Why had she been so unbearably angry with him? This morning she had chosen to walk in the rain so that she could be alone; she’d had some foolish idea that it would steady her nerves for the evening. The river had proved a calming influence until she’d managed to get herself trapped in the bramble patch. And then he had materialised out of nowhere. He seemed to make an art of appearing where he did not belong. But she must be honest: it wasn’t simply his intrusion that had triggered the quarrel, it was rage with herself for entertaining feelings she should not have. For she was determined that she would never make herself vulnerable to a man’s power as her poor, dead mother had.
Remembered lines from Agnes’s diary were lodged for ever in her head. One rainy day years ago, she had climbed to one of the farthest attics and discovered in a dark corner a battered trunk filled with her mother’s possessions, doubtless returned to the Towers at the time of her death and then abandoned. She had been no more than twelve at the time, on the cusp of womanhood, and had no idea of what she held in her hand. All she knew was that it was her mother’s book, a book the dead woman had touched. She’d stroked the worn, leather cover and brought it lovingly to her lips. Then, prickling with anticipation, she had opened its pages: this was her mother’s message to her from beyond the grave. At first as she’d read Agnes’s passionate declarations, breathless with the dizzying splendour of love, her cheeks had flamed. But embarrassment had been short lived, and quickly turned to dismay as she’d read on and the downward spiral of an unhappy marriage became only too clear. Lucinda would never forget the heartbreak recorded in that one small book, the lies, the deceptions, the infidelities. She had vowed then that no matter what temptation she faced in the future, she would remain chaste and above the fray.
But here she was consorting with a man who in all likelihood was as fickle as Captain Lacey. And consorting was a mild description for what had passed between them. Yesterday when he had thought her in danger on the church tower and held her so tightly that there was not an inch between them, she had savoured—there was no other word for it—the warmth of his body. Not just the warmth either, but the hard planes of his form fitting themselves to her as though they belonged, and her body beyond her control, growing weak and boneless. And today his touch had lit a thread of passion which even now was heating her blood. It was disturbing, very disturbing. Disturbing, too, the fact that more and more she was finding it difficult to avert her eyes whenever he was near. She enjoyed looking at him: his brown eyes so smooth, like pebbles beneath a clear stream, but on occasions fired by flame; the lock of dark hair which fell carelessly across his forehead despite the attentions of his valet; and that scar, surely a sign of the marauder. He was like no man she had ever met, silken as alabaster on the surface, but dangerous and risky beneath.
Molly was bobbing around the room in increasing excitement, entranced that she was at last to have the opportunity of displaying her skills to the world and in front of such a connoisseur as the Earl of Frensham. She lifted a dress of delicate blue embroidered cotton over Lucinda’s shoulders and slipped jewelled slippers onto her feet. Nothing more elaborate could be contemplated since this was a public dance and too much ornament was frowned upon. Anyone who could afford the price of a season ticket could attend. But then she set to work on her mistress’s hair, humming happily as she twisted and turned the blonde curls into a cascade of ringlets falling from a topknot and framing the face with softly waving tendrils. A garland of small blue flowers woven into the curls completed the ensemble. The result was all the maid could wish.
* * *
Francis Devereux and the earl were already in the hall as Lucinda came into view.
‘Good, good,’ her uncle said fussily. ‘We need to be off. The rain has stopped at last and we have a full moon to light us on our way.’
He turned to address his guest who was standing a pace or so behind him. ‘The narrow lanes can be quite dangerous at night, you know.’
But the earl was not attending. Lucinda saw his fixed gaze and inwardly cursed that she had allowed Molly to persuade her into the blue dress. She had wanted to avoid attention, to slip effortlessly into the background, and had thought the gown simple enough to escape comment. Instead it served only to make her eyes bluer and her hair fairer, and to highlight her figure. He was taking full advantage of that, she thought.
‘Shall we go? The carriage is at the door, I believe.’ Her guardian sounded fretful. The heat of Jack Beaufort’s glance appeared to be unnerving him.
They travelled to Steyning in silence. For the first time since the earl arrived, Francis Devereux had nothing to say. The windows of the small town were ablaze with light as the carriage rumbled its way noisily across the cobbles. Despite the nerves which plagued her, Lucinda began to feel the first thrum of excitement. It was an age since she had attended a dance, any dance, for since Rupert’s misfortune, she had become impatient with such trivialities. Very soon the horses had turned off the main thoroughfare into a long, winding carriage way, where brightly lit lanterns dangled from trees standing sentinel on either side. Within a few minutes they had drawn to a halt at the town’s imposing assembly hall. Its classical façade looked down on twin staircases whose stone steps soared upwards to be reunited once more at the grandest of entrances. Large torches on either side of an open door flared in welcome.
Lucinda went immediately to the small withdrawing room kept solely for the ladies’ use. As she entered, there was a sudden silence among the young women, their busy gossip interrupted. She understood perfectly. It wasn’t every day that a member of the ton, and a magnificent specimen at that, patronised this humble dance floor—and she had been the one to accompany him. He was magnificent, she had to confess. When she’d first seen him tonight, resplendent in black tailcoat, satin knee breeches and embroidered satin waistcoat, she had felt her skin smart with pleasure. Lynton had brought with him a clutch of new cravats and at the earl’s neck nestled a folded square of the whitest starched linen, a single diamond stud at its centre.
