Falling for Chloe

by Farr, Diane

  Their progress was impeded by the throng of chattering guests. Chloe was too short to see her way through the crowd and had, perforce, to follow Jack’s lead. As he propelled her determinedly forward, a pair of elegantly-clad legs materialized before her, stepping into her path and causing her to halt. She looked up and met Lord Rival’s smiling eyes. It seemed her heart skipped a beat. A wavering smile came to her own face, unbidden.

  "Miss Littlefield, your servant," said Rival easily, somehow managing to bow as though there were no surrounding crowd to hamper his movements. Chloe dipped a small, demure curtsey. She felt Jack’s arm stiffen beneath her fingertips, but he exchanged nods with Lord Rival quite civilly.

  "How d’ye do? Pleasant evening, what?" said Jack hastily. "Daresay the programme will begin at any moment. You’ll excuse us, my lord? Must find a seat for Miss Littlefield, you know!"

  "I have done so," said Lord Rival. He smiled kindly at Jack. "Very good of you to offer your assistance, but quite unnecessary. You may relinquish her to me, now." He nodded a friendly dismissal.

  Jack was clearly nonplussed by these masterful tactics. Chloe had to bite back a laugh. Really, George was the most complete hand!

  Jack spluttered for a moment, then succeeded in saying sarcastically, "I did not know Miss Littlefield was in your charge, sir!"

  "I am not," said Chloe calmly. She peeped naughtily up at Lord Rival, waiting to see how he would handle that. She felt quite certain that he would win the battle, with or without her assistance.

  She was not disappointed. Appreciative laughter lit his eyes, and his mouth quirked at her. Then he turned back to Mr. Crawley, the picture of polite boredom. "She was not," he said. "She is now." And with the blandest of smiles, Lord Rival reached out and detached Chloe’s hand from Jack’s outraged arm. Nodding carelessly over his shoulder at poor Mr. Crawley, Lord Rival tucked Chloe’s hand into his own elbow and walked off with her.

  She looked back guiltily at Jack, offering him a little moue of apology. After all, it would have been most undignified for her to resist Lord Rival’s audacious action. She saw Mr. Crawley for a moment, looking both indignant and chagrined, and then the crowd cut off her view. Chloe turned to her new partner and rapped him smartly on the forearm with her fan.

  "That was too bad of you," she told him.

  His eyes gleamed wickedly. "I am yours to command. Shall I restore you to your spindleshanked admirer? Say the word, and I will do so."

  The bubble of laughter she had been repressing broke, and she giggled. "No, pray do not! I had no notion how to escape his clutches, and really, I do hate to encourage him. It is the oddest thing, for of course he knows I am engaged to Gil, but he will hang about! I cannot understand it."

  "Can you not? I can."

  "Really?" She looked up at him in surprise, meaning to inquire, but her questions died on her lips. What she saw in George’s face almost seemed to stop her breath. She stared, thrilled and astonished, at the tender smile playing round Lord Rival’s mouth and the hunger in his eyes.

  "You may have noticed that I, too, am hanging about," he said softly. "Perhaps Mr. Crawley can no more help himself than I can."

  Confusion rushed through her. She tore her gaze away, disturbed by what she feared his meaning was. And yet, it was irresistibly exciting to think she might have—was it possible?—captured the heart of the elusive Lord Rival. Her first, ignoble, thought was a triumphant: Take that, Sylvester Gilliland! But Chloe’s thoughts jumbled chaotically as she tried frantically to think what her response ought to be. It was difficult to keep in mind what the purpose of all this flirtation originally had been. What on earth should she do?

  Fortunately, it was not necessary to immediately respond. They had now reached the seats that he had reserved for them and she had to bow to the persons in the neighboring chairs, see to the disposition of the diaphanous folds of her evening shawl, and otherwise busy herself in preparations for the upcoming entertainment.

  She sat through the first portion of the musicale with an interested, attentive smile pasted on her face and her ears hearing none of it. She was acutely aware of Lord Rival’s sleeve beside her bare arm, and his muscular thigh less than an inch from her silk-covered knee. In an agony of attraction and apprehension, she struggled unsuccessfully to sort through her own feelings. It was almost a relief when, at the first interval, he whispered to her that he had promised to speak to a friend and, with every appearance of reluctance, excused himself. His gaze lingered on her before he walked away, and he gave her a hot, secret smile that brought the color into her cheeks. But then he was gone, and Chloe was at leisure to compose herself.

