Slightly Sinful

by Mary Balogh

  Rachel felt rather as if she could weep too. She had never looked even half so magnificent before.

  Her gown was of white lace over a white satin petticoat, the high-waisted skirt very full even though it clung in soft folds about her figure when she stood still. The deep lace flounce at the hem was trimmed with a green leaf design and embroidered with delicate sprigs of greenery. The sparse bodice was of spring green satin, the short, puffed sleeves striped green and white. Her satin slippers were green, her long kid gloves white. Geraldine had dressed her hair high on her head, though curls had been allowed to soften the outline of her face at the temples and along the back of her neck. She wore two white hair plumes, which had been woven into the back of her coiffure and curled invitingly over the top of her head.

  “You have done wonders for me, Geraldine,” she said with a sigh as she stood before the pier glass in her dressing room.

  “I do believe nature did that,” another voice said. “Geraldine has merely added the finishing touches.”

  Jonathan stood in the archway between their dressing rooms. Rachel spun about to face him. He looked as magnificent as ever in his evening clothes, which she had first seen the evening they arrived at Chesbury. But he himself had changed since then. He was sun-bronzed and looked fitter. He had had his hair cut, though one lock of it still fell invitingly over his right eyebrow.

  Even if she were being impartial, Rachel did not believe she had ever seen a more handsome man.

  “My, my, my,” Geraldine said to him. “Don’t you look gorgeous? I wish now we had tied you naked to the bedposts in Brussels while we had the chance.”

  He grinned and wagged a finger at her and looked doubly handsome. His teeth looked dazzlingly white in his bronzed face.

  “Among the four of you, though, Geraldine,” he said, “you would have worn me out and I would be a mere shadow of my former self by today.”

  “Even your shadow would be something to sigh over, though,” Geraldine told him. “Is Will still in your rooms? I have to go teach him to dance.”

  “He has fled belowstairs already,” Jonathan told her. “To hide from his ghastly fate, I believe.”

  “The poor love,” Geraldine said fondly as she swept from the room. “He does not know when he is beaten.”

  Jonathan smiled at Rachel and she realized that of course she could no longer see him impartially. For almost a month she had been playing the part of his devoted wife, and the pretense had had a definite effect on her emotions. And during that time there had been the afternoon on the island—neither repeated nor referred to since, though it had certainly not been forgotten.

  How could she ever forget?

  “You really do look beautiful,” he said, stepping fully into the dressing room.

  “Thank you.” She smiled wistfully at him. “I am going to enjoy myself tonight more than I ever have before. It is my first ball and perhaps my last. This is the end, Jonathan. You do realize that, do you not? Tomorrow we will go to my uncle and ask again for my jewels. But if he says no, I am not going to continue the fight. The day after tomorrow we will leave here no matter what. And then you will be free.”

  “Will I?” he asked her softly. “Rachel, we need to—”

  But a knock at her dressing room door interrupted him. He strode toward it and opened it. Rachel’s uncle stepped inside and then stopped abruptly.

  “Ah, Rachel,” he said, his eyes roaming over her, “you cannot know how I have longed to see you just so. Or how I longed to see your mother decked out for her first ball.”

  She did not want to quarrel with him on this of all nights, but the question was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

  “Why did you say,” she asked him, “that I would have had a come-out Season at the age of eighteen if you had had your way?”

  He waved away the chair that Jonathan offered him.

  “Your father would not hear of it,” he said, “just as he would not allow me to have you here for holidays as you grew up and just as he would not allow me to send you to a good girls’ school. From what you have said in the last few weeks, I gather that he never allowed you to have any of the gifts I sent for Christmas and your birthday each year. He would allow your mother no communication with me after their marriage—until she was on her deathbed. I no longer blame him entirely. I mismanaged the business of their courtship. I was young and dictatorial and quite unyielding. I drove them to elope. But how can I be sorry it happened when their union produced you?”

