by Ruth Axtell
Her breast rose and fell in hypnotic cadence with St. Leger’s touch.
“Do you like that?”
“Mm,” was all she could manage.
His fingers moved downward to her jaw, cupping it and drawing her closer.
She stood transfixed, never having experienced a man’s touch like this. Rees had only ever briefly taken her hand. Her body wanted to sway toward St. Leger’s warm touch. She didn’t know whether it was the effects of the champagne or her own desire to be held.
A distant alarm sounded in the recesses of her mind, but it was too far away to heed.
With an impatient sigh, Lancelot put his spectacles back on, needing to see more clearly since he’d been unable to spot Miss Barry by the color of her dress alone—a dress cut scandalously low and of a deep amber usually reserved for married ladies.
His concern had deepened ever since Mr. Phillips approached them. Lancelot had observed the conversation between him and Miss Barry. He’d sensed an undercurrent between the two from the moment Miss Barry opened her mouth. The longer he stood there, the greater his conviction grew. When Mr. Phillips asked her to dance, it struck Lancelot then by the look in Miss Barry’s eyes. She was in love with him.
He wondered if the feeling was returned but could detect nothing more than brotherly affection in Mr. Phillips’s look and tone.
With his spectacles on, Lancelot watched them dance, and his fears were confirmed. Though there was nothing unusual in Mr. Phillips’s conduct, Miss Barry stared up at him as if he were the only man in the room. Perhaps Lancelot was imagining it or perhaps he would have noticed nothing if he hadn’t been observing her so closely, but now it was as if blinders had been taken from his eyes and he saw the abject longing in her gaze.
It brought a strange sensation to his chest, as of losing something he’d never had. Lancelot frowned, unable to tear his gaze away. Mr. Phillips was quite a bit older than Miss Barry, he judged, over thirty, though a handsome and distinguished-looking gentleman, to her twenty or one-and-twenty. She was young enough to look up to him in admiration, Lancelot thought in growing misery.
As they danced up and down the line of dancers, promenading or holding hands, the constriction in his chest grew.
He snatched off his spectacles, tucking them back into his case, just as the dance drew to a close, even as he chided himself for his vanity.
His questions to her after the dance drew little from her. It was clear she was keeping her feelings hidden, but she hadn’t been able to mask her longing as she’d watched Mr. Phillips return to his wife.
Before Lancelot could do anything to console her, Mr. St. Leger had come to snatch her away.
Lancelot left the ballroom, disgusted with himself for wanting something—someone—clearly not meant for him.
But now as the supper hour drew near, he found himself once more searching for Miss Barry.
His concern mounted when he didn’t see her anywhere. Nor did he see Mr. St. Leger. Had she been indisposed once more?
He put his spectacles back on, not caring who saw him. Harold had left ages ago, probably to some gaming den, having told Lancelot he was on his own.
“I’ve taken you about like a child on leading strings. It’s past time you stood on your own two feet.” He laughed derisively at his pun. “Make love to any one of those frippery young misses who are hanging out for a husband. The second son of a baronet is nothing to sniff at. You’ll make Mama and Papa happy.” Harold’s lips twisted in a smirk. “We are all depending on you to carry on the family line. Perhaps Rosamunde and I can adopt your firstborn if it’s a boy.”
The thought left Lancelot cold. Although the remark was uttered in jest, now that it had been voiced aloud, he had no doubt between his brother and his wife and his parents, they would not hesitate to set such a plan in motion. It was done all the time—a wealthier relative taking a poorer one’s offspring to bring up and educate, especially when the former was childless as Harold and Rosamunde were.
The thought flitted through his mind: what would Miss Barry think if she knew she had to give up her firstborn?
He pushed the nonsensical thought from his mind and continued to look for her.
By the time he had searched every floor, he wondered whether Miss Barry could have gone outside. With Mr. St. Leger? The thought brought him to a stop, worry bringing a constriction to his chest. St. Leger had an unsavory reputation.
