Rakehell's Widow

by Sandra Heath

  “I’m glad for you, Octavia, for you’ve worked very hard, and everything looks most exquisite.”

  Octavia looked satisfied as she gazed across the crowded floor, which had been thoroughly sanded and decorated with the stenciled shapes of stars and half-moons. Beneath the dazzling chandeliers, jeweled ladies and velvet-clad gentlemen moved to the sweet music of a cotillion, and at the far end of the floor was the orchestra’s dais. To one side stood the pianoforte which Count Adam Zaleski was to play a little later.

  Alabeth glanced at the pianoforte. “Has the Count arrived yet?”

  “Naturally, for I do not promise such tidbits and then not produce them.”

  “What is he like?”

  Octavia hesitated. “He is very handsome,” she replied, glancing very swiftly at Alabeth’s eyes and then away again.

  “And?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come, now, Octavia, I can tell that there is more than just that.”

  “Well, my dear, it’s—” Octavia broke off with some relief as the master of ceremonies announced more guests. “I simply must go now, Alabeth,” she said swiftly, her satin skirts swishing as she hurried back to join the Duke.

  Alabeth watched her curiously. There was something strange about this Count Zaleski—but what could it be? She put the Count from her thoughts then as she glanced around looking for Jillian, only to see her surrounded by an admiring group of young gentlemen, all eager to claim her for a dance. It was obvious that she was set to be a resounding success, for not only was she young and beautiful, she was also the daughter of the Earl of Wallborough and therefore most definitely a catch.

  Alabeth herself attracted a similar amount of attention, for she possessed the same assets, with the added bonus of being a widow owning the considerable Manvers fortune. For the next hour or so she enjoyed herself, dancing with a succession of partners, receiving a great many compliments, and feeling very much the honey to all the bees.

  She had forgotten Piers Castleton, but she remembered him very sharply indeed when, after a brief intermission, the orchestra struck up again and she happened to glance at the floor and see that he was Jillian’s partner. They made a very handsome pair and Jillian danced so very well, but the adoration on her face was only too apparent and could not but be commented on. Alabeth was dismayed at such an unguarded display, and she knew that already a number of people had remarked it and were watching. Oh, Jillian, Jillian, why can’t you be more discreet? Helplessly, Alabeth watched, but if she could find fault with Jillian’s conduct, she could certainly not say the same of Piers’, for there was nothing untoward in his manner at all; he was simply partnering Jillian in a dance. But what was he really thinking? What was really in the glance of those dark, inscrutable eyes?

  The dance ended and Alabeth was about to hurry toward her sister, when her attention was taken up with a rather large, elderly, army officer, his scarlet dress uniform bristling with medals and decorations. “Lady Alabeth? D’you remember me? Fitzwilliam, General Sir John Fitzwilliam.” He bowed.

  She wanted to speak to Jillian, but etiquette demanded that she stop to speak with the General first. From the corner of her eye she saw Jillian and Piers strolling off the floor and entering the adjoining room, where refreshments were being served. Smiling brightly at the General, she held out her hand. “Of course I remember you, Sir John, you are Robert’s great-uncle.”

  “Damned sorry affair, that duel.”

  “Yes.”

  “Still, it’s past now, and I’m pleased to see you back in circulation, my dear, and looking as magnificent as ever.”

  “You are too kind, sir.”

  “Nonsense, you’re the best-looking woman here, and that includes your pretty little sister. Will you make an old man very proud by taking some refreshment with him?” He offered her his arm.

  She wanted to refuse, for she saw that Jillian and Piers had reemerged, having only gone for some iced champagne, but to have refused the General would have been the height of rudeness and Alabeth could no more have hurt his feelings than she could have flown. Smiling, she slipped her hand over his arm and they proceeded toward the refreshment room. Her dismay deepened a little when she saw Jillian put her glass on a table and smile at Piers, stepping with him onto the floor to dance once again. Really, it was too bad of them both—Piers no longer being blameless—for they both knew that it was inadvisable for a young lady at her first ball to spend so much time exclusively with the same partner.

