The Perfect Waltz

by Anne Gracie

  “I was right, Hope. You must stay away from him; he is not at all a suitable parti for you—or any other girl of our acquaintance.”

  Hope raised an eyebrow. She did not like to have the law laid down to her. Faith, aware of the irritation, put a comforting arm around her waist, and Hope relaxed a little. It wouldn’t do for either her sister or her chaperone to see how drawn she was to Mr. Sebastian Reyne. And how much she resented being warned off him.

  Mrs. Jenner continued. “He used to be the veriest pauper brat—a worker, no less, in one of those very mills he now owns—”

  “There is no shame in poverty or hard work,” interrupted Hope. “Our maternal grandfather was a butcher, I believe.”

  Mrs. Jenner rapped her on the arm with her fan. “Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t spread it around, for it does not at all add to your credit! However that’s not the point. It wasn’t through hard work that Mr. Reyne gained his fortune, it was low cunning!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He charmed the mill owner’s daughter and tricked her into wedding him!”

  Married! Hope felt as if all the breath had been driven from her body. Married!

  Mrs. Jenner continued, “Heaven knew what her father was about, to let such a thing happen. She had been on the shelf for years. No doubt he is a silver-tongued charmer.”

  Hope frowned. She could vouch for the fact that he was not.

  The chaperone clicked her tongue. “The foolish creature! She was the sole heiress of all her father’s wealth. What did she think he wanted her for? And he was years younger than she!”

  Hope managed to say in what she hoped was a casual manner, “Since he is married, I don’t see what possible danger he can be to Faith or me.”

  “He is a widower.”

  Hope’s stomach returned to its rightful place.

  “But he’s looking for another wife! And the pity of it is, he’ll have no trouble finding one. Riches will buy most things, including wives—no matter what the risk.”

  Hope tossed her head, annoyed by her chaperone’s melodramatic manner and the way she was drawing out the tale for maximum effect. “What do you mean, risk? All marriage is to some extent a risk.”

  “Not like this one.” Mrs. Jenner lowered her voice. “I spoke to a dozen people about him, and none of them had a good word to say.” She counted them off on her fingers as she spoke. “Sir George Arthurton—who has several interests in Manchester where That Man comes from—told me straight out that the man is totally ruthless! Others confirmed that. Lord Etheridge said Sebastian Reyne was an extremely dangerous man; they were his very words, and he has interests in the cotton industry and would know! And Mrs. Beamshaft told me a great deal about his history. He just sprang from nowhere. And ended up with everything. His wife and father-in-law dead!” She sat back and allowed her words to sink in.

  Mrs. Jenner’s smug delight in the scurrilous tale annoyed Hope. “So what are you saying, ma’am? You cannot mean to suggest that Mr. Reyne murdered his father-in-law and wife?”

  Mrs. Jenner lifted a bejeweled forefinger to the side of her nose and tapped it significantly.

  “What sort of an answer is that!” Hope exclaimed crossly. Her scowl took in both her sister and their chaperone. How dare they sit there, comfortably thrilled by the horrid gossip about Mr. Sebastian Reyne. To them, it was no more than an exciting story. To Hope, it mattered. Why, she did not care to examine at this point. But she wanted to know the truth.

  “He is capable of anything,” insisted Mrs. Jenner. “You can tell by looking at him he has a violent history.”

  Hope snorted. “I don’t believe a word of it. If he murdered his wife and her father, why was he not hanged or transported?”

  Mrs. Jenner rubbed finger and thumb together. “A few guineas to grease a palm here and there, witnesses intimidated—or worse! Anything is possible if you are lord of all you survey and not bred to it as a proper gentleman is. And he is not.”

  Hope rolled her eyes at the melodramatic tone. Like many members of the ton, Mrs. Jenner was prone to taking a shred of plain fabric and embroidering it into something quite different. But Hope was curious and could not help asking, “Lord of all he surveys? What does he survey, then?”

