by Mary Balogh
The earl chuckled.
“There is nothing for a dowry, by the way,” Sir Albert said. “Or so Frank says, and he should know since his sister is a friend of her sister’s. So I cannot be accused of acting in such haste out of any greed for her fortune, can I? Besides, it must be well-known that my own pockets are well enough lined that I don’t have to snatch at dowries.”
“It will never be known for anything other than what it is,” the earl said. “A love match, Bertie.”
His friend grimaced and drained off his glass of port. “I have to be going,” he said. “I am to drive her with her mother to the Tower this afternoon. I shall have to see how I feel afterward. Perhaps I will change my mind and be saved. Do you think, Gabe?”
The earl merely smiled.
“Are you coming?” Sir Albert got to his feet.
“No,” the earl said. “I think I’ll stay and drink another glass of port, Bertie. I shall drink to your health and happiness. Go and make yourself pretty for your lady love.”
Sir Albert grimaced once more and took his leave. The Earl of Thornhill did not drink another glass of port, but he did sit alone at the table for a long while, turning his empty glass absently with the fingers of one hand, his pensive manner discouraging both acquaintances from joining him and waiters from clearing the table.
And then you start to realize that there is someone hiding … someone who would bleed if she cut herself … it sort of creeps up on you.
It was something entirely between him and Kersey, he thought. He had taken the fall for Kersey’s evil, and he had watched Catherine suffer as a result of it. And now he saw a chance for a little revenge and had found himself consumed by the desire to accomplish it. Kersey knew it and had issued his own challenge. It was just between the two of them.
Except that Jennifer Winwood was caught in the middle. She was the pawn he would use to upset Kersey’s life, to bring scandal and humiliation to his name. Very publicly. There was no better arena for this particular type of revenge than London during the Season.
Jennifer Winwood was unimportant. She would find someone else more worthy of her than Kersey. In fact, as he had told himself before, he was doing her a favor. If he could bring about an end to her betrothal, he would have done her a favor even if she did not realize it. Not that it really mattered. Having some measure of revenge on Kersey was all that was important.
Except that …
… someone who would bleed if she cut herself. When he had apologized for having kissed her in the Chisleys’ garden, she had admitted that it had disturbed her. It did cause me some distress, she had said.
… you start to realize that there is someone hiding … She enjoyed emotion and sentimentality in literature as well as humor and satire. She had a collie whom she missed, one that yipped and demonstrated wild and undignified enthusiasm when a walk was imminent. She had never had a gentleman friend. She had lifted her hand and touched his cheek when he had pretended sadness over the fact that her engagement made it impossible for them ever to be friends.
… someone who would bleed if she cut herself.
Damnation! He had no wish to hurt the girl. None whatsoever. And no wish to deceive her. And yet he had done nothing but deceive her, pretending to friendly and even tender feelings for her when he felt none.
Except that …
It sort of creeps up on you. You don’t notice it and you don’t particularly want it …
The Earl of Thornhill got abruptly to his feet and had to reach back a hasty hand to stop his chair from toppling backward. He needed air and exercise.
He needed to steel himself for the costume ball at Lady Velgard’s this evening. He needed to remind himself how all-consuming the desire for revenge had become to him since seeing Kersey again.
“DO YOU SUPPOSE THERE will be any waltzes tonight?” Jennifer asked. Although it was a warm day outside, she was sitting on the floor of the sitting room she shared with her cousin, her back to a fire, drying her long hair. Her arms were clasped about her knees. She had the kind of beauty that Samantha had always envied. She could have been an Amazon warrior or a Greek goddess or a—or a Queen Elizabeth I. It was as Queen Elizabeth that she was going to the costume ball this evening. Samantha, on the other hand, saw only a milk-and-water miss when she looked in her own mirror, and she was to dress up tonight as—of all things—a fairy queen.
“I believe there almost certainly will be,” she said. “There usually are, so I have heard, except sometimes if it is someone’s come-out ball.”
“I hope so.” Jennifer rested one cheek on her knees. “Sam, was it not wonderful beyond belief to be granted permission to waltz at Almack’s last evening? It was the happiest moment of my life—well, one of them, anyway.”
“And I was stuck dancing it with Mr. Piper,” Samantha said. “To say he has two left feet is unduly to insult left feet, Jenny.”
Her cousin laughed. And looked wonderfully happy, as she had been looking for a few days now. Their roles seemed almost to have been reversed. Jenny was the sunny one, always on the verge of laughter. Samantha, on the other hand, was having to force her mood, to try to convince everyone else as well as herself that her first Season was all she had expected it to be.
“That was a pity,” Jennifer admitted. “Whom would you have liked to dance it with, Sam? If you had your choice of any gentleman?”
Lionel, Samantha thought treacherously and quelled the thought instantly. Out on the river at Lady Bromley’s garden party Lionel—Lord Kersey—had apologized for what had happened at the Chisley ball. He had been out of temper, he had claimed, and had forgotten that he was a gentleman. And then he had rowed her silently on the river, his eyes occasionally becoming locked with hers. When he had handed her out onto the bank, he had retained her hand in his for a second or two longer than was necessary and had squeezed it so hard that she had almost cried out in pain and had whispered hastily and fiercely to her.
