by Anne Gracie
“Don’t worry, I’m not leaving until after the ball.”
“I don’t care about the ball—well, I do, but—” She broke off, stunned by his casual carelessness. “You can’t go, Thomas. You can’t go back to that dreadful place.”
“Now, Rose, how else can I rescue my men? I promised them I’d bring them home. You know how important it is to me. I can’t do it from here.” He made it sound so reasonable, but it wasn’t.
For heaven’s sake, she’d seen him herself this very night past, shaking and trembling in the grip of a nightmare that she knew—whether he admitted it or not—was a direct result of his dreadful experiences there. And he was going back?
“Why can’t you rescue them from here? Why not get someone else to go, a trustworthy agent?”
“Because it’s not a straightforward transaction. I’ll need to find out exactly where each man is and then negotiate for his freedom. It will take a certain amount of local knowledge and a good deal of cunning. And who could I trust with the gold?”
She stared at him, dismayed. “But what if you’re captured again? What if someone recognizes you? A tall Englishman with eyes the color of a summer sky is going to stand out. And the minute anyone sees your scars they’re going to know you were a slave, Thomas. And they’ll take you, they’ll lock you up and put you in chains and whip you.”
“No, they won’t,” he said in a horridly reasonable voice that made her want to hit him. “All sorts of people live there, all colors, all sizes, shapes and races. I’ll fit right in, I promise. And I’ll be very careful, so there’s no need for you to worry.”
No need to worry, the man said, as if she were panicking needlessly over some minor possibility.
“Now, I’ve already booked my passage, so there’s no point arguing.” He opened the door and started down the stairs.
She followed, furious, bubbling with frustration. Why did he have to be so wretchedly noble? Because he was Thomas, that’s why. “Well, in that case I hope you got us a nice big cabin.”
His head jerked around. “Us? You’re not going.”
She shrugged, as if it were a foregone conclusion. “Of course I am. If you’re going, I’m going.” With the long skirt of her riding habit draped over her arm, she swept past him on the stairs.
“No. Absolutely not. It’s far too dangerous for you.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “It’s even more dangerous for you. I’m not the escaped slave in this family.”
He gave her a frustrated look. “I know what I’m doing, Rose.”
“Good. That’s all right, then. And since you’re sooo confident it’s completely safe, there’s no problem, is there?” She gave him a sweet, utterly hypocritical smile. “Now, what clothes should I take? It’s going to be hot, isn’t it? Perhaps I should have some light dresses made up.”
The front doorbell rang, the bell jangling in the nether regions of the house. “That will be Kirk.” She reached to open the door.
He pushed in front of her and gripped her by the shoulders. “Once and for all, you are not going to Mogador, Rose. I won’t allow it.”
“No, Thomas,” she said demurely. She could tell from his wary expression that he wasn’t sure whether she meant no-Thomas-I-won’t-go-to-Mogador, or no-Thomas-I-won’t-obey-you.
She could see he didn’t want to ask, and she had no intention of enlightening him.
She opened the door. “Good morning, Kirk. Isn’t it a lovely day?”
* * *
* * *
Yes Thomas, no Thomas, three bags full, Thomas. Always said in such a butter-wouldn’t-melt fashion, and with that bewitching smile of hers that turned him inside out and full of knots, hard and wanting and frustrated. And still he had no idea.
He’d commanded ships full of hardened sailors, dammit. He’d fought off pirates, kept five men alive in a hellish journey across the desert by his willpower alone. Survived years in the galleys.
And then, Rose.
A merry dance was right.
He threw her up into her saddle and helped her settle in, then mounted his own horse. Quite a decent hack, too, a thoroughbred gelding. He thanked Kirk. They walked their horses through the early morning traffic to Hyde Park. Rose and Thomas led the way, with Kirk bringing up the rear.
Their argument continued, low-voiced and vehement. She was not going to Barbary. Yes, she was. If he could go, she could go. Danger? If it wasn’t too dangerous for him, surely it wouldn’t be too dangerous for her? Sauce for the gander, sauce for the infuriating goose.
Tempers were rising. As they reached Lily, Galbraith, George and Ashendon waiting at the gates, Rose trotted forward to greet them. Hugs all round.
Every meeting of the members of this family was like a grand reunion after months apart, when in fact they’d all been together last night.
Rose said something and the three women turned to stare at him. Thomas heard her mutter something about “. . . stubborn, thickheaded, bacon-brained, pigheaded mule of a man.” Rose, Lily and George cantered away, with Galbraith and Kirk coming up in the rear.
“Trouble in paradise?” Ashendon said silkily.
Thomas turned to look at him. “How are those scabs of yours coming along?” he said pleasantly. “Should make a nice showing by the ball, don’t you think?”
Ashendon scowled and they rode along for a bit in silence.
Lily came trotting up to Thomas. “You’re not really taking Rose to the Barbary Coast, are you, Mr. Beresford?” she said anxiously. “It sounds awfully dangerous to me.”
“What? You are not taking my sister to that hellhole!” Ashendon snarled before Thomas could even open his mouth. “Are you insane?”