  Jillian deliberately avoided catching Alabeth’s eyes, but Piers showed no concern, coolly inclining his head, which made Alabeth all the more angry with him.

  In the refreshment room the general inquired which dish Alabeth would like to sample, and she surveyed the white-clothed tables lining the side of the room. Each one was laid out with succulent delicacies, from pies and tarts to cold viands, from salads and cheese to magnificent hothouse peaches, and there were ices so cold and firm that they were surely a miracle on such a hot night. Under normal circumstances, she would have liked a sample of nearly everything, but such was her anger with Jillian and Piers that she had little appetite, settling for one of the delicious ices. The general was attentive and charming, and in spite of her feelings, she found herself enjoying his rather old-fashioned company.

  Jillian continued to do her best to avoid her sister’s disapproving eye, and was by now causing quite a stir among the other guests as she danced for a third time with Piers. Alabeth felt very low indeed, remembering only too clearly how the Earl had frowned upon Jillian becoming acquainted with gentlemen like Piers. What would he say had he been here now?

  Glancing around, she saw that there were raised fans concealing whispering lips, and quizzing glasses directed at Jillian, who danced on, seeming quite oblivious to the faux pas of which she was guilty. Alabeth knew that something would have to be done, or her foolish sister would have no reputation left, and this at the very first London ball she had attended.

  The dance came to an end at last, and Alabeth moved resolutely forward to speak to Jillian, but fate was determined to thwart her plans, for there was a loud drumroll and the master of ceremonies announced that the moment had arrived: the Count was to play for them. A great stir of anticipation ran through the gathering and everyone pressed forward to be as close to the pianoforte as possible.

  Jillian’s gasp of excitement was almost audible to Alabeth, who watched as she hurried forward, her peach-colored skirts rustling. Jillian was determined to be as close as possible to this man she idolized, even though she only knew of him from what she had heard and read. Charles Allister watched her progress with an even more gloomy expression on his normally cheerful face. Remaining where he was, he leaned against a column and looked as if he were praying that the Count would at least fall off his stool, or maybe play a thousand wrong notes.

  Alabeth moved slowly to the entrance of the refreshment room, her heart beating more swiftly, although she could not have said exactly why. Something made her refrain from joining the rest of the audience. Her hand rested against the gilded carving of the doorjamb as she gazed across the heads of the gathering at the pianoforte. An expectant hush fell over everyone, and she could see the eager, almost unbearable anticipation on Jillian’s face, and then at last the Count appeared from the side entrance of the ballroom, a tall, slender figure in dark blue, stepping up lightly toward the dais.

  Alabeth’s heart almost stopped, and her trembling fingers crept hesitantly to touch the ruby necklace at her throat. Seeing him was like looking upon a ghost…the ghost of Robert, Lord Manvers….

  Chapter 10

  He was tall and, like Robert, managed to look at once highly fashionable and elegant, and yet gave an air of indifference to his appearance. His face was finely boned, and he could indeed have almost been described as beautiful, and yet there was something extremely virile and arresting about him, from the flash of his passionate blue eyes to the slight curve of his knowing lips.
Everything about him reminded her of Robert; the same golden hair and blue eyes, the same graceful movements, and the same romantic aura which hinted so subtly at the controlled fire lying just beneath the surface. She gazed at him, mixed emotions sweeping over her as painful memories were stirred. But he wasn’t Robert, she told herself, he was Count Adam Zaleski, the exiled Polish nobleman who was now the darling of Paris and who was all set at this one splendid occasion to become London’s darling too.

