“By Jove, but you look superb, Miss Preston,” he said. “You will dance tonight, won’t you?” he asked, his adoring gaze indicating he meant for Fenella to dance with him.
“Naturally Fenella must dance tonight,” replied the Dowager. “I won’t have such a beautiful young woman sitting around like a wallflower.”
“Of course not,” breathed Freddie, “not while she looks so splendid. Doesn’t she look magnificent, Dev?” He turned to his friend for corroboration.
Devlin murmured something non-committal and said, “Mama, I think we must attend upon our guests.”
Suddenly Fenella was swept up into the swirling excitement of her first elegant ball. Although she had attended many official functions with her father, and was self-assured in any company, this was something different: rich, elegant, exhilarating and dazzling. She shook innumerable hands and since the Dowager kindly spared her the ignominy of being relegated to the status of companion by introducing her as a young friend, Fenella’s confidence rose. Freddie took it upon himself to be her escort and guide and she was grateful for his endless stream of chatter and inexhaustible fund of anecdotes about the various guests as they arrived.
Dinner was entertaining since Freddie had managed to secure his seat next to hers. Farther along the table, she saw Lady Penelope, her milk-white shoulders rising out of a foam of eau de nil gauze. Emeralds sparkled on her ears and round her neck and as she lifted her slender, gloved hand to place it on Devlin’s sleeve, a heavy bracelet glittered around her wrist. Although Fenella could not see the remainder of the dress, she thought to herself that it was probably as revealing as every other outfit Lady Penelope had worn while at Deverell House. However, she was too caught up in the pleasure of the occasion to spare any more thoughts for her opposition.
Protocol had prevailed in the formal place settings and guests were seated according to rank. Fenella could not see very much of Devlin since a massive silver epergne dominated the table setting and obscured their view of each other. She did notice that his attention was divided between Lady Penelope on one side, and a plump damsel in nodding ostrich plumes on the other, who kept up an inexhaustible flow of small talk to which he was obliged to respond. Fenella was kept occupied by an attentive and talkative Freddie. She thought she had never enjoyed herself so much before. Hardly had the dinner ended and the ladies been rejoined by the gentlemen, when the remainder of the guests began to arrive. The musicians struck up for the first country-dance.
Again etiquette triumphed and the ladies and gentlemen disposed themselves according to rank when it came to leading out partners. Fenella found herself claimed first by Freddie and then by a succession of likable gentlemen for the quadrille and other sets. Devlin did his duty by Lady Penelope but was saved from further efforts by a bevy of her long-time devotees who whisked her away for dance after dance. Lady Penelope, after a fleeting pang of anxiety over Devlin’s whereabouts, surrendered to male flattery and enjoyed once again being fêted and adored. She went forth into her throng of captivated admirers, with coos of pleasure and tiny shrieks of delight at their witticisms. She had one brief glimpse of Sir Marcus dancing with Fenella but he seemed to be behaving exactly as he would to any young woman.
However, when it came to timing, the Dowager was a past master. She had given instructions to the musicians: at her signal, they would strike up a waltz. Fenella returned to her side after each dance, flushed, happy and beautiful. The Dowager waved to Lady Penelope and when she arrived with an apprehensive expression, the old lady gave her a warm smile, patted her hand and asked if Lady Penelope might step into the dining room where she was sure she had left her fan. Lady Penelope, eager to win her future mother-in-law’s sympathy, fluttered off to retrieve the article and spent at least five minutes in fruitless search for it.
It was a matter of seconds for the Dowager to indicate to Devlin that she desired him at her side and another second to signal the musicians. As the strains of the waltz began, several guests exchanged startled looks. The waltz at a country ball was still considered to be quite daring. Their hostess smiled and gave a regal wave of her hand to assure the assembly that all was well.
Devlin stiffened as he heard the familiar strains. “Mama! Are you sure?”