  Mrs. Jenner waved her hand extravagantly. “You name it, my dear. Mills and manufactories in the north. Mines, canals, ships—he is immensely rich, there is no doubt of it, but how he got that way is another matter. One only has to look at his face.” She shuddered. “Those pitiless, cold, gray eyes.”

  Hope did not think his eyes were pitiless or cold. Lonely perhaps. Hungry, she was sure. But for what?

  Never a good sleeper, Hope found herself wide awake after the ball, tucked up in bed but thinking about the enigmatic Mr. Reyne. In the other bed Faith slept peacefully, untroubled by thoughts or frustrated dreams.

  Hope ached to be loved by someone other than a sister. By a man other than a great-uncle. To be loved by the man of her dreams.

  Sebastian Reyne was close in some ways to the shadowy man she’d dreamed of: dark, mysterious, brooding. He’d prowled the room with assurance, indifferent to society’s approval, secure in himself, watching her hungrily, as a dream man ought.

  Hope sighed in disappointment. He was close, but not close enough. Dancing with him was nothing like dancing with anybody’s dream man. And she knew it had to be perfect for the dream to come true.

  He was a terrible dancer, poor man. The moment he’d touched her, he’d become stiff, abrupt, awkwardly precise, holding her at bay as if she were a wild beast of some sort and steering her around the dance floor as if she were a delicate, fragile . . . wheelbarrow.

  For some reason that made her want to hug him.

  For most of the dance he’d been counting under his breath and minding his steps. But when Lord Streatfield had crashed into them, Mr. Reyne hadn’t missed a single beat. Without hesitation he’d curled one arm around Hope and made a shelter of his body for her. He’d hauled the drunken earl upright, set him on his feet, reprimanded him for drinking too much, not caring a hoot for the earl’s good opinion, and danced on, all the time sheltering Hope in the curve of his arm as if she was the most precious thing alive.

  Defending her, he’d lost all awkwardness and self-consciousness, and his power and strength had flowed around her in a protective shield.

  It had quite taken her breath away. And for a few moments she’d forgotten where she was.

  She’d never met anyone like him. He was such a collection of contradictions. Public self-possession and private shyness. Physical strength tempered with rigid gentleness. Why she felt so strongly drawn to him, she could not explain; it had something to do with the way he held her with such tender, rigid awkwardness.

  It certainly wasn’t his powers of address. He had no conversation skills. Graceful, pretty compliments had not flowed from his tongue. And he’d scowled terribly at her as he asked which twin she was. There was a brooding, intense air of distraction about him, as if his full attention wasn’t on her.

  And yet she hadn’t felt ignored or slighted. Instead, she’d felt . . . almost cherished. Which was silly, really—it was just a dance, after all. And not a very good one, either.

  It was a shame he wasn’t her dream man. Because he did interest her. But the waltz they’d shared had been as far from perfect as possible.

  She sighed again and snuggled the bedclothes around her. She really ought to get some sleep.

  A chuckle escaped her as she recalled Mrs. Jenner’s description of him as a silver-tongued charmer. Sebastian Reyne was so prickly and standoffish, he could give lessons to a thistle! And she’d had to pry words out of him like a clam.

  In the hall below, the clock chimed three.

  He’d shown interest only in Hope and Lady Elinore. The contrast in them was so great, it was a puzzle. Why Lady Elinore?

  The unwelcome thought lingered. Lady Elinore was a bit of an ape-leader, a rich, dowdy spinster who had n
o family to protect her from the wiles of a fortune hunter.

  She turned over in bed and hugged the bedclothes tighter around her. He wasn’t what Mrs. Jenner said he was. He wasn’t.

  He wanted Hope; she knew it, could feel it. In two seasons the Merridew diamonds had learned to distinguish between a boy’s crush and the desire of a man. She and Faith knew to take steps to let the boy or man down gently, before it got too serious. But this was out of her experience. His compelling hunger and raw, brutally reined-in desire was something she’d never felt before. It created an echoing resonance deep within her.

  A sensual shudder ran through her at the thought.

  None of the boys or men she’d known had touched off any chord inside her. But just one long, intense look from Sebastian Reyne . . .