  It was strange how simple the truth was. And how quickly it could cut through sixteen years of misunderstanding. Uncle Richard had not neglected her—or her mother. They had all suffered long years of separation and unhappiness because long ago two stubborn men had quarreled over one woman—one as her brother and guardian, the other as her lover.

  “Uncle Richard,” she said, taking two steps toward him.

  But he held up a staying hand.

  “We will sit down and talk about it tomorrow, Rachel,” he said. “You and I and your husband. There is much to say, but it can wait. Nothing is to threaten our pleasure tonight. Tonight I will finally see you dance at a ball I am hosting—with a husband who is worthy of you and capable, I believe, of giving you the lifelong happiness you deserve.”

  Rachel felt rather as if a knife had been plunged into her stomach and twisted. Ah, the price of deception! Jonathan had clasped his hands behind him and was gazing intently at her.

  “I have come with this,” Uncle Richard said, holding up a velvet box she had not noticed until now. “They were your aunt’s, Rachel, and will now be yours. I am glad you are wearing no other jewelry.”

  He opened the box and Rachel found herself gazing at a string of small pearls with an emerald set in diamonds pendant from it. At one end of the box were emerald and diamond earrings to match.

  “My wedding gift to you,” he said.

  Rachel thought her legs might well buckle under her. Then she felt Jonathan’s arm firm about her waist.

  “It is a beautiful set, sir,” he said. “I have been silently lamenting the fact that I have not yet had a chance to buy jewels for my wife. But now I am almost glad. May I?”

  It was Jonathan who took the necklace from the box and clasped it about Rachel’s neck. It settled heavy and cold and magnificent against her bosom, the emerald nestling in just above her cleavage. He clipped the earrings to her ears. He smiled at her, still the consummate actor, just as if he did not feel the terrible tragedy of what was happening.

  “Uncle Richard.” She closed the distance between them and touched him for the first time. She wrapped her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek to his. But there were no meaningful words to force past the painful lump in her throat. “Uncle Richard.”

  He patted her back. “They are not needed to enhance your beauty, that is for sure,” he said. “But they are where they belong nevertheless. To whom else would I give Sarah’s jewels? There is only a distant cousin and his wife, and I never see them.”

  She would have to give them back tomorrow, of course. The necklace felt like a chain of guilt about her neck. But she had promised herself tonight. More important, she owed her uncle tonight. Perhaps at some time in the future—pray God he lived so long—he would find it in his heart to forgive her for what she had done or at least remember this evening with less pain than he was bound to feel after learning the truth.

  She stepped back and smiled and linked her arm through his.

  “Shall we go down?” she suggested.

  She turned her smile on Jonathan and linked her other arm through his. He pressed it reassuringly to his side, but really what consolation could he offer?

  This scheme of theirs had seemed like such a lark when he had suggested it back in Brussels. She had agreed to it. And so she could not blame him for any of the consequences.

  THIS WAS A COUNTRY BALL AND NOTHING TO COMPARE with some of the grander ton squeezes of the Season in London that Alleyne was s
ure he must have attended. But what it lacked in numbers and glitter it more than made up for in enthusiasm.

  All the guests, it seemed, had come to enjoy themselves. And enjoy themselves they did as the orchestra played and the dancers tramped out the lively and complex steps of one country dance after another.

  But no one outshone Rachel. Or squeezed more enjoyment out of the evening. Alleyne was dazzled by her. So were many of the other guests, he could see.

  He was more than dazzled. He was, of course, head over ears in love with her. He had known it without any doubt at all since their afternoon on the island. It had been mortal agony to keep aloof from her in private since then while engaged in the double deception of pretending to pretend deep love and devotion in public. The three empty doorways that stood between their bedchambers had been an invitation more and more difficult to resist.