“I wish,” he had said, “I could forget again that I am a gentleman. Samantha, I wish …” But his voice had trailed off and his eyes had gazed into hers with dismay and remorse.
“Oh, I do not know,” she said now with a shrug. “Sir Albert Boyle, maybe. Or Mr. Maxwell. Or Mr. Simons. Someone with both a left foot and a right foot and some feel for music.” She laughed lightly.
Jennifer’s eyes were steady on her. “Is there no one special yet, Sam?” she asked. “It is strange. Somehow I expected that you would fall wildly in love with some impossibly handsome gentleman with forty thousand a year after our first ball. You have a large court of admirers. Indeed, it seems to grow every day. But you seem to favor no one in particular.”
“Give me time,” Samantha said airily. “I intend to settle on no one less handsome than Li—than Lord Kersey.”
“Or the Earl of Thornhill,” Jennifer said, and then she flushed and turned her head to rest the other cheek on her knees. “I mean, someone as handsome as he.”
If only the earl did not have that dreadful reputation, Samantha thought, her treacherous thoughts breaking free again. And if there was not the betrothal. He seemed to like Jenny and she … Well, she had been alone with him on two separate occasions. If only … If only Lionel were free. But she jerked her mind back to reality.
“He was not at Almack’s last night,” she said. “I wonder if he will be at the ball this evening.”
“I hope not,” Jennifer said. “Did you know that what that unspeakably stupid Claudia Simons said about him at the garden party was true? He did run off with his stepmother. She was increasing, Sam. And then he abandoned her and the child to come back here alone.”
“His own father’s wife?” Samantha felt genuine horror. “Oh, Jenny, we were right about him that very first time. Lucifer. The devil. He really is, is he not?”
“Except that he does not seem evil when one talks with him,” Jennifer said. “He seems warm and friendly. But I suppose that is the nature of the devil, is it not? Oh, but
I do not want to talk about him, Sam. I hope there are waltzes tonight. I want to waltz again with Lord Kersey and feel his hand at my waist. I want to dance just with him for half an hour.” She had her eyes closed, Samantha saw. “I can hardly wait.”
Samantha’s spirits had sunk so low that she felt as if definite physical leaden weights were pressing down on her. Lionel, she thought. Oh, Lionel. How she too would love to be waltzing with him tonight. And … Oh, thought was pointless.
She hated her cousin suddenly. And then she turned her hatred against herself. And against Lionel. If he had tender feelings for her—and she was sure that he did—how could he be contemplating marriage with Jenny? But he was trapped into that by an unwritten agreement made five years before, when he had been only twenty.
Only Jenny could break the engagement. It would be horribly scandalous even for her to do it, but it would be impossible for him. An honorable gentleman just did not break such a promise. But Jenny had no reason to break off her betrothal. She would never do so, unless—unless she knew that he loved someone else.
Samantha tried to break the trend of her thoughts.
“Oh, Sam,” Jennifer said, hugging her knees more tightly, her eyes still closed, “you really must find someone soon. You must find out for yourself what this happiness feels like.”
Samantha rested her head against the back of the chair on which she sat and closed her own eyes. She felt suddenly both dizzy and nauseated.
9
SHE WORE A GOLD MASK, BUT IT DID NOTHING TO hide her identity. Nor was it meant to. It was a mere convention of a costume ball. She was all in gold and white and unmistakably dressed as Queen Elizabeth I. The rich, heavy gold and white brocade of her dress and the stiff ruff that fanned out behind her head were carried with a suitably regal bearing. Her dark red hair was set severely back from her face and curled all about her head.
She would have drawn eyes even if she had stood alone. But she stood with an Elizabethan courtier whose clothes matched her own in color and splendor. His own gold mask gleamed pale against his blond hair.
They were by far the most attractive couple in the ballroom.
The Earl of Thornhill, watching them after the courtier had joined his queen and her cousin and aunt after their arrival at Lady Velgard’s costume ball, was not sorry about the fact that they drew such universal attention despite the presence of other clever and attractive costumes on other guests. And he was not sorry that they were so easily recognizable. It would all work to his advantage.
“Bertie is not coming tonight,” Lord Francis Kneller said at the earl’s elbow. “Do you know why, Gabe?” His tone suggested that he certainly did even if his friend did not.
She was glowing, Lord Thornhill thought, gazing across the room—as many other people seemed to be doing. Her mouth was curved into a smile. Something about the whole set of her body and head suggested that she was excited and happy. Happy with her partner. In love with him. Damnation. “Why?” he asked.
“Because Rosalie Ogden’s mama thinks a costume ball too racy an event for her daughter to attend,” Lord Francis said, emphasizing the girl’s name. “Rosalie Ogden, Gabe. Bertie is not coming because she will not be here.”
“He took her sightseeing to the Tower this afternoon, I believe,” the earl said.
“Good Lord,” Lord Francis said. “Good Lord, Gabe, is he touched in the upper works?”
“I believe,” the earl said, looking at him at last and grinning, “it is called love, Frank.”
“Well, good Lord.” His friend seemed to have been rendered inarticulate.