“No, I—”
“Oh, but it’s perfectly safe,” Rose trilled happily as she joined them. “Thomas has assured me that he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“What I said was—”
“You must be mad.” Galbraith joined them. “That place is notorious. A noxious nest of pirates, slavers and worse.”
“I kn—”
“Oh, but Thomas knows all about it, Edward,” Rose said. “He says it’s perfectly safe and I believe him. I’m so excited to be going. I’ve never been anywhere foreign and exotic.”
“I refuse to allow—” Ashendon began.
“Once and for all, Rose, I am not taking you with me,” Thomas snapped in a voice that could silence a ship full of hardened seamen. The members of her family blinked, looked from him to Rose and back, then visibly relaxed.
But it was water off a duck’s back for Rose. “You don’t have a choice, Thomas. If you go, I go.”
“I made a promise to those men. I gave my word. I have to go.”
“Fine. And I’ll come with you.”
He groaned. “For the last time—”
“Whither thou goest, Thomas. Whither thou goest.”
He glared at her, frustrated. “If you’re going to fling biblical snippets around, how about the fact that you vowed to love, honor and obey me.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never been good at the third one—ask Cal, ask anyone. But I do love you and deeply honor you. And I’m coming with you to—what’s the name of that horrid place again?”
He groaned. “Rose, Rose, be sensible. If anything happened to you, I couldn’t live with myself.”
Her voice hardened. “And what about me, Thomas? How am I supposed to bear it if something happens to you. Again? You left me once before and it was unbearable. And you ended up in an unimaginably dreadful position. So if you think I’m going to let you go alone, let you risk yourself again in that horrid place, well, you’ve got”—she glanced around for inspiration—“rats in your attic.” And she galloped away.
Thomas and Ashendon watched as she disappeared behind a copse—she was a magnificent horsewoman.
Ashendon shrugged. “Only reasonable thing to do.” He glanced at Thomas. “You will make sure she has some bread and water?”
“Naturally.”
“Well, then.”
The two men rode on, for once in complete, if silent, accord.
* * *
* * *
“I think we should sleep at Ashendon House on the night of the ball,” Rose said as they were preparing for bed that night. By mutual consent the argument about who was going to Mogador had been shelved, unresolved.
It was a standoff between two equally resolute and stubborn people. Their previous accord was slightly stiff now; politeness ruled rather than passion, but Rose was determined not to let their differences come between them. Especially since she knew she was right.
“We?”
She removed her slippers and stockings and stepped out of her dress. “Yes, we. I’ll be dressing there for the ball with my sister and George—it’ll be such fun, all girls together again—and it’s silly to have to change to come back here, or to order the carriage at three or four in the morning, and I’m certainly not going to walk back here in my ball dress at that time of the morning. No, it’s much simpler for us to just go upstairs to bed. And then we can all have breakfast together in the morning and talk about how it all went and find out all the gossip.”
“But don’t you share a bedroom with George?”
“She’ll be sharing with Aunt Dottie. It’s all arranged.”
Dressed only in her chemise, she took the candle they’d brought up to bed and lit several more candles around the room. They threw out a soft glow. Candlelight was so flattering to a woman’s skin.
She glanced at Thomas, who was in the process of removing his shirt. Candlelight flattered a man’s skin too. She feasted her eyes on him. He had no idea how beautiful he was.
“You all have breakfast together anyway, after you’ve been out riding every morning.”
“Well, of course. Poor Emm can’t ride at the moment with the baby almost here, and we don’t want to leave her out of things.” She turned back the bedclothes. “So are we agreed? About sleeping at Ashendon House, I mean.”
“Yes, and you might as well stay on there while I’m away.”
“Thomas, we agreed. I’m going with you.”
“No, you agreed.”
“If that’s how you’re going to be . . .” She sighed. And took off her chemise. No charming little House of Chance piece of frivolity tonight. Just Rose in her bare skin, fighting for her happiness, and her man.
He groaned. “Rose, Rose, you’ll be the death of me yet.”
“Thomas, my darling, I’m fighting for the life of you. But let’s not talk.” She opened her arms and Thomas came to her.
* * *
* * *
The day of the ball finally arrived. Despite the prospect of an evening that would end in the wee small hours, the Rutherford ladies and their gentlemen—and dog—still went out for their early-morning ride.
The family breakfast afterward, however, was dominated by talk of dresses and jewelry, what other ladies might be wearing, and what interesting snippets of gossip might be discovered. They discussed the gathering of greenery, the arrangement of flowers and decorations, the musical selections. And the dishes prepared for supper. It seemed to Thomas that a ton of food was required—much of it already prepared. Delicious smells had been wafting through the house for the last three days.
Best of all, according to the ladies, several last-minute acceptances had come in overnight and no new refusals. It was certain to be a frightful squeeze—a thing, apparently, to be much desired. Thomas hated squeezes.
The ladies were in a frenzy of excitement, the gentlemen much less so. Galbraith muttered things about needing to visit his man of affairs, while Lord Ashendon, who his wife made plain was required to stay on hand all day to deal with any emergencies, eyed his brother-in-law with a jaundiced expression and ate only two sausages for breakfast—a sign that he was very much out of sorts.
