He scanned the room once more. Lord Dersingham was, at the moment, conversing with Miss Ashworth, daughter of the prominent Earl of Pendelton, who was known to frequent and have excellent luck at the races. Alex had spoken with Pendelton a time or two, before purchasing Stoutheart. Miss Ashworth and Lord Dersingham made a handsome couple, and silently Alex wished Lord Dersingham to take note of that, instead of allowing his gaze to continually stray in Lady Ella’s direction.
Not too far from Dersingham and Miss Ashworth, Lord Lewes stood with a group of men, in apparent deep conversation. Alex took comfort that, for the moment at least, Lewes did not appear to be searching out Lady Ella.
Only Mr. Woodword remained unaccounted for, and based upon his conversations with Lady Ella, Alex feared it was him she favored the most of her three possible suitors. Though they had not danced together as much as she had danced with Lords Dersingham and Lewes, it was Woodward who had been seated near her at dinner at the Thompson’s ball last month. And it was her conversations with Woodward that she regaled Alex with during their morning rides.
Like Lady Ella, Woodward held somewhat different opinions of society, and this worried Alex. He did not know enough about Woodward to feel that he was a good match for Lady Ella. And he had no desire to know more about the man or his prospects. He only needed to know where Woodward was at the moment, and what his intentions regarding the midnight waltz were.
Eleven forty-seven. Alex’s eyes followed Lady Ella as she slowly separated herself from the other ladies, so as to stand apart from them and make herself available to dance.
“Peculiar, that one, isn’t she?”
Alex turned his frown upon an older gentleman who had come up beside him. Something about the man seemed vaguely familiar, but Alex could not come up with his name.
The man inclined his head in Lady Ella’s direction. “It will take someone who pities Lady Eleanora a great deal for her to secure any sort of offer by the end of the Season.”
“How dare you.” Alex grabbed the front of the man’s shirt and shoved him against the wall in the shadow of the oversized plants he himself had lingered behind most of the night. “You will take back that slander and swear never to repeat it or anything else about Lady Ella, or I’ll see to it you’ll no longer say anything at all.”
“No need—to murder me,” the man rasped, and for the first time Alex noted his pallor. Alarmed, Alex released him and stepped away. The man leaned forward, hands braced on his knees as he gulped air.
“Do you need a drink?” Alex glanced at his left hand, both astonished and horrified at the violence of its actions. My actions.
“No time.” The man righted himself, though he was still breathing heavily and did not look well. He eyed Alex with caution. “What your right arm lacks—is made up for in the strength of your left,” he remarked with admiration.
“You are far too free with words,” Alex warned. “And while I’ve little concern over those spoken of me, you must apologize for what you said about Lady Eleanora.”
“Then it is you who must apologize, for I was only repeating your words.” The man struggled to cover his deep cough, then tugged his jacket back into place, attempting to cover a frame that appeared too thin. “Heard you myself last October at the Woolpack Inn, when you wagered your horse against the odds that my daughter would make a match this Season.”
“Your daughter?” Alex glanced over at Lady Ella, then back at the man, believing him to be an imposter. Her father was—based upon his most recent correspondence—somewhere in Africa. And even were he somehow to be here, he had to be more hale and hearty than this gentleman, who looked to be on death’s doorstep.
“Ella is mine,” the man rasped, as if guessing the direction of Alex’s thoughts. “My wife and I were in our later years before we were blessed with a child. As the Marquis of Canterbury,”—He gave a slight bow and coughed once more—“I must say I am pleased to see that your opinion of Ella appears to have changed considerably over the past weeks.”
“I did not wager my horse against her odds,” Alex said, even as memory of that long ago conversation, and the old man in the tavern who had overheard it, surfaced.
“I’m glad,” the marquis said, still sounding unconvinced. “I would hate to see you lose such a fine animal.”
“If you really are Lady Ella’s father,” Alex began, “have you any idea the hurt you’ve caused, practically abandoning her these last years?”
“She was not as abandoned as you think,” the marquis said. “It is true that at first I traveled to escape my grief. But soon I did not stay away by choice. Imagine my horror at discovering I was suffering from the same illness that claimed Ella’s mother. I have been frantic that Ella might contract it as well, and so have stayed away, attempting to find a remedy to my consumption. At the very least, I wish that Ella does not have to care for me and suffer through seeing me slowly wither away, as she did her mother.”
“Perhaps Ella should have been given that choice,” Alex said, feeling his opinion beginning to sway in favor of believing the old man.
The marquis shook his head. “As her parent, it was mine to make. And how much better for her these past years that she has been growing into an independent young lady, that she has been well in body and even in spirit, discovering her talents and abilities and enjoying the outdoors she so dearly loves, instead of being cooped up inside, caring for an infirm old man.”
“She dearly loves that infirm old man.”
“As I love her and wish her hurt no more.” The marquis paused, his gaze straying from Ella to the musicians. “But what will Ella feel when the clock strikes midnight and no one has come to claim her hand to dance?”
