by Darcy Burke
“Why?” Aquilla whispered as he neared.
Ivy could hardly believe he was here. Perhaps he was the dream, and she had fallen prey to her own wistful, stupid imaginings. But no, he was real, and the anticipatory glint in his eye told her everything she needed—wanted—to know. “Because he wishes to talk to me.”
Chapter Fourteen
When West came to a stop in front of her, the cacophony in Ivy’s ears reached a deafening crescendo. She saw his lips move, but didn’t hear a word of it. Nor did she ask him to repeat himself. She simply stood there and drank him in as if she possessed an insatiable thirst.
Vaguely, she registered the jab of someone’s elbow. Lucy’s, probably. Ivy didn’t turn to look.
“Miss Breckenridge?”
She heard him this time, the deep timbre of his voice stoking the heat that had kindled inside her as soon as she’d caught sight of him.
“Yes?”
“A waltz is starting. Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?” He bowed gallantly, and the whizzing noise started up again in her ears.
Good heavens, was she going to faint? No. She refused.
Ivy shook the sounds from her head and took a deep breath to slow the frantic rhythm of her heart. “I’m afraid I cannot.”
“Go,” Lucy whispered urgently from her right.
Ivy longed to turn a glare on her friend, but didn’t. She couldn’t seem to look away from West’s captivating stare.
“Why not?” he asked softly, his lips curving with just a hint of delight as if he thought they were enjoying a game that only the two of them knew about.
Ivy resisted the urge to smile back. It would be so easy to fall back under his spell…which meant she thought he’d somehow enchanted her at Greensward. But that was ridiculous. Ivy had walked into whatever-it-had-been of her own volition. She moved toward him just the slightest bit, aware that most of the ballroom was watching them. Heat crept up her neck. She hated to be noticed, and this was sheer torture. “I don’t know how,” she ground out between her clenched teeth.
He took her hand, clearly uncaring about her reticence or her refusal. “Trust me.”
No, no, no. That was the one thing she would never do. She tried to pull her hand away, but he held her fast. “I cannot.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “It’s too late now.”
And then he swept her toward the dance floor, tucking her arm over his.
“You didn’t even allow me to introduce my friends.” It was a feeble complaint, but the only one she could come up with just now. She was far too aware of—and thrilled by—the warmth of him beneath her hand.
“After we waltz. It’s already started.” He turned her in his arms and placed his hand at her waist. Then he clasped her other hand with his. “Take my shoulder and follow my lead.”
He began to move, stepping them forward and then to the side. She’d watched people waltz, of course, but doing it was quite different.
After she stepped on his foot, he asked, “Have you never waltzed?”
She shook her head.
“That is a crime.” He applied pressure to her waist as he guided her through the steps. “Count with me. One two three, one two three.” He continued with this instruction for the next minute until she finally grasped the rhythm of it.
“Have you ever danced at all?” he asked.
“Yes, but not for a very long time.”
He arched a brow at her as his mouth curved up on one side. “A revelation from the lady at last.”
She stared up at him, finally accepting that he was here in Bath, that he wasn’t just the fantasy that had been living in her mind the past few weeks. “Why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Clearly it isn’t, or I wouldn’t have asked.”
“To see you, of course.”
She stepped on his foot again.
“I take it this surprises you,” he observed wryly.
“Immensely. I believed our association to be at an end.”
“Ah, well. I did not. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to return to Greensward before the party concluded. I missed you by just one day.”
She heard the regret in his tone and couldn’t quite believe it. No, she had to have misheard that. “The weather was quite poor.”
“It was horrendous. I’m still angry about it.”
She tipped her head to the side. “You’re angry at the weather?”
“For keeping me from you.”
That she didn’t mishear. How could she?
“You shouldn’t say such things in the middle of the dance floor.”
“Then tell me where I should say them, and I’d be happy to oblige.” He gave her a sultry, provocative stare, and she wanted to melt into a puddle.
This simply would not do. Ivy liked her ordered, respectable life. She’d allowed herself a brief transgression at Greensward, but that was in the past. “Not only did I believe our association was at an end, I want it to be.” She averted her gaze and watched the ballroom swirl by as they moved. She immediately got a bit dizzy.
“Don’t say that. Please.” The plea was soft but urgent. “I can’t stop thinking about you. About Greensward.”
Her heart clenched, and the room swam. She tried to focus on something, and her gaze landed on a gentleman nearby. He seemed familiar somehow, but she couldn’t place his thinning sandy hair or his paunchy frame. The music slowed, and they came to a halt. He turned his head toward her, and she saw his eyes—a bright blue with just a hint of violet, like speedwell flowers. She knew those eyes anywhere.
And then she did the absolutely unthinkable. She fainted.
West caught her before she fell to the floor. He’d sensed her equilibrium was off after she’d pulled her attention from him and had been about to tell her to look at him, not the ballroom. But he’d become distracted by what she’d said. She didn’t want to see him.
As he swept her into his arms, he registered the gasps and rush of conversation around him.
One of the young women who’d been with Ivy strode toward him, her expression grim. “Follow me.” She was joined by the other young woman, and they quickly preceded West from the ballroom.
