“—and I cannot help but wonder who started the scandal.” He’d not slam down the cutlery, not even to make his point to Hortense. Instead, Rainier set the knife and fork across his plate gently; they didn’t even clatter on the pewter. “Someone with an interest in the situation spread the news so quickly it reached all the gossip papers overnight. Even for the tongue-wagging cats in your circle, Hortense, that was fast.”
Her flush deepened. But her furious stare didn’t waver.
“The inaccurate news, Hortense. The incident you’ve so assiduously spread about to all the broadsheets — it never happened.”
She picked up her wineglass and drank a deep draught. “You can prove nothing.”
“I don’t need to. This isn’t a court of law, merely a family dinner. I know what I know, and you will never convince me otherwise.”
Across the table, Lucia had frozen to a statue. Her gaze fixated on the tablecloth as if mortal injury would result if she raised her eyes, as if it would be fatal to notice either of them.
Another swallow of wine. The red stood out on Hortense’s perfect cheeks, sharply defined against a sudden pallor. “You are our guardian, Kenneth. You’ve no right to marry in a manner that inconveniences us. Nor to risk your life until we’re settled in our own households.”
Whenever that might be suitable to our leisure. A calm, cold rage seeped into him. For all their discussions of privilege and purse, neither Hortense nor Lucia had ever showed any sign of seeking marriage. “And Miss Busche’s tarnished reputation, my own sense of honor? Do these mean nothing to you?”
“Why should they?” Her fingers tightened around the delicate glass’s stem. “Honestly, Kenneth, have you no concern for your sisters?”
Lucia’s eyes flickered. Her glance touched Rainier’s, held for an apologetic moment, then returned to the tablecloth. Of course; she was to be as pitied as he. Lucia had suffered beneath Hortense’s subtle, manipulative thumb for even longer, since their girlhood days in the schoolroom together.
Tempting to make a dramatic closing argument and stalk out. But no, he’d not give Hortense the floor. Instead he leaned back, crossed his legs comfortably, and motioned to the butler. A startled glance, then the plate and wineglass vanished, the decanter and bowl of walnuts appeared.
“Hortense, I’ve let you guide — no, that’s inaccurate. I’ve let you dictate my behavior for far too long.” Rainier poured a small measure of brandy, smaller than his usual indulgence; he’d need a steady hand tomorrow morning. And no sense egging on those jig-happy nerves, the ones he refused to notice. “No longer, do y’hear? Your indirect rule over me is ended, your discreet control vanquished. From now on, I must do what’s right. No matter the cost. To me, or to you.”
She held his stare as he set the decanter aside, lifted his glass. Rainier swirled the brandy in the bowl and sipped its liquid fire, watching the red fade from her cheeks, the pallor advance in its wake. Hard to tell which he savored more.
Hortense rose and swept from the dining room. Another apologetic glance, and Lucia trailed behind, fulfilling the curse of the younger sister. Hopefully someday she’d shake off that insidious influence, just as he had.
In the meantime, he needed to prepare himself for a duel.
* * * *
The study door was closed.
Coralie paused. If Franklin’s work tonight was so important, perhaps she shouldn’t—
But no, she’d already convinced herself of the rightness of her actions, and she’d not reconsider. Not again, no matter how her heart thudded, too loudly, too quickly. No, she’d see her decision through. Coralie knocked on the study door but didn’t wait for a response, instead twisting the knob and pushing the door open.
A forest of papers covered the desk, a small fortune in foolscap; were they paying for all that, or had the War Office? From his seat behind it, Franklin glanced up, his face a startled blank. Beside him, Stuart straightened, one hand holding yet another report, the other rubbing the small of his back. Both men looked exhausted, as if they’d bent over that desk all day. Which, to her certain knowledge, they had.
“Coralie?” Franklin rose. “What is it, dear?”
For a moment her heart melted and her throat closed. Almost she cried at his pet name for her, so startlingly absent from their earlier confrontation. But she’d interrupted their work for a reason, and while it involved peacemaking, that wasn’t her only goal. She cleared her throat and stepped aside. Without meeting her stare — and she put all the steel into it she possessed — Severidge carried in the tray, the footman on his heels with another.
“It’s called supper, and most civilized people indulge themselves occasionally without considering it an extravagance. On the side table, Severidge, without disturbing their work.”
If you value your position. No need to add the words; already Severidge walked softly, his footsteps soundless on the hardwood floor, never raising his eyes from his work as he arranged linen and wineglasses, plates and silverware. Someone had to have spilled the news that she’d arrived home in Lady Gower’s carriage, which had waited in the fog beyond the garden wall, out of sight of anyone attending the soiree. Someone in her household, someone who’d seen her arrival that awful night, had sold the information for silver.
And she knew who’d betrayed her; he knew that she knew, and somehow she doubted she’d ever have problems with the butler again. Not that she’d ever trust him again.
“Three plates?” Franklin’s lips curved in a tiny smile.
“There’s little sense in setting the dining room table for one.” And eating alone was boring. She stood by the side table’s chair, hands folded. Waiting.
