by Amy Lake
These words, unfortunately, hit their mark. The duke had daily worried that she resented the time spent at Marchers, worried that she regretted ever acceding to his request for help. He was stung, and angry as well.
"You need not ever come back!” he told her. “I am sorry to have bored you, to have taken you away from more interesting pursuits."
"You do not bore me, your grace,” said Lady Pamela, “but your trespass into my affairs grows tedious."
Her affairs. Pam's own words were chosen unwisely, for both the gentleman and lady were of volatile temperament, and of a passionate nature that flared with each touch, each moment spent in close proximity. It was a characteristic they had managed to conceal from everyone but each other. They were wounded, and knew how to wound in return.
"I,” said the duke, coldly, “will trespass upon your affairs no longer."
Lord Torrance stopped dancing and stepped back. Lady Pamela took a deep breath and held her chin high. The music faded. They stood in the middle of the Duke of Lincolnshire's ballroom and faced each other, within arm's reach and a world apart. He bowed, a deep, formal flourish. She curtseyed to the ground.
He waited as a gentleman, for her to turn from him, to be the first to leave.
Lady Pamela walked away.
* * * *
"My lord,” breathed Millicent, “you ... you are hurting my arm."
Lord Castlereaugh's grip eased fractionally, but he continued to propel Milly toward the far end of the ballroom and the doors outside, to the Lincolnshires’ garden terrace.
They were not, it seemed, to finish their waltz, and Lady Millicent would have been glad to be rid of him, had he returned her to her mother, or Lady Annabelle. But Lord Castlereaugh had insisted that they take a turn on the terrace.
"I think it's time,” he told her, leering, “that we become better acquainted."
Lady Millicent couldn't imagine what Castlereaugh intended, or why he thought he could make so free with her. The terrace offered several small alcoves where a young gentleman and his lady might have a modicum of privacy for a brief tête-à-tête, but nothing more.
And Lord Castlereaugh, in Milly's experience, had no interest in conversation.
* * * *
Benjamin watched Lady Pamela move swiftly, without a backward glance, through the crowd on the ballroom floor. Was she crying? He could not bear to think she might be crying.
How had this happened? Why had he let her go? It seemed all a mistake, a stupid mistake made from pride and a fast-dissipating anger. Benjamin told himself he was an idiot to follow her, that they would only quarrel anew, but he could do nothing else. Crossing the floor in a few long strides, the dancers melting away before him, he arrived at the large, double doors leading outside. The doors were already standing open from the heat of the ballroom.
But Lady Pamela was no-where to be seen. A few couples were enjoying the limited privacy afforded by the terrace; otherwise, no-one. Benjamin stood at the stone balustrade and peered down into the gardens, glad, at least, that the moon shone full.
There. He caught a glimpse of silver satin and white lace, and recognized Lady Pamela's elegant figure and gleaming white-gold hair. She was walking swiftly along one of the graveled paths, through the Lincolnshires’ terraced rose garden-famed throughout the ton, Benjamin recalled-and into the back meadows. He followed without any care that he might be seen, or that someone might note his hurry, taking the staircase steps by twos and threes. He felt an urgent need to talk to her in private, to run his fingertips along the line of her jaw, to reach down and brush his lips against hers. A need to have done with all pretense between them.
They had both chosen to ignore the truth of what had happened between them at Luton Court. Lady Pamela wished it so, Benjamin had told himself. ‘Twas not his fault! He had done everything he could, had offered her marriage, an offer she should have accepted.
But he was no longer convinced by his own words.
Pah. They should have been married months ago. She was his, thought Lord Torrance, and he was finished with allowing her to refuse his hand.
* * * *
During the waltz Lady Annabelle had lost sight of Millicent and Lord Castlereaugh in the crowd. Only Clarence Peabody-and the Earl of Banbridge-had any idea where Milly had gone.