He followed them into the vestibule, where a footman directed them toward a retiring room.
The dark-haired woman with sharp hazel eyes turned toward him. “Give us a moment.”
She and the other woman, a pretty brunette with an array of curls spilling from her elaborate hairstyle, hurried into the retiring room.
Several people had followed him from the ballroom. He turned to give them what he hoped was a ducal stare. “Give the lady some space, please.” He didn’t want any of them coming closer, or worse, accompanying them into the chamber.
A moment later, the dark-haired woman poked her head out and waved him inside.
West carried Ivy into the room as she began to stir in his arms. In truth, he was loath to put her down, but the other women hovered near a chaise and indicated he should deposit her there.
As he laid her on the soft brocade, her eyes peeled open. She looked confused, then blinked. Then her eyes focused on him. He stayed bent over her, probably far closer than he ought, but he didn’t care.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Her voice was low and raspy. Seductive if he were honest. He shouldn’t think of such things just now, but she made it difficult not to, particularly with the anxious way she was looking at him. “Did I faint?”
He nearly laughed at her self-derision. “It would seem so, yes.”
The dark-haired woman squatted down on the other side of the chaise. “Ivy, what happened?”
She looked over at the woman. “I’m not entirely sure. We were dancing, and then—”
West felt her stiffen and saw a shadow drop over her eyes.
“I became dizzy,” she said, rather flatly, West thought. He looked at the other women to see their reaction. They exchanged looks. Yes, somethin
g was amiss here, but he had no idea what.
Unless it was him.
She’d said their association was over, that she wanted it to be. This was not going the way he’d planned. But then he’d never encountered a woman who hadn’t wanted him. He suddenly felt like an arrogant prick.
He stood, drawing all three women to turn their heads toward him. He looked down at Ivy. She appeared exactly as he’d always dreamed of her—in an elegant gown that draped her body to perfection, her hair swept into a sophisticated style, jewels warming her soft, ivory neck. It took everything he had to walk away from her right now. But that was precisely what he would do. For now. Tomorrow, when things settled down, he would try again. He had to.
“I’ll leave you in their capable hands,” he said.
“Thank you.” For what, he wondered? For dancing with her? For carrying her from the dance floor? For leaving?
He hoped it was the first, but feared it was the last. Tomorrow, he would find out.
Walking out into the vestibule, he stopped short when Lady Lamberton moved into his path. She was a vision of loveliness in an ice-blue gown. She looked cool and untouchable. Until she turned her gaze on him, and he knew that for him, she was as accessible as he could want.
She sauntered toward him. “Who was that you were dancing with?”
“Miss Breckenridge.” West wasn’t about to explain to Lady Lamberton that Ivy was a companion. She’d likely hear about that soon enough.
Why did it matter? Was Ivy somehow less because of her station? Yes, in the eyes of Lady Lamberton, and indeed of the rest of Society. But in West’s?
He tensed, growing angry with himself. Perhaps he had thought less of her. All while telling her he hadn’t. He owed her an apology.
When he thought of all she’d overcome—certain ruination—and the manner in which she helped others, his admiration for her intensified. She was, he realized, the finest woman he’d ever known. She was a glorious phoenix who’d risen from the ashes.
“I don’t believe I’ve heard of her.” Lady Lamberton shot him a suggestive smile. “She likely isn’t the first young lady to swoon in your arms.”
Actually, she was. “She simply became dizzy.”
The brunette with the curls came from the retiring room and walked toward the cardroom. West deduced that she was likely fetching Lady Dunn and chastised himself for not thinking to do that himself.
Some of the people who’d followed them to the vestibule returned to the ballroom, however a small group remained, chief among them Lady Lamberton. West wanted to herd them away, but didn’t wish to make a scene. He also didn’t want to leave himself.
A moment later, the young woman and Lady Dunn walked from the cardroom. West had never seen Lady Dunn move so quickly, the tip of her cane clacking at sharp, rapid intervals against the marble floor.
Two gentlemen followed behind them, and West immediately recognized them as the Earls of Dartford and Sutton. He vaguely recalled that both had married this past Season and assumed the women with Ivy were their wives. They didn’t go into the retiring room but waited just outside.
The dark-haired woman came out and spoke to them. Observing the way she laid her hand against Dartford’s arm, West deduced she was his countess. Dartford nodded at whatever she said.
Ivy emerged from the retiring room then, her arm tucked over the woman who was surely the Countess of Sutton. Her gaze flicked about the room and settled on West just as Lady Lamberton sidled close.
“Ah, she looks quite recovered,” Lady Lamberton said softly.
West resisted the urge to wave her away like a troublesome fly, just as he restrained himself from going to Ivy and insisting on escorting her to her coach.
Ivy’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly but she looked away from him so quickly that West wondered if he might have imagined it. Lady Dartford went to her other side, and she left the Assembly Rooms between the two women.
Lady Lamberton exhaled, her soft breath tickling West’s neck. “I suppose the entertainment is over.”
West turned sharply as he took a step away from her. “If you consider that entertainment, you’re an ugly person, Lady Lamberton. I bid you good evening.”