Determination edged with desperation filled him as he headed for the ground floor.
The back of the house led to the service stairs. But an opened door revealed a drawing room facing the rear. He was not the only person seeking the outdoors. He followed a couple who headed to the terrace through a pair of French doors.
Once he stood outside, Lancelot paused a moment, adjusting his eyes to the darkness. With the light from the torches as well as that spilling from all the windows above, he made out several people milling about the formal gardens. He walked down the steps, his eyes scanning the area.
He discerned a couple half hidden behind a yew hedge. The gown was the amber shade of Miss Barry’s, and the man was certainly tall enough to be St. Leger.
He hurried across the garden, his alarm and anger growing as he saw how closely the man stood by her. By the time Lancelot drew near, the man had bent his head as if he were on the verge of kissing her.
Lancelot took a step forward and cleared his throat. “Miss Barry?”
She jumped away as if he’d shouted at her. St. Leger straightened more slowly and finally turned an eye toward Lancelot. “Marfleet? What the deuce are you doing, startling the lady like this?”
“I should say rather what are you doing bringing the young lady to such a secluded spot?” Lancelot answered shortly.
St. Leger evinced no contrition. “The lady felt the need of some air. I was merely obliging her.”
Lancelot ground his teeth at the faint mockery in his tone. He forced his attention to Miss Barry. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I am fine now.”
“May I escort you back inside?”
She looked from one to the other, as if unsure what to say.
Lancelot took another step forward, offering his arm. “May I? Supper is being served.”
St. Leger stepped back with a flourish. “By all means, Sir Lancelot, do escort the lady to her supper.”
Ignoring the nickname he’d endured since his public school days, when he’d stuck up for the younger and weaker, Lancelot tucked Miss Barry’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her from the secluded spot. St. Leger’s low laughter followed them.
He said nothing until they were both in the drawing room. Thankful that no one was in the room, he disengaged himself from her. “It was not prudent to go with Mr. St. Leger outside.”
She stepped away from him, her green eyes snapping. “It is not your concern, Mr. Marfleet. Were you following me again?”
“I was worried when I didn’t see you or St. Leger anywhere.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with maligning someone’s character. “He has a certain reputation.”
“I’ll thank you to stay out of my business. Do you think you have an interest in my affairs because you—you rescued my belongings?” She clutched at her necklace. Suddenly she reached behind her and began to unclasp it. “If that is the case, you can have it back until I can redeem it myself!”
“I don’t want it back!” Seeing she continued to struggle with the clasp, he was forced to take her forearms and bring them down to her sides.
She glared up at him, her breathing hard, her green eyes shooting sparks at him.
He forgot all those things in the feel of her, her proximity reminding him of their waltz. This was a hundred times worse, his chest almost touching hers, his hands grasping her wrists.
With effort he let her go and stepped away, his own breathing uneven. “Keep your necklace. It has nothing to do with my concern.” His glance descended from her face. “If you persist in dre
ssing like a Cyprian and going off with men like St. Leger, you’ll need more than me watching over you.”
She sucked in her breath. The next second her hand came up, and he received a resounding slap across the cheek. He stepped back from the shock, his hand going to his stinging cheek.
They stared at one another. She seemed as shocked as he by her action.
“If you will excuse me,” she said in shaky tones and turned on her heel, leaving him nursing his cheek.
As frustrated and angry with himself as with her, he wished he could smash something. Before he could do anything, the door from the terrace opened and St. Leger entered.
Seeing Lancelot alone, he lifted a black eyebrow. “The lady didn’t appreciate your role of knight errant, I presume?”
“You were taking advantage of a well-brought-up young lady.”
St. Leger leaned against the glass panes of the door and examined his fingernails. “The lady is old enough to know what she wants.”
“That is unworthy of you.”
A slow smile curved his lips. “I realize you are suffering a bout of jealousy and perhaps covetousness, which you must control, Reverend Marfleet, but I insist, the lady was in no danger. I could hardly ravish her in so public a place.”