Thomas also made plans for a busy day far away from Ashendon House—he’d call on young Peter and see how he was progressing, visit the bank to see what developments there were, if any. And he’d pack for his trip, away from the prying eyes of his wife, and send his baggage ahead of time, down to the docks.
His ship departed for Gibraltar two days after the ball, and he wanted to leave with a minimum of fuss.
He would return to Ashendon House in time to bathe, shave and change into his formal clothes. Higgins, Ashendon’s valet, had offered to attend him. Rose’s influence, he suspected, but Thomas was glad of it. He would be under the gaze of the cream of society this night—the nobody who had displaced a duke. He needed to look his best.
Chapter Eleven
I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one’s partners in the waltz of this world—not much remembered when the ball is over.
—GEORGE, LORD BYRON, IN A LETTER TO MRS.
Ashendon House blazed with light. As well as the gas lighting in the street and at the entrance of the house, footmen holding blazing brands stood on either side of the gate—the flames against the night sky a nice touch of drama, harking back to the days of linkboys. A red carpet ran from the edge of the pavement up to the front door, so that no dainty shoe would be soiled. A canopy had been erected over it, in case of rain, but the night was warm and clear.
Inside, the furniture had been completely rearranged to leave space for dancing, the carpets rolled up and removed, the ballroom floor polished and then patterned with elegant chalk designs to prevent slippage.
Gleaming carriages, many of them bearing coats of arms, were already backed up far down the street. People who lived just minutes away and not wishing to walk around the corner in their finery had to wait half an hour or more just to arrive. A number of ladies arrived in sedan chairs, their escorts walking beside them.
Inside the house, the graceful line of the staircase was entirely lost under the masses of people in silks, satins and velvets, inching toward the top of the stairs, where they would greet their host and hostess, meet the guests of honor—Lady Rose and her husband, the nobody—and be admitted.
Thomas ran a finger between his neck and the collar of his shirt. His neckcloth, tied in some fancy arrangement by Higgins, the valet, was far too tight. Or his shirt collar was.
His trousers certainly were. Ollie and the tailor had assured him they were all the crack, but Thomas felt . . . exposed.
Though he’d already noticed several gentlemen whose trousers were even tighter.
He’d also been the recipient of embarrassingly direct glances from a number of ladies. And more than a few inviting, not to say blatant, come-hither smiles.
“And this is my sister’s husband, Mr. Thomas Beresford,” Lord Ashendon said. Thomas bowed and murmured a polite greeting. He’d lost track of all the names already. The line was endless.
“Not long to go,” Rose murmured between introductions. “We’ll go inside soon and the dancing can start.”
“We don’t have to wait until everyone arrives?”
“No. Plenty of people will arrive late, having come from the theater or a dinner or another party. Burton will stand at the ballroom entrance and announce the latecomers as they arrive.”
“Lucky Burton.”
Rose looked ravishing, even more ravishing than usual in a deep pink silk dress with a spangled gauze overdress. All their dresses, except for Lady Salter’s, had been made by the same dressmaker who made the scanty pieces of frippery that Rose wore to bed. Thomas was glad to see that her ball dress covered a good deal more of her, though to
his eye the neckline was far too low. Other men kept looking at his wife. Thomas stared them grimly down.
The Rutherford ladies in their ball gowns made a virtual rainbow; Rose’s sister Lily wore amber silk shot with silver—a choice that made him realize for the first time that her eyes were gray. The countess wore a low-cut apple-green gown that made no effort to hide her increasing condition. She looked ripe and regal, and the sight of her made Thomas swallow and wonder what Rose would look like, swelling with child like that.
Silvery-haired Lady Salter looked severe and magnificent in shades of gray, and Aunt Dottie looked charming in rich claret silk with blond lace. Lady George, as the only unmarried young Rutherford lady, wore white with a scowl. George hated wearing white, Rose told him.
Thomas’s jaw ached from smiling when they were finally freed from the endless reception line. The dancing was about to start.
Since the ball was in their honor, Thomas led Rose out for the first dance; not perfectly conventional, as it should have been according to rank. But then, as Lady Ashendon pointed out, this whole affair was hardly conventional.
Thomas and Rose had put their differences aside for the occasion and though Thomas was a little nervous about his dancing skills—it had been a long time, after all—he was soon reassured that he was adequate to the task.
“Thomas,” Rose murmured in a warning voice as they came together in the dance.
“What?” Had he made a mistake?
“Careful, your enjoyment is showing.” She laughed at his expression. “Isn’t this the most delightful ball?”
“Delightful,” he said wryly. It was, as predicted, a frightful squeeze, and while he still found the presence of so many people uncomfortable, the thought that there were rooms upstairs to which he could retire if he wanted to helped.
“Have you noticed your friend over there, with Penny Peplowe?” She glanced to where Ollie was dancing with a tall, redheaded girl. “They seem quite taken with each other. Seating them next to each other at dinner has turned out well, don’t you think?”