Falling for Chloe

by Farr, Diane

  The top of her head did not quite reach his shoulder. She could see nothing but Gil’s starched shirt front before her. He suddenly spun her in a great swirl to the left, almost causing her to trip. She tilted her chin up and saw that Gil was not even looking at her; he was scanning the throng of dancers and glowering fiercely.

  She pinched his sleeve. "Gil, pray look at your partner from time to time! We are liable to—gracious!" They had nearly collided with another couple. "Gil, you really must slow down! I cannot keep pace with those great, long legs of yours."

  "Just give it a go, won’t you? I think I see them over there." He pulled her tighter, the better to direct her steps, and began hauling her purposely toward the opposite end of the room.

  "Merciful heavens! Is that why we are galloping round the floor like a pair of dervishes? Tish is a grown woman. You cannot—oh!"

  This time, they had collided with another couple. "Sorry! Sorry! Beg pardon!" said Gil hastily, addressing everyone in the vicinity. Then he clutched Chloe again and would have danced off with the same reckless vigor had she not planted her tiny feet.

  "What?" he said, harassed. He finally looked directly at his partner. She was glaring at him.

  "When dancing with a lady," she announced, "it is important to give her the impression that you wish to dance with her!"

  "I do wish to dance with you. Immediately! Come along!" ordered Gil, and swept her back into his arms.

  In deference to the indignant squeak she uttered he moderated his pace, but only slightly. Chloe gave up, deciding her most dignified course would be to pretend she shared Gil’s apparent fondness for an energetic waltz. With that in mind, she pasted a pleasant look upon her face.

  The effect was ruined, however, by Gil’s persistent scowl. He soon began venting his spleen by muttering scathing remarks into Chloe’s sympathetic ear. "Never saw anything to equal it. George! and Tish!" mimicked Gil savagely. "And right in front of me! I tell you what, Clo: it’s bad ton. Not the thing at all."

  "I was afraid it was. I must say, that’s exactly how it struck me. But I am not a judge."

  "Well, I am!" declared Gil, not mincing matters. "Time I took a hand in the matter. Reflection on me! Everyone knows she’s my sister."

  "Yes, but what can you do?"

  "Going to have a talk with her."

  Chloe’s face puckered with worry. "Oh, Gil, do you think that’s wise? She’s bound to take snuff—"

  "D’you think I care for that?" interrupted Gil. "Let her! At least I will have done my duty. And if I know Tish—which I do!—after she’s done ripping up at me, she’ll think it over and realize I’m right."

  They had reached the opposite side of the room and, just as Gil had said, found Tish and Lord Rival. They were very near the wall, taking small steps and dancing at half-tempo. Tish was gazing dreamily into his lordship’s eyes. Lord Rival was holding Tish much too close for propriety, and it was clear that the waltz—once he had danced her away from her party—had become a public display of the intimacy of their friendship. Gil bristled at the sight.

  Chloe was afraid Gil would accost Lord Rival on the spot, but Gil’s social skills were too deeply ingrained for any such breach of conduct. He confined himself to a careless greeting as they approached the pair, which forced them to look up and acknowledge Gil and Chloe’s presence. Tish looked disgruntled, but Lord Rival seemed merely amused by the interruption. Neither appeared in the least ashamed, or even self-conscious. The two dancing couples fell apart, but Lord Rival kept Tish’s hand, tucking it into his elbow.

  Gil managed to keep his expression civil. "I say, Rival, would you mind if I had a word with m’sister? Something important I forgot to tell her. Family business, you know."

  Lord Rival raised an eyebrow in what appeared to be polite inquiry, but Chloe saw the spark of laughter in his eyes. "Indeed? Nothing too serious, I hope. No death in the family?"

  "Oh, no! Nothing like that," said Gil carelessly.

  Tish looked cross. "Tell me later, Gil."

  "It’s urgent."

  "Urgent, but not serious? That’s absurd!"

  But Gil was bowing perfunctorily to her escort. "You’ll excuse us, won’t you, m’lord? Quite right! I know you will." And he firmly removed his hotly-protesting sister, pulling her into the set now forming on the floor.