“And if the next place is not so public?”
St. Leger shrugged a shoulder. “I cannot answer for hypotheticals.” With a small salute, he straightened and walked toward the door opposite. “If you will excuse me, I must go in to supper. I find my appetite is unsatisfied . . .”
Jessamine reentered the ballroom, not knowing what she should do. She felt humiliated twice over. The conversation between Céline and Rees was bad enough but to be found by Mr. Marfleet and then pulled away as if she were a child!
Her face burned, wondering if Mr. St. Leger would have kissed her if they hadn’t been interrupted. What would she have done? She didn’t know.
Putting her quizzing glass up to her eye, she scanned the ballroom, searching to see if Rees or Céline were anywhere, and felt relieved when she didn’t see them. In truth, most people had left the ballroom to go in to supper.
“Are you ready to face the hordes at the supper table?”
She jumped at the sound at her shoulder then turned in relief, recognizing Mr. St. Leger’s voice. “Perhaps not, but I wouldn’t mind some refreshment.”
He eyed her with amusement. “Refreshment it will be.”
He led her to the supper room, and she resisted the urge to look back to see if Mr. Marfleet had followed her. She would not let him dictate her behavior. And she would show Rees that she was well over her childhood dreams.
By the time she left the ball that evening, she had agreed to another ride with Mr. St. Leger the following day.
Lancelot spent the morning closeted in his room, staring at his botanical notes. He had a stack of watercolors Delawney had completed, and he needed to compile the descriptions that went with each one.
After last night, he had decided to forget about females for a while, particularly one infuriating, green-eyed vicar’s daughter who was determined to harm herself. If she didn’t know better at twenty, then he washed his hands of her.
This didn’t mean he hadn’t prayed for her last night and again this morning. Only God could show her the folly of her ways and set her on the right path before it was too late.
He had seen too many of St. Leger’s types through his years at school to have any illusions about his intentions. He didn’t know him too well, but he had seen him often enough when he’d sought Harold out at his clubs and gaming dens.
Another wastrel, spending his parents’ money, he concluded. What mystified him was the attention he was giving Miss Barry. Those types usually confined their conquests to actresses and ballet dancers or lowborn shopgirls who had no one to look out for them.
Unless . . . St. Leger thought Miss Barry had no one to defend her, being far from home with only an older, somewhat scatterbrained godmother to protect her.
St. Leger’s words came back to him. His blood ran cold at the blatant mockery in them.
But if she repudiated Lancelot’s help, there was little he could do. Maybe he could talk to Delawney and ask her help. She’d probably balk and want to know why. He was reluctant to expose his interest in Miss Barry, since he didn’t understand his feelings himself.
Praying for guidance, he sat staring out his window, his botanical notes forgotten.
Megan came to visit Jessamine the next morning. Jessamine had slept late, since she hadn’t gotten to bed until almost dawn. She was still in her room, just finishing her toilette, when Megan knocked on her door.
“Good morning, I hope I’m not too early,” she said, peering around the door.
Jessamine twisted in her seat. “Nonsense. But I’m surprised to see you. I would have imagined you still abed like any good member of the fashionable world.”
“I guess my good bourgeois habits have not left me,” she answered with a sunny smile, coming to sit on Jessamine’s bed.
“Did you have a good evening?” Jessamine asked, continuing to arrange her hair.
“Very nice, thank you. I must admit, having Céline and Rees for sister and brother opens many doors. Rees has many acquaintances at the Foreign Office, and since he is a junior secretary to Wellington, it is like waving a magic wand; everyone comes flocking at the name of the Iron Duke. And Céline—well, you’d never known she’d been gone from London. She is as sought after as ever.” Megan’s eyes shone. “That is one reason I’ve come to visit you so early.”
Jessamine looked at her friend’s reflection in the mirror, her hands suspended on her coiffure. “What has happened?”
