A strange, delicious tickle began inside her and she drew in a deeper breath, a calming one. “Do please forgive my distraction, Mr. Rainier. Won’t you come in and sit with us? Severidge, bring the tea tray and don’t forget the oolong. Lissie will like that.”
Over in her corner, Lissie stitched busily, far too quiet, a secretive smile on her face at the mention of tea. Beside her, Mrs. Lacey… lost her smile?
But he settled on the other end of the sofa, still awkward, leaving her no time to pursue odd thoughts. Two of the pale yellow pillows plumped between them. It didn’t seem like enough; the tickle inside her grew and spread, her fingers prickling. If he reached across by only a few inches, their hands would touch, and at the possibility, that inner tingle bloomed again.
He cleared his throat and rested his hat on one knee. “Thank you for seeing me, Miss Busche, and please, allow me to begin by apologizing for my sister’s behavior the night of the soiree.” He held up a hand, as if to stop any answer before it began. “As well — I must tender another apology for my own. While Hortense’s indiscretions can be personally infuriating, normally I don’t allow them to effect my actions or demeanor. Only the whirl of strong emotions, emotions I’d no idea how to contain, could have permitted her boorishness to in turn permit my gaucherie.”
His explanation released a flood of understanding within her. It seemed as wrong as before for him to discuss his sister’s shortcomings with her, or even his sister’s perceived shortcomings. But at the same time, he could hardly attempt to explain that night’s events without mentioning their cause, whether the cause was valid or otherwise. And she’d not pretend to misunderstand those clever words whirl of strong emotions.
Besides, it helped that her impression of his behavior had been wrong. He didn’t seek at all times to control Miss Rainier’s behavior, nor Miss Lucia’s; his meaning there couldn’t be more clear. Instead, he’d merely chosen the wrong moment to exert some influence, a moment when she’d been watching. A pity, that was, since Miss Rainier’s entire lack of self-confidence simply cried out for some gentle and loving influence.
Across the room by the window, Lissie shook out the sewing project she’d pulled from the basket. It billowed forth as a raucous flash of white — not my shift, you hussy, not now! — then she folded it under and resumed stitching. Mrs. Lacey’s face contorted for an embarrassed, gleeful moment, but both emotions smoothed over in a trice, leaving her normal serenity.
Or did a shadow remain beneath her smile? Dear Mrs. Lacey…
Coralie shook herself, then shook her head. “And yet I cannot in my turn permit your accusations against your sister to stand. Never have I seen Miss Rainier as boorish or rude, no more than I’ve ever seen you as gauche.”
He stared. “Is it possible you haven’t seen…?”
“What I’ve seen from Miss Rainier is a woman who’s frightened and lonely, two sensations I’m only too aware of myself. She hasn’t any suitor, she’s trying too hard to attract one and so making the situation worse, and if her own brother shows her no attention, then who will?”
Red tinged his cheeks. But his penetrating stare didn’t drop. “I—”
“You know, if she received some gentle guidance, some encouragement and support, she could more easily make something of herself.”
“Your words chastise me.” The flush deepened and he shrugged. “But my knowledge of women’s hearts is so tentative, I can only believe your assessment to be more accurate than mine. Miss Busche, beautiful Coralie — I’ve failed not only myself but also my sisters.”
“I must disagree again, Mr. Rainier.” Could she use his name the way he used hers? Did she dare? “Failure is a permanent condition and neither you nor your sisters are beyond improvement. Perhaps you haven’t done your best for them to date, but there’s no reason for that state of affairs to remain.” It fit the duke’s definition of love perfectly.
He swallowed. “There was a moment yesterday, and another this morning, en route to the church—” The flush began to fade, his usual healthy tan returning and his face clearing.
For so many months she’d studied him, admired him, reveled in him. But for the first time, she felt a welcome, mutual understanding, an affinity, a real closeness. She felt as if they shared a level, he not higher nor more impressive than she. Perhaps there was less to that logic game than she’d presumed.
And yes. Yes, with that level shared, she could. “That’s welcome news, Kenneth.”
