The Valentine's Day Ball

by Julia Parks

  He took her hand again, sending exquisite tremors up Jane’s spine. Almost, she forgot her fear.

  Once inside, Lord Devlin found a candle someone—probably one of the university researchers—had left behind. He lit it, let hot wax drip on a nearby rough table, and stood the candle in the wax.

  “There, now we can see even if my torch goes out.”

  Jane shivered beneath his strong hand as he once again led her farther inside.

  “Cold?” He turned from his perusal of the room.

  Jane shook her head, hoping her teeth wouldn’t start to rattle. Devlin drew her arm through his, never letting go of her hand. Jane made no protest, leaning on him quite openly. Under other circumstances, she would have been appalled to act so familiarly.

  “You are afraid. I shouldn’t have forced you to come.”

  Lord Devlin’s concern was evident, and he turned to lead her out, but Jane said quietly, “No, sir. I wanted to come.”

  “Why? What are you trying to prove? It is obvious you have a fear of this place.”

  Jane’s tiny laugh was sharp, but her voice was strong. “I do have a fear. I am ashamed to admit it, but it is true. But this is one fear I can face. I’ll be fine. You see?” She released his arm and walked toward the far wall.

  “Now this tomb is where our Valentine is buried. You see the birds—all in twos—that are carved all over it?”

  Devlin, standing beside her, held his torch closer. “Yes, if memory serves, St. Valentine’s Day became associated with lovers because it is supposed to be the day when birds choose their mates.”

  “Quite right,” said Jane. “So you see why I think our monk is the true St. Valentine?”

  “I must disagree. I think it much more likely this monk—who was no doubt quite distinguished since he has his own vault—this monk simply took the name Valentine. By the time he was alive, St. Valentine’s Day had become associated with lovers because of the birds choosing their mates on February fourteenth. And so this monk, this Brother Valentine, had those birds carved on his tomb.”

  Jane’s laugh sounded quite normal as she protested. “And I cannot agree with you, Lord Dev— My God! What was that?”

  Jane’s breath was suspended as they heard a low creak.

  The slam that followed was anything but quiet. Jane let out a shriek.

  b

  “Shh! Who’s there?” Drew thrust the torch into Jane’s hand, closing her lifeless fingers around its handle. Hurrying to the door, he called again, “Who’s there? Hell and…the door’s locked!”

  “L-l-locked?” Now Jane’s teeth rattled audibly. He hurried back to her, catching the torch as it fell from her fingers.

  “Miss Lindsay! Jane! That’s enough!” He jammed the torch between the crumbling mortars on the brick floor and paused to ensure it would remain standing.

  Jane’s eyes remained fixed on his face, her mouth rounded in an astonished O. Devlin put his arms around her to still her trembling. There was no passion in his embrace. Jane accepted this comfort passively, incapable of either speech or action.

  When her teeth stopped chattering and the violent shudders ceased racking her body, Drew said, “Someone will come soon. Remember, Jane, Lord Pierce has been down here before. He will know there can’t be too much of interest and will soon wonder at our protracted absence. They’ll get us out, even if they have to break the door down.”

  Thankfully, it didn’t occur to Jane to wonder how Lord Pierce and her Cousin Roland could break down such a thick and sturdy door without the proper tools.

  “Who could have closed it?” she whispered, her face still buried in his coat.

  “Wind, no doubt. I thought it had begun to shift. We’re probably in for some more cold weather. At least it is dry and relatively warm down here.”

  Jane nodded against his shoulder. “And also, Mary was wrong.”

  “About what?”

  “At least we’re not sharing quarters with mice or bats.”

  Jane’s mild attempt at humour wasn’t lost on Drew. Taking her firmly by the shoulders, he looked into her face. “I knew you’d come about. You’ve got bottom.”

  b

  He released her carefully and set two stools to rights beside the door.

  As Jane sat down, she couldn’t help but think on the viscount’s warm comment. Warm but hardly romantic. Yet the last thing she desired from Lord Devlin was romance or flirtation, wasn’t it?