“What do you mean?” Alex narrowed his eyes. “What do you know about the midnight waltz?”
A smile lifted the corners of the marquis’s mouth, and for the first time Alex saw the family resemblance.
“Who has been writing to her?” he demanded. “Where is the man? Why has he not come to dance with her?” Alex took out his watch once more. Eleven fifty-six. “It’s Woodward, isn’t it?” He felt his heart lurch. I am about to lose her.
I never had her to begin with.
“Mr. Woodward will not be paying Ella any further attention, as just today he became betrothed to Miss Christina Lyon of Surrey. I have seen them myself and both are quite happy with the arrangement.”
“Was he never truly interested in Lady Ella?” Alex could not deny the relief he felt, though he worried over how she would feel when learning of Woodward’s betrothal.
“He was interested in helping an old family friend watch out for his daughter, as was the old Lord Benton—not Henry before his passing, but his father. He knew how Elizabeth and I had yearned for a child, and when we were blessed with one so late in life, he agreed to watch out for Ella, should anything ever happen to her mother and me before Ella was of age.”
“Agreed to help even to the point of betrothing their oldest son to Ella?” Alex asked.
The marquis nodded. “But things did not work out as I imagined they would, and so I had to take matters into my own hands, planting that book in Lord Benton’s library last September.”
“You made Henry’s letter up?” Alex’s hand flexed, yearning to grab the marquis by his shirt once more. He’d seen, firsthand, how much that letter had meant to Ella.
“No. No.” The marquis was quick to shake his head. “I added the £400 note—£100 for every one of the last four years that Ella’s needs have been neglected—but Henry’s letter was real. I’d had it for quite some time. He sent it before—” The marquis’s mouth closed abruptly. “No time to speak of this now. It is eleven fifty-nine. What are you waiting for?”
“I did not write those letters,” Alex said, “and furthermore, I do not dance.”
A twinkle came to the marquis’s eye, even as his look turned shrewd. “But you could have written them. You wanted to. The sentiment expressed in them is your own.”
“Do not suppose to understand what I—”
“Do not suppose that my years and forced exile have not made me a keen observer of men,” the marquis cut in. “Back in October at that inn, I could see the beginning of your feelings for Ella. You are fortunate that I have been able to watch them develop, and I give you my blessing.” He paused, struggling for breath, as if this speech had cost the remainder of his strength. “Now, you want to dance with Ella. So what are you waiting for?”
Chapter Twelve
Ella’s gaze strayed yet again to the clock high on the wall. Only one minute left until midnight. Midnight at the midwinter ball. And I am alone. Her reluctance for the evening and meeting her mysterious suitor had turned to nerves and apprehension as the night had worn on. She had danced with each of the three she believed might have written the letters. And while each had been most solicitous, none of the three had given any sort of hint that he might be the one. Mr. Woodward had confirmed that he definitely was not her admirer, when he’d told her of his betrothal to Miss Lyon. Lord Dersignham had asked if he might call upon her tomorrow, and Ella had been somewhat vague in her reply. Of course, he might call upon her—if he were the one who claimed her hand during the midnight dance and confessed to writing the letters. But if it were not he, having him call upon her on the morrow might prove complicated.
From the corner of her eye, Ella caught sight of Mr. Darling walking toward her. Her heart did a peculiar little leap. What if—
“Your knight in shining armor has not come to claim your hand yet?” Mr. Darling asked, dashing her fledgling hope as he made an exaggerated show of looking around the ballroom.
“He has not.” Thirty seconds until midnight.
“Hmm. Probably not Dersingham. He seems otherwise engaged.” Mr. Darling inclined his head toward Lord Dersingham escorting another young lady to the center of the dance floor. “And it appears that Lord Lewes has decided to forgo the midnight waltz altogether.”
Ella followed Mr. Darling’s gaze as it landed on Lord Lewes joining a group of men headed into the billiard room. She knew she ought to have felt disappointed. Lord Lewes was the wealthiest of her possible suitors. He was kind and had good manners. Any woman in this room would have considered him a good catch. And yet . . . she had felt nothing for him, beyond that of pleasant acquaintance.
“I think I knew all along that it could not be Lord Dersingham who wrote the letters,” she said, hearing only relief in her voice. “And Lord Lewes could not have written them either. When I attempted a discussion on literature with him, he confessed he’d not much use for it and that words on paper held little value.”
“A clue, certainly.” Mr. Darling nodded his head.
The clock struck midnight, and still she remained alone—or without a partner at least. She closed her eyes briefly, feeling embarrassed, disappointed, relieved. In her heart, she had doubted whether she could feel enamored of any of the three men she believed might have written the letters. And there had been no others whom she could have imagined—or whom she would want to imagine—having as a suitor.
Excepting Mr. Darling.
“Ella.” His use of her name and his touch at her elbow startled her, though she’d known he stood beside her.
