How to Play the Game of Love (Ladies of Passion)

by Harmony Williams

  He raised his gaze to mine again, now cold and glittery as ice. “Napoleon grants no quarter, miss. No one is allowed time to grieve.”

  Captain Beckwith snorted. Frederick turned his icy glare on his compatriot instead.

  The loud whine of piano keys signaled that the next dance was about to begin. I recognized Daisy’s poor playing. Good. I had time to dance.

  I gave my prettiest smile and said, “Oh dear. I’m afraid I find myself without a partner for this set.”

  Instead of falling over himself to partner me, Frederick inclined stiffly in a partial bow. “If you’ll forgive me, I’ve promised this dance to someone else.”

  He…what?

  He strode away with purpose, approaching a young woman who parted ways with a hulking blond shadow.

  I gaped after him until Captain Beckwith offered me his arm. “I would never be so crass as to allow a young woman to stand up unpartnered.”

  Not you. My smile wavered at the corners of my mouth. I fixed it in place. I had just uttered the ton’s cardinal challenge, after all. I couldn’t back down now. I laid my hand on his sleeve.

  Francine snagged Baronet Beckwith’s arm and tugged him along the perimeter of the room. “Where is your wife, Jonathan? You must introduce me.”

  Captain Beckwith led me onto the makeshift dance floor. We found a place in the line forming down the center of the three parlors just in time—Pachycaul squeezed into the room. I smiled at the captain and pretended not to see my former suitor.

  As we settled into place, standing across from each other in the two lines of alternating men and women, I peered down the line to pick out Frederick’s form. He stood on the other side of the woman bracketing my partner on the right. Only one place down. And who was his partner? I leaned around the portly man who smelled of pickled beets on my right and recognized the woman’s profile immediately. Miss Johnstone, a young woman who had fallen into disfavor after her father’s disgrace. Did I still have a chance to win him over? In accordance with the hostess’s rules, she could only dance with him once. All I had to do was ensnare his attention afterward.

  Daisy played the introduction to the quadrille as a man squeezed in beside me. “Miss Wellesley,” Pachycaul said in my ear. His voice was low and intimate. I ignored him.

  Across from me, Captain Beckwith narrowed his eyes.

  The dance began. I bolted to complete the honors and first two advance-and-retire figures. Pachycaul remained hot on my left side as he performed the same. Even the draft wafting from the door wasn’t enough to dampen his presence. He danced with a graceful brunette. “I trust your ride from London was bearable.”

  Bearable wasn’t the word I would use to describe it. With both Mary and Daisy trapped beside me, and Francine stopping the carriage every hour to pick flowers, the ride had been torture.

  “I had a lovely drive,” I lied.

  Without looking at me, he said, “I found my drive rather long and lonely.”

  Although Pachycaul’s tone was even, there was a syrupy edge to his voice. Not quite a whine or a plea, though it was born of the same desperation.

  I bit my lip. The warm feeling in my chest soured quickly as Pachycaul’s presence conjured memories of our short-lived courtship. He was a sweet man, quick-witted, and he armed himself with humor. But he wasn’t the man for me. Was I supposed to pretend I returned his feelings when I didn’t?

  I couldn’t. I refused. It wasn’t fair to either of us. If only he would accept that without me spurning him.

  Benediction arrived in the form of the traversez. The maneuver required me to switch places with the woman diagonally to my right. As I retired into my new position, I stood directly to Frederick’s left.

  I tilted toward him to gain his attention. If I enticed a marriage proposal from him, it had to be soon. A few more days would be a boon, though.

  “You should stop by London for a day or two,” I said, keeping my voice light, pleasant, and enticing. I didn’t want to sound too coy or wanton. Without knowing him better, one wrong word, however innocent the intention, might chase him all the way back to the continent. I added, “It will not be out of your way.”

  The two lines stepped forward in an advance. As I took a small step to avoid colliding with the portly man’s protruding paunch, Pachycaul’s scowl caught my eye from down the line. I averted my gaze, focusing on the man in front of me. Although the dance had only started, sweat beaded across his wide forehead.