  “So, Miss Lindsay, do you go to London with Miss Pettigrew?” he asked, his conversational voice more suitable to the drawing room than a dark crypt.

  Snapped back to the present, Jane frowned. Why was he back on Cherry’s visit to London? “No. This is to be her time. Her mother will accompany her.”

  “I should like to see Miss Pettigrew in London, holding court at her first ball.”

  “Holding court?”

  “Certainly. With her beauty and pleasing personality, I predict she will be the reigning belle of the Season.”

  Jane was torn between pride in her cousin and her desire to protect Cherry. She certainly didn’t wish to encourage the pretensions of rakes like Lord Devlin. Finally, she compromised.

  “I hope you may be right. Cherry is a dear child, and she deserves to be able to have her choice of eligible suitors.”

  “What about you, Miss Lindsay? Were you one of the belles of the Season at your come-out?”

  “Hardly. My entrance into the ton was quite brief and quite uneventful. My mother had been ill in the spring, so I went to London for the Little Season in the fall. I stayed with my friend Sally—now Lady Cumberland. Perhaps you know her?”

  Lord Devlin shook his head.

  “It was great fun—the shopping, the invitations, the rides in the park.”

  “I imagine you shone to advantage on those rides.”

  Jane smiled at him. “Then the parties and balls actually arrived. I was suddenly stricken with shyness. I couldn’t talk or laugh. And dancing—which will never be my forte—was a disaster! From that standpoint, it was a relief when my grandmother wrote, calling me home.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes, there was nothing the doctors could do. She made it through Christmas—she always loved that time of year—and died at the end of January.”

  “I am sorry. I can tell you still miss her.”

  “Oh, yes. My grandmother passing away last year brought it all back quite painfully.”

  “So, you never had a Valentine’s Ball when you were Cherry’s age.”

  “No, and she bemoans the fact regularly.” Jane laughed.

  “She does? Not you?”

  “No. It meant I didn’t have to attend any balls and attempt to dance for a whole year!”

  “But why should Miss Pettigrew care so vehemently?”

  “Ah, Cherry may tease me about being superstitious, but she truly believes Heartland’s tradition that the children of the house, both sons and daughters, will meet their future spouse at the ball when they are eighteen.”

  “So you are unmarried because there was no ball that year?”

  “Exactly! And no matter what I say, Cherry will insist it is true.”

  “Perhaps it is. After all, I’m sure you eventually came out of hiding and had a Season.”

  “True, but I have never felt truly comfortable on the dance floor, though I manage.”

  “I find that difficult to credit. You are made for dancing, so tall and graceful.” Devlin rose, bowed and took her hand. “I believe I hear the first strains of the waltz. Will you do me the honour, Miss Lindsay?”

  Jane shook her head at his absurdity, but she stood up and allowed him to place his hand on her waist. He began to hum a waltz tune, guiding her easily through the steps of the dance. At first, Jane’s movements were stiff, but as she relaxed, she felt the rhythm through the touch of his hands.

  The torch fluttered and burned out, leaving the task of lighting the small chamber to that single candle. Lord Devlin drew h
er closer until his arm encircled her waist; her long hair tickled his hand. Jane raised her chin, her eyes coming to rest on his mouth.

  Devlin’s humming ceased as he returned her gaze. With the music suspended, their movements stopped also. The silence was broken only by their breathing, which seemed to be getting louder.

  Jane licked her lips, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth. The hand holding hers came toward her mouth, soothing that nervous gesture with a gentle touch of his thumb. Slowly, Devlin lowered his mouth to hers. His lips brushed hers, his tongue tasting that full lower lip. His eyes opened, and Jane stared at him, mesmerized.

  She loosened her hand from his and slipped it up, joining her hands around his neck. She pulled his face back down and kissed his lips.

  Devlin’s arms closed around her waist as he pulled her against him. He kissed and teased, pleading and persuading, his tongue exploring her mouth, her tongue answering, darting nervously. He had somehow backed her against the wall—or was it the tomb?—she didn’t care so long as the rhythmic movement of his hips continued to caress her just between the tops of her thighs.

