by Golden Angel
Daphne and Christina had been friends long before Daphne had married the Earl of Marley and they kept very few secrets from each other. So Daphne’s reaction to the latest arrival to the ball was very similar to Christina’s.
“Bloody hell.” Daphne breathed out the words almost like a supplication, her soft voice reaching Christina’s ears but no one else’s. Which was just as well, since her husband would have a very stern reaction to hearing his wife swearing. “Is that who I think it is?”
Christina couldn’t bring herself to answer as brown eyes, dark with emotion, scanned the ballroom and somehow managed to unerringly seek her out. Her body pulsed, her core tightened, and her breath caught. The time in Bath hadn’t been nearly as effective as she’d thought it would be.
She’d missed him.
Thought about him.
Daily at first.
But she’d managed to put those thoughts aside. Convinced herself her emotions had faded. Told herself she was remembering him as more than he was. Finally, eventually, she’d begun smiling with nostalgia. A bittersweet smile.
Bittersweet was an emotion she thought she would be able to handle when they met again.
Now, watching him descend the staircase, bittersweet was the last thing she was feeling. There was a roaring sound in her ears - she’d entirely missed him being announced. Her heart was pounding so fast it felt as though her corset could barely contain it.
His brown hair waved away from a stern face and her fingers itched to run through the strands. The dark navy superfine of his coat was neatly fitted to his body, accentuating the broad shoulders she’d spent so much time clinging to and the narrow waist her legs had spent so much time wrapped around. Well, when her limbs hadn’t been tied down.
Arousal, need, want, desire, yearning…
The sudden rush of emotions made her feel alive again, as though she’d been a seed buried underneath the earth through winter in Bath, and now that she was back in London for spring, he was both sun and water and she was coming awake again.
It made her sick.
Panic welled.
If only he wasn’t headed directly towards her, every eye flitting between him and where his relentless gaze had landed - on her. If only she could disappear, gather her defenses, and return to the battlefield. If only she could have time to grapple with her emotions, tuck them back where they belonged…
He shouldn’t even be here, she realized, her fingers gripping the fan in her lap so hard that the delicate wood creaked. An unwed gentleman of his stature, appearing at a ball this early in the Season? It wasn’t a roaring she was hearing in her ears, it was the whispers of the excited ton. Murmuring mamas, thrilled debutantes, already thinking to get their hooks in him.
Her stomach churned with sickness for an entirely different reason as jealousy speared her.
Run… she should run to Bath… but if she did so now, with nearly every eye upon her, with the way Benedict was looking directly at her, walking straight to her… it would be a scandal. Assumptions would be made. True assumptions, but still. She might not be able to make an easy return to polite society.
Although, assumptions were already going to be made, she realized, as Benedict Windham - with every eye on him watching to see exactly who the Marquess of Dearborn, brother to the Duke of Manchester, was so intent on speaking with - came to a stop in front of her chair and bowed. Beside her, Daphne tittered with a delight Christina couldn’t match.
“Lady Christina,” he said, making her want to reach out and slap him for the blatant indiscretion as he practically announced their close relationship to the eager ears crowded around them. While using her Christian name in such public surrounds would be entirely appropriate if they were close family friends or some such, using it here hinted strongly at intimacy between them. As soon as she’d separated herself from him, she’d forced herself to think of him as Dearborn rather than Benedict, although even before she’d left his bed she would never have referred to him by his Christian name in public nor encouraged him to do so. “I request a spot on your dance card.”
When she stared up at him, too stricken by conflicting emotions to move, it was Daphne who responded.
“Lady Stanhope is a widow, Dearborn, she doesn’t have a dance card,” Daphne said, emphasizing Christina’s title, although the gleeful merriment in her voice undermined any kind of real rebuke. Christina silently cursed her overeager friend.
While she loved Daphne dearly, the dratted woman had become a romantic after falling in love with her own husband, and she was determined to see Christina find the same “blissful marital happiness.” Christina, on the other hand, while thrilled her friend’s marital circumstances had turned out very differently from her own, had no interest in falling in love again.
Ever.
And especially not with a man like Benedict.
The smile curving across his face at Daphne’s response was more than a little triumphant, but didn’t quite reach his eyes. His brown eyes, which had always been so warm, were now turbulent with emotions. She wanted to look away, but it was as though he’d trapped her with his gaze somehow and she could barely even blink.
“Well then,” he said, his voice almost a purr as the first quivering notes of the violin were sounded, “I shall claim this dance for my own.”
He held out his hand.
Christina stared at the proffered hand as though it were a viper about to strike. For him to come swanning into the ball, a ball no man would attend without good reason, and come directly to her with such focus… the ton would be talking about this for days. It had all the makings of a scandal in progress. But if she didn’t take his hand, it would mark an immediate scandal. No lady, even a widowed Marchesse, publically refused the brother of a Duke something as simple as a dance without social repercussions.