  But instead of drawing her deeper into an entanglement with him that might lead to nowhere but heartbreak for her once he recovered his past, he was determined to do something for her. It had been as clear as the nose on his face almost from the moment of their arrival at Chesbury that her uncle loved her and that she could be happy here. It had become even clearer since the brief explanation for his apparent neglect that Weston had made in Rachel’s dressing room before the ball. This was where she belonged.

  After they left here, Alleyne had decided, he was going to come back. He was going to confess the truth to Weston, take all the blame on himself—where it rightfully belonged—and plead her case. If Weston loved her as deeply as Alleyne believed he did—unconditionally, that was—then he would forgive her and bring her back home. In time she would marry and settle down and belong somewhere even after Weston died.

  Perhaps if his own search led him to the discovery that he was not, in fact, a married man or a betrothed man . . .

  But he dared not think of that yet.

  They danced the opening set of country dances together. If they were at a London ball and this were her come-out, Alleyne thought, her manner would be severely censured by all the highest sticklers. It was fashionable for young ladies of the ton to wear an air of ennui, as if the transition from schoolroom to ballroom had necessitated a transformation from youthful gaiety to mature cynicism.

  Rachel looked like joy personified.

  She also knew the intricate steps of the dance and performed them with careful precision for a few minutes until she laughed suddenly and kicked up her heels both figuratively and literally.

  Alleyne laughed back at her.

  “Perhaps you should save some energy for later in the evening,” he said.

  “Why?” Her cheeks were already flushed and her eyes sparkling. “Why do we always save everything of value for later? I want to live now Now is perhaps all I have.”

  “Now is all we ever have,” he said, laughing again as he kicked up his heels with her. But it was a phrase that rang in his head long after he had spoken the words.

  He caught sight of Weston, who was standing close to the double doors of the ballroom with one of his neighbors. He was watching Rachel, his head nodding in time to the music, a look of contentment on his face. He still did not look like a healthy man, but his complexion was no longer gray, and he was no longer thin to the point of gauntness. He no longer looked like a man with one foot in the grave.

  If only he could live for a year or two longer—for Rachel’s sake.

  They both danced with other partners for the next several sets. Alleyne danced with Flossie and Bridget among others. He had long ago given up the hope—or fear—of being recognized in this neighborhood. Very few of the neighboring families, he had learned, visited London a great deal, and none of them moved in tonnish circles.

  The dance before supper was a waltz—the only one of the evening. A number of couples took to the floor, but not as many as for the other sets. Rachel was standing with her uncle, her hand linked through his arm.

  “You are not waltzing?” Alleyne asked her after strolling up to them.

  “Alas,” she said, “I do not know the steps.”

  “Then it is time you did,” he said, offering her his hand.

  “Here? Now? I think not,” she said, her eyes wide.

  “A coward, my love?” He smiled at her. “I’ll teach you.”

  “Go on, Rachel,” her uncle urged.

  Alleyne thought she was going to refuse. But then she laughed and set her hand in his.

  “Why not?” she said. “If I make a great spectacle of myself, I daresay I will give amusement to the guests and provide them with a topic of conversation for the next week or so.”

  It was not easy to teach someone to waltz when the music was playing and other couples were twirling about the floor and an audience looked on. But the members of the audience quickly understood what was happening and called out encouragement and laughed and applauded and generally seemed to be enjoying themselves more than ever.

  And Rachel continued to sparkle even while she stumbled and stalled and laughed and determinedly tried to follow his instructions and his lead. And then suddenly, after a few minutes, she picked up the rhythm and the steps and laughed into his eyes instead of down at her feet.

  “I am waltzing,” she said.

  “You are waltzing,” he agreed. “Relax now and let me lead.”

  She did just that, and soon they were waltzing with tolerable skill, though he did not attempt any fancy steps or twirls. He watched her teeth sink into her lower lip and her smile fade as her eyes remained on his. His arm was about her waist. Her hand rested on his shoulder. Their other hands were clasped. There were only a few inches of space between their bodies. He could feel her body heat. He could smell gardenia.