  Dimly, she grew aware of the pounding on the door, and the pulsing of her blood and breathing began to slow down.

  Devlin stepped away, his dark eyes puzzled, even overwhelmed, by their exchange. He took a deep breath before he dropped her hands—she couldn’t recall giving them to him—and turned toward the door.

  The pounding from the outside had ceased. Someone was putting the key in the lock and turning it. Jane quickly smoothed her riding habit, staring down in surprise to find three buttons unfastened. Correcting this, she flipped her long hair behind her shoulders and joined Lord Devlin by the opening door.

  In the general hubbub that followed, Jane’s unnaturally high colour and Lord Devlin’s abstracted manner were put down to agitation of the nerves, a natural result from their harrowing experience. And if Jane snapped at her crying cousin to quit being a ninnyhammer, she was easily forgiven.

  As for Lord Devlin, his continuing silence might be wondered at, but perhaps his nerves were more highly strung than anyone suspected.

  Lord Devlin’s nerves were anything but high-strung at that moment. In truth, he held his emotions under a tight rein, but not because of being locked in a dark crypt for almost an hour. Nor was it because of Miss Lindsay’s extremely provocative body. What struck him quite forcibly as they reached ground level was the absolute stillness of the air. There was no possible way the wind could be held responsible for that door closing.

  And, if not the wind?

  He studied the small group of people, his eyes coming to rest on Miss Lindsay.

  No, she would not have arranged for someone to close that door in the hope she would be compromised and he would be forced to offer for her. It was unthinkable, yet the thought remained.

  Otherwise who, of that innocuous group, would have wanted to do a mischief to either him or Miss Lindsay? It was a puzzle—a rather nasty one, at that.

  b

  It was a weary Miss Lindsay who rode at Lord Devlin’s side in front of the carriages on the way home. She had felt unequal to the cross-country ride with its numerous jumps. But mostly the thought of a private ride with Drew had made her insist on taking to the road.

  And he hadn’t protested. He probably had no wish to be private with her, either. Her cheeks flamed at the thought of her behaviour, and she squirmed uncomfortably in the saddle, remembering that feeling of hot urgency as he pressed her against the wall. The thought alone made her feel uncomfortably warm.

  How could she ever look him in the eye again? He had no doubt found her behaviour repelling. She had to know. She stole a glance at his forbidding profile. The corner of his mouth was turned down, and his brow was furrowed. Suddenly, he turned to face her, the full force of his frown hitting her like a blow. Jane’s colour rose, but this time it was due to anger and indignation.

  How dare he! How dare he look down his thin, aristocratic nose at her when she had only responded to his advances. Had he left her alone, she would never have kissed him, not in a million years!

  In high dudgeon, she lifted her riding crop. A slight touch sent Sinbad careening down the road.

  Chapter Three

  Jane stretched and opened her eyes, blinking at the bright morning light. Then she turned over and burrowed into the pillows.

  “You asked to be waked up at nine, Miss Jane,” said Tucker.

  Jane let out a groan, but sat up and leaned against the pillows, twitching the twisted covers until they were straight. “I know, but I do wish I could sleep a little longer this morning.” She accepted the cup of steaming tea from Tucker. “Still, I do want to go to the library, and I will be glad of Cherry’s company on the long ride. I suppose you had best come along, Tucker. I can’t trust her young maid to keep her out of mischief.”

  “If you think it’s best, Miss Jane, though Mrs. Brown did ask for my help.” At Heartland, a request from their formidable housekeeper and cook was tantamount to a royal summons, and the maid was obviously torn.

  “Then you must stay. Surely, I can trust Cherry now that she is eighteen.” Jane was doubtful, but she brushed aside the maid’s protests. It seemed neither one of them could forget that time last fall when Cherry had slipped out the back door of the best modiste in Bath to meet secretly with Mr. Fitzhugh. She had been found in the Pump Room two hours later, no less than five young swains swarming around her as she parcelled out smiles and coy looks. Jane had dealt with the matter without telling Cherry’s mother, who would have swooned in horror, predicting the dire consequence of social ruin for the entire family.