  Chloe found herself abruptly left alone with Lord Rival. She had not foreseen this result of Gil’s impetuosity. She tried to appear perfectly at ease, but could feel the telltale color stealing across her face. His observant lordship clearly noticed it, too. A chuckle escaped him.

  "Dare I hope that this maneuver was of your contrivance, Miss Littlefield?" he murmured.

  Her eyes widened in startled confusion. "Mine?"

  "Ah. I thought not. How lowering, to be sure."

  Her blush intensified as she realized what he meant. "Did you think I asked Gil to take Tish away so I could be alone with you?" she exclaimed. "How dare you!"

  "Oh, I do not dare. Nor did I think it. I merely hoped." His eyes scanned her and his smile widened. "You don’t like me, do you?"

  Chloe, quivering with indignation, opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of him—and then remembered the scheme which had seemed so appealing not fifteen minutes ago. She closed her mouth with a snap, and struggled with herself.

  "I—I scarcely know you, my lord," she managed to utter.

  "We must take steps to rectify that. May I have the next waltz?"

  A thrill compounded of excitement and terror choked Chloe. She reminded herself that Lord Rival’s interest might depend upon her own unavailabilty, and cast her eyes modestly down.

  "Oh, my lord, I only waltz with Gil," she said demurely.

  She lifted her eyes in time to see the grin splitting his features. It was an oddly attractive grin, lopsided and mischievous. "If that is so, I imagine you would welcome a chance to waltz with anyone else. Even me."

  She found she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. "I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord."

  "I’m sure you do! And you may stop calling me ‘my lord.’ My friends call me George."

  "You and I are not friends."

  "We will be."

  What a strange man he was! Such arrogance would be intolerable, if one did not suspect that he was joking more often than not. She regarded him doubtfully, wondering if she ought, in fact, to call him by his Christian name. It seemed vastly improper—but, of course, if she intended to flirt with him she could hardly cavil at a little impropriety.

  He was grinning at her again. "You look just like a little bird, with your head on one side."

  "Spying a worm," she said tartly, once again forgetting her rôle.

  But his lordship was in no way discomposed. "I hope you decide to pounce, little bird." He startled her by leaning in, whispering so his hot breath tickled her ear: "They tell me I’m a very tasty fellow."

  And with a last, low laugh, he strolled away. Chloe stared at his departing back, shocked to the core of her being. She had no clear idea what he meant, but could still feel his breath in her hair and hear the soft seduction of his voice. It was as if the brief whisper was too momentous for her to have taken in all at once, so it was repeating itself like an echo, shivering through all her senses. Pounce, litte bird . . . pounce, little bird . . . they tell me I’m a very tasty fellow.

  Oh, the man was dangerous. No doubt about it.

  She heard a tiny sound and turned her dazed eyes to the wall sconce nearby. A moth was fluttering and dancing in helpless confusion round the candles. Chloe knew just how the poor, doomed creature felt. Irresistibly drawn to the light, but frightened by the heat. Eventually it would be too dazzled to resist, and blunder into a fatal encounter with that bewitching brilliance.

  Chloe certainly hoped she had more sense than a moth. But she was contemplating just such a dangerous dance, and she knew she could afford no stumbles. She stepped forward with her fan, reached up, and gentl
y herded the foolish creature out of danger. "With my thanks for the warning," she told it softly.

  As if on cue, she heard the orchestra striking up a waltz. She squared her shoulders and turned. Sure enough, Lord Rival was approaching through the crowd, smiling at her. Gil and Tish were nowhere to be seen.

  Chloe took a deep breath, and returned his lordship’s smile. She could do this. She was sure she could. But then he was upon her, lifting her hand audaciously to his lips, and her smile slipped as she went suddenly hot and breathless.

  "My waltz, Miss Littlefield," he said, his voice as soft as velvet. His smile caressed her. "My style differs somewhat from Mr. Gilliland’s. I hope you do not find it too tame."

  Tame! The absurdity surprised a shaky little laugh out of her. "I hope not, indeed."