“Céline insists on giving me a ball to signal my coming out. She says I need an official event, since I cannot be presented at court.” She made a face. “My poor papa being in trade. That means vouchers to Almack’s are also beyond my reach. Without those, I may as well be invisible to society.”
Before Jessamine could express her sorrow, Megan laughed. “Céline says this silliness doesn’t exist in Paris. Anyone with style is admitted to the best hôtels. But that is neither here nor there. Céline has convinced Rees that a ball in my honor is the only remedy.”
Megan sat back with satisfaction. “She is sure if Lady Jersey or one of the other patronesses of Almack’s has a chance to see me—or us, I should say—she will want to issue us vouchers.”
Jessamine turned around to face her friend, unsure how she felt about the news. “My goodness, I’m happy for you.”
Megan’s smile only broadened. “Didn’t you hear me? After Céline managed to convince Rees that she was perfectly fit to plan a ball, I ventured to suggest that perhaps the two of us could be presented together.”
Jessamine’s mouth fell open. “You didn’t!” Dismay filled her at the thought of being helped by Rees’s wife yet again.
Megan nodded vigorously. “You heard me. How would you like a massive ball in your honor with all the best of society in attendance?”
“Haven’t we attended a couple already?” she said, stalling for time.
“Yes, but as nobodies. Here, we shall be the center of attention.” She beamed at her.
Jessamine began shaking her head. “I . . . I couldn’t possibly.” To be beholden to Céline! The humiliation would be too great. “Rees is right; it’s too much for his wife to take on two young ladies. Be happy that she is doing this for you. You can invite me, of course,” she added with a smile to offset any suspicion that it was because the dance would be hosted by Rees’s wife.
“Oh no you don’t.” Megan came to stand over her. “You are going to appear with me and that is final!” A smile took away the menace from her words.
“I am going to run out of ball gowns to so many exalted events,” Jessamine said, turning back to her mirror.
“That’s all right. Céline says she has a niece through her late husband, the earl. She was presented two seasons ago and has a heap
of ball gowns I am to look through. She has put them at our disposal since she has no need of them now.”
“I couldn’t possibly. I don’t know her, and more importantly, she doesn’t know me.”
“Of course you may. Céline says we are of similar height and build to Kimberley—Lady Huntingfield now. Céline is visiting her this morning to explain the situation.”
Jessamine looked at her in dismay. “That’s awful. To have someone lend us her gowns out of pity. What if someone recognizes them on us?”
“We can alter them. Besides, I doubt if anyone would remember them from two seasons ago.” When she saw Jessamine’s lips firm and her head begin to shake, she took her hands in hers. “Please, say yes. Céline is bringing her best modiste to see the gowns after we’ve tried them on. She will suggest all kinds of ways to change them. We can do most of the work ourselves. Céline says we are doing her a favor by keeping her mind on this. She’s very worried about Rees returning to Brussels. The latest word is Napoleon has left Paris.”
Jessamine scanned her friend’s face, her objections appearing petty. “Must Rees return?”
Meg nodded sadly. “Yes, he is needed. He leaves tomorrow. I promised him I’d do everything I could to keep Céline occupied—without tiring her out, of course. And he truly doesn’t mind having Céline plan a ball for me. He has left me money for a new ball gown, as a matter of fact. He feels he’s neglected me since he left for France. Of course I told him that was absurd, but he truly wished to give me this.”
Jessamine squeezed her friend’s hands. “Of course he did. Will this dressmaker design it?”
She nodded.
“How exciting. Have you met anyone you fancy at any of the events we’ve attended thus far?” She’d been too caught up in her own affairs to notice if anyone had begun to pursue her friend.
“Not yet.” She laughed. “I may spend my entire season not meeting anyone and go back home and marry one of the gentlemen I’ve danced with at the local assemblies. Wouldn’t that be ironic?” She tilted her head, pursing her lips. “Although Mr. Seymour is very nice and Mr. Crofton has a pleasing manner,” she said, mentioning some of her dance partners. She focused back on Jessamine. “What about you? Mr. St. Leger continues attentive?”