A Dance of Manners

by Cynthia Breeding, Kristi Ahlers, Erin E. M. Hatton

  The dance ended, and Ellen performed the barest semblance of a curtsy before she bolted away to the fireplace and the sanctuary of her father's side. Father glanced up at her in questioning concern.

  “I am fine,” she said tremulously, knowing that she never would be again.

  * * * *

  The next day, Ellen stayed abed ‘til full noon, pleading exhaustion from the dance. In truth, disturbing nightmares plagued her every time she closed her eyes. When Tilly announced that Kate was waiting to see her downstairs, she declared she was ill, and sent Kate away. It was the first time she could remember refusing to see her friend.

  Rolling her head listlessly to the side, she let her eyes follow the rays of light where they emerged from between the curtains in an attempt to forget the dreams. Still they came, waking or sleeping, to haunt her.

  In the first dream, she was in a wood, much like that on the border of Alderfield, and it was verdant with spring. At first, she thought she was alone, filled to the brim with the pulsing abandon of the season, exploring the wood on foot. Then she became conscious of a hand on hers, drawing her ever deeper into the wood. She could not see the figure ahead of her, always obscured by the rampant foliage. She thought it was Charles Findley, or hoped it was.

  Then they burst out into a clearing, the very same in which she had first met Roderick Benton. Free of the tangle of vegetation, she saw her companion for the first time. It was Roderick himself, and she realized she had known all along. He pulled her to him, and to her horror she did nothing to resist, but let herself mould to his body, from shoulder to toes, her head tipped back to gaze into his face.

  He was dressed as a gentleman, as he had been at the ball, his hair neat and his collar starched up to the jaw line. Yet his face was different. Instead of the curled lip and raised eyebrow of derision, he gazed at her with desire. His eyes took on the smoldering, longing look she knew was reflected in her own. His lips drew into a languid, seductive smile, and Ellen thought he intended to kiss her—wanted him to kiss her.

  His lips moved, and she could barely hear the whispered words.

  “My wife,” he said reverently, and his hand traced delicately over the nape of her neck and across the neckline of her bodice. He bent down to kiss her...

  Ellen had awoken then, her lips tingling with the kiss never given, and droplets of sweat springing across her neck where the dream man had touched her. She had lain awake for hours then, her heart pounding. When sleep finally claimed her resistant body again, a new dream came.

  This time she was lying by a fire, her hair unbound in riotous curls around bare shoulders. Arms were wrapped around her, a chest beneath her head, rising and falling in deep sighs. She looked up, propped herself on her elbow, and once again, met Roderick's face. He was asleep this time, his dark lashes tangled against his tanned cheeks. His hair, too, was unbound, and fell over his shoulders and across the carpet. He wore his fine shirt—his jacket, waistcoat, and neck cloth were nowhere to be seen—and the neck gaped open to show sunburned skin, collarbones, and muscle.

  Far from being repulsed, as Ellen thought she should be, she was fascinated. Boldly, she traced his jaw, his ear, his hairline, down the straight bridge of his nose, over lips and chin, neck and shoulder. She felt a strong sense of possession. This man belongs to me. Then, as if in symbol of her claim, she kissed his forehead.

  It was dreams such as these that dogged her through the night and into the morning, dreams she feared never would fade from memory. The most frightening of all was the secret desire that these dreams not fade. As much as she pushed them from her, she also clung to them. Oh, why could she not have dreamed of Charles Findley? Then she would have no dilemma.

  A knock came at the door then, and Ellen feared and hoped that Kate might have ignored her dismissal.

  “Ellen, dear,” came her father's gruff voice. “May I come in?”

  Ellen admitted him in surprise. “What is it, Father?” she asked, sitting up and arranging her covers tidily. Father took the chair near her bedside and cleared his throat, reluctant to speak.

  “Are you well, daughter?”

  “I am not ill,” she said, looking away. “I am merely tired.”

  “I can see that,” he said. “You are pale, and your eyes are dull. I have never seen you thus, even after a late evening.”