“Tush! Of course I am. Such fun for the young people and there are no old tabbies here to pull their faces and turn up their noses.” She turned to Fenella, affecting astonishment. “And here is Miss Preston partnerless, so you may dance with her, Devlin.”
She glanced over Devlin’s shoulder and smiled sweetly.
“I’m afraid, Sir Marcus, you are a mite too late. Devlin is about to steal Miss Preston away from both of us.” She patted the chair next to her. “But you can keep an old woman company, I am sure, until Miss Preston returns to dance with you.”
The three players in the scenario had no recourse but to fall in line with the Dowager’s clever manoeuvres. Devlin swung Fenella onto the floor while Sir Marcus, hiding an ironic grin, sat down next the Dowager and engaged her in conversation. Lady Penelope, returning empty-handed, was astonished and enraged to see her purported fiancé whirling the hated rival around the floor in the intimate embrace of a waltz.
Devlin danced with skill and was surprised to find in Fenella an expert and graceful partner. “You dance very well, Miss Preston.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” was her cold reply. “I have been well taught.” She did not volunteer any further information on the subject.
They continued to dance around the room in silence. Her skin tingled where his fingers touched her flesh, and Fenella felt the familiar heady sensation of desire overpowering her. In the crush of couples, he occasionally had to pull her closer; his strong grip and masculine presence made her knees weak.
“Will you be dancing with Sir Marcus again?”
Her anger rose and dispelled the giddy sensation that was drawing her closer to him. She stiffened.
“Since I have already danced some country dances with the gentleman, as well as with Freddie and others, I see no reason not to continue to enjoy myself.”
“I am sure Sir Marcus is well versed in nocturnal pleasures for an eager young woman.”
She flinched and made as if to pull away from him. He gripped her with strong fingers and ground a warning through his teeth.
“You may do what you will in your own time, Miss Preston, but do not try to disgrace my family or me in public. I will not be embarrassed.”
Fenella stared straight into his eyes. “To experience such a feeling, Your Grace, one has to have a conscience or a sense of decency. Alas, since you are lacking in both, it seems to me highly unlikely that you would even be aware of humiliation.”
The music ended and they stepped away from each other.
“So does that mean you will continue to associate with Sir Marcus?”
Fenella was suddenly weary of everything; of the feelings she had for Devlin, of being at the ball, of the tangled web of emotions and tricks tightening ever closer around her.
“Yes, I will.” Her expression was defiant.
Devlin gave her a stiff bow and turned on his heel.
At once Sir Marcus claimed her. He had thoughtfully provided a glass of lemonade for her refreshment.
She smiled at him with genuine liking. “You are too considerate, Sir Marcus.”
“I would be enchanted to dance with you, Miss Preston, but somehow I feel you would be glad of a rest.” He indicated a small alcove, sheltered by a large potted palm. “We can sit there and be private, yet conform to the requirements of decorum, if it will please you.”
Fenella sank onto a chair and sipped the cool lemonade. Gradually her flustered thoughts and heightened emotions calmed down.
Sir Marcus took one of her hands and half-raised it to his lips. “Is there no hope for me, Miss Preston?”
Fenella gazed at him; his smile warmed her heart. She liked him. For all his bad reputation, his intelligence, his easy manner and openness were
attractive. Nevertheless, there was no love for him and she knew there could never be.
“I wish with all my heart I could like you better, Sir Marcus, but I cannot.” Her voice was soft and her tone kindly.
He raised her hand to his lips and then replaced it in her lap. “Then I am content with friendship, and if you have finished your lemonade, would be grateful for the next dance with you.”
He gave her his hand as he rose and she stood up with him, smiles wreathing her face. “Some day you will make a lady very happy.”
He shrugged.
* * * *
What neither of them noticed were the two figures of Devlin and Lady Penelope whirling past them. This was the perfect moment and Lady Penelope seized it with both hands. As Sir Marcus had raised Fenella’s hand to her lips, she remarked, “I wonder why you are so concerned with protecting that girl’s reputation when it seems to me she is giving Sir Marcus every encouragement.”