  He had ridden with her, walked with her, even swum with her since that afternoon on the island. But he had scarcely touched her since then and had avoided being close to her like this. She had avoided it too.

  But what could they do now? They were waltzing together in the Chesbury ballroom, a few dozen eyes watching them and the other dancers. And yet somehow it seemed as if they were alone, twirling slowly through a magic world that was doomed to disappear soon. After two or three more days, he might never see her again.

  Beautiful, beautiful Rachel. His golden angel.

  “Well,” he asked her after they had danced for several minutes in silence, “what is your verdict on your first ball?”

  “It has been magical,” she said, echoing his own thought. “It is magical—present tense. It is not over yet.”

  But he could see her awareness that it almost was. This was a country ball. People in the country did not dance all night as they did in London during the Season, when most of them had nothing to do with themselves all the next day but sleep and get up to socialize again. The ball would end soon after supper—and supper would be served right after the waltz.

  A certain light had gone out of her eyes as she gazed at him. And then they were bright again—with tears that she tried to hide by dipping her head sharply downward.

  Fortunately they were close to the French windows that opened onto a balcony. He waltzed her through them and stopped by the stone balustrade. The night air felt blessedly cool after the fragrant stuffiness of the ballroom.

  “Jonathan,” she said, one hand closing about the emerald pendant of her necklace, “I cannot do this any longer.”

  He knew exactly what she meant and set one hand against the back of her neck.

  “It never occurred to me,” she said, “that perhaps I would love him. And that perhaps he loved me. It never occurred to me that perhaps there was an explanation for his apparent neglect.”

  “You ought to have come here when he invited you,” he said.

  “After my father’s death?” She gazed away toward the lake, across which a band of moonlight shone. “I felt bruised and battered. I thought that if he had had any vestiges of feeling left for me, he would have come in person as he did after my mother’s death. It did not occur to me
that he was ill and could not travel, and I suppose it did not occur to him to let me know. Perhaps he assumed that I already did. His letter seemed abrupt and imperious. It seemed cold.”

  “If you had come then,” he said, “you would not have gone to Brussels and become involved with Crawley. You would not have incurred this sense of deep obligation to your friends. You would not have become involved in this charade.”

  “And I would not have met you,” she added.

  “Now there is a thought.” He laughed softly. “If you had come here last year when your uncle invited you, I would very probably be dead.”

  “I think,” she said, “I would hate that.”

  “So would I,” he said fervently.

  “Look,” she said, pointing downward.

  There, in a paddock behind the stables, two people were dancing in the moonlight, the man large and somewhat ungainly, the woman tall and voluptuous. Geraldine and Strickland.

  “Now there is a match made in heaven,” he said before turning to set his back against the balustrade so that he could look more closely into Rachel’s face. “So what is your plan?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said, “I am going to explain to the ladies that I cannot help them, though I will always consider myself in their debt and will repay them when I am able—in three years’ time. We are all going to leave here the day after tomorrow without asking Uncle Richard for my jewels. And then, once I have returned to London, I will write to him to tell him the full truth. And I will return this jewelry. You will be free to do what you must do. You will be free to find your family. It has only recently occurred to me that I have wronged them by agreeing to your plan to help me and so keeping you from them a whole month longer than necessary. What pain they must have suffered.”

  “Why wait until after you leave here?” he asked her. “Your uncle loves you, Rachel. He always has.”

  She shook her head.

  “Let me go to him tomorrow,” he said, “and tell him everything. I believe I can break it to him in such a way that he will forgive you. How can he not when he learns that this deception was my suggestion and that you agreed to it only because you love your friends and felt that you owed them a debt of honor? And because your father kept from you all knowledge of Weston’s concern for you and his attempts to be an uncle to you. He will understand how intolerable your deception has become to you now that you have had a chance to get to know him and love him. Let me do this for you.”