A hopeful light flashed in his eyes. His gaze sought hers, meshed, held, and the passion in his suddenly yearning expression—
Yes, again yes, it found a willing answer in her. And under his intense stare, the same mesmerizing stare she’d enjoyed the night before the duel, the tingling swept through her again, even stronger. She reached a hand and rested it on the pillow between them—
But footsteps in the hall, rapidly approaching. Coralie yanked her hand to her lap as Franklin stalked through the morning room doorway.
“Severidge told me you were here.” Franklin stopped atop the carpet, fists on his hips, glaring. His glance aside at her was apologetic; the glare he returned to Mr. Rainier was not. “Have you come to do the honorable thing?”
She gasped. How could he dare?
“No. Not only no, but by no means.” Rainier rose, set his hat aside on the low table, and took the three steps to stand in front of Franklin. With his back to her, she could not see his expression. But his shoulders remained relaxed within his tailcoat; no second duel seemed to be in the making. “Doing the honorable thing implies accepting a woman not my first choice. Instead, I’ve come to beg for the hand of the woman I adore, the only woman I could ever love.”
Franklin froze. No, the entire room froze, including her thoughts. But not that tingling, that wonderful superb tingling that centered in her core and stretched to her fingers and toes; not the quivering nerves that warmed her hands. Her brother’s eyes widened, and beneath his stunned silence appeared the first hint of a smile.
Lissie silently applauded, the shift billowing again on her lap and her lips stretched to an absurd grim. And Mrs. Lacey, dear kind Mrs. Lacey… was that relief?
“Well, then,” Franklin said. “Be my guest.”
Coralie shot up from the sofa. “Oh, Franklin—”
But Mr. Rainier, her own dear Kenneth, had already whirled and dropped to one knee. “With great delight, sir. Coralie, beautiful, beautiful Coralie—”
The heat in her hands removed to her cheeks. Her throat tightened and her breathing hitched. But her smile grew faster than Franklin’s. With Lissie in the corner, the tale would be all over Mayfair by tea time. “You keep saying that.”
“And I’ll continue to do so for the remainder of our lives. But you are not so cruel as to demand I suffer through those years without you.” He reached forward, hesitated, then slid his fingers between hers, squeezed, and drew her hand to his lips. He wouldn’t, not in front of everyone — yes, he would and did. “I will need your patience, this I know. I’m not naturally elegant as you are—”
“—and I am not educated and philosophical as you are—” What a ridiculous thing to say, in a voice growing tight and strained. But her silly grin kept growing. In the scandal sheets; she’d be in the scandal sheets two days running.
“Education and philosophy are overrated. Believe me.”
“So is elegance.”
He peered up at her over her hand, still held near his mouth. His eyes gleamed and she couldn’t resist. When she burst out laughing, he joined her, even as her eyes swam.
Perhaps she didn’t know him as well as she ought and surely there were elements to his personality and temperament that would continue to surprise her. But as she’d sat last night in the waning moonlight, tendrils of fog whispering across her cheek, she’d realized that she’d fallen for more than his public manners. She’d fallen for the economical, eloquent gestures that illustrated his debates, his passionate stare as he met her own,
the smiling, expectant way he absorbed her words during conversations, the unhesitating manner in which he’d come to her aid. She’d fallen not for his education or philosophy, the surface elements which had originally seemed so attractive, but for his sincerity, his strength, and yes, his courage.
Because courage was so very attractive.
Again he kissed her hand. “If you wish to take a sword to me, you’ve certainly more right than anyone else. But in all honesty, I’d much rather you marry me.”
“Yes, oh yes, I’d love to—” Her tears would no longer wait. Nor would her laughter.
“Let’s not leave this arrangement in any confusion. Beautiful Coralie, to which are you agreeing, the sword or the marriage?”
She couldn’t stop, neither the tears nor the laughter, and she yanked out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Across the room, Mrs. Lacey hummed a quiet tune and concentrated on her sewing. Lissie—
But her Kenneth, her very own Kenneth, rose before she registered Lissie’s doubtless ridiculous reaction, and the rest of the morning room vanished around her. All she could see was his handsome face as he approached closer, those stormy eyes heating from within as if she set him afire, his lush, full lips parting, closer, closer yet…
Time slipped out of alignment. Coralie closed her eyes and joined his mutual exploration, a perfect and perfectly beautiful moment.