  Frederick regained my attention by saying, “I am not at liberty to indulge in frivolity.”

  The army might be demanding, but that was a sorry excuse, if ever I heard one. His companion Captain Beckwith didn’t seem to be under the same compulsion.

  I fought the urge to raise my eyebrows and kept my voice light. “Oh? You are here, after all.”

  We retired a step back and prepared for another such figure. The two lines of dancers completed the figure before Frederick answered, “I am here at the hostess’s behest.”

  The music prompted another traversez. I had no choice but to return to my original position. Across from me, Captain Beckwith shot me a curious glance.

  Had he never seen a courting couple before? I deflected his interest with an innocent smile. To my left, Pachycaul brooded in silence.

  The moment the dance afforded me the chance to return to Frederick’s side, I suggested, “Come to London at my behest.”

  “No.”

  I stumbled. One word, a terse and undeniable answer. My hope of gaining his affections withered. I fought to keep from frowning.

  But then, as we retired from an advance, our hands brushed. One short contact, impeded by gloves, but it jolted through me with awareness. I cast him a sideways glance. He didn’t look at me, but maybe that was by design. He had to have felt the contact, too.

  I ventured, “You’ll stay, of course, for the other festivities our hostess has planned?”

  “I plan on leaving directly after the ball tonight.”

  No. I had only tonight with him? His estate must reside within an hour or two’s ride, or he wouldn’t chance the distance at night. My head spun with the news. I had only a few short hours to convince him I was the woman of his dreams.

  My chest heaved with the force of my breaths. I grappled to delay him. “In the dark? A storm is brewing. Our hostess will not hear of it.”

  “I believe you should let our hostess speak for herself.”

  Thankfully, another traversez began and I was able to shield myself from the icy statement with some distance.

  I hadn’t overstepped. Any polite hostess would attempt to detain a guest from travelling during perilous conditions.

  Pachycaul jumped on the dip in cordiality between Frederick and me to recapture my attention. “Are you certain a storm is brewing, Miss Wellesley? The sky was overcast earlier but nothing alarming.”

  The weather. It was this sort of uninspired conversation that had led me to have nightmares over marrying him. He’d bore me to death. I smiled, muttering over non-consequential things until I rejoined Frederick.

  The string of banal conversation continued, as I tried to engage Frederick in a neutral topic. He was receptive to none, not even that of his family, and offered only terse answers silencing further conversation. I chattered, if only to keep Miss Johnstone from doing so. His partner had remained mute thus far, but he never took his eyes off her.

  Or did he focus on the dance steps? I hoped he wasn’t a poor dancer. I loved to dance.

  Before long, Daisy pounded out the end of the dance. I winced at the discordant sound, covering the expression with a curtsey to Captain Beckwith. The moment I straightened, I turned my attention toward Frederick. As I maneuvered closer, he asked Miss Johnstone to accompany him outside.

  Say no. Please say no.

  “That sounds lovely, Captain Paine.”

  Hoyden. I bit the inside of my cheek before I voiced the uncharitable thought. After all, it was exactly what I’d hoped to
do.

  Movement from behind alerted me that Pachycaul attempted to recapture my attention. I dashed toward the garden. My knees weakened with relief as his dance partner batted her eyelashes at him and requested a flute of lemonade. He couldn’t say no.

  He retreated to the second parlor, but even so, I didn’t have much time. Frederick and Miss Johnstone had already disappeared into the night air.

  Where was Francine? There—her wild brown head was ensconced in a tête-à- tête with a sable-haired woman beside a fern. Baronet Beckwith hovered behind the pair but didn’t contribute to the conversation.

  I caught Francine’s eye and signaled toward the terrace. She met me in the open doorway. Her eyes were bright. Pinpricks of color in her cheeks amplified her freckles. “Are we visiting the gardens?”

  “Yes.” Before she got any ideas about collecting plant specimens, I added, “Frederick just left with Miss Johnstone.”

  “Who is Miss Johnstone?”

