by Darcie Wilde
She smiled, and the warmth filled her. She touched his face, his furrowed brow. “I want you to be with me, Benedict, but I want to be with you as well. There has to be a balance between hiding and living only on stage. We will have to find our way, together.”
“Together?” he repeated. “Do you mean it? Do I . . . Madelene, do I . . . ?”
She nodded, and she stepped closer. Close enough that she was aware that heads were turning and eyes were watching, and she did not care. “You have me, Benedict. You always will.”
“Madelene,” he breathed, and it was amazing to her that so soft a sound could thrill her so deeply. “I will not fail this time. I will be whatever you wish me to.”
She all but laughed at this. “But don’t you see, Benedict? My only wish is that you will be yourself. It is you I love, not some image of an artist. I don’t want to have to save you or fix you or remake you. We’re neither of us perfect or finished, and we never will be. But I want to be with you while you try.”
“What if I fail? If I’m not good enough?”
“What if I fail?” she shot back “What if I’m not good enough? What if you look up in five years, ten maybe, and see I’m not the girl in your painting?”
“You are not the girl in my painting,” he said. “You never were. But you are the woman in my heart.”
There was nothing more to say. There was nothing more to do. That sympathy that she had felt from the first moment thrummed through the air between them, and this time Madelene knew it for what it was: love. Benedict’s love for her and hers for him. It was pure and real and beyond any words.
Benedict felt it, too. She saw it shining in his eyes. “If I kiss you now . . .”
“It will cause a horrible scandal,” she said. “Will you come back with me instead? Miss Sewell and the others will be wondering what’s happened. We can . . . find our moment later.”
He bowed, his perfect, tutored gentleman’s bow. “As you wish, Miss Valmeyer.” Benedict held out his arm.
“. . . In a false quarrel there is no true valor,” Cousin Henry was declaring in low and dangerous tones from the stage. “I came to seek you both.”
No one in the box was paying him the least attention. Miss Sewell, Adele, and Helene were staring toward the door as Benedict held it open to allow Madelene to enter.
Helene got to her feet, ready, Madelene was sure, to push Lord Benedict over the railing should it prove necessary. Madelene grabbed her friend’s hand and smiled. Helene paused and lowered herself back into her chair, still staring daggers at Benedict, but at least she remained quiet as he stood behind Madelene’s chair. Adele mimed thrilled applause. Lord Benedict bowed to her. Miss Sewell saluted them both with her fan. Madelene nodded regally in return.
“. . . You are a villain; I jest not: I will make it good . . .”
“Oh my God!”
The voice rang out across the entire theater.
Madelene froze. No. It can’t be.
It was. It was Lewis. He was on his feet and lurching toward the railing of the box directly across from theirs.
“That is her!” he hollered to whoever he was with. “It’s Maddie and that artist fellow!” He waved his arm, weaving and pointing, or trying to. “I told you! I told you she was carrying on with him! But would you listen! Oh no!”
Lewis, drunk. Shouting. It had to be Lady Reginald in the box with him. The actors onstage had fallen silent in surprise. The entirety of the audience of the Theatre Royal turned to get a look at this new and much more entertaining show.
Among them were the matrons Helene had invited to the ball. They were all watching and listening. Some of them were booing and hissing. All of them were staring, and staring, and staring.
“You get away from him, you hussy!” Lewis bellowed. “I warned you!”
Madelene struggled to her feet. Adele and Helene closed ranks behind her. Benedict caught her elbow. “What do you want to do?” he murmured.
What do I want? She gripped the box’s rail. She knew exactly what she wanted, but she could not do it. She hadn’t the nerve. She hadn’t the strength. Here, now, at this last moment, all of it failed her. Madelene turned. Benedict moved close behind her, ready to whisk her away. Her friends stood beside her, fans clutched in fists, faces red, fully aware of the scandal unfolding and the imminent the ruin of their hopes. It was raining down on them in a storm of whispers and hisses, and it was her fault.