Lord Peabody had earlier noticed Lady Millicent's distress at Lord Castlereaugh's touch, and had seen how that gentleman ogled her, as if ‘twas only the earl's presence that restrained him from pawing at her bodice. This made Clarence feel uncomfortable, and Clarence did not wish to feel uncomfortable. Now she was dancing again with the man—
Clarence watched as Milly was led from the ballroom, he frowned and cleared his throat and harrumphed. Then Lord Peabody shrugged and turned back to the ball.
Clarence Peabody's disposition was indeed sensitive, but it had never advanced within spitting distance of a backbone, and his feelings toward Lady Millicent had taken a very recent turn for the worse. At the fringes of society, and not a person to inspire the sharing of a fine piece of gossip, Clarence had been one of the few gentlemen in London to know nothing of the Banbridge's true financial situation. But—
"The chit hasn't a feather to fly with,” the earl had told him, “and neither have you."
"Er, well...” The earl's grip was iron on Lord Peabody's arm; it hurt terribly, and Clarence was desperate to get away.
"So if my idiotish daughter has given you any ideas—"
"Oh, no, sir,” said Lord Peabody, almost gasping. “Not at all. Your daughter is a delightful young lady, but we are little more than acquaintances, you might say."
"Excellent, excellent,” said Lord Chambers, slapping Clarence on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Then we understand each other."
So as Lady Millicent disappeared through the doors to the garden, Lord Castlereaugh's hand firmly on her arm, Lord Peabody turned away. What did it matter? he told himself. The chit was to be married to the man. No sense involving himself in an ugly scene that would only find him in the suds with both Castlereaugh and the Earl of Banbridge.
* * * *
The Lincolnshires’ garden was larger than one expected. Lady Pamela had strolled its neat, graveled paths during many a ball, but never had she walked them so heart-sore and defeated, regretting every moment of the last waltz, every angry word she had spoken to her partner.
She began to feel foolish. What if someone found her, alone and teary-eyed, as if she was some young miss suffering her first coeur brisé? She should return to the ballroom forthwith, as if nothing had happened, and continue on as before. Her dance card was full; she would not want for partners, or be forced to spend anymore time in the company of the odious, the despicable Duke of Grentham.
Lady Pamela started as an owl hooted loudly above her. An odd, preternatural quiet followed its call, and Pam heard no music, no sound of voices, but only the wind as it rustled through the long grasses of a meadow left au naturel. She looked around, realizing that, in her distraction, she had wandered far outside the bounds of the main gardens.
Had she lost her way? A brief panic seized Lady Pam; she hurried in the first direction she could think of, only to find the pathway come to its end, and a large copse of oaks looming in front of her, dark and forbidding.
A sound. Something rustling through the undergrowth, coming closer—Lady Pamela shuddered, and gasped, her heart thudding hard.
A tiny woodmouse crept onto the path, squeaked in alarm at the sight of her, and hurried back into the brush.
Oh, for heaven's sake, thought Lady Pam, laughing at herself. Don't be such a ninnyhammer. This is London.
People did not get lost in London. Pamela began to retrace her steps, hoping that she would soon be able to hear the orchestra, or see the lights of the ballroom as a guide. Fortunately, the moon was full and the sky clear, and she had little trouble following the path. Still, she soon realized that she had paid very poor attention to her directions, for she see
med to be approaching no nearer to the house. Perhaps, thought Pam, she was journeying in a circle. The gown she wore, so perfect within the confines of a ballroom, was not designed for a lengthy walk, and the gravel of the pathway now threatened to cut through the soft leather of her slippers.
Another woodmouse crept onto the path and stopped, frozen, at her feet. Pam and the mouse stared at each other, and she felt a sudden sense of communion with the tiny creature.
Unable to go forward, thought Lady Pamela. Unable to go back.
But she was not a mouse. She was an intelligent, rational human being, and ought not be the slave of her own fears.
Pamela sent the woodmouse scurrying to safety and hurried forward. She was growing tired and, as the cool night air cleared her head, feeling more kindly to Lord Torrance. I never give him a chance, she thought. I'm so convinced of his abuse, of his dislike, that I attack before he takes the opportunity.
Running away like some little miss with the vapours.