  The hush was so intense as he took his seat at the pianoforte that truly a pin could have been heard to drop, and all eyes were directed at the slender man whose pale fingers were poised above the keys. The first soft notes stole out over the audience and immediately they were held spellbound by an enchanting touch which was full of poetry, fire, and soul. His playing was so delicate and sensuous that with a single note he could express a whole range of nuances, and the expression on his face was one of deep concentration: he was oblivious to his audience, so completely was he lost in the music. The pianoforte came to a strange life of its own, so intense and magnificent that it sent shivers of delight through the audience, and like everyone else there, Alabeth could not take her eyes from him.

  Jillian, who had perhaps awaited this moment with more eagerness than anyone else, was transfixed by his mastery. She could only gaze in wonderment, wishing that such glorious music could flow from her fingers too. Charles watched for a while, but then suddenly turned and walked away, his steps inaudible above the musical eloquence of the man at the pianoforte.

  Quite suddenly, it seemed, the Count had finished and had begun to rise from the stool. For a breathless moment the bewitched silence continued, and then there was rapturous applause as everyone showed their complete appreciation of his genius. He smiled a little, his blue eyes sweeping over the delighted faces before him. London was his, and he had conquered it with music.

  Alabeth alone did not applaud; she was still shocked into immobility by the strong resemblance he bore to Robert, but at last she tore her eyes away and turned a little to find herself staring straight at Piers Castleton, who had been watching her for some time. He knew what she was thinking; he had known all along, and that was why he had said she would perhaps have been better off remaining at Charterleigh.

  For the first time she became aware of the curious glances of several other people, for they too had noted the Pole’s resemblance to the late Lord Manvers, and she took a hold of herself then, not wishing to convey her innermost thoughts to the world at large. Holding her head up, she turned back into the refreshment room, but her heart was thundering still and her hand trembled as she sipped her glass of iced champagne.

  Several minutes passed, filled with the sound of excited conversation from the ballroom as everyone strove to be presented to the Count, but then the orchestra struck up yet another cotillion and gradually the ball returned to something approaching normality. People began to drift back into the refreshment room and Alabeth began to feel a little more mistress of herself—until she heard Octavia hailing her and turned to see her advancing on the Count’s arm.

  “Alabeth, my dear,” said Octavia, smiling and yet looking a little uncomfortable as she had obviously noted earlier how like Robert he was, “the Count wishes to be presented to you.”

  “To me?” Alabeth’s green eyes widened, fleeing momentarily to his face. How warm and speculative his glance was.

  Octavia’s fan wafted busily to and fro. “Count Adam Zaleski, may I introduce you to Lady Alabeth Manvers. Alabeth, Count Zaleski.” Octavia was obviously disconcerted by the situation, the undertones of which may have escaped the Count but certainly had not escaped a great many others, who were wondering what effect he was having upon Lord Manvers’ beautiful widow.

  His eyes were dark and burning as he bowed to her, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. “Enchanté, madame,” he murmured.

  She sank into a curtsy. “Sir.”

  “Lady Alabeth, will you honor me by being my first dancing partner here in England?” His voice was soft and his English excellent, although spoken with a heavy Polish accent.

  “I think, sir, that the honor will be mine,” she replied.

  “Oh, no,” he murmured, his fingers firm around her. “Never yours, my lady, only mine, I promise you that.”

  She was in something of a daze as she walked with him into the ballroom, conscious of the envious gaze of many of the ladies, who would have given their eyeteeth to be in her place now. The dance was slow and stately, but it provided him with many opportunities to speak to her, and he did not waste one of them. She was flattered by his obvious admiration, and was not a little attracted to him, but perhaps that was because of the ghost she saw gazing from his ardent eyes. There was something very compelling about him, a continual suggestion of a passionate desire held just in check by a highly civilized veneer. He was possessed of all the fire and emotion of his nation, and yet imbued with the elegant refinement of the French, and the mixture was very potent indeed. She was too aware not only of how dangerously attractive he was, but also of how very sure he was of himself. He had undoubtedly made countless conquests, and the desire in his glance promised that he fully intended to conquer her too.

  The dance ended, but he continued to hold her hand, drawing her a little nearer than necessary. “My lady, I hope that we will meet again…soon.”