  She felt his touch on her waist. His left hand took her right. Even through their gloves, she was aware of his skin beneath the cloth in a way that had never occurred to her with any other dancing partner. Trembling, she placed her left hand lightly on the blue broadcloth sheathing his upper arm. His body was almost too well-muscled. It felt strong and hard and warm beneath her fingertips. Then she looked into his smiling eyes, and was lost.As he swept her into the dance Chloe felt the breath sigh out of her, and she melted against the strong arm at her back. What a handsome man. What a perfect dream of a man. For a time she would throw caution to the winds, and just enjoy the dance. No harm in that, was there? This was going to be wonderful.

  Step, two-three, turn, two-three—a flash of light and puff of smoke caught the corner of her eye and she glanced behind her.

  The moth had blundered into the candle after all.

  Chapter 8

  Like many of his sex, Gil was rendered instantly helpless by feminine tears. He thumped his sister’s shoulder clumsily. "Buck up, old thing. I daresay you haven’t made a complete fool of yourself."

  Tish snatched the handkerchief out of her brother’s pocket and, with an unintelligible exclamation, buried her face in it. He watched, very ill-at-ease, as she restlessly paced the tiny balcony. There were a row of these along the length of the ballroom at Alverstoke House, and, at the first sign that Tish’s emotions threatened to make them both conspicuous, he had thrust his sister hastily through the velvet draperies masking the entrance to this one. Although the windows had been thrown wide to permit the marquis’s guests to avail themselves of these retreats, the balconies were clearly intended by their designer to be more decorative than useful. A short stroll, or even a thorough escape from the ballroom, was unobtainable here. Light and music, both muffled, still reached them through the thick swaths of drapery behind them.

  "Men!" uttered Tish at last, in accents of loathing.

  This struck Gil as an incomprehensible change of subject. He seized on it, therefore, with relief. "We’re not such a bad lot, really," he said cheerfully. "Many of us are thoroughly decent chaps."

  Her face emerged from the depths of white linen long enough to cast her brother a glance of pity and scorn. "You are complete rotters!"

  Gil was startled. "Who? Me?"

  Tish swept her hand in a tragic, comprehensive gesture. "All of you. You are all alike! I daresay if you were not my brother, you would treat me as shabbily as all the rest."

  Gil thought it best to quell his natural impulse to argue with her. She was clearly beyond the reach of reason. He held his tongue, therefore, and waited in sympathetic silence for Tish to tell him what, in God’s name, was wrong. For the next minute or so, however, all she did was sniffle and brood.

  Gil could stand it no more. "What, in God’s name, is wrong?" he demanded.

  She shook her head woefully. "You wouldn’t understand."

  "I understand that you are behaving like a widgeon! Which I know you are not," he added hastily, as Tish rounded on him. "Now, come on, Tish—there’s a good girl! Tell us what’s the matter, won’t you? It can’t be anything I said. I only recommended that you stop tying your garter in public."

  "Why should you care?" cried Tish passionately. "It doesn’t matter what I do. Nothing matters any more. I might as well be dead!"

  "Oh, here, I say—!" Gil was genuinely shocked.

  "I told you you wouldn’t understand." She slumped in defeat. A shiver, whether of cold or despair, wracked her slender person.

  Gil placed a brotherly arm around her shoulders and silently hugged her. He searched his mind for something comforting to say, but felt himself to be at a disadvantage; he hadn’t a clue what was causing his sister’s disproportionate misery. So he swiftly examined his recollection of the events leading up to this scene, trying to discover what, exactly, had set her off.

  He had wrested her from her paramour’s arms, but that had only annoyed her. He had then read her a stern and brotherly lecture. That had naturally infuriated her, but not to the point where she had lost control. If anything, she appeared to have expected it. But then he had threatened to tell her husband of her misconduct. Aha. That was the moment when her face had started to crumple, and he had thrust her out onto the balcony.He glanced speculatively down at the woebegone creature huddled in the circle of his arm. "Never mind, Tish," he said kindly. "I won’t tell Robert. But you’ll have to keep Rival at arms’ length from now on. I wouldn’t say a word to you if it wasn’t important, you know; I’ve never been one to meddle. But this game will ruin you, sure as check, if you don’t put a stop to it."

  To his consternation, her tears immediately welled up again. "You may as well tell Robert. It won’t make a particle of difference."