“I suppose,” the earl said, “it is only natural that we feel a twinge of alarm when one of our number turns his mind toward matrimony, Frank. It reminds us that we too are getting older and that responsibility and the need to be setting up nurseries are staring us in the eyeball.”
“The devil!” Lord Francis said. “We are not even thirty yet, Gabe. Or even close to it. But Rosalie Ogden! He is seriously thinking of offering for her?”
“I have it on the best authority,” the earl said, “that there is rather a sweet girl hiding behind the plainness and the quietness.”
“There would have to be,” Lord Francis said. “There is not even anything much for a dowry. Ah, a waltz. The opportunity to get my arm about some slender waist is not to be wasted, Gabe—I hope you noticed the pun. The fairy queen, do you think? No, she is swamped by her usual court. Cleopatra, then. I was presented to her at Almack’s last evening so I can just stroll along and ask.” He walked away without more ado, Roman toga notwithstanding, to claim the set with the lady of his choice.
The Earl of Thornhill stood where he was and watched. And assured a few fellow guests, who approached him in mock terror, that no, his pistols were not loaded. He was dressed as a highwayman of bygone years, all in black, including his mask. He wore a powdered wig, tied and bagged with black silk at the neck, and a tricorne hat.
Ah, he thought, so she had been granted permission to waltz. She was dancing it now with Kersey and smiling up at him, her attention wholly on him. And Lord, she was beautiful. Every time he saw her he seemed to be jolted anew by her beauty, as if he had forgotten it since his last sight of her. He was glad she was able to waltz. And if one was being danced this early in the evening, there must be several more planned for the rest of the night.
He intended to dance one of those waltzes with Miss Jennifer Winwood. It might not be easy to get past the defenses of Lady Brill and Kersey. And even the Countess of Rushford, Kersey’s mother, was present tonight and keeping a proprietary eye on her son and his affianced bride. But somehow he would do it. He had no real fear of failure.
IF LIONEL WAS IRRESISTIBLY handsome as a gentleman of the present age, Jennifer thought, as a gentleman of Queen Elizabeth’s court he was—well, there were not words. He was irresistibly handsome. She waltzed with him and felt that her feet scarcely touched the floor. It was surely the most divine and the most intimate dance ever invented. He was drawing all eyes just like a magnet, of course, as he always did. She basked in the fact that it was with her he danced and to her that he was betrothed. She felt that she was somehow picking up some of his reflected splendor.
He was there—the Earl of Thornhill. At first she had thought he was not. Most of the guests were recognizable despite ingenious costumes and masks. But he was not easy to recognize, except for his height, which first drew her eyes his way. His hair was white and long and tied back beneath his hat. He made an alarmingly attractive highwayman, she thought. She was sure it was he when he stood beside a pillar instead of dancing the first set—and when he watched her the whole while. He was, of course, wearing a wig, she realized. A powdered wig, old-fashioned like the tricorne and the skirted coat and the long topboots.
She wished he had not come. Although she did not look directly at him, she saw him constantly nevertheless and was aware of him at every moment, as she always was. And yet there was a certain horror in the fascination she felt for him, knowing what she now knew of him. His stepmother! He was a father. He had a child, abandoned somewhere on the Continent with the child’s mother. She wondered if he had left them quite destitute or if at the very least he had taken some measures to support them.
And she tried not to think about him at all.
It was easy to avoid him. Lionel, although he danced with her only once, hovered close between sets, and Aunt Agatha kept careful watch over her choice of partners and Samantha’s. She did not, as so many of the chaperones did, find a cozy seat in a corner and while away the time gossiping with other ladies. And Lionel’s mother engaged her in conversation between each set. It was like having a small army of bodyguards, Jennifer thought in some relief. She was not going to have to face the embarrassment of refusing to dance with him.
But then he made no move toward her, either.
It was unalloyed relief she felt, she told herself, refusing to recognize a certain feeling of inexplicable depression.
They went.
Samantha, close by, was surrounded by her usual court of admirers. Some of them were talking with Jennifer too, though Lord Kersey continued to stay close beside her. But then he was gone, without a word or a sign, and he was smiling warmly at Samantha and taking her by the hand and leading her onto the floor for the waltz that was about to begin.
No one had yet asked Jennifer to dance, and it seemed that every gentleman turned to watch in chagrin as Sam was taken from beneath their very noses. In a moment, Jennifer thought afterward, one of them would have turned back and solicited her hand. Lionel must have thought that one of them already had. He must have thought that it was safe to leave her side, even though his mother and Aunt Agatha had left the ballroom.
But there was that moment when she stood alone, bewildered and exposed and a little frightened.
And in that moment a gentleman did indeed step forward and bow and reach out a hand for hers. A tall, black-masked highwayman in the fashion of the previous century, his long, powdered hair and tricorne hat making him look quite devastatingly attractive.
“Your majesty,” the Earl of Thornhill said, “will you do me the honor?”
It was so much easier to tell oneself that one was going to issue a cold snub than actually to do it, Jennifer found. That, of course, was why she had been content to be hovered over all evening. She found it almost impossible to look into his eyes and refuse him.