  Trust Francine to pay more attention to plants than to people. I sighed and tried to remember what silly nickname she’d designed for the poor girl. Nothing sprang to mind. “Thin girl, only a bit shorter than me, boney as a skeleton and with black hair? Her father died two years back.”

  “Oh, Miss Catkin.”

  “Yes. Her. Now hurry, we must follow and secure his attentions for me once more.”

  “How?”

  I caught her quizzical gaze and held it. “By any means possible, Francine.”

  I led her into the garden. The cooler night air pimpled the flesh of my upper arms, left bare by my dress and gloves. The full heat of summer hadn’t yet arrived. So far north of crowded London, the air was almost refreshing, if burdened by the heavy scent of rain. Perhaps there was a storm brewing, after all. I bustled forward with a buoyant step.

  Francine trotted at my right heel. “Tell me you have some semblance of a plan.”

  I didn’t. But I didn’t bother telling her that. She might turn back.

  “We have to find him first.” My voice was clipped, but I hope she attributed that to the urgency of the situation rather than any ill feelings toward her. I did appreciate her company. I couldn’t very well have scrambled off into the gardens alone. Pachycaul—or anyone else—might have caught me in a compromising position.

  I spotted the shadowed figures of a couple strolling arm-in-arm. I led Francine off the tiny terrace and onto a pebbled walkway. When it split, I tugged her down the right-hand path, urging her to a faster pace.

  The light spilling from indoors was cut off by tall hedges. The path twisted like a maze, only sparsely lit by half-shuttered lanterns swarming with black flies. I swatted the bugs away when they came too near. Francine slowed to inspect some flower or leaf. I dragged her onward.

  “We have no time.”

  She grumbled, but trudged behind me.

  We reached a fork in the path. By this time, the figures had drawn too far ahead for me to discern which way they’d ventured. Did Miss Johnstone run Greek marathons in her spare time? She moved with the speed of a gazelle.

  “This will never do.”

  I tossed my hands into the air in exasperation. A glance heavenward granted no strike of guidance. Tears sprung to my eyes as a vise tightened around my chest. I wanted to scream.

  I held myself in check, but the idea gave me pause. I threw myself onto the ground.

  The pebbles stung as they dug into my side. I winced, then exaggerated the motion and moaned loudly. I twisted to clutch my ankle.

  Francine fell to her knees at my side. “Goodness, Rose. What’s gotten into you? Why did you do that?”

  “Play along,” I whispered. “If Frederick hears a damsel in distress, he’ll have to come to my rescue.”

  “I highly doubt—”

  “Please, Francine?” I begged. I clutched her hand fiercely. I couldn’t catch her expression by the light of the lanterns, but I beseeched her with my eyes nonetheless. “Frederick is only here tonight. I must convince him to propose.”

  “Why tonight? Even if he returns to war—”

  I cut her short. “My father is arranging a marriage. He alluded that he might have begun the negotiations with a man who has asked him before. He wants me married before Daisy makes her bows next Season.”

  Francine’s shadowed form bobbed its head slowly. “So he doesn’t have to delay her come out.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m glad I don’t have siblings,” she muttered under her breath. Louder, she proclaimed, “Oh no, Rose, I fear you’ve turned your ankle.”

  Her voice was well past loud. She projected like a trumpet.

  On cue, I moaned as loud as I could.

  She continued, “I want to find you help but I fear leaving you here all alone where any cad might stumble upon you. Please, is there no one nearby to help?”

  She was a poor actress, but I appreciated the help. With luck, Frederick would be just far enough away to hear, but not decipher her unrealistic tone.

  I loosed another moan, which turned into a sharp oooh!

  “I can’t stand on it,” I said, even though I made no move to try. “You’ll have to find help. Please.”

  A gigantic form separated from the shadows the way we’d come. “No need,” the man said. His strides devoured the ground as he crossed toward me. I shrunk back, toward Francine, as he kneeled.