Franklin’s tiny smile grew. “Stuart, I believe this means we’re taking a break.” He crossed to the side table, then paused, staring at her as if he’d never seen her before.
Heat rose in Coralie’s face. She’d dressed for the meal, even if only the family were present — Stuart counted as such by now, surely — and she’d arranged her hair with special care. It would have been a lonely evening at any time, sitting at the dining room table while they worked away in the study, and knowing what would happen in the morning — the news was all over Mayfair and Lissie had whispered it over tea biscuits an hour ago, she’d promised to return after the evening meal and spend the night — well, that news gave any time spent alone an extra heart-wrenching twist. She needed Franklin’s respect, his support, his belief. And if his commitments to the War Office left him with no time for her world, its entertainments and friendships and ridiculous misunderstandings, then she’d make time in her life for his.
She’d survive the gossips. But only with her family at her side, as well as her friends.
Franklin pulled out her chair, held it for her, settled her at the table. Not with the casual manners he’d usually show to his little sister, but as if she were someone important.
A real lady. And her own smile grew as she felt his concern.
“Serve the meal, Severidge.” Franklin kissed her cheek, tugged her curl, settled beside her, and shook out his napkin, his face flushed, his tiny smile steady.
Chapter Fifteen
Friday, October 29, 1813 (continued)
He had to see her. Had to explain.
Thankfully the wrought iron gate to the rear mews didn’t squeak on its metal hinges. Rainier slipped through and into the Busche family’s private property, his heart thudding. He’d waited so late, savoring Hortense’s rout, that now the looming moon danced through the naked branches of an oak tree; he hid in shadows when he should have knocked boldly on her door.
But that wasn’t entirely true, either, no more than the rest of his pretensions. He’d waited because he couldn’t face her, nor her brother, not until the field of honor had been satisfied. It was his fault entirely, the mess they suffered through; he should have curbed Hortense long ago. He should never have lost his composure and displayed his temper to Miss Busche. He should have strived to matc
h her natural elegance. He should—
—probably go home and get some sleep. He’d found her residence in Berkeley Square, at night, without directions, or at least he hoped he trespassed on the proper house; if he’d gotten turned around, then he had even more explaining to do. But he had no idea where in that house his inamorata stood, or sat, or lay, whether she rested or slept, whether she even longed to see him the way he burned for her. She had to have heard of the duel by now, even if she hadn’t set foot from her house all day; the news had sped across Mayfair like lightning and had beaten him home.
If a crowd of onlookers surrounded the Hyde Park Ring before dawn, he’d die. Although he might do that in any case. Fighting with edged weapons was a chancy exercise and blades slipped with alarming unpredictability, whether the blade’s wielder willed it or no.
The jigging nerves started increasing their tempo.
A little balcony, barely a window wide, overlooked the mews, the carriage house, the small stable block, the tiny garden, the oak tree where he hid. In a perfect world, that would be her bedroom window and she’d enact the scene he’d spent the afternoon memorizing. She’d step through the curtains, rest her chin on her hand, and breathe her love for him to the silent, undying stars. But he lived in Hortense’s world, not a perfect one, and so one of the play’s more woeful lines seemed applicable.
“Can I go forward when my heart is here?” Rainier whispered the words. It would be just his luck if the coachman slept lightly, to be awakened and outraged at his pernicious presence in the mews.
If only he’d courted Miss Busche as she deserved, realized her worth, his need for her. At least he didn’t have friends such as Mercutio and Benvolio, taunting him beyond measure. “He jests at scars who never felt a wound,” Romeo had said. But Rainier could jest no longer, not even at silly, loyal George Anson, the friend he did have, the one willing to break the law on his behalf.
On the balcony above, the curtains drew aside and a low, flickering light spilled through.
It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t, Hortense’s world had not released him, and yet his heart leaped into his throat, overwhelming the céilidh of nerves still jigging up his spine. His fingers dug into the rough bark and he leaned forward, peering around the tree.
Perhaps he’d willed her to come to him.
She stepped through the curtains as if onto a stage. But no actress would have dreamed of being seen in such astonishing, electrifying dishabille, her hair undone and falling over one shoulder in a pale waterfall, a white wrap glowing in the moonlight and a ratty shawl over her shoulders. None of the celebrated beauties of history or drama could compete with her smoke, her fire. She glowed like a flame, breathtaking, an idol in the night.
He couldn’t restrain himself.
“But soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Coralie is the sun.”
She started back. Her hands flew to her wrap, tightened it around her, and her wild glance about the mews passed over his hiding place without pause.
Another step and she’d vanish back into the house. No, the world couldn’t be that cruel, showing him his heart’s desire, his entire life, then yanking her away. Determination coursed through him, driving out the pounding and even the panicky nerves. He’d win the exquisite Coralie’s hand and heart, not collect her like some sort of stupid statue. He had a second chance, handed to him by a conniving world; he’d court her as she deserved.
“See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”
Recognition flashed across her face. Her chin tilted and tucked. And— and she smiled. The softest smile ever, lifting the very edges of her enchanting lips, lifting his heart and hopes. Coralie stepped to the balcony railing, again searching the shadows. The moonlight spilled over her face and silvered her blond hair.