“Yes?” She ceased looking at the couples lining the floor and turned to him.
“Will you give me the honor”—A flicker of fear shown in his eyes, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed—“of being my partner for the midnight waltz?”
Her heart gave that queer little leap again, but once more she tamped it down. How many times had she encouraged Mr. Darling to attend a ball and dance with her, and how many times had he refused? That he was here was miracle enough and due only to the occasion being at Lord Benton’s home.
She felt her eyes begin to water, so touched was she by his gesture, and knowing what such an offer had cost him. “You must really feel sorry for me, to offer yourself up for such discomfort.” She attempted a smile and found it wobbly. “But you needn’t feel badly that my mysterious suitor has not revealed himself.”
A lazy smile lifted one corner of Mr. Darling’s mouth. “I feel absolutely no pity for you. As you have demonstrated none for me, Ella.” He spoke her name slowly the second time and in such manner that started her heart to pounding. His hand slid from her elbow down her arm, over her wrist and to her fingers. These he lifted delicately, then bent over them, placing a kiss on the back of her hand.
He lifted his head once more and looked directly at her. “I asked you to dance because I want to dance with you, and because I promised that I would.”
“You wrote the letters?” She’d imagined but never allowed herself to hope that it could really be true.
“No.” He shook his head, but his smile remained in place. “But your father gave me permission to dance with you anyway.”
“Papa?” She couldn’t begin to understand what he meant.
“I’ll explain later.” Mr. Darling inclined his head toward the dance floor. “After we dance.” He took her left hand and placed it upon his right. “You will have to help me. And it will be different from a usual waltz.” His eyes searched hers, as if attempting to make certain she truly wished for his company, to be seen dancing with him.
She wished for far more than that. Keeping their gazes locked, she entwined her fingers with his and slowly lifted their hands into dance position. His other hand came to her waist, and she placed hers upon his shoulder. The music started and they began to turn, somewhat awkwardly around the edge of the ballroom.
“Look at us.” Ella giggled. “Inviting scandal and gossip once again.” It was impossible not to notice the many heads turned their direction. Even more impossible was ignoring the delightful fluttering in her middle and the tears of happiness building behind her eyes. Mr. Darling is dancing with me!
“Look at you,” he said, “in your beautiful gown and curls and with those unfathomable eyes that drive me quite to distraction.”
Ella felt her heart melt beneath his compliment. “If you are so distracted, how is it that you’ve managed to steer us quite near the balcony doors?”
“I am not certain.” He glanced all about as if astounded to find them exiting the ballroom.
Another quick turn, and they were outside. His hand tightened at her waist as he steered her toward a shadowy corner.
“And did my father give you permission to take me outside?” Ella’s heart was pounding so loud she was certain he would hear it.
“No.” Mr. Darling stopped beside a set of stately pillars. “This is all my doing—what I have wanted since nearly the moment I met you.”
“Truly?” Ella could not help the skepticism in her voice, each having acknowledged previously that their first meeting had not been their best. She loosened her grip on his hand, but he did not relinquish his other at her waist.
“Perhaps it was when you suggested a leaf wish. And then helped me find the courage to make it come true.” His head bent to hers so that she felt his whisper upon her lips.
“What was your wish?” Ella asked.
“To be able to do all that a man should.” His mouth descended closer. “To help a woman from a carriage or a horse, to dine with her. To dance.” His lips brushed hers in a slow, sweet kiss. “To love.”
She leaned her head against his chest, feeling dizzy and euphoric.
He brushed his lips across her forehead.
Ella sighed with contentment. “I believe that I have fallen in love with you, Mr. Darling. And not just because of your fine horse.”
He chuckled. “That is good. Because he will be away for a while this spring. Dancing with you tonight—loving you—” Their eyes met. “—will quite probably cost me a wager.”
Click on the covers to visit Michele’s Amazon author page:
Michele Paige Holmes spent her childhood and youth in Arizona and northern California, often curled up with a good book instead of out enjoying the sunshine. She
graduated from Brigham Young University with a degree in elementary education and found it an excellent major with which to indulge her love of children’s literature.
Her first novel, Counting Stars, won the 2007 Whitney Award for Best Romance. Its companion novel, a romantic suspense titled All the Stars in Heaven, was a Whitney Award finalist, as was her first historical romance, Captive Heart. My Lucky Stars completed the Stars series.
In 2014 Michele launched the Hearthfire Historical Romance line, with the debut title, Saving Grace. Loving Helen is the companion novel, with a third, Marrying Christopher, released in July 2015.
When not reading or writing romance, Michele is busy with her full-time job as a wife and mother. She and her husband live in Utah with their five high-maintenance children, and a Shih Tzu that resembles a teddy bear, in a house with a wonderful view of the mountains.
You can find Michele on the web: http://michelepaigeholmes.com
Facebook: Michele Holmes
Twitter: @MichelePHomes
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Timeless Regency Collection: A Midwinter Ball Page 24