  She drew her hand away. “No doubt we will, sir.”

  “I must have your promise, for nothing less will do.”

  “Please, sir.” She glanced around in some embarrassment, conscious of the interest they were attracting as they stood alone in the center of the floor.

  “You will dance with me again?” he asked.

  “I could not be so selfish, sir, for there are a great many ladies who desire very much to dance with you.”

  His lazy smile struck right through her, an echo from the past. “Then I must be content, my lady,” he said softly, “for at least I have been fortunate enough to meet England’s most beautiful lady.”

  “Are you always this gallant and attentive, sir?”

  “Only when beauty commands, and it has commanded me from the moment I saw you standing in that doorway while I played.” He glanced at the wedding ring on her gloved finger. “Is Lord Manvers a loving husband, my lady? Does he possess your heart as well as your hand?”

  “My husband is dead,” she whispered, suddenly unable to bear being so close to him anymore. Gathering her skirts, she turned and walked away, her train rustling through the scattered sand on the floor and the many black beads on her shawl sparkling beneath the chandeliers.

  She retreated hastily from the ballroom, conscious of how much he had unsettled her. A great number of people watched her flight and there was a ripple of murmurs as the speculative whispers began. Was history about to repeat itself? Was the Earl of Wallborough’s elder daughter about to submit to the embrace of a man who was the very image of her dead husband?

  Her cheeks hot, she hurried up the steps and reached the relative safety of the vestibule, but it was outside she wished to be, outside in the cool night air where she could compose herself, unseen by anyone. She remembered the library then, for it had French windows opening onto the terrace and the gardens, and without hesitation she hurried toward it now.

  The rear of the house was quiet, well away from the ballroom, and it was with relief that she opened the gold-and-white door and stepped into the moonlit room beyond. The silver light streaming in through the tall windows lay in pale shafts over the rich crimsons and purples of the Persian carpet, and the hundreds of volumes on the shelves lining the walls muffled all sound as she crossed to the windows, but as her fingers closed over the handle, a voice startled her, making her whirl about to search the shadows.

  “Good evening, Alabeth.” Piers Castleton lounged in one of the chairs watching her, his cravat undone and his long legs stretched out before him. His glance swept slowly over her, coming to rest on her face as she stood in t
he full moonlight, the rubies glowing against her white throat.

  He smiled at her silence. “How sad it is that so intelligent a woman should allow something as imaginary and inconsequential as a ghost to cloud her otherwise excellent judgment.”

  Refusing to be drawn and determined to avoid speaking to him, she turned back to the window and tried to open it.

  “The window is locked—that, at least, is not imaginary,” he said, getting to his feet. “Although in your present frame of mind you no doubt believe the key is there simply because there is a lock—just as you believe that Robert’s memory is sweet simply because he had a charming smile.”

  “I don’t wish to speak to you, sir,” she said icily, “least of all about Robert.”

  “Really? How strange, for I could have sworn that it was because of Robert that you are trying to flee out into the night.”

  She flushed. “It is none of your concern why I do anything.”

  “I have chosen to make it my concern—for the moment, at least. Believe me, I do have your best interest at heart, although you are determined to believe to the contrary.”

  Pressing her lips angrily together, she said nothing more, hurrying back across the room to leave. His voice halted her. “The handsome, winning ghost you trod a measure with a moment since was no ghost; it was very much a flesh-and-blood Polish aristocrat with your seduction on his mind. Imagine what you will about Robert, Alabeth, but be under no illusion about Zaleski, for it could prove your undoing. He is no laggard in the pursuit of the fair sex, his reputation in that direction has more than preceded him, and the brief contact you’ve already had with him should be proof enough that I do not speak lightly.”

  “Are you presuming to offer me advice?” she demanded, her voice quivering.

  “Yes, I rather believe I am.”

  “Well, spare yourself, for your advice is neither sought nor welcome.”