smiling at the gentleman next to you.”
He repressed a chuckle and feigned an angry face. “Well, for that, I won’t tell you the secret about Christiaan Visser’s upcoming lecture.”
“What?” She dropped her hands from his grasp. All her playfulness vanished. “No, no, you must tell me! You see, he’s my father’s favorite,” she cried. “I read to Papa from Visser’s work in our garden during his last months. I have such memories. You must tell me. No jesting now.”
He gently gathered her hand in his, and they turned together. “Tuesday. At the Royal Institution at eleven in the morning.”
“That’s four days away! It might as well be four lifetimes.”
“Patience, milady.”
She flicked her wrist dismissively. “I’ve had enough of this patience everyone speaks so highly of. I don’t find it virtuous at all, but irksome.”
He wanted to dance her out of the room, onto the street, and to someplace where they could laugh and talk, away from the others. He wanted her all for himself.
“Will you attend the lecture as well?” she asked.
“Would my presence trouble you?”
She studied his face. He had to look away in the heat of her frank gaze. Were the deplorable ways he had spent his days and nights since Cassandra’s death evident in his eyes?
“Yes,” she whispered.
He tried to disguise his disappointment. “I understand.”
Her brows drew down into confusion, and then her face lit with realization. “Oh, I meant, yes, please come. No, your presence won’t trouble me. I should like to see you.” He wasn’t sure if she was aware that her fingers had tightened gently on his. “Do you think… Do you think that we can be friends?”
He had never been friends with a woman before. The women he knew fell into the categories of family, acquaintances, or lovers, but not friends. Yet, at this moment, he wanted to be her friend more than anything. It would be something honest and innocent. Things he hadn’t encountered in a long while. “I should like that very much.”
The music had ended, and they were still holding hands. “Thank you for your secret,” she said quietly. “And for rescuing my family and for making me laugh.”
“I believe you are guilty of causing me to chuckle once or twice.”
“It feels lovely to laugh again.” Her eyes were gleaming like jewels under the chandelier.
“Yes.”
Another few seconds ticked by before she slowly released him. “It’s Phoebe’s turn,” she whispered, and then that impish smile he adored returned. “This dance will be the pinnacle of her Season. Do make it worthy of her theatrical imaginings. You may want to fight a duel with another dancer or create other high drama.”
* * *
Annalise marveled at Exmore’s potent societal powers. After an hour spent being pointedly ignored and then asked to leave, now she had to politely turn away potential dance partners. This radical change happened merely because Exmore had asked her to dance and let her glow in his brilliant light. Society was as fickle as it was shallow. Once, she had aspired to its flimsy adoration. Now, she found it ridiculous.
Nonetheless, she smiled and conversed with her new partners and apologized for stepping upon their toes. But how could she respect them after Exmore? A true gentleman wouldn’t bend to the pressures of Society. He would act according to his own mind, as gallant Exmore, the modern musketeer, had.
The dance continued until the early hours. Exmore stayed for the entire time, dancing with all the young ladies. Annalise loved watching their giddy excitement at being whirled in the arms of London’s premier rake—the dashing gentleman most of them had seen only from afar and excitedly gossiped about among their friends. Annalise and he crossed paths in several dances. They would share a smile, as if they were privy to a private joke. Annalise found that dancing, conversing, and simply being with others was easier with a friend, a true kindred spirit, near her.
As she was leaving, Exmore accidentally bumped against her when he hailed a servant for a glass of punch. “Four long, miserable days,” he whispered. She struggled to maintain her countenance.
* * *
Back in her chamber, Annalise was too excited to sleep. Even the most boring passages of her father’s esoteric academic books could do nothing to calm her spirits. Finally, she dipped her pen.
Dear Patrick,
Tonight, I am happy. Truly happy. I have become friends with the last person you would expect of befriending me. Exmore. He wrote me the kindest letter of apology, and then he arrived like a hero to save me from disgrace. Not that I minded the disgrace. London hardly matters to me anymore. You are not here. All that remains are memories, and now I find that they are not enough to sustain me. I must go forward even as I prefer to go back. I can never be the girl I was once before. I have tried, but it is futile.
I am not the only one who has changed.