  “I think I’ll be daring and wear the burgundy carriage dress this morning, Tucker. I confess, though I wish no disrespect to my grandmother’s memory, that I shall be glad when March arrives and I may wear real colours again.”

  “Your grandmother, rest ’er soul, wouldn’t want her girls unhappy, I’m thinkin’, Miss Jane.”

  Jane swung her legs off the bed and scratched her rib cage in a most unladylike fashion. “That’s true, so I’m sure she’ll forgive the wearing of burgundy if she happens to look down and see.”

  “Miss Jane!”

  Jane tried to look remorseful, but her eyes twinkled. Fortunately, Tucker had leaned over to find the matching slippers and didn’t see.

  Jane’s tongue often got the better of her—she would say the wrong thing to the wrong person. If she had made such a statement to her old nurse, that good lady would have made the sign of the cross and nodded in agreement. Talking with ghosts was an everyday occurrence for Nana.

  “Is Miss Cherry awake?”

  “I believe so, Miss Jane. I think I saw her goin’ downstairs before I came in to wake you.”

  “So early?”

  Cherry usually had to be dragged out of bed even when presented with the prospect of a morning shopping in Bath. Heaven help them all if the girl was up to more mischief. Jane had seen to it, since that last incident, that Cherry never visited Bath without one of the older, more sedate servants along. But surely she wouldn’t jeopardize her reputation just before her departure for London?

  “There you are, Miss Jane. And pretty as a picture, too.”

  Jane gave her appearance a cursory glance before thanking Tucker and hurrying downstairs.

  There was Cherry alone in the small sitting room they had turned into a family dining room. Eating breakfast and luncheon there was much cosier than either of the other formal dining rooms.

  Cherry had also opted for a change from their usual grey and lavender mourning gowns. She wore a rich blue, not quite navy but close enough to be respectful. On the sideboard was a fetching bonnet in a matching colour.

  Swallowing, Cherry greeted her older cousin cheerfully.

  Doing it too brown, thought Jane suspiciously. But she could be subtle, too, and she returned the greeting enthusiastically. However, Jane vowed to not let Cherry out of her sight. It would mean curtailin
g her visit to the library, but it was necessary.

  Please let March arrive quickly so I can be rid of what is becoming a burdensome responsibility.

  “Where shall we go first?” asked Jane a few minutes later before taking a bite of toast.

  She encountered a sharp look from her cousin before Cherry masked her annoyance. “First? I thought we would go to Duffield’s first so you may choose some books.”

  “If you wish. Then we should really proceed to the dressmakers. Mrs. Warner gets so busy later in the day. Besides, it is only logical to start with the gown and then select the accessories.”

  Her voice a little too disinterested, Cherry asked, “Are you planning to order some new gowns now? I had thought you would wait until we are officially out of mourning.”

  “By the time they are ready, we will be. Now finish up, so we can leave soon.”

  “I’m finished,” grumbled the girl.

  Jane hid a smile, pleased with spiking Cherry’s guns. There’d be no clandestine rendezvous that day!

  The morning promised just as beautiful a day as the one before. Jane forgot her worries about Cherry and enjoyed the pleasing landscape. As they passed Lord Pierce’s modest manor house, Cherry, too, leaned out the window. She sighed audibly.

  “Is anything the matter, dear?” asked Jane.

  Cherry almost managed to keep the whine from her voice and the pout from her lips, but Jane had known her cousin too long not to recognize the signs of frustration.

  Jane turned back to the window.

  A few moments later, Cherry sighed again quite dramatically.

  Aha! She has come up with a plan.

  “It is just that I wanted to shop for a gift, a very special gift.”

  “I shall be happy to accompany you.”

  “No! I mean, well, you see, you cannot see the gift. It would spoil the surprise. Remember, you do have a birthday coming up.” Cherry delivered her most winning smile. Unfortunately, it had no effect on Jane.

  “Very well,” she began and Cherry’s smile broadened. “However, I know you wouldn’t wish to appear to be alone in a shop, for no matter what anyone says, ladies do not go out unattended—ever.”