“O Rainier, Rainier!” she whispered, “wherefore art thou Rainier?”
A sudden surge of delight, of belonging, threatened to overwhelm him. She understood his silly game and agreed to play it with him. When was the last time someone had joined him in a spirit of fun? Not Culver with his contempt for competition, not George Anson despite his willingness, certainly not Hortense or Lucia. A fellow pupil back at school?
Rainier stepped into the moonlight. Her smile flashed, bright then hidden, and he gloried in it, casting ahead in his memory for the play’s next applicable lines. “With love’s light wings did I o’er-perch these walls; for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do that dares love attempt.”
Were those the first true words he’d ever spoken? With his life already at stake, what would he not brave for her?
But her smile died. “If my brother do see thee, he’ll call for the night watchman.”
A paraphrase, of course; the actual line didn’t quite fit. And a timely, valuable warning, as well. He should go. No, he shouldn’t. It was too soon and her torch lit the night too brightly, burning him where he stood. “Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet, and I am proof against their enmity.”
Her little smile returned and her smoky flame outshone the moon. “You’re already fighting an unnecessary duel for my reputation. I cannot think that further risking your life or safety is wise.” Her lips rolled together. “You do know this duel is unnecessary? Nothing—” But her defense died to silence.
That she thought she needed defense before him was a criminal liability on his part. “Wert thou as far as that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise. Besides, any duel fought for your honor could never be termed unnecessary.”
“I must disagree, if it—” She looked aside.
If it endangers you. Was that what she’d begun to say? Rainier’s heart danced, outstripping any weak jig still offered by his tiring nerves. “Miss Busche, beautiful Coralie — it’s the moonlight. How can I resist you in moonlight? It glows from your eyes, your lips, your cheeks, your hair—” He yearned to stroke her hair, draw her to him, kiss her… The surge of emotion following that thought stretched deeper than mere delight, reached all the way to his blood and seared him.
She shook her head. “Swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon—” But again she cut herself off, glanced aside.
Rainier stepped further into the light. He’d say the word; he’d said it once already but gladly he’d say it again and again, until she believed. “Lest my love prove likewise variable?”
Her eyes widened. Her words stumbled over each other, but the yearning that lit her face made a liar of the line. “It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; too like the lightning—”
“—which struck me nights ago.” He stepped closer, almost close enough to jump, grab the balcony railing, and haul himself up. For a moment he entertained the fantasy. But no, even with her heart showing in her face and burning him from the inside out, the time for wooing had not yet passed. He hadn’t yet earned the right to claim her. “It struck me and turned my ordered thoughts into confusion, my soul to flames.” He swallowed. “My heart to yours.” Unfortunately, Juliet had gotten the words he really needed. He quoted them anyway; surely Coralie would forgive him for stealing her lines. “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”
Another shake of her head. Golden-silver hair bounced across her white-robed shoulders, draped across her neck, glistened as if it sheltered stars in its strands. But her eyes glowed more brightly and her lips curved higher. A sort of soft, dreamy rapture flooded her face and her eyelids drooped, giving her the expression of a woman in love. His heart leaped to meet hers.
“It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,” she repeated.
“And you too beautiful. You are the fulfillment of all my fruitless imaginings. You understand me better than I understand myself. For your kind words, I’d give up good taste, good breeding, good fashio
n—”
“But then you would not be the excellent man I—” Her dreamy expression deepened. Again she stopped herself.
But this time it was too late. Rainier’s soul soared. “Beautiful, wondrous Coralie, say it, my love. Please say it. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?”
Even in the lantern light, even in the moon’s pale gleam, heightened color glowed in her cheeks. “What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?”
His pulse pounded. But he had to ask. “The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.”
Her silence stretched. Some unlovely fop reached into Rainier’s chest, grabbed his heart, and squeezed. It had to be so, for nothing less could hurt so much.
Finally she met his gaze. Beneath her entrancement, her eyes seemed wistful, hesitant, embarrassed. Insecure, as if even now she risked a snub, as if she both yearned for and feared his response. “I gave thee mine before thou didst request it.”
And the truth hit him. She’d been in the coffee house, listening to that long-ago ridiculous conversation, the one he’d considered so important but which actually meant nothing. And now that he thought about it, she’d been in the background at Lady Gower’s rout, at the Kringles’ spring ball, twice at Lady Forester’s. Coralie had been paying him court. And he’d not had the sense to even notice her.
He swallowed and paid her the homage she was overdue. “O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard, being in night, all this is but a dream, too flattering-sweet to be substantial. O blessed, blessed Coralie, I love you.”
“And yet you insist upon fighting tomorrow.”
“I can’t let the insult to you stand.”
She rolled her eyes. “Strange sort of duel, Mr. Rainier, where both combatants insist I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Another point to her. She’d won them all that night. It wasn’t Cumberland who needed proof of her innocence, but the rest of the city. “Consider it trial by combat, and however it turns out, you win.”
Shenanigans in Berkeley Square Page 12