Daphne elbowed her in the side and Christina jumped a little, finally jolted into movement.
She swore she felt her entire body heat when her fingers touched his, despite the gloves which prevented skin to skin contact.
******
Christina was so pale, Benedict was almost concerned. He’d almost wavered from his course, but… once set, it had been impossible to divert from unless he wanted to create even more speculation. And he was well aware he was already creating quite a bit. However, the current gossip he was stirring supported his cause.
He’d heard the adage “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” but he hadn’t realized its truth until he’d been without Christina. During their time apart he’d thought of little but her, had dreamed of her nightly, and had come to the realization that - for the first time in his life - he’d truly fallen in love. While he remembered being in love when he was younger and more inclined to such soft feelings based on his attachment and pleasure with a woman, this was different. For one, he was much older and jaded. For another, the emotions had crept up on him slowly; he hadn’t even realized how much he cared for her until he’d thought he’d lost her.
She brightened his days and his nights, but it wasn’t just her beauty or her body that he’d missed. He’d missed her conversation, her quick wit, her flashing smile, even her tiny spurts of temper. He’d missed her presence by his side, the way she leaned into him when they stood beside each other, and her hand on his arm when they walked. Several times a day he’d had a thought he wanted to share with her, a humorous moment he knew she would have appreciated, and he’d missed her with an ache that only grew with each passing day, rather than abating.
So his return to London didn’t mark his pursuit of just returning her to his bed, rather he had much more honorable intentions.
Intentions he’d just informally announced to the ton by arriving at one of the earliest balls of the Season - an event gentlemen such as himself usually avoided - and made a beeline straight to her. When other rakish gentlemen heard of his determined interest they would heed it as the warning it was. The ladies of the ton were already tittering, whispering behind t
heir fans as he escorted Christina to the dance floor. Some looked disapproving - Benedict recognized the jealous glances for what they were - while quite a few of the youngest set, those who were getting their feet wet in Society by attending tonight’s soiree, looked thrilled. Probably by either the implied romance or seeing for themselves the moment which would be gossiped about all week.
As Christina turned to face him, he was relieved to see her cheeks had become quite pink as they’d walked. She wasn’t nearly so pale now. In fact, she looked more incensed than anything else.
“What. Are. You. Doing?” she hissed the words at him, her fingers delicately placed in his as they began to move in the complicated steps, sliding in between other dancing partners.
Benedict would have preferred a waltz, especially for this conversation, but a smaller event at the beginning of the Season, such as this one, with so many debutantes who had not yet been to Almack’s to receive permission to engage in the dance was unlikely to play the music for one.
Which meant his appearance and immediate pursuit of Lady Christina Rowan was probably going to be the most interesting thing to happen tonight.
“You look lovely, this evening,” he said, rather than answering her, letting his eyes rove down her body. The violet silk hugged her curves becomingly, the neckline dipping low to reveal an expanse of creamy décolletage, inviting a man to imagine what the gown hid from his eyes.
“Thank you, my lord,” Christina bit out the words primly, too polite to ignore the compliment even though she obviously wanted to. Hearing her call him ‘my lord’ rather than by his name only made him more resolute to break down the wall she’d erected between them. “Again, I inquire, what are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked, with a teasing mirth he didn’t actually feel. “I’m dancing with you.”
The dance took them apart for a moment and then they came back together again.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” she hissed at him.
Strangely, the more upset she became, the calmer he felt. He’d wanted to disrupt her equilibrium, the way she had his when she’d deserted him before Christmas, and it appeared he had. If she truly hadn’t cared about him at all, he wouldn’t have been able to do so.
“Why did you leave me the way you did?” he countered, his voice slightly deeper. The calm settling over him allowed him to feel more in control, the part of him which craved domination coming to the forefront - a part of himself which he’d often indulged with her.
She reacted to his tone of voice, blinking rapidly, taking in a breath… he’d never used his deeper, more authoritative demeanor outside of their amorous encounters before.
“I was going away for the holiday, it seemed best to take my leave with as little fanfare as possible,” she said, trying to appear confident, although her voice trembled and gave her emotions away. She was uncomfortable and trying to hide it, feeling vulnerable and trying to ignore it.
“Without notice? Or a proper goodbye?” he asked, his anger and indignation starting to rise again at his remembered concern for her and then his realization of the deliberation of her actions. Christina’s cheeks paled and then flushed as he continued. “After all we shared together-”
“My lord,” she said sharply, struggling to keep her voice low. “This is hardly the proper surrounds for such a conversation-”
“You are correct,” Benedict responded, rather grimly.
Fortunately, the dance had taken them to the French doors leading to a large terrace overlooking the gardens. Directing their movements to the edge of the dance floor, Benedict placed her hand on his arm, leading her towards the outside. Most of their audience would assume they desired a breath of fresh air, perhaps that conversation interested them more than a dance. There would be speculation by some parties, of course, but Benedict would keep their encounter completely above board - in public.