She tripped along the passage which allowed the
ladies to reach the ballroom without having to traverse a draughty entrance hall. Hundreds of blazing candles greeted her, their light reflected by crystal pendants hanging in a row from the ceiling and by mirrors that lined each wall. Between the mirrors, more candles glowed from the back of wall sconces. And in the centre of the room, a confusion of colour: women and girls in every hue, tripping lightly between and around their fellows, weaving the complex patterns of a country dance.
She took a seat between her uncle and their guest, trying to stop her feet from tapping. The music was filling her with a bubbling energy. On either side matrons in sombre colours, brightened only by an occasional rich shawl or feathered headdress, sat out the dance while keeping a wary eye on their offspring. Lucinda did not want to be sitting among them; she wanted to be dancing. And she wanted to be dancing with Jack.
‘Miss Lacey, will you do me the honour?’
The country dance had come to an end and a cotillion was being called. She had known that she would dance with the earl—it would have been considered unmannerly if she had not—and she had readied herself for the ordeal. But now the music was pulsing through every vein, sending her senses skittering, sending her headlong into the arms of the most elegant, the most alluring man in the room. An ordeal it was not. She accepted his invitation as demurely as she could, restraining an almost overwhelming impulse to skip onto the dance floor. Instead she walked gracefully towards the other dancers, her arm resting lightly on his. The painful wrist had almost healed and was no longer a constant reminder of that dreadful episode. She wished she could start again. She wished it was not so complicated.
For a while the cotillion took all her attention. It was some time since she had danced and the elaborate footwork and series of changes made her concentrate hard. But she was captivated by the feel of the
boards springing beneath her feet, by the sound of fiddles dancing in her ears and the sheer delight of being alive and young and moving to music. Jack Beaufort proved a practised dancer, following the figures easily, his muscular form weaving in and out of the square with languid grace. He was always just where he should be.
‘Feet are fascinating, are they not?’ he teased, as they came together to dance as a pair.
‘I am minding my steps,’ she excused herself.
‘You have no need. You dance beautifully.’
His arms were around her and his embrace firm, as he twirled her into the pirouette that ended each figure. For a few seconds she felt the hardness of his frame and the warmth of his body before they were separated
by the patterns of the dance. It hurt to let him go. When they next came together, he pulled her just a little closer until their figures touched at every point. A molten heat began somewhere inside her and flowed slowly and inexorably through every fibre until her entire body was tingling with sensation. Then he was gone, following the movements of the dance, but leaving her yearning until once more she was in his arms. By the time all the figures of the cotillion had been worked, her body was weak with desire and her mind in tumult. What was happening to her?
‘You like dancing, Miss Lacey?’ It was hardly a question he need ask.
Somehow she found her voice. ‘I do, Lord Frensham. And you?’
‘Always when I have such a charming companion.’
He was just too smooth. What was she doing, allowing herself to be seduced by his obvious charm? ‘I should find my uncle,’ she said as firmly as she could.
‘Of course, we will return to him immediately.’
He had barely delivered her to her guardian when another partner presented himself and was bowing hopefully over her hand.
‘You must dance again, Miss Lacey,’ the earl insisted. ‘You find such pleasure in it. I will bear your uncle company.’
Reluctantly she returned to the dance floor, fixing an agreeable smile to her face. The set that was just then forming was for another country dance and with a sigh she prepared herself for a lengthy exile. It seemed to her that the music would never stop and when finally she was reunited with her guardian, it was to find him alone.
‘Our guest is walking in the gardens—he has found it necessary to take the air.’ Francis Devereux was disapproving. ‘I had hoped to fetch refreshments, but I do not wish to leave you alone in such a public place.’
‘A glass of lemonade would be most welcome, Uncle. I will be perfectly happy until you return. We are surrounded by familiar faces.’
For a few indecisive moments he fidgeted in his seat before disappearing in the direction of the small room laid aside for refreshments. She wandered to one of the long windows which had been left slightly ajar. The evening was unusually mild and a gentle breeze provided a pleasant cooling from the intense heat of the ballroom. The moon was riding high, washing the garden silver and silhouetting the black bareness of nearly leafless trees. She opened the door a little wider, her eyes drawn to the marble statue which stood at one end of a narrow gravel path. It was of a naked Greek goddess and the full moon had blanched it to a startling whiteness. Her gaze travelled to the left and she glimpsed a small red light which glowed intermittently. Someone was smoking out there in the shadows and she had a good idea who that was. No wonder her uncle had been disapproving of the earl’s absence. She remembered how Rupert’s first attempts at ‘blowing a cloud’ had brought retribution from his guardian.
She found herself opening the glass door wide and stepping out. The small red circle was a beacon urging her forwards. She was bewildered by her feelings, frightened by them, but the enchantment she felt was too powerful to resist and she gave herself up to it.