Only at the soft footsteps leaving the rug for the hall’s hardwood floor, only at the quiet, shuddering sigh from the corner, did the final answer slide into place. Coralie broke the kiss, held Kenneth in place with her hands on his waist, and eased back a step.
“Franklin,” she called, “I hope you don’t mind, but I want the carriage sent ’round to Breckinsale’s coachworks for a thorough examination. We cannot send dear Mrs. Lacey home by post.”
He’d almost vanished through the doorway, and when he turned back to the room, his face blazed with joy. Mrs. Lacey’s sewing fluttered to the rug and her hands rose to her cheeks, eyes wide with astonishment. “Oh, but—”
“No,” Franklin said, “Coralie’s right. Of course we know you want to be with your daughter, it’s only right and natural, and you’re far too precious for us to trust your safety to a pack of strangers. Now, you know you’ll always have a home with us whenever you want it, you’ve only to ask—”
Mrs. Lacey smiled, but again it seemed wistful and touched with a bittersweet shadow. Dear sweet lady, was she torn between exclusive desires, yearning to go but equally yearning to stay? “But I can’t leave before the wedding.”
Well, there was only one possible answer for that. Coralie turned to Rainier, her confidence and happiness too full to hold. “Then we’d better not wait.”
Rainier took her hand and drew her close. “Excellent idea,” he said, and kissed her again.
Chapter Twenty
All Hallow’s Eve, Sunday evening, October 31, 1813 (continued)
Thin tendrils of fog twisted through Berkeley Square, slithering like spectral snakes across the green common and between the naked, shivering trees. Street lamps flickered and drew watery glints from that flow, but left His Grace’s hidden corner shadowed and gloomy. A good spot for spying, it was, out of the way and untouched by the lights; he’d have to remember that, should he ever need to scout a target in this respectable neighborhood. One never knew where the game would take him next.
He stood in roughly the same place as where he’d seen her through the fog three days ago. Why he’d felt drawn back to it, as if she’d reform there again, no more substantial than the chilling weather, he couldn’t say. Of course no one was there. No one could be. If she were in London, she’d have run to him, to his waiting arms, not turned away in a swirl of her cloak. She remained in Saxony — the pain of imagining the horrible alternative felt worse than the remembered agony of the sword thrust that had ended his strutting adolescence seven years ago. She remained safe as the war whirled around her, around them all.
Or, despite the agony, there was that ugly possibility, the ridiculous one he couldn’t believe but couldn’t quite shrug off: that she had died and now haunted him.
A trickle of wind blew cold across his face like a ghost’s sigh, cutting through his heavy cloak and shivering him where he stood. All Hallow’s Eve, when the veil between worlds grew thin and frail, when the spirits of the deceased returned to the living world, seeking to satisfy their incomplete affairs. Or so he’d been told. A too-wise fool he’d proven himself once before, if not more often, and only a fool would declare anything impossible in this modern age. As Hamlet had said, some things in heaven and earth hadn’t been dreamed of by science or philosophy.
He had to admit, she’d disappeared as if she’d come out of the fog and vanished into it, as if she no longer boasted a solid form. But if she were dead, why would she haunt him? Because he’d been paying so much attention to other women? Jealous, yes, he could imagine her jealous. But not petty.
Despite the rakish reputation he’d earned with innuendo and glances, he’d never been unfaithful to her. He’d never wanted to. He’d helped young women’s dreams come true while awaiting the war’s end and an opportunity to do the same for hers, and his.
He couldn’t believe she’d disapprove of that goal.
A door closed on the square’s far side, interrupting his morbid thoughts. A voice laughed, then the fog swirled and three figures stepped through it, one of them wearing a greatcoat and the other two pelisses. As the little party approached, their faces and forms became more clear — the quiet grace of Lissie McTaggart, the brilliant smile of Deborah Kringle, and the eager lump of George Anson hard on their heels.