  "Now, that’s where you’re wrong," he said firmly. "Robert’s not the sort of care-for-nobody who will let his wife run wild, making her name a by-word and him a laughingstock! You may count yourself fortunate that your husband is still in the dark. I know you fancy yourself to be up to all the rigs, but you’re not. There’s a deal you don’t know about men, Tish, and this in particular is a subject that was omitted from your education! If he gets wind of this escapade, little sister, you’ll find yourself at point non-plus."

  "Oh, it’s not fair!" exclaimed Tish.

  "Fair or unfair, that’s the way of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if Robert bundled you off to the country, or sent you on a long visit to that harpy with the poodle—you know the one I mean. In Bath."

  Tish shuddered again. "Aunt Honoria."

  "That’s the one. She’s the very reason men have aunts in Bath, Tish. Gives us someone to send our erring wives to."

  She greeted this sally with a faint smile, but it faded immediately. "If he sends me away, it won’t matter where he sends me. That will be the end," she whispered bleakly. "The end of everything."

  The depth of her unhappiness was unsettling. Lord Rival had obviously stolen too much of Tish’s heart, if the thought of being sent away from him, no matter where, plunged her into such despair. "Damnation!" muttered Gil. "Does he matter that much to you, Tish?"

  She nodded miserably.

  "Think of your own little Bobby," he urged her. "Think of your family, and your friends, and all the people who care for you and hold you in esteem. Think of Chloe. Think of me! Why, there are any number of people who have your best interests at heart. Lord Rival ain’t among them."

  "I suppose that’s true," she said listlessly. "But George makes me feel—oh, I can’t explain it to you, Gil. I know there is really nothing in it. But he makes me feel like a—like a woman."

  Gil was so relieved to hear her say there was nothing in it, he scarcely cared what she meant by her last remark. "That’s the dandy!" he said approvingly. "Now you’re seeing more clearly, what? A woman. Aye, and likely to remain so."Tish gave a rather watery chuckle. "You have no idea what I mean, do you?"

  "No, and I don’t care to," admitted Gil, grinning. "If some chap made me feel like a woman, I’d be more likely to darken his daylights than weep over him."

  Tish giggled a little, but then shivered violently. Gil frowned. "You’re going to catch your death, out here in the nig
ht air wearing next to nothing. Mop your cheeks; we’re going back in."

  After mendaciously assuring her that no one would guess for a moment that she had been crying, and reluctantly accepting the return of his damp handkerchief, Gil succeeded in shepherding Tish back into the ballroom. She was hailed with delight by a group of young men standing nearby, which seemed to lift her spirits somewhat. When they started teasing her about going out on the balcony with her own brother, arguing about which of them should have the privilege of escorting her back onto the balcony, and begging her for dances, she visibly brightened. Gil, satisfied that Tish would survive the evening without a return to the slough of despond, wandered off to see what had become of Chloe. He felt a pang of guilt at leaving her alone, even in such a good cause. The poor girl must have found herself among the wallflowers.

  The ballroom seemed even more crowded than it had when he and Tish had left the room a few minutes ago. Between the throng of persons on the floor, and the massive bouquets of flowers packed into every nook and cranny, Gil wondered how it was possible to find space to dance. It would be useless to search for diminutive Chloe until the music had ended.

  As he leaned against a column, idly watching the scene and calculating how much longer it might be before supper was served, he was brought up short by the sight of his supposed fiancee—the girl who had refused to dance with strangers—the girl who had hesitated to dance the waltz with him—waltzing breezily by in the arms of Lord Rival.

  Gil was stunned by the violence of the emotions that gripped him at the sight. He glimpsed them only for an instant: Chloe, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed, looking prettier than he had ever seen her, and Lord Rival smiling lazily down at his partner as he swept her round in a circle. Then they vanished from sight among the multitude. But it seemed to Gil that the image had been burned into his brain.

  For a moment he forgot where he was. A loud and furious oath escaped his lips, startling a nearby dowager into spilling her punch. She turned to favor Gil with her opinion of his language, but he was off, striding heedlessly through the groups of chattering people as if he would mow them down in his haste.He soon realized the futility of attempting to chase the dancing couple, especially since he had no notion where they had gone. He halted in his tracks, therefore, breathing hard through clenched teeth. It seemed that a red miasma clouded his vision. He was struggling to recover some semblance of control when he became aware of a jocular voice hailing him.