He considered leaving, but instead went to the cardroom in search of whiskey. If they didn’t serve it there, surely the building boasted some room that was set aside for the gentlemen to drink. Just over the threshold, he was greeted by a tall, lanky fellow who looked as if he’d developed too much of a fondness for sweets. He smiled jovially. “Clare, isn’t it?” he asked, offering his hand.
West shook it quickly, eager to be on his way. “Yes.”
“I’m Bothwick,” he said, releasing West’s hand. “I say, is that young lady all right? I saw her collapse right into your arms.”
“She became a bit dizzy.”
Bothwick chuckled. “I’ve seen that happen during a waltz a time or two. She was quite fortunate to have you as her hero.”
West didn’t want to make small talk. He wanted a damn drink. “I don’t suppose you know where I can obtain a glass of whiskey.”
“Of course. Allow me to show you.” He gestured for West to accompany him toward a side entrance. After passing through a short corridor, Bothwick opened a door into a room set with tables. More than a dozen gentlemen sat about the room, and a pair of footmen appeared to be delivering drinks. “Shall we sit?”
West took a chair at a nearby table while Bothwick spoke with one of the footmen. He sat down next to West and leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his protruding belly. “Whiskey is on the way, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” West didn’t particularly want company, but he didn’t wish to be rude. He’d drink his whiskey and take his leave after all.
“The woman you were dancing with…” Bothwick began. “She seemed very familiar to me. Who is she?”
“Her name is Miss Breckenridge. I doubt you would know her.” Because she wasn’t from their class. His muscles tightened again, his body rebelling against the confines of stupid Society. It had never troubled him until now.
Bothwick stroked his chin briefly. “No, I can’t say that I do. Strange, because I was almost certain I did.”
West barely listened to him as the footman approached the table with their whiskey. He set both glasses on the table and asked if there’d be anything else. West shook his head, and Bothwick declined.
Bothwick sipped his whiskey, then smacked his glass down on the table. “Yes, yes. She is the very image of a woman from my district. I would’ve wagered a goodly sum that it was her, but Breckenridge was not her name.” He chuckled. “And I doubt very much that she would be here looking like that.” He looked down at his whiskey with amusement as if he were enjoying some private joke.
Something about his demeanor make West’s neck prickle. “What do you mean she wouldn’t be here looking like that? What should she look like?”
Bothwick raised his head. “She was very fast, got herself into trouble. I can’t imagine she would’ve made her way to a Society event in Bath looking as if she were on the Marriage Mart.”
West had picked up his whiskey, and his grip grew so tight that he feared he might break the glass. The man couldn’t be speaking of Ivy, could he? He’d said her name wasn’t Breckenridge. Still, West couldn’t ignore the sense of unease rifling through him. He decided to learn what he could from the man, suspecting that he was something less than a gentleman. “I’ve known girls like that.”
Bothwick laughed again. “I would think you do. I’d wager you’ve had plenty of silly young chits pursue you.” He sipped his whiskey again and set it down as he leaned closer, his voice pitching low. “Your reputation is legendary. Any stories you’d care to share?”
With his prediction that this man was gutter swine proven true, West continued the ruse. He leaned just slightly to his left, pushing his side into the arm of the chair. “I’d rather hear about this girl you mentioned. Especially if she looked like my da
nce partner, who is, as you could see, quite beautiful.”
“Indeed, that’s precisely why I thought it was the same girl. Mary—that was her name—was incomparable.” The way he said the word incomparable and the knowing gleam in his eye spurred West’s worst suspicion: Bothwick was the son of a bitch who’d ruined her.
He’d called her Mary. That was perhaps the most damning evidence of all.
“But as you say, she can’t possibly be the same person.” West forced himself to speak in pleasant tones. He wanted to throttle the man until the snake couldn’t breathe.
Bothwick shook his head. “No, I don’t see how she can be.”
West couldn’t seem to stop himself from urging this man to reveal everything he knew. Everything he’d done. “She was fast, you say? I suppose you had firsthand knowledge of this.” He pushed his mouth into a wicked smirk.
Bothwick’s lips spread into an insolent grin. “I shouldn’t speak of it, but it’s not as if I’d be insulting a lady.” He took another drink of whiskey, and West prayed he’d choke on it. “She fell desperately in love with me—or so she said. She learned I was heir to a viscountcy and set her sights well above her station. When she offered herself to me in the hope that I would marry her, I simply couldn’t refuse. I did try, mind you, but she was quite tenacious. I’m afraid she wore me down.” He set his glass on the table once more.
West was certain the filthy pig was lying. “So of course you succumbed.”
“What could I do?” He widened his eyes and shrugged before breaking into laughter once more. He thought they were sharing a joke. The only thing West wanted to share was his fist with Bothwick’s jaw.
He nearly called the man out right then and there, but what good would that do aside from dredging up Ivy’s past? A past she’d no doubt worked hard to forget.
West threw back the rest of his whiskey and stood. He got up so quickly that he knocked the table. Bothwick’s whiskey glass spilled, and the rest of the amber liquid cascaded over Bothwick’s trousers.