Run away, run away, get out, get out. Vanish. It’s the only way to save yourself, to save any of this. You can’t get angry. People are disgusted by an angry woman. Benedict . . . Run . . .
Madelene drew back her shoulders. “Lewis Valmeyer!” she called. “YOU WILL SHUT YOUR MOUTH AND SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW!”
Her shout rang across the suddenly silent theater. Away in his other box, with his mother sitting white as marble at his side, Lewis Valmeyer shut his mouth, swayed backward, and sat down.
A new sound rose, steady, firm, and unexpected. It was coming from the stage.
It was Cousin Henry. Applauding.
“Brava!” he cried. “Brava!”
Slowly, applause rose from the audience, from the gods and the balconies and the boxes. They whistled and they cheered and they laughed and chattered. Henry onstage doffed his hat and bowed. Madelene curtsied back, and then her knees gave out, quite suddenly. But it was all right, because Benedict—her Benedict, warm and real and in love, oh so in love— was there to catch her and lower her into her seat and whisper into her ear.
“Brava,” he said. “Oh, brava, my Madelene.”
“Yours?”
“Forever, Madelene. Forever.”
Epilogue
“I’ve ruined everything.”
They were sitting in the green parlor of No. 48. At least, Adele, Helene, Miss Sewell, and Mr. Cross were sitting. Madelene was not. She was pacing back and forth between the door and the window, quite literally wringing her hands.
“You have not,” Helene said stoutly. “And anyway, we won’t know anything for at least another three days. My research has shown . . .”
“Bother your research,” Adele muttered.
“No one will want to come now,” Madelene said. It was raining outside, and the drops made a drumbeat against the windows. Each tiny thud seemed like a hammer blow to break apart their hopes and their dreams. “Everyone’s talking.”
“They are not,” Helene said, but her fingers were twisting with uncharacteristic nervousness. “Tell her, Miss Sewell, Mister Cross.”
Henry and Deborah exchanged a rather long look. Henry cleared his throat.
“I wish that I could say Lady Helene was correct, but she is not,” he sighed. “I’m afraid I was very much pressed for the details.”
“But that doesn’t mean ruin,” put in Adele, although it would have been better if she hadn’t been nervously clutching at her gold necklace at the same time. “A scandal can be deeply intriguing.”
“We don’t want to be gaped at!” Madelene snapped. “If that’s what happens, we’ll be exactly as we were. No. We’ll be even worse off, because we’ll be disgraced as well as ignored.” She hurried over to Helene. “I’m so sorry. It’s all my . . .”
At that moment the door opened, and they all turned. But it wasn’t the housekeeper, as Madelene expected. It was Benedict, his hair plastered to his forehead by the rain. He clutched a sodden leather satchel in both hands. He ignored the rest of the room and went straight up to Madelene.
He laid the satchel in her hands. She closed her hands around it, and Benedict smiled.
“He says he thought she might want this,” Henry translated.
“What is it?” Helene demanded.
“The morning post, I expect,” Miss Sewell said. “How on earth did you manage to get hold of it, Lord Benedict?”
Madelene’s hands c
urled around the satchel. She smiled, an entirely silly smile to see Benedict looking so damp and disheveled and distracted and utterly wonderful.
“Madelene says thank you, that was most thoughtful,” Adele said.
The pair of them had not looked away from each other. Indeed, they had scarcely blinked.
Helene rolled her eyes and lifted the satchel out of Madelene’s hands.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Madelene said. “That was . . .”
“Never mind it.” Helene plopped on the sofa beside Miss Sewell and opened the satchel. She stopped. She stared.
Madelene seized Benedict’s hand and squeezed tightly. He smiled and put a finger to his lips.
Helene dipped her hand inside the pouch. She brought out a massive pile of cards. Then another. Then a third.
Adele sucked in a deep breath and twisted her gold chain around her fingers.
“Go on, Helene,” Miss Sewell said. “We need to know where we stand.”