I was shocked when I first saw Exmore without his mask. His eyes appeared so painfully tired—like those old, weathered men who worked on the canal boats at home. Not the eyes one expects on a marquess. His handsome face shows the wear of the dissipated life he now leads. How his wife’s death has broken him. My heart hurts for him despite all the resentment I had harbored for him for so long.
I do hope our friendship survives, but I no longer hold too tightly to hope and the future. Yet, when I’m with him,
I feel as though I’m coming back to life.
Chapter Seven
* * *
Like her aunt and Cousin Phoebe, Annalise was late arriving for breakfast. Her uncle had already eaten and left for an appointment with his solicitor. Without Uncle Harry presiding over the table, the dining room took on a joyous atmosphere as Phoebe regaled her sisters with her dance with Exmore, retelling every little detail.
“And his eyes were like smoldering embers. He is far and beyond more handsome than Edgar Williams, even when he was that gladiator in Love of a Legionary.” This was fine praise indeed. “And his fingers were long and elegant, and his coat molded to his strong shoulders.” Phoebe had noticed more specific details about Exmore than Annalise had. Annalise had felt him and his emotions, more than she had noticed his physical details.
“Didn’t you dance with him too, Cousin Annalise?” Shelley asked. “What did you talk about?”
Annalise had opened her mouth to answer when the slamming of the front door boomed through the house.
“Annalise!” her uncle yelled. “Get into my parlor, you reckless, foolish girl.”
Her aunt burst into tears. “Oh no! What have I done?”
“You have done nothing, Aunt Sally.” Annalise rested her linen beside her plate and rose. “I’ve managed to anger him.”
This must be about the ball last night and her notorious dance with Exmore. She knew gossip spread every morning in London like fire on dry straw. She wasn’t angry or annoyed, merely resigned.
Her uncle had reached the parlor first. He still wore his hat, which he tore off and threw onto the sofa. “Why must you make a mockery of me again?”
“Again?”
“You can’t comprehend it, can you? When Exmore sent Patrick Hume away, the marquess cut me. I wasn’t good enough.”
“I don’t—”
“You will talk when I give you leave to do so.” He paced near her. “Word is all over London about you. You seem to relish being the center of attention even if it requires making a fool of yourself.”
“I do not. I care nothing for Society.”
He laughed and gazed upward. “I’m not sure which is worse, having Mr.
Danvers, a prominent gentleman, almost turn away a member of my family, or I should say my wife’s family—you couldn’t possibly be my blood relation—or having you especially noticed by the Marquess of Exmore.”
He edged even closer. She sensed something darkly predatory about him, as though he took pleasure in demeaning her. “What game are you playing?” he asked.
“I’m not playing any game.”
“Exmore may be a deplorable rake, but you are far, far beneath him. He will not propose to you. If you aren’t good enough for his untitled cousin, you surely aren’t good enough for him. You must hold another attraction for him.” She felt her uncle’s moist, warm breath on her face. “What have you done, my girl? I will send you packing if you have behaved with any impropriety.”
Annalise straightened her spine. “You are correct. The marquess’s station is above mine. For the sake of your wife’s and your daughter’s place in Society, I danced with him. To my knowledge, I have not behaved improperly. The marquess and I are… friends.”
Her uncle thought this was wildly funny. He clutched his belly, he laughed so hard. “Friends? You are friends with a marquess? Friends with a libertine?” He seized her wrist, squeezing it. “Listen to me, there can be no friendship between an eligible marquess and a young lady of your station. You have no idea of the ways of the world. You are nothing but a plaything to such a man. No better than those actresses he seeks pleasure with.”
Annalise yanked her arm free. “Do not speak to me that way!”
“I am your guardian. I will speak to you as I please.”
“There is no legal paper stating that you are my guardian!” Annalise fired back. “It is all in your imagination. I am an independent woman of my own means. And I very much know how the world works, and I do not approve of it.”
Again, he laughed. “An independent woman? Such a mythical creature cannot exist. Women can’t take care of themselves. And the world does not seek the approval of a silly girl. Exmore can only intend to get you into his bed so that Society will further mock me.”
Annalise took several breaths to keep from hurling insults at her uncle. When she trusted her voice again, she spoke, low and controlled. “I have written to my cousins in Holland. As soon as I receive a positive response, I shall remove from your house.”
“No one will have you, Annalise. They have more sense than to let you into their homes. You should be nicer to me. I’m the only one who will take care of you. Everyone else sees you for the addle-brained girl that you are.”