‘You have not endeared yourself to my uncle,’ she said, trying to speak with composure.
Hearing her voice, he walked from out of the statue’s shadow and into the moonlight. She could see his rueful smile as he stubbed out the half-smoked cigarillo.
‘I am sorry I abandoned my host, but the crowded room became a little too much.’
‘Or was it my uncle who did?’
He did not deny it. ‘Sir Francis is unusual, shall we say. Something of an acquired taste, I feel.’
‘He is the taste of a true Devereux.’
Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Would it be impolite to observe that you must be glad then to be a Lacey?’
‘It would be mightily impolite, as I’m sure you know. But I would have to agree.’ There was laughter in her voice. Why did it feel so right to be here, alone with this man, when in truth she should be as distant as possible? She leaned back against the rough bark of one of the ancient oak trees which dotted the gardens.
‘And are there Laceys elsewhere?’ he was asking.
‘There are only the two of us—Rupert and myself.’
He looked thoughtfully at her, seeming to weigh up the significance of this. Her gaze fell on the gleaming white ruffles of his shirt and the pair of strong hands they encased. A tremor of desire chased its way up and down her spine and she tried desperately to control it.
‘Your parents had no family?’
‘Sir Francis is our only relative. He is my mother’s brother. She died shortly after we were born.’
‘That is sad—and your father?’
‘He had no family to speak of. At least none that ever recognised him. In truth I know little about him since he, too, died when we were still babies.’
‘Sadder still.’
‘I doubt that anyone else thought so.’ Her voice was impassive, but a shadow passed over her face.
‘You are severe, Lucinda.’ His use of her first name once more seemed inevitable.
‘From what I have learned, Captain Lacey was not the most reliable character. If I tell you that he was killed in a drunken brawl, you might better understand my sentiments.’
A skein of cloud floated across the moon, plunging the garden into sudden shadow. For a moment she could not see his face, but his voice came out of the darkness.
‘Yet your mother loved him,’ he mused. ‘Theirs was not a marriage of convenience, I imagine.’
‘No,’ she said sadly. ‘It was a love match.’
She had never understood how her gently born mother could have fallen so desperately for such a man. But then she had never been in love and never would be.
The earl’s unspoken sympathy washed around her and she was moved to say, ‘In the end it was a love match that killed her. I believe that she spent most of her short married life chased by creditors, moving from lodging to lodging. She died when we were but weeks old—there was not enough money to pay a doctor.’
‘But surely her family could have intervened? Her parents, her brother?’
‘The marriage severed my mother from her family. They gave her an ultimatum and when she refused to give her soldier up, they refused to acknowledge her.’
‘That was harsh. Yet they were willing to give you and your brother a home.’
‘Whatever else, the Devereux are scrupulously moral people. They do what is right or what they see as right. My grandparents considered it their duty to look after two small children who had no other home. And when they died, they left Uncle Francis to continue that duty.’
‘Is that how it felt—a duty?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She sighed. ‘We were constantly reminded of our good fortune. You can have no idea how depressing that is.’
The October cold was beginning to penetrate her thin cotton gown and she shivered involuntarily. Before she could protest, he had slipped off his evening coat and arranged it around her shoulders. The touch of his hand, slight though it was, sent her nerves tingling once more. She bit her lip determinedly.
‘And now it is your duty to
marry someone of your uncle’s choosing?’
‘I shall never do so, however.’ Her denial admitted no wavering.
‘You are wise. From what I’ve seen, arranged marriages rarely prosper. They crush the spirit and destroy dreams.’
‘You are talking perhaps of your own family?’ she suggested tentatively.
‘They are not far from mind,’ he admitted. ‘Two of my sisters married to oblige the family.’
‘And they are not happy?’
‘Who knows? I doubt it. They enjoy the wealth and status that such liaisons bring, but happy? Their married lives appear to me cold and formal, hardly conducive to joy.’
‘I remember that you named three sisters.’
‘Yes. Maria is the youngest and still single—and like to remain so. She was sacrificed on the family altar, too, and expected to nurse my mother until that poor lady died.’
The toe of a dancing shoe dug viciously into the soft turf and she wondered if she dared ask more.
‘Your mother was very ill before she died?’
‘She was broken, physically and emotionally. My father was a serial adulterer,’ he said tersely. Written on his face was the misery he had witnessed—the cold silences, the screaming reproaches, his father’s bored indifference, his mother’s ravaged face.
Lucinda wished she hadn’t asked and tried to keep the shock from her voice. ‘Was theirs also an arranged marriage?’
‘It was and typical of that generation—they expected nothing else. I doubt that my mother anticipated undying love from the husband chosen for her but the lack of kindness, the lack of respect...’
The unfinished sentence revealed a well of unresolved pain. He had always seemed to her self-contained, carefree even, and in complete control of his life. But this was a very different Jack Beaufort. He had allowed her a glimpse of what had made him the man he was and she marvelled that so much lay hidden beneath that smooth exterior. Now she understood his absolute determination not to be coerced into a marriage of convenience. Why would she not understand, for it mirrored her own feelings precisely.
Unmasking Miss Lacey Page 8