Helene bit her lip and lifted a card off the first stack. Her jaw clenched, and she broke the seal. Henry leaned forward, his face a bland mask, but the concern showed in his blue eyes.
Helene opened the card. She cleared her throat. Madelene’s knees trembled.
“Lady Montrose writes . . .” Helene stammered. “Lady Montrose writes Miss Sewell and says she will accept her invitation to the ball of June 27 with greatest pleasure.”
Miss Sewell reached out and snapped the seal on a second note. “Mrs. Oswald, on behalf of herself and Miss Oswald and Mister Richard Oswald, accepts with pleasure.”
Adele grabbed up another note and tore it open. “Mrs. Finchely accepts.”
“Lady Wallace accepts.”
“Her Grace the Countess of Charingford accepts!”
“Mrs. Campbell accepts!”
“Lady Oliver accepts!”
“Oh!” Adele slapped her hand over her mouth, and her eyes went round with shock. “Oh! The Countess Lieven accepts!” she cried, waving the card aloft like a flag of victory. “The Almack’s patroness Countess Lieven accepts!”
The parlor erupted, and everyone was on their feet shouting hurrah and hugging and tossing cards in the air like confetti. Henry whirled Madelene around in his arms until she was dizzy and stumbling.
And of course, of course Benedict caught her in his strong arms. And he pulled her close and gazed down at her. He was smiling, his eyes alight with his own quiet fire.
“And Miss Valmeyer?” he whispered. “What does Miss Valmeyer say?”
Madelene’s heart had been racing. She had been trembling. Now, she felt quite still. She felt whole, and with Benedict’s arms around her, she knew she had finally discovered her truest self.
“Miss Valmeyer accepts.”
Keep reading for a special preview from Regency Makeover Part III: An Exquisite Marriage, available from InterMix in May 2016.
Windford Park
New Year’s Eve, 1817
Lord Windford was not accustomed to being ambushed by stray girls in his library. But this particular evening, no sooner had he finished poking up the fire and pouring himself a glass of whiskey, than the doors opened and a young woman in a plain blue dress marched in carrying a workbasket.
Windford stared, the glass half way to his mouth. The girl lifted her chin and returned his frankly surprised gaze in a manner that went past cold into the positively arctic.
It took a moment for Windford’s manners to rally. “Can I help you, Miss . . . ?” He cast about frantically trying to remember her name. His aunt, Mrs. Kearsely, had filled the house with guests for the annual Christmas party and now that it was the night of the New Year’s ball, there wasn’t a corner of the place that wasn’t stuffed full of friends or strangers.
“I don’t think so, no,” the girl replied. She made no curtsey or apology, but rather drifted over to the shelves and began examining the books.
“Then can I ask what you’re doing here?”
“I’m looking for a book,” she answered without turning around. “Isn’t that what one generally does in a library?”
“I had no idea any of you girls actually read.”
“I had no idea you gentlemen did either. I thought you were all in the billiards room trying to get drunk and steal each other’s money before the ball.”
“Not all of us, as you see.”
“I do. I shall set it down as a mark in your favor.”
Marcus frowned. It was an expression that had been known to make strong men reexamine their consciences. It had even been known to work on his sisters, at least occasionally. It did not, however, seem to have any effect on the girl in front of him.
Marcus felt a stirring of curiosity. Whoever she was, she was not the run-of-the-mill society sort his sister Patience surrounded herself with, nor was she one of the shining prizes or acknowledged beauties that Aunt Kearsely was continuously throwing into his path.
To begin with, she was taller than average. Tall enough that her eyes were almost level with his chin. She also eschewed the fashionable ringlets, and instead wore her hair in a severe knot at the nape of her neck. Like her hair, her dress was unfashionably plain, and an unrelieved dark blue. Windford might have taken her for a governess if he hadn’t seen the tell-tale sheen which indicated the simple gown was indeed silk. The hands that held the workbasket were, he noticed, fine and slim.