  “I slept poorly.” Ellen had little wish to speak of her dreams, especially not with her father. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he could sense her thoughts. Had she called out in her sleep?

  “I have felt like this before,” he said with a wistful smile. “When I first met your mother, I could hardly sleep.”

  Ellen looked at him in surprise. He rarely spoke of Mother, and he had never hinted until now whether their marriage was one of love or of convenience.

  “I shall make no secret. Several young men have called on me to ask if they might court you,” Father said, and smiled weakly. For the first time, Ellen realized he was as reluctant to let her go as she was eager to marry. “If I must give you away, then tell me who your favorite is—who is it that robs you of sleep?—so I may discourage the others and pave the way for the one you love.”

  Ellen stared at him for a moment, her mind in a whirl of confusion. Her favorite, he had said—well, that was Charles Findley, no question. But the one who robbed her of sleep? That was Roderick Benton, and there was no way around it. If she dreamed of him like this, did that mean she loved him? She concealed the shudder that ran through her. No. She could never love him.

  “Charles Findley,” she said decidedly, and offered her father what she hoped was a convincing smile. She tried even to imagine that it was really Charles's face, Charles's body she had imagined in dreaming, and yet the picture seemed absurd.

  “Charles Findley, then,” Father said with a bit of a smile. “I cannot say I blame you. I have heard all the young ladies vie for him.” Apparently, the man had met Father's approval. Did that mean he had asked to court her? Father winked at her, and with a kiss, he left her alone with her thoughts.

  * * * *

  “No, no,” said Ellen impatiently to Rose. “It must be partridge. I care little how much it costs.”

  The cook mumbled assent and Ellen went back to her menu. She eyed the table plan critically. It was elegantly drawn, if she did say so, and a fine array of dishes. Enough to impress the Findleys, or so she hoped.

  The dinner party had been Father's idea, though he had left the planning to her, as was her right as hostess.

  “After all,” he said with a wicked grin, “if you are to be mistress of Mr. Findley's home, he might as well know what he is getting. They do say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.” Father had rubbed his own paunch in appreciation and laughed.

  And so Ellen found herself ensconced that evening at the head of the table, presiding over the realization of her carefully laid plan, with Charles Findley on her right, and Mary on her left, and Father at the far end of the table. The soup had just been cleared, and the dining room was filled with the mingled aromas of the main dishes.

  Charles reached for the nearest dish, a ragout of beef, and offered it to Ellen. As he served her, their hands brushed, and Ellen met his eyes. He smiled warmly at her, causing her to blush deeply. Yet even as she felt her cheeks warm, she was imagining another face, the touch of another hand, another look that shook the core of her being. Could Charles tell? Did he know that even as she blushed for him, she thought of another man? She lowered her gaze—a gesture which Charles might take as demure or coquettish, but which was in all reality mere shame.

  The meal passed amiably enough, and if anyone guessed Ellen's divided heart, they said nothing. Indeed, she was certain no one could guess. To all observers, the signs of love plain in her face and body were meant for Charles. Only she knew of the secret dreams that still hounded her.

  At last, the meal was cleared and Ellen excused herself and Mary to the drawing room. With the doors shut behind
her, she finally felt she could breathe. When she turned around, Mary was watching her with an inscrutable smile on her pretty face.

  “You really do like my brother, do you not?” she asked directly.

  Ellen's heart began to pound afresh. “Yes,” she said simply. It was, after all, no lie. She did like him very much. She merely left out the fact that she felt no passion for him—not the new, frightening passion she had discovered in her dreams. But what did that matter? How many marriages really had that kind of passion? And how many needed it? To Ellen, it felt dangerous. It was like the strong spirits that the men would be taking now in the dining room. To give in, to partake of that passion, would be to lose her judgment.

  “He likes you. I like you, too,” Mary said, tilting her head childishly so her blonde curls bounced. “All the other ladies just seem to want Charles for his money, his position. But you are different. I think you really like him. I could see the way you looked at him at dinner.”