As usual, Anson chattered away. But from the new angle provided by His Grace’s hiding spot, Anson’s usual good-natured bluffness hid a desperate edge, as if he yearned for one of the two young ladies to notice and approve him. No reaction from Lissie — and His Grace refused to believe that perceptive, lovely baggage hadn’t felt Anson’s unhappiness — but judging from the coy smile on Deborah’s face, she had, too, and didn’t mind showing it.
Well, something of a surprise lurked in that unexpected pairing. Last year at the Kringle’s Christmas Eve ball, His Grace had watched Anson and Deborah together and had found difficulty picturing them as a long-term couple. Had she waited for Anson to develop some respectability, to become more fashionable in his tastes, to learn how to dance more gracefully? Divining Deborah’s intentions would require some study on his part.
And so the game begins anew. With you in my heart alone, my love.
About the Author
Vivian Roycroft is a pseudonym for historical fiction and adventure writer J. Gunnar Grey. And if she's not careful, her pseudonymous pseudonym will have its own pseudonym soon, too. Plus an e-reader, a yarn stash, an old Hermès hunt saddle, and a turtle sundae at Culver's.
You can find Vivian and her writing compadre, J.L. Salter, at their shared blog, www.TakeTwoOnRomance.Weebly.com, or follow her on Twitter as @VivianRoycroft.
Also by Vivian Roycroft
Chapter One
Lady Clara Huckabee trembled. She felt it in her traitorous knees, which threatened to deposit her in an undignified heap on the Grecian Axminster carpet, and in her throat, tightened almost unbearably beneath her morning gown’s simple velvet neckline. Disappointing her guardian was bad enough, but since he started this fiasco, surely he’d endeavor to bear it. Shocking her aunt, though — for shocking her response would be — was far worse, because it must necessarily cause a measure of pain and Aunt Helen’s sweet soul outweighed her silly, old-fashioned notions. Clara steeled herself. It was their actions, their insistence, which forced her to this miserable necessity. If they refused to consider her wishes in the selection of a husband, her husband, then they must accept some of the blame for the contretemps that ensued.
Hopefully the housekeeper wasn’t listening behind the closed drawing room door.
A deep breath, and Clara softened her clenched hand
s into gentler folds. Only then did she trust herself to meet the Viscount Maynard’s black eyes, unblinking and glittering. No matter how many times she ordered herself to be meek and affable, he still looked like a possessive lizard.
“It distresses me to cause grief in anyone, particularly a gentleman as eminent as my Lord Maynard, and I find no pleasure in disappointing my esteemed aunt and uncle.” She paused. Those reptilian eyes widened and bulged; perhaps she was the first person to dare cross the arrogant booby. Clara hurried on before she could be interrupted. “However, the selection of a lifetime partner is too delicate an operation to be entrusted to any third party, no matter how revered. Kingdoms will neither rise nor fall on my lineage and therefore I believe my own desires and tastes should be consulted. I am sorry, but I cannot accept my lord’s offer of marriage.”
Viscount Maynard’s gaze drifted from her face, drifted lower. “The child has an opinion of her own.” When he’d asked for her hand, his voice had been courteous and correct; now he drawled his words, taking twice as long to state a simple sentence. His lips curled as if he smelled something unspeakable. “How precocious.”
Her skin crawled. His gaze boasted weight and mass, as if his hand explored her without permission. So much for meek and affable; the viscount was surely more interested in her inheritance, in Papa’s money, than in her or her hand. “My lord, your anxiety to change my opinion must be unbounded.” She dropped her most formal curtsey and escaped from the drawing room. Let him eat cake; just not hers.
After the drawing room’s sun-drenched warmth, the cool Grecian elegance of the entryway made her face feel hot. If the housekeeper had bent her ear to the door, she’d run in time. With luck, Clara would escape, too, without additional arguments. But on the curved stairway’s far side, the library door stood ajar. That would be Uncle David’s temporary retreat and he’d be listening for the first sign of movement. Yes, there was his shadow, approaching the doorway. No time to spare.
Shenanigans in Berkeley Square Page 16