  She fell into conversation with the elderly lady seated directly in front of her, and had nearly recovered her equilibrium when Jack Crawley intruded. He gave her a look filled with reproach, and seemed quite aggrieved. As soon as the dowager’s attention was claimed by another, Chloe made haste to soothe Mr. Crawley’s ruffled feelings.

  "Mr. Crawley, I believe you may have misinterpreted my actions," she began, contrition in her voice.

  "No," he said unexpectedly. "Gil told me what you were about. Throwing yourself at Lord Rival—a deuced silly thing to do! Tell you what, Miss Littlefield: if you and Gil don’t wish to marry, you needn’t go to such lengths. There are other ways to escape the obligation."

  She almost gasped aloud in surprise. "You—you knew? I did not realize you were so deep in Gil’s confidence."

  "Oh, aye. He told me of it before he ever introduced me to you." Jack was still quivering with injured feelings. "I offered to court you instead, but anyone can see you’ve a preference for that rapscallion Rival." He shook his head in disgust. "Don’t know what all the ladies see in him, upon my soul! I may not be a handsome chap, but at least I don’t try to tumble every wench I see!" A look of horror suddenly engulfed Jack’s features. He turned beet red and floundered in a morass of stammered apologies. "Speaking to a lady!" he gasped. "Forgot!"

  But Chloe’s stunned expression was not due to maidenly embarrassment. Her fingers clenched numbly on her fan. How many other people knew that her engagement was a sham? Was that Gil’s way of scotching it—simply telling everyone in town that he did not wish to marry her? A blush of mortification stained her face, and a lump of tears rose up to choke her. Why did Gil not tell her that he had set Jack on to court her? Was he determined to make her look a complete fool? She wished there were somewhere she could go to have a good cry.

  There was not, of course. She stared fiercely at the back of the chair in front of her, gulping deep draughts of air and fighting to control herself. Beside her, Jack sank miserably onto the next chair and clumsily patted her hand, apologizing disjointedly until she wanted to scream.

  Then someone was bending over her, his voice warm with concern. "Miss Littlefield, are you all right?"

  She looked dazedly up into the face of Robert Dalrymple. Surprise drove her tears away. "Mr. Dalrymple! I did not know you were here."

  "I have only just arrived. But really, Miss Littlefield, you do not look well. Have you the headache? Ought I to take you home?"

  Mr. Crawley had risen, and was standing unhappily by. Now he said eagerly, "Aye, that may be just the thing. A good idea, what?"

  "Oh, no—no," said Chloe faintly. Her eyes pleaded with Robert. "I think, perhaps, I should like a little air."

  He immediately offered his arm and she rose to take it. "Mr. Crawley, I wish you a very good evening," she said, by way of dismissal. He seemed so relieved that she was not giving him the cut direct, he bowed with considerable poise. Then Robert was escorting her toward the French windows at the side of the room.

  "Thank you," she told him, with real gratitude. "I feel better already." She would not think of Gil, she promised herself. She took a deep breath, and smiled.

  A slight smile answered hers. "You look better," he admitted.

  He seemed so approachable that Chloe plucked up her courage and asked, if not the question clamori
ng most loudly for her attention, at least a question she would be glad to have answered. "Did Tish know you were coming? She did not mention it to me."

  She watched his face curiously. It seemed to her that his color heightened a trifle. "I was not intending to come, or I would have escorted you. But I thought—I thought I might show a little interest in—in the sorts of entertainment my wife enjoys. For a change."

  She thought she understood him, and gave him a warm smile. "I am sure she will be very, very pleased to see you."

  "I hope so," he said, his voice a little strained. Then he held the door open for her, and together they passed out into the coolness of the night.