  Ellen smiled weakly. She felt such a fraud—she really did covet Charles's money and position. And the looks over dinner—they were meant for someone else.

  “Can you keep a secret?” Mary asked, drawing closer. Ellen nodded. “Charles confided in me, you know. He told me he was considering asking you to marry him.”

  Ellen's eyes widened in shock. Here was the very confirmation of her ambition.

  “I will tell him that he should marry you,” the girl said conspiratorially. “He will listen to me.”

  Ellen stammered her thanks, and the conversation turned to Mary's girlish flights of fancy. Ellen had no desire to take charge, and Mary seemed content to talk, and so Ellen half listened while the thoughts whirled inside her head.

  Before long, they rejoined the men. Ellen was both triumphant and bewildered, but she took her seat at the card table gracefully and played the part through. No one spoke of what had passed, either in the drawing room or the dining chamber, but looks were shared more freely than cards—Father to Ellen, Ellen to Charles, Charles to Mary. If anyone thought the evening ended earlier than usual, no one complained. They were all in a hurry to hear and tell what had happened in segregation.

  Ellen watched the Findleys cross the little bridge from the front door to the road, hardly noticing when Father came up behind her.

  “Well, my daughter,” he said affably, “he is a fine young man, and I would be surprised if he does not move quickly from this point on.” He laid a hand on her back and kissed her cheek tenderly. “You did well, dear,” he said. “You will make a fine wife.”

  Ellen went on watching at the window long after the carriage had gone, feeling an inexplicable cold seep into her flesh.

  * * * *

  The warmth of a crowded theatre did a little to dispel that cold the next evening, as Ellen entered on Charles's arm. She pulled herself up to full height, glad that she had chosen her flattest slippers, for Charles Findley was of a stature not much grander than hers. She swept the crowd with her gaze, meeting the admiring eyes of gentlemen and ladies alike, and relishing their envy. She knew how conversation would erupt in their wake. Were they engaged? If not, surely they were soon to be.

  It wasn't until Charles had settled her in the chair to his right and was busy helping Mary on his left that Ellen had the first sign that the evening would not go as smoothly as planned. In fact, suddenly the evening looked as bleak as a stormy afternoon in summer.

  The anonymous gentleman with his back toward them now turned and sat, his dark hair queued neatly against his collar, his familiar features settled in a smile. Ellen must have let out a soft gasp of surprise, for he turned to gaze at her.

  “Why, Miss Spencer! Well met,” Roderick Benton said in affable greeting, as though there had never been any enmity between them. Ellen's heart raced at his disarming smile, even as she was acutely conscious of the other man beside her. “And Mr. Findley. A pleasure to see you again, sir,” Roderick greeted Charles. There was no trace of rancor in his salutation, but Ellen sensed a fierce undercurrent of tension between the two men. She felt vindicated, that Charles, too, vilified Roderick.

  “And I must not forget Miss Wintercroft,” Roderick said with a smile, leaning back to reveal his companion. “You are well acquainted with her, are you not, Miss Spencer?”

  Ellen stared at Kate, aghast. For a moment, the sight of her friend would not fit with her known universe. And then the whole picture made a kind of horrifying truth. Ellen had not seen Kate in several days. It was enough time for events to speed along. Roderick and Kate together? Perhaps even engaged? The idea washed over her with a wave of nausea close behind.

  She tried to tell herself it was only revulsion she felt. Imagine Kate married to that disagreeable man. Ellen would find it hard indeed to pay the simplest visit to her friend in that man's household. Kate, the heiress, married to that poor farmer's son! It was too much to be borne.

  And yet, as she explored her feelings, images flooded her mind. They were the secret, passionate moments of her dreams, though different this time. Instead of Ellen in Roderick's embrace, it was Kate. Kate tilting up her head for his kiss, Kate's chestnut hair loose across his chest, Kate's ear accepting the whispered words: my wife. Panic gripped Ellen. She wanted to scream. She wanted to flee.