He felt her fingers tense on his arm, and covered them with his other hand, giving her no chance to try and slip away from him. Not again.
******
Feeling far more breathless than the dance should have made her, Christina allowed herself to be drawn out to the terrace. She told herself she was allowing him to do so, although the truth was, she wasn’t sure she could stop him. Part of her didn’t even want to.
Even as she felt compelled to run, to guard her wayward heart, she also wanted to cling to these moments with him, to savor every second she was the center of his attention. A desire she fought against, knowing full well how such dangerous emotions could hurt her. Still, she let him draw her into semi-privacy, steeling herself for the moment when she must give him a verbal conge, as he had apparently not been satisfied with a written one.
Not too private, of course. Although widows were allowed far more latitude than debutantes, as they’d already made a stir this evening far too many eyes would be watching them through the doors for her to behave anything less than circumspectly. She wanted no part of malicious gossip or - worse – aggressively importuning rakes, which meant keeping her good reputation. A reputation which he’d already imperiled by approaching her in the manner he had.
Several other couples were strolling through the well-lit gardens, and a small group of gentlemen were on the other side of the terrace involved in some kind of discussion. They were far enough away for privacy of conversation, but close enough there would be no blemish on her reputation. Also, close enough to deter any sort of theatrics on either her or his part, she hoped.
She didn’t quite know what to expect from him or what he wanted; she’d been thrown decidedly off-kilter by his appearance tonight as well as his single-minded focus on her. Addressing him directly had only served to cause her further aggravation, so now she kept her lips pressed firmly shut, waiting for him to speak.
The Marquess led her to the marble balustrades overlooking the gardens, the lights below twinkling like stars fallen to earth, while the rich fragrance of the flowers wafted upwards in a heady perfume. Christina took a deep breath, willing herself to calm despite her pounding heartbeat and her hyper-awareness of Bene- the Marquess’ closeness. She had to muster her defenses, already it was becoming hard to keep her distance from him - not just physically, but emotionally.
She would not let herself start referring to him so familiarly again, not even in her own mind. It would be far too easy to forget herself, slide back into intimacy with him - not just in a physical manner - and find herself back where she’d started when she’d ended their affair. Perhaps worse than where she’d been; and there was no retreating from the Season, she’d have to stay in town and watch as he found another lover, all while trying to mend a re-broken heart.
Keeping her hand on his arm, denying her the opportunity to draw away from him, he turned his body slightly towards her, studying her expression in the light coming from the house. With the practice of many years, Christina kept her face carefully blank.
“You left,” he finally said, the two words an accusation. “Not only did you leave, you snuck away while I was still abed, and left nothing but a cold note.”
“It was not a cold note!” she protested. She wanted to protest his accusation of sneaking, but truthfully sneaking had been exactly what she’d done. Even if she didn’t like to think of it as such. “It was just… just a note. And I did say I’d like to remain friends.”
“But I would not.”
Christina flinched, but his hand kept hers on his arm, not allowing her any room to retreat. Her chest ached suddenly, and she felt cold and empty inside at the thought of Benedict out of her life forever. Dearborn. If they weren’t even to be friends, then she certainly needed to keep herself from thinking of him intimately. She’d had a difficult enough time doing so when she thought some ember of their relationship might survive.
But if he didn’t want to be friends… what was he after?
Revenge?
Scandal?
He hadn’t seemed the type, but perhaps she had mi
sjudged him. Perhaps her note had angered him to the point of unreason. Although he did not have a reputation of being an angry ex-lover, it wasn’t as if she knew exactly how his previous affairs had ended.
For the first time, fear slid through her.
“What do you want?” she whispered, watching his face for some clue, some hint as to his disposition.
But his face looked as though it had been carved from granite - at least what she could see of it. It did not escape her notice that he’d positioned them so the light from the candelabras in the house would allow him to see her, whilst his expression was mostly shadowed. Christina trembled, feeling so very cold, except for those parts of her he was touching directly. If he wasn’t so formidable, if she wasn’t so unsure of his agenda, she might have leaned into him, seeking warmth and reassurance.
Unfortunately, those days were past, because she herself had ended them.
“I want what I’ve wanted since I met you,” he said, his voice low, ominous. Not quite a threat, but certainly not reassuring. “I want you.”
Christina licked her lips, hating the part of her which still thrilled to his words. She pushed the sudden surge of arousal away. While her body and heart might betray her, her mind had been made up.
“I’ve already given you your conge, my lord,” she said quietly, trying to tug her hand away from his. “Please accept it gracefully.”
“Explain why. Please.” Even in the darkness, she could see his hard eyes flicker, a note of pleading in his voice. She’d reduced him to nearly begging… and the revelation made her heart hurt.
“I… I…” She took a deep breath, words failing her as she searched for the correct ones. She leaned towards him, drawn in by his very presence, trying to see more of his expression. Now, out here, with just the two of them, he seemed almost vulnerable. “I…”