Running away when she loved him. It was true. And the duke, thought Lady Pamela, the duke loved her as well. Somehow, that she had never doubted. Why did she run from a man she loved? The Duke of Grentham was no cad, no Peregrine Carroll. He was, by every account, a gentleman of kindness and integrity, qualities of which she herself had daily evidence in her dealings at Marchers.
This was stupid stuff. She had been the mistress of Edward Tremayne, the Earl of Ketrick, and that would never change. Benjamin would not be glad of that fact-what man would?-and his feelings would never change, either, but she could live with them. Live with his feelings, good and ill.
Easily.
Perhaps, thought Pam, I feel hesitant of my own behavior, my own past.
She had never felt such insecurity before. Never spared a second thought for those few gentlemen, like Lord Carroll, who had questioned her, thinking that the favours she had extended to Lord Tremayne might be theirs as well.
But she felt it now, the insecurity and doubt, with Benjamin Torrance, whom she loved. Whose opinion she valued above that of all others. She could not bear to think he thought poorly of her. She could not bear it, she must speak to him at once. They would not argue, not ever again, she would never again take his words amiss.
Lady Pamela took a deep breath and tossed her head, ready to return to the ball. It will not signify. I will not allow it to signify.
She would live with her past, and her future, which was this man that she loved. She would be absolutely and gloriously content.
* * * *
'Twas time for the happy couple to be discovered, thought the earl. He had picked his current dance partner with care for the event; Lady Beatrice Harkins, an inveterate gossip, and a high-stickler who fancied herself the last bastion of good morals among the ton. She had spent most of the waltz complaining of her many nieces, her cousins and their daughters, and the current crop of debutantes as a whole.
"I can assure you, Lord Chambers, that in my day we were not allowed to run wild at a ball,” said Lady Harkins, sniffing in distaste at the sight of a young woman open-mouthed in laughter.
"Hmm,” said the earl.
"Such events are serious business, you know. One imagines these young people think of nothing but their own enjoyment."
"Ah, yes,” nodded the earl. “Too true."
"In my day—"
"My dear Beatrice,” said Lord Chambers, “I fear that my delight in your company has blinded me to my responsibilities. I can see, now, that the ballroom has become too stuffy for a lady of your delicate constitution—"
Lady Harkins, interrupted in mid-complaint, cooed at the unanticipated use of her Christian name. “Oh, my good sir, you are entirely correct. My constitution is of such a sensitive nature, you know, that—"
"-so let us take a turn in the gardens. For your health, of course."
"Indeed, indeed. Sir, you are too kind."
The earl led Lady Harkins, still cooing, toward the garden doors, and out onto the Duke of Lincolnshire's terrace.
* * * *
Where on earth had she gone? The moonlight afforded Lord Torrance a clear view of the path ahead, but the path curved, and the surrounding bushes were so extensive and so high that he could not see more than a few yards in any direction.
It if is to be a path, thought the duke irritably, why can it not be made straight? What was the point of all this absurd twisting and sweeping about, as if the directions had been marked out by a drunken sailor?
And the yews. The rows of enormous, never-ending yews.
A pox on all evergreens, thought Benjamin, quickening his pace. At this rate ‘twould be morning before he found her.
"Lord Castlereaugh!"
A young girl's voice, fearful-and close by. Benjamin stopped, frowning. A rustle of leaves, somewhere on the path ahead of him. Then, silence. The duke wondered if he had mistaken passion for fear and heard only a lover's quarrel. Perhaps he should retrace his steps and not intrude upon a private moment.
"Someone help me! Please! Stop it! Stop it!"
'Twas no mistake. Benjamin ran toward the sound of the girl's voice and in a few steps he discovered two people struggling upon a patch of grass, within easy sight of the pathway. An older man, on his hands and knees, holding the wrists of a young woman beneath him. The girl was fighting fiercely, trying to kick the man, her head thrashing back and forth.
"What's this?” roared the duke. He lunged forward and grabbed the man by the collar of his coat, and pulled hard. The man stumbled backwards, off-balance. Benjamin yanked him upright and, cocking his fist, knocked him back down. The man fell to his knees, yelling an obscenity. He lurched to his feet and tried to run. The duke's arm shot out and caught him. The man howled.