  The lantern lit up his face for a moment. A face I recognized. The light played over the burnished gold of his hair, ending in a slight curl on his neck and glinted off wicked eyes a color I couldn’t decipher in the dim light. His grin pulled his mouth even wider, impossible to ignore.

  The servant I’d had a spat with earlier, the one who had warned me not to invite him into my room. Only, from his crisply folded cravat and expensive dark jacket, he was no servant.

  He was a guest.

  Chapter Three

  My heartbeat pounded in the base of my throat as he reached for me.

  “I’ll carry you back to the house.”

  “No, please—”

  He hoisted me in the air.

  The breath whooshed from my lungs. I expected him to cradle me to his chest like a delicate babe, but he tossed me over one shoulder. His meaty shoulder dug painfully into my gut. I grasped for handfuls of his jacket.

  I swallowed a shriek—and probably half my tongue—as he levered himself to his feet. I teetered, but he tightened his arm in an unyielding band around my thighs.

  Glory, but I was high off the ground. My head spun. Pebbles crunched beneath his Hessian boots, the polished leather glinting in the lamplight. Just who did this stranger think he was?

  He tilted in an easy lope as he crossed to the manor. He hesitated mere seconds at the various turns, choosing a path without slowing. Francine trotted behind, a befuddled look on her face as she passed under the full light of a lantern. Our eyes met. Help, I pleaded, in the silent communication of friends as dear as sisters.

  She scurried forward, nearly tripping over the hem of her dress.

  “Um…”

  The man seizing me paused for a scant second. My head whirled as he turned, swinging me around. Francine caught up to us, panting.

  “Are you sure you should be carrying her like that? It doesn’t exactly look…proper.”

  Far from it, considering my behind was thrust into the air for anyone he approached to admire. He shrugged, jostling an involuntary grunt from me. Without a word, he continued on his way.

  No. My hopes of finding and wooing Frederick burst with every step we took in the wrong direction.

  A chill washed me from head to toe. What if someone found us like this? Surely they wouldn’t insist I marry…him?

  Francine ducked under the low-hanging branch of a tree jutting over the hedges and galloped to place herself firmly in the stranger’s path. Not that he couldn’t have simply stepped over her, with his superior size. I bit my tongue to withhold delirious laughter.

  “Perhaps you should s
et her down, sir.”

  My, but she almost sounded authoritative. I hadn’t known she could do that.

  “And why is that?” the man drawled.

  Blast him, but he shrugged again. I winced. I’d have a bruise on my belly if he kept this up. I thumped him on the shoulder. His body vibrated with contained laughter. The oaf did it on purpose to cause me discomfort!

  Francine drew herself up. “As I’ve said, it isn’t proper. If you’ll please set her down and fetch a footman—”

  “He’ll carry her the same way I am now.”

  Unlikely. A footman would at least take care not to jostle me.

  The man, unwilling to see reason, strode forward. Francine scuttled to the side to avoid being trampled. She took up position behind us once more.

  “I insist…”

  The last of the hedges fell away. We approached the manor. I twisted under the stranger’s arm, but he veered away from the terrace.

  “Where are you taking her?” Francine demanded. She sounded breathless. No doubt from keeping pace with his long-legged stride. “You’ve passed the parlor.”

  He quickened his pace. The roughened gait robbed me of breath anew.

  “Taking her inside would draw too much attention,” he said without sparing a glance for Francine—or a care for me. “I assume you would prefer to avoid scandal?”

  “Well…yes.”

  Don’t be fooled, Francine. Stop this!

  My friend fell silent.

  The stranger used my rump to shove open the door to a sweltering room that stank of lye. The kitchen. A scullery maid, the only person in the darkened hovel, dropped her sponge and sank into a curtsey. The man ignored her, crossing the room in three steps and exiting into the hall.

  As the cooler air bathed me, I relaxed. “You can put me down now.”

  He strode down the corridor, away from the ballroom parlors.

  I stiffened. “Surely you don’t intend to carry me all the way to my room.” I’d kick him in the stomach if he tried to mount the stairs.

  “No.” His voice was calm, but it did nothing to quell the jitters in my belly.