  Instead, she greeted Kate with an artificial smile, feeling like a poor canvas portrait of herself more than the real thing. What could she say? What could she possibly say in light of these events?

  She was saved from speech by the opening of the play. It was sufficiently diverting to free her from the need for conversation, although it did nothing to distract from her disturbing thoughts.

  At the close of the play, Charles touched her elbow to capture her attention. She looked at him, startled, having forgotten his existence entirely in her turmoil. All at once, looking at his handsome, earnest face, she was overcome with guilt. How could she forget the man she wanted to call husband? How could she spend every moment in his presence thinking about another?

  To her relief, he was as eager to leave as she. He helped her and Mary into the carriage. Ellen hoped that removing herself from Roderick's proximity would distance him from her thoughts. It was not to be.

  “I hope I did not inconvenience you, taking you from your friend so quickly,” Charles said.

  “Not at all,” Ellen said with an encouraging smile.

  “I may sound dreadfully proud, but I have great difficulty being in the same room as Mr. Roderick Benton.” Charles looked away, scowling. Mary smiled, recognizing a familiar tirade about to begin.

  “Then we are in agreement,” Ellen said ruefully. At last, she had found someone else who loathed Roderick instead of celebrating him.

  “The man is insufferable, the way he puffs himself up. What business has a mere farmer's son among gentlemen? And Miss Wintercroft—has she not the sense not to be seen with him? I would have thought a lady of breeding would make a better choice.”

  “So would I.” Charles's words came directly from her heart as if he had read them there, and yet as she heard them, she was ashamed. Was it really true? Roderick may come from simple origins, but proud and puffed up?

  “She must be blinded by carnal passions, though I daresay, I have difficulty seeing the attraction the young ladies boast of. Do you? I know Mary's mind, though she has the sense to choose better.”

  “Me?” Ellen stammered. She saw, indeed, and wished she did not. She felt the color rising in her cheeks even as she answered. “I find him provincial at best. He certainly could not be put in the same class as gentlemen such as you.”

  Charles smiled. “You flatter me, my dear Miss Spencer,” he said, making no reference to her hesitation or her blushing. “And yet he does mean to be in the same class as me. He has been accepted into Brookes’ club.”

  Ellen gasped in surprise, and she hoped Charles took it as mere outrage. In reality, she held some admiration that Roderick had climbed so far as to join such an exclusive club whose membership included no
t only Charles, but the most fashionable, powerful men in London.

  “A lapse in judgment, I am sure,” Ellen said.

  “Perhaps,” Charles said darkly. Then his face softened, and he looked upon Ellen as though seeing her for the first time. “But forgive me,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal of the topic. “I reveal a baser nature when I malign the man. Let us speak of something else. As for Roderick Benton, I care not.”

  Ellen agreed with her tongue, but in her heart, she could not let go. Roderick Benton was lodged there, as a splinter in her finger, as a thorn in her side. She cared—very much.

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  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Over the next week, Kate neither called nor wrote, and Ellen felt her lack keenly. It was not the missing that surprised her—Ellen had known she would regret the loss of her dearest friend. It was rather the emptiness of her life that astonished her. Without the afternoons spent laughing and teasing each other, Ellen had whole hours of every day with no occupation. She tried for a while filling the time with Mary Findley, but soon the younger girl's inanity wore on her, and Ellen began to beg excuse from her company as well.

  With all the calls made which duty demanded, and all the finery purchased that was needed for the Season, Ellen wandered aimlessly, a tagalong after her Aunt Susan, up and down the shops of Bond Street, greeting others only as she must. She saw little of the wares gracing storefront and shelf. She noticed even less of the fine people strolling the street—the same people that would have delighted her and Kate once.

  She could think only of Roderick. Her dreams—nightmares?—of being his wife. Charles and Roderick's enmity. Roderick and Kate's affection. Roderick's social standing—both as she had imagined it on first impression, and as she saw it now.