"Oh, please, sir, please—” The girl's voice, breathless. She was struggling to stand up, her hair falling around her shoulders and full of leaves. “Please let him go."
"Let him go? Absolutely not!"
"Oh, please. If anyone finds us ... if anyone finds out."
Benjamin understood. ‘Twould be the young woman's reputation in tatters, ruined beyond repair.
"Run,” he said to the man. “Run now. Pray that I never see you again."
The man ran.
* * * *
Lady Pamela, her heart easier than it had been in months, no longer worried that she might be lost. She followed the pathway as it turned this way and that, relaxed and confident that she would soon see a familiar area of the garden, or hear the orchestra in the distance.
As she did, just now. The strains of a lively polonaise wafted through the night air, accompanied by the whisper of distant voices. A few short steps and she could see the lights of the terrace, descry a few couples arm in arm, strolling the promenade.
Pam smiled and hummed the tune of the polonaise. She would have skipped along the path if her slippers had allowed. The slippers were near worn through, and it didn't matter. She must look a fright, her hair half fallen from its pins-and it didn't matter.
They would be together, her heart sang. For the Duke of Grentham had asked her hand in marriage, and she had once refused him, but she would refuse him no longer.
I will go to him at once. Go to him, and say yes.
Sudden footsteps, heavy, someone running on the gravel pathway—
"Oof! Damn ye!"
A man, hidden until the last moment by a massive, towering yew, careened into her with a muffled gasp. His eyes were wild and panicked and furious, and he said nothing, no word of apology, before racing off. It was several moments before Lady Pamela, a bit dazed by the encounter, realized who had hit her.
Lord Castlereaugh. A frightened, angry Lord Castlereaugh-and injured, it seem. For in the moment of his passing Pam had seen a cut on his cheek and a ruined neckcloth spotted in blood, together with a rapidly blackening eye.
Someone had punched Lord Nasty-Breeches.
Pamela frowned. This, she thought, boded no good. She had seen Lady Millicent Chambers-the young woma
n from the carriage in Hyde Park-dancing with Lord Castlereaugh earlier that evening. And she had seen that same hunted look on the young woman's face. Lady Pamela despised the tyranny that society sometimes imposed upon its young maidens, the price that they paid for the poor judgement of their fathers. She hated the very thought of an arranged marriage.
Pamela had been enough concerned, in fact, that she had spoken to Maximilian, who had assured her that he would inveigle an introduction-somehow-and ask Lady Millicent's hand for a dance.
"If she must be married to such a cad,” said Maximilian, “at least she can enjoy herself a bit first."
Had Max hit Lord Castlereaugh? It seemed very unlike him, but if Amanda's young cousin had been drinking, or egged on by his totty-headed friends, there was no limit to the trouble he might manage to collect.
She hurried forward and now heard a murmur of male voices, close by. One voice seemed familiar.
Lady Pamela turned a corner and saw, a half-score yards ahead, two gentlemen and two ladies, standing at the side of the gravel pathway. In the waning moonlight, close in conversation, they did not notice her, and Pam stepped quickly back, behind one of the yews. It was seconds later before she realized that she knew those people, that she recognized two-no, three-of the group.
Lady Millicent Chambers. The Duke of Grentham. And, heaven help us, Beatrice Harkins.
Lady Harkins was a fixture at Luton Court houseparties, and Lady Pamela had experienced enough of her gossipy, meddling ways to know that, whatever had occurred in the Lincolnshires’ gardens, it would soon be an on dit among the ton.
The gentlemen were speaking in tones too low for Pam to make out much more than an occasional word.
"-disgraced—” the one man said.
"-your daughter—” said Lord Torrance, and Pamela decided that the first man must be Lady Millicent's father, the Earl of Banbridge.
"My heart!” This was Lady Harkins, of course, and Pamela sighed.
She risked a peek around the yew. The duke was gesturing with one hand and Pam saw what must be blood running from his knuckles. His hand was cut, it seemed. ‘Twould explain the other lord's blackened eye....