    

  Lord Rival strolled idly about the room, inwardly calculating how much longer it might take him to steal Chloe’s heart. He was fairly pleased with the results of tonight’s labors. He’d bet a pony that Chloe had no idea whether she had just listened to a set of operatic arias or a concert upon the pianoforte. She had sat beside him, all aquiver, with the color in that exquisite little face of hers fluctuating delightfully throughout the entire first half of the programme. He had obviously cast her into a complete flutter.

  She would have to love him, of course, or she would never do anything so outrageous as to break her engagement to a respectable young man. A young man she apparently held in considerable affection, too. And thank God for it, he thought, stifling a yawn. Otherwise there’d be so little challenge involved in winning her, the courtship would be a complete bore.

  Well, almost a complete bore, he amended, recalling the times when she had made him laugh with her quaint mixture of innocence and sauciness. She even showed flashes of wit from time to time. And she would doubtless improve with age. A pity she wouldn’t grow any taller, but that could not be helped.

  Ah, there was Tish. He placed himself by a branch of candles at the edge of the room and waited for her to see him. Finally her eyes flicked toward him, and he saw them light up. He grinned and winked at her. Predictably, she blushed. He strolled over to her group and engaged in a little desultory conversation with the cluster of idiots exposing their ignorance by voicing their puerile opinions of the musicians, the composer, and the state of modern music. Then he neatly detached Tish from their midst and piloted her out the nearest door.

  She laughed up at him. "What is your hurry, George?"

  "The interval won’t last forever, my sweet."

  They had stepped through some French windows onto a stone-paved terrace. His practiced gaze swept the darkness, ensuring they were quite alone. Then he drew Tish close to him and bent to kiss her. She immediately stiffened and pulled away as she always did, murmuring something inaudible. He quelled his irritation with an effort.

  "Tish," he whispered, lightly stroking her bare arm. "Why do you deny me? Don’t you trust me, my darling?" He bent to her lips again, but she turned her face so his mouth glanced along her cheek.

  "It’s not that I don’t trust you," she said breathlessly, and gave a completely unconvincing giggle. "Although I suppose I shouldn’t trust you, should I? Everyone tells me you are a—a rake."

  His hand made soothing little circular motions against the small of her back. "It’s the garnets, isn’t it," he said ruefully. "I ought never to have accepted that stake."

  She gave an unhappy little shrug. "It was I who wagered them," she said listlessly.

  He thought swiftly. Yes, it was worth the gamble. He cradled her chin in the warm palm of his hand and said, with all the seriousness he could muster, "It was wrong of me to take them. Shall I give them back to you? Let me, Tish. They are not worth one moment of distrust between us."

  He had no power to restore her garnets, since he had already sold them, but his luck held. As he had hoped, relief rushed into her face and she relaxed against him. "Oh, thank you, George," she said gratefully. "I couldn’t possibly accept them, but thank you. Thank you for offering. I own, it did make me feel a little—oh, I don’t know what! Suspicious of you, I am afraid." She was blushing again. "How silly of me! I lost them fairly, after all. But it means a great deal to me, to know that you did not wish to take advantage of me."

  "Take advantage of you!" he exclaimed, folding her tenderly in his arms. "Certainly not."

  God help him. What a scoundrel he had become. What a worthless, disgusting, lying blackguard. He turned his face toward the darkness so she could not see his expression of self-loathing.

  A bar of light streamed across the terrace, but with his face toward the garden George did not immediately see its source. It was Tish wrenching herself violently out of his arms that caused him to turn, startled. There, framed in the lit French window behind them, and rigid with shock, stood Robert Dalrymple and Chloe Littlefield.

  Chapter 15

  For a moment the four of them stood like so many waxworks. Then Tish soundlessly crumpled onto the pavement. In a flash, Mr. Dalrymple was at her side, kneeling on the cold stone and lifting her limp head to cradle it against his lap. His face was pale with anguish, but not as pale as hers. Tish looked like death.

  George stood, bemusedly watching. He could feel the danger in the moment, but for once it failed to stimulate him. There was nothing thrilling about this adventure. It was sordid, shameful, and entirely of his own making. If Robert Dalrymple wished to put a bullet through him some gray dawn, George could hardly blame him. Would not, in fact, blame him.

  "Tish," said Robert hoarsely. "Tish." He chafed his wife’s lifeless hands.