With that venomous barb, Lady Penelope sealed her future. Devlin stalked over to the musicians. With a gesture, he silenced them and addressed the astonished gathering. His expression was hard and cold, at odds with his next words.
“Dear friends, welcome. I am glad you are all here tonight, since I have a very important announcement to make. It is one many of you may have been expecting.”
His gaze turned to where Lady Penelope stood, affecting blushes and wide-eyed ignorance. He walked up to her and took her left hand. He drew off her long glove and placed the Deverell heirloom ring on her third finger.
“Tonight I would like to introduce the new Duchess of Wyndlesham.” He raised her hand to his lips.
The room was silent for a second or two, then as the musicians struck up, the crowd erupted into applause and couples merged into a swirling mass of dancing figures. The Dowager blanched. Lady Penelope was borne away in a cluster of her friends, shrieking and tittering about the news. Freddie sidled up to Devlin, who was shaking proffered hands of congratulations.
“Dev, are you mad?” Freddie’s eyes were wide with shock.
“Mad?” Devlin’s eyebrows arched. “I must marry, as you know, and Lady Penelope will do as well as any other. Mama will never forgive me if the place goes to my odious cousin Oswald and his encroaching wife Cornelia.” He gave a short bitter laugh.
As Devlin spoke, his eyes strayed to Fenella on the other side of the room. Her stricken gaze startled him.
Sir Marcus looked at Fenella. Her face was white with shock.
“Miss Preston, are you well? Can I get you anything? Perhaps you have a headache. It is extremely hot in here.”
She looked up at him in gratitude, her eyes like those of a wounded doe.
“If you would like to retire, I shall tell the Dowager you are unwell.”
She caught his hand briefly in thanks. “Would you? Thank you. I shall no doubt be better in the morning,” she stammered, “but now I …”
“Now you must leave,” he said firmly. She nodded and slipped away from the ballroom.
The Dowager saw her leave but did not attempt to stop her. Sir Marcus left as well and no one saw him exit the house. Devlin, still accepting the felicitations of his guests, only noticed much later that both Fenella and Sir Marcus had disappeared. He gave a twisted smile. Later, when his bride-to-be suggested in a seductive tone that she might visit him later, his stony stare quelled her instantly and she bade him good night with unaccustomed docility.
Chapter Seventeen
Fenella dragged herself wearily up the stairs and made her way to her room. Faithful Molly had dozed off while waiting to undress her. She woke with a start as Fenella opened the door.
“Why’re ye back so early, Miss? The music’s still playin’ so the ball’s nowhere near over.”
Her startled glance took in Fenella’s strained white face and she knew something dreadful had happened.
“Er…I suppose all the noise and the crush gave ye a bit o’ the ’eadache?”
When Fenella nodded, grateful for the excuse, Molly bustled about, undressing Fenella and muttering under her breath about getting her into bed with a nice cup of tea. Fenella’s limbs almost refused to obey her and she was like a jointed doll as Molly stripped off the ball gown, put away the jewels, brushed Fenella’s hair and finally helped her into bed. Then she hurried off to make the promised cup of tea and at the same time return the tiara to Harbottle.
Fenella sat up in bed, still numb with shock. She chided herself mentally; of course, he was going to marry Lady Vane. He had been bent on that course of action from the beginning so why did the announcement come as such a blow. She pressed her left breast. There seemed to be a dull ache there. She sat waiting for Molly. A rustling sound jerked her out of her reverie; she looked around. Surely not a mouse.
The sight of a slip of paper sliding under the door attracted her attention. Fenella got out of bed, retrieved the paper and opened the door. She looked up and down the passage; there was no one in view. Mystified, she got back into bed and unfolded the paper. The letter, written in a strong, flowing hand, was addressed to Fenella Hawke. Fenella started in surprise: who could have written it? She continued to read.