  She wished he wasn’t so big and brawny. He was even taller and more powerful than Grandpapa. Which meant he could hurt her more . . .

  He was everything she thought she didn’t want, but she’d never responded to a man so quickly, so strongly.

  Would Mr. Reyne hurt her? That was the question. She’d felt the hard power of his muscles and had trembled. But she also recalled the ease with which he’d defended her from the drunken Lord Streatfield. He’d protected her so beautifully. Leashed power.

  “You can tell by looking at him he has a violent history,” Mrs. Jenner had said.

  Hope had a violent history, too.

  She turned over and thumped her pillows into a more comfortable shape. It was all too much to think about. Was he this? Was he that? Her brain was whirling. Things never made sense in the middle of the night, she told herself crossly. Tomorrow was a new dawn.

  Chapter Four

  But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way.

  JANE AUSTEN

  IT WAS ONE OF THOSE MORNINGS. NOT QUITE DAWN. A FEW hardy London birds starting the predawn chatter. Hope was wide awake, feeling as though she was about to burst out of her skin. Tense. Wound up like a spring.

  She glanced across at her sleeping twin in the next bed. When Faith felt like this, she found her release in music. It never worked for Hope. She needed something more active.

  She slipped from her bed and peered out of the window. Cool and dry. Perfect. From her wardrobe she quietly pulled her old brown riding habit, boots, hat, and crop and tiptoed into the next room to dress.

  Carrying her boots in her hands, she padded out into the corridor and ran up the stairs to the servant’s quarters, under the attic. She knocked softly on one of the doors. At her second knock, a low groan came from inside. “All right Miss Hope. I’ll be down in a moment.”

  Grinning, Hope ran lightly down the stairs and sat on the bottom one to put on her boots. Their footman James would grumble, but he always enjoyed their illicit morning outings, and the guinea she gave him each time she deprived him of sleep was a useful addition to his savings. It was no secret in the Merridew household that James was saving to go to America.

  In the kitchen, she cut two thick, ragged slices of bread and slathered them with butter and apricot jam. She devoured one in a moment and handed the other to James as he came in the door.

  He eyed the slice, then gave her a baleful look. “Trying to turn me up sweet with that great, crooked doorstop, Miss Hope?”

  Hope grinned. She never had been able to cut a straight slice of bread, but at least she wasn’t stingy. “But of course, dear, grouchy James. I cut them like this because you’re always so hungry. Now do hurry up. I want to get there as soon as possible.”

  Grumbling good-naturedly, he followed her out into the dim gray streets, munching on his bread. Having known all the Merridew girls since childhood, he was used to her ways.

  By the time the sun was starting to gild the spires of the churches, they were trotting in at Grosvenor Gate. Hyde Park was deserted. Hope’s bay gelding sidled and danced mischievously, shying skittishly at stray leaves and imaginary shadows. He was full of oats, chafing at the bit, longing for a good gallop. Hope knew exactly how he felt.

  “Come on, sluggard, I’ll race you,” she called to James, and without waiting, she urged her mount to a gallop.

  The gelding moved smoothly under her, its hooves pounding the turf; she would tip the stableboy extra again. He always gave her the best horse, and once she made her preference known, this one was almost always magically available. Over the past few weeks, horse and rider had grown accustomed to each other’s ways, and Hope could now do almost anything she wanted with him. This morning he seemed to relish the speed as much as she did.

  It was glorious, thundering through crisp morning air free and wild, without care or thought. Exhilarating. Almost as good as being in the country—better in some ways, for there was an illicit edge to galloping here.

  Cool morning air whipped at her skin, filled her lungs, blasting her free of all the rules and restrictions she had to live by. Here she was filled with air and light and excitement. The wind streamed through her as if she were flying. How she relished these secret early morning excursions. Dawn was the only time she could ride as fast and as wildly as she liked.

  Later that day she would probably ride in the park with Great Uncle Oswald and Faith and Grace. A decorous walk, or perhaps a trot, stopping every few moments to greet someone and exchange idle chitchat.