  Tish gave a low moan and turned her face into her husband’s waistcoat. George watched, feeling oddly detached, as Tish’s eyes fluttered open. She weakly turned her head to stare dazedly into her husband’s strained, white face. "Robert," she whispered. Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, God!"

  Her sobbing cry was both prayerful and despairing. It seemed torn from the depths of her soul. She covered her face with hands that were visibly shaking. The scene was too intimate, and far too painful, to continue watching. It would take more than a fainting spell to heal this marriage. Robert still held his wife, but his body was rigid with rejection and affront. This would be no sentimental, all-is-forgiven reunion. George averted his eyes.

  They fell on Chloe. She was standing, just as he was, exactly where she had been when Tish swooned. The light from the room behind her outlined her petite form and made a halo of her pale ringlets. Her blue eyes were huge with shock as she gazed at the Dalrymples. She looked like a cherub horrified by its first glimpse of evil.

  Well. Here was another problem he must address. Was there any dignified way to approach it? He thought for a moment, and decided there was not.

  He had always been lucky, but there was not enough luck in the world to salvage his embryonic courtship of Miss Littlefield from the wreckage that lay at his feet. It would take a miracle. Under the circumstances, he did not expect divine intervention on his behalf.

  As if feeling his eyes upon her, Chloe turned her head slightly and looked at him. There was something chilling in her gaze, although her expression did not alter. It took him a moment to recognize what it was, and then it hit him—for the first time, she looked at him without desire. There was no spark of attraction, nor even friendship. She simply looked at him, and waited.

  He approached her, feeling almost diffident. It was strange to have a woman look at him so gravely. He cleared his throat. "Miss Littlefield, I believe I owe you an explanation."

  "No. I don’t think you can explain this." Her tone was polite. He had rather she showed a little emotion. Even anger would give him something to work with. But she remained perfectly composed, gazing levelly at him with that bone-freezing lack of interest.

  There it went. Poof. There should have been a whiff of smoke or a clap of thunder to mark its passage. He saw, in her complete withdrawal, the utter ruination of his hopes. He would have to chalk her off his list of heiresses. There would be no wooing of Chloe Littlefield, at least not by this sorry excuse for a suitor.

  An i
ronic smile twisted his lips, and he bowed deeply. There was nothing whatsoever to say. He glanced once more at Robert and Tish, who still formed a tableau of misery on the terrace pavement behind him, and mentally drew a line through Tish’s name as well.

  Should he stay, and allow Robert Dalrymple to call him out? No. He probably could not do so, in the presence of ladies. Besides, it was rather late in the day for George to start acting the part of an honorable man.

  "Nevertheless," he said quietly, "I offer my apologies. Inadequate as they doubtless are. I shall not inflict my presence on you further." He bowed again, hesitating, but no one moved or spoke to him. He left.

  Some of the color had returned to Tish’s face, although she still huddled on the pavement, a portrait of grief. Robert held her stiffly, looking as if he would like very much to drop her. It was all so frightful, Chloe felt she had stumbled into a nightmare. She heard footsteps behind her and turned, trying to shield Robert and Tish from whoever was coming through the door. But it was a footman, coming to close the open window before the musical entertainment resumed. He looked very much astonished by the scene that met his gaze.

  "Mrs. Dalrymple was overcome by the heat," said Chloe swiftly. "Could you fetch us some help, please?"

  It was a silly thing to say, since there was no heat to speak of. The footman, however, was well-trained. He immediately bowed, his features expressing appropriate concern, and vanished to bring assistance. Chloe crossed to her friends.

  "They will be on us at any moment," she said in a low voice. "Tish, you must try to get up now."

  Robert said nothing. He appeared to be containing his emotions by keeping his lips firmly shut. He rose, however, and helped Tish to her feet. She staggered a little, but Chloe quickly slipped an arm around Tish’s waist. Tish collapsed against her, her head on Chloe’s shoulder. Robert made no move to take his wife from Chloe, but stood like a statue while Chloe made soothing noises and encouraged Tish to stand. Fortunately, the footman reappeared, bringing reinforcements in the form of two stout underlings.