Dear Miss Hawke,
If you would like to receive further information about your family, then meet the writer of this missive at the folly, at one this morning and hear something to your advantage.
A Friend
She heard Molly outside and quickly folded the letter, slipping it into her robe pocket. Molly crept in with a cup of tea and was relieved to see Fenella looking more like herself.
“Oh, ye look so much better now,” she whispered. “Is the ’eadache gone away a bit?”
Fenella nodded and murmured her thanks, sipping the tea while Molly advised her to drink up and get to sleep right away. Then she extinguished the candle and went back to her own room.
As soon as Molly had closed the door behind her, Fenella sat bolt upright in bed and fumbled for the tinderbox. She relit the candle and retrieved the letter. She read it several times but had no clue as to the identity of the writer. Mulling various thoughts over in her mind, she concluded that it was possibly from the dark-cloaked, muffled man who had been seen in London, asking for her. He must have paid one of the footmen to deliver it.
In the excitement of the ball, she had completely forgotten about the mystery man. She had initially thought Devlin had hired someone to spy on her, trying to ferret out her family shame. Obviously, it had not been Devlin after all. But what is this all about, she wondered. Moreover, what information could there possibly be about her family that would benefit her now. A glance at the clock told her it wanted ten minutes to the hour. She hastily put on a plain black dress and drew a dark travelling cloak over her head and shoulders. She did not want to draw any attention to herself. The sounds of revelry had waned and the only noises she heard were the departures of guests who were not staying overnight. In the flurry of carriages being brought round and goodbyes at the front door, she could slip out the back way.
She escaped unseen from the house and made her way to the folly. Fenella pulled her cloak firmly about her body; she shivered with apprehension and began to regret her hasty decision to meet this strange person. It was one thing to receive a letter; it was another to go off in the middle of the night to meet an unknown man, for it was undoubtedly a man’s writing. Too late, she thought she should have armed herself with something, even just a poker. As she hastened along the path, Fenella became aware that the folly was situated in a densely wooded part of the grounds. It all seemed so different on a sunny day, quite romantic and of another age. In the darkness, it took on a foreboding aspect, more sinister and hostile.
The moonlight could not penetrate fully through the branches and Fenella could hardly make her way over the rough ground without stumbling on hidden stones. Brambles and branches clutched at her clothing like long fingers, hampering her progress. As she approached the folly, she slowed down, peering all around to see if there
was anyone waiting for her. The folly was designed in the manner of a Roman temple, comprising a circle of columns open on all sides, and roofed above. A few beams of pale moonlight filtered through the trees and faintly illuminated the edifice with a silvery glow. It was empty. She made her way to the middle of the circular floor.
“Is anyone there?” Her voice was a pitiful squeak.
A small sound behind her caused her to turn. Blackness enveloped her as someone threw a cloak over her head. Instantly Fenella swung out with her fists. She opened her mouth to scream but a huge strong hand clamped over her mouth and something solid struck her on the head. With a faint murmur of protest, she lost consciousness and sank limply into the arms of her captor. Grunting at the exertion, the burly individual hoisted her over his shoulder and made a swift exit from the folly through the undergrowth back to the road, where a carriage was waiting.
He rapped on the door, which swung open.
“All went well?” The well-bred voice came from the depths of the interior.
The brawny shape nodded. “Aaar!” pronounced his satisfaction with the train of events.
“Lay her down, there on the seat.” The brute complied.
A white hand removed the cloak and the owner perceived Fenella’s pale face and limp form. A murmur of annoyance escaped his lips. “If you have hurt her, you’ll pay for it.”
“Naah, t’was only a tap to keep ’er quiet. She’s alive,” growled the thug.
“Here is your fee, now be off.”
A small leather bag landed with a chink in the dust and the ruffian scrabbled for it. Mumbling his thanks, he touched his forehead and loped off into the night.
The Dangerous Duke Page 21