  She allowed the horse to run himself out of his fidgets, taking him in a great circle so as to remain in sight of James. She glanced back and smiled. James had snapped at the stableboy and as a result had been given the slowest of the hacks, a veritable slug. He huffed along in the distance.

  The park was still deserted. She could practice her moves. Gathering the horse, she began to put him through a series of actions. He jibbed a bit at first, but soon he was responding perfectly.

  “Oi, miss, stop that!” called James.

  She laughed. “Try to stop me, if you can on that slug! This is such fun. This horse is wonderful.”

  Sebastian woke early the next morning, as usual. He’d woken before dawn most of his life. Machines never stopped, and people had to fit their sleep around them.

  He stretched, wishing he could go back to sleep, but once awoken, he never could sleep again. In any case, he didn’t need much sleep. It had served him well in the factories, and now it served him well, enabling him to combine society hours with the needs of business.

  He had a great deal of work to get through this morning, but the events of that blasted ball had unsettled him. He hadn’t slept properly. He always slept properly. Though sometimes he did awake demon-ridden. He knew the solution to that. It was one reason why he’d hired a house with stables at the back. His only solution to demons was to ride them into oblivion before they rode him.

  But last night it had taken him half the night even to get to sleep. And it was not his usual demons keeping him wakeful but thoughts of Hope Merridew. Holding her wrapped in his arms as close as he wanted, her body clinging to his, moving in slow, languorous twirls.

  And in the morning he’d woken, aroused like a uncontrolled adolescent!

  He needed to clear his head. And exhaust his body. A good, hard ride would do the trick!

  He dressed and walked around the mews. The stable lad woke as he arrived, but Sebastian sent him back to bed, preferring to saddle his own horse.

  The city was barely beginning to stir as he entered the main gate of Hyde Park. For nearly ten years of his life he hadn’t so much as touched a horse. He’d been taught to ride as a child, but it was only after he’d married Thea that he’d had the opportunity to mount a horse again. He’d been worried about making a fool of himself, of falling off in front of his new in-laws and their friends. But the moment he was in the saddle it all came back to him in a rush, as if riding had always been a part of him.

  It was more than part of him. It was his escape.

  He started with a slow, controlled canter, t
hen allowed the horse to go faster and faster, losing himself in the power and the speed and the rhythm.

  His blood was singing, and he felt young and strong, demon-free and ready to conquer the world when he saw it: a bay horse, galloping full pelt, with what at first glance looked like a bundle of cloth attached to one side. Then he saw a hat bouncing inches from the hooves of the horse and a glimpse of gold curls. To his horror, Sebastian realized it was no bundle, but a woman. She clung to the back of the saddle with one hand. Her right knee was hooked around the pommel of her sidesaddle, but the rest of her hung down over the left side of the horse. Her left hand stretched down beside the powerful forelegs of the animal, snatching helplessly at the ground, as if in some bizarre attempt to slow the panicked horse. He couldn’t see her face. She wasn’t screaming. Probably half swooning with fear.

  Praying that she would retain enough consciousness to maintain her tenuous balance for a few more seconds, Sebastian urged his horse into a gallop, arrowing it straight at the runaway.

  A rider in the distance, a man, waved and shouted. Her husband or groom. Sebastian waved back. He would save her.

  He thundered after her. Her horse was good, but his was stronger and faster. He gained rapidly on her. As he neared, he tried to work out exactly how she was attached. Should he try to snatch her from her saddle or grab the horse’s reins and slow it that way? Either way was risky. If she was tangled in the saddle, he wouldn’t be able to lift her cleanly to safety. But she was seconds away from falling under those flashing hooves.

  He decided on the snatch. If her habit was tangled in the stirrups, he would still be able to hold her and force her mount to stop. His horse edged up behind hers. He took his reins into his left hand and reached out his right arm to gather her up when she suddenly straightened, and with a joyous peal of laughter, brandished a twig in his face.

  “I did it!”

  It was Miss Hope Merridew, flushed, exhilarated, and triumphant.