If he hadn’t known such a thing to be impossible, he would have thought she had deliberately tried to make herself look plain. It would have been a futile task in any case. While her expression might approach the severe, her eyes undid her. They were large and brilliant and a most unusual shade of amber.
The girl bore his scrutiny without flinching, or apparently feeling any need to fill the quiet. She simply ignored him and concentrated on the books.
“Well, as we are to share my library, do you suppose you might tell me who you are?”
She cocked her head toward him, her brow furrowed as if she was considering some deep intellectual problem. Finally, she shrugged one shoulder. “I am Lady Helene Fitzgerald. And yes, before you feel the need to remark on it, I am that Lady Helene who is the infamous bluestocking, the Lady Helene who has all but disappeared from society, and Lady Helene the hysteric who publically and shamefully broke her engagement to the Marquis of Broadheathe three years ago.”
“That’s rather a lot of Lady Helenes to be.”
“I have set up a rotating schedule. We manage.”
Marcus felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “Well, I’m afraid I can only lay claim to being Marcus Endicott.”
“You are too modest, sir. You forget to add that you are the notoriously unyielding and impervious Duke of Windford, and my nominal host for this so very charming party.”
“I never heard myself called notorious.”
“You must not listen to the right people.”
Marcus worked his jaw back and forth. It was becoming very hard to keep from smiling. Lady Helene herself did not smile. Her face and her tone were both as bland as if they had been discussing the weather. But there was something, a spark in those bright amber eyes perhaps, or a sardonic twist to her wide mouth that told him she was enjoying a very dry joke.
Which was not at all what he would have expected, given the gossip surrounding Lady Helene. She was supposed to be a harridan, a wild girl whose screaming rejection of Lord Broadheathe had become as notorious as Caroline Lamb’s public hysterics in her pursuit of Lord Byron.
It was impossible to picture the simply dressed and blunt spoken young woman in front of him engaging in any sort of hysterics, let alone public ones.
Curious.
Marcus almost wished he hadn’t agreed to meet Rutherford. He had a feeling here was one of Aunt Kearsely’s female guests that he might actually enjoy talking to. But he had agreed, and Rutherford would be
here any minute, and, if nothing else, Marcus needed to go close the windows. There’d been a rustling behind the curtains earlier, and he’d meant to check as to whether one of the panes in the window seat alcove had been left ajar.
“Well, I suppose you must be leaving now?” he suggested. “To dress for the ball and so forth?”
“I’m afraid that is not on the schedule just yet,” replied Lady Helene. “It is, after all more than an hour until the gong sounds and I’ve not found my book. And anyway, I can’t leave.”
Marcus felt his eyebrows lift. “Why not?”
“Because it might be seen I was alone in here with a man.”
Marcus wiped at his face. She could not be serious, except, it seemed that she was. That joking tone he thought he’d detected before was entirely gone from her voice.
“I thought you were infamous?”
“I am. But I’m not ridiculous, or stupid. You will have to be the one who leaves.”
“But this is my library,” he pointed out. “And I’m not the one who is afraid of compromising my reputation.”
“Those are valid points, however, you will still be the one to leave.”
“Why?”
“Because despite your attempts at intimidation and your cavalier dismissal of my pressing concerns, you’re a gentleman, and you won’t take advantage of a guest.”
She said it with the air of one who knows they’ve won their argument. Marcus should have been irritated. He was not used to being talked to this way. Even Patience knew better. And yet, irritation was not the emotion that was rising in him. Quite the opposite, in fact. Marcus found he was rather enjoying himself.
He wondered how this challenging girl would like to be challenged herself.
“Are you quite sure I won’t take advantage?” Marcus moved forward. Frowning had not worked, neither had glowering. It was time to advance matters to looming. That seldom failed to render the other conversationalist at least uneasy. And, he had to admit, that portion of his nature that was still a school boy wanted to mar Lady Helene’s cool self-confidence.