Annalise had had enough of his invective. She turned and strode out of the room.
Her uncle shouted to her retreating back, “You will not speak to the marquess again. You will not encourage him, or I shall have to do something drastic. Something you don’t want to know about. Do you understand?”
* * *
Annalise rested on her bed and pondered leaving for the Continent tomorrow without waiting for replies from her Dutch cousins. She hadn’t visited Holland before and knew nothing of where to live or how society worked there, but it had to be better than living under her uncle’s roof and suffering his taunts. Exmore had kindly saved her from social ruin, but the idea of attending more balls and parties was enervating. Annalise almost wished he hadn’t come to her rescue, then she wouldn’t have to bother with Society anymore.
But if he hadn’t appeared, she wouldn’t have found out about the Visser lecture.
Nor would she have laughed.
How did this happen? Once, her mind had been filled with what parties she would attend and what she would wear to them. She had thought of each party as a chance to meet her potential husband. She had been consumed with falling in love then, even before she met Patrick.
Now, the only thing she truly anticipated was attending a botany lecture with Exmore. A friend.
Annalise took out a fresh sheet of stationery and dipped her pen.
Dear Patrick,
Can a man and woman simply enjoy each other’s company without any further entanglement?
I know that I need to release you from my heart and marry someone else. I truly want to fall in love again, yet it frightens me. My heart is only beginning to recover from your departure and my parents’ deaths. It is tired, and I feel that I don’t even know my own mind anymore.
I only want a friend who is a kindred spirit. Someone to talk to.
Annalise stopped, letting her pen hover over her words.
Alas, I shouldn’t be friends with Exmore for Phoebe’s and my aunt’s sake. They will have to continue to live with Uncle Harry when I’m far away, across an ocean.
Again, she paused to think.
I shall meet Exmore at the lecture as I said I would and then cease any further contact.
Yet, he makes me laugh.
* * *
Exmore woke up, for once feeling something other than the heavy listlessness of another day before him. His mind was clear, free of the dullness and pain of overindulgence. In his first waking thoughts, he remembered that he would attend a botany lecture in three days’ time. He chuckled aloud. Hadn’t he dreaded botany at Cambridge? Hadn’t he used those lectures to catch up on his sleep? Now, this lecture and seeing his new friend were the only things he truly looked forward to, and he hadn’t been excited about anything in a long time.
Throughout the morning, thoughts of Annalise drifted through his mind. He didn’t try to stop them, because they pushed away the gloominess. He noticed the details of people and things—the expression on the footman’s face, the gleam on the iron railing outside his home, and the fresh-bread scent wafting from the baker’s shop. The day felt buoyant, like it was water that sustained him, rather than letting him sink. In a bookstore, he found a journal with an article on African orchids that he tho
ught Annalise would enjoy. He went out in Society that evening, hoping to come across her to discuss it, but unfortunately, she didn’t appear at any of the parties that he attended. He bought the journal the next day, marked the pages, and sent it to her, bundled with a pink orchid and pithy note that ended with, Looking forward to our grand secret.
That night, Exmore attended a painfully insipid play titled Love’s Joy and Misery, which, of course, was all the rage in London. He hadn’t realized he had enlisted for theatrical torture until after he had purchased the box and suffered through the opening scene. The second and third scenes only compounded his misery, and he was about to leave when he spied Annalise across the theater, in a box with Mr. Sommerville’s family. She was close enough to the stage that he could train his opera glass on her and pretend to watch the play, all the while safely studying her in delicious detail.
Maybe it wasn’t such a horrid play, after all.
While the Sommerville ladies wore tight, fashionable curls adorned with beads and other paraphernalia, Annalise’s hair fell in straight strands around her cheeks. It had the appearance of being hastily pinned up, yet it suited her—unaffected and natural. She had wound her shawl around herself like a comfortable blanket. Her cousin Phoebe sat forward in her seat, practically leaning over the railing, clearly enraptured by the sentimental rubbish. From time to time, Phoebe whispered excitedly to Annalise and pointed to the stage. Annalise didn’t share her cousin’s enthusiasm. He watched, amused, as she tried to conceal her chuckles at the supposedly serious moments, rolled her eyes at the trite conventions, and arched a brow at the hackneyed, melodramatic plot turns. He wished she were beside him, so they could exchange sarcastic commentary.
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