A Country Cotillion

by Sandra Heath

  Put all this behind them? Oh, if only that were possible.

  “We should go on, Elizabeth, for whatever has gone wrong recently, it is not insurmountable. If there was not sufficient feeling between us, we would not be able to speak to each other like this, would we?”

  A lump rose in her throat, and she gave him a rather shaky smile. “Oh, Alexander, you will always mean a great deal to me.”

  “And you to me. So, is it agreed? We proceed as before?”

  She hardly knew that she had nodded her consent, she only knew that he had pulled her into his embrace. His lips were gentle against her forehead, and she closed her eyes, drawing immeasurable comfort from his tenderness. How she wished she had never set eyes on Marcus Sheridan, false-hearted Duke of Arlingham, how she wished he had never stirred old longings for James, how she wished… Oh, there were so many regrets now. She and Alexander could be happy together, they would be happy together.

  But as she raised her lips to meet his kiss, it was still Marcus that her perfidious heart longed for, and as Alexander bent his head toward her, it was Isobel he really held.

  * * * *

  Elizabeth had arranged to meet Marcus in the breakfast room once she had spoken to Alexander, and now she went down the staircase to keep the assignation. A dark anger burned through her that he had behaved so dishonorably, and she intended to disillusion him if he should be so smug as to imagine he would still succeed with her. She despised him for his shallow immorality, and she despised herself for permitting him the liberties he had taken.

  At the bottom of the staircase she halted for a moment, screwing herself up to the necessary pitch for what was bound to be a very unpleasant interview. Then, taking a deep breath, she walked toward the door of the breakfast room.

  He was standing by the window, as he had been on her first morning there, and he turned with a quick smile as she entered. Beyond the window the snow was now tinged with blue as the afternoon sun began to sink toward the west, and long shadows reached across the ground, as if intent upon stretching as far as they could before darkness swallowed them.

  Marcus’s smile faded as he saw the anger on her face. “What is it?” he asked, coming quickly toward her, but as he went to take her hands, she drew sharply back.

  “Don’t touch me,” she breathed. “Don’t ever touch me again! I loathe you, my lord duke, for you are everything that is mean and despicable.”

  His eyes became cool, but there was no mistaking the puzzlement in them. “I trust you mean to explain this volte face?”

  “You have been found out, sirrah. Your lies are now manifest, and I have merely kept this assignation in order to tell you what I think of you.”

  “I have not lied to you, Elizabeth.”

  “Oh, yes you have, for you have lied about Miss Bannerman, who far from being a figure from the past, is very much a figure in your future! No doubt you hoped that I would prove to be a simple conquest, perhaps even that I might be persuaded to grace your bed while we are incarcerated here, but I am afraid that your mean designs have come to naught, for I am no longer even remotely likely to surrender to you.”

  “If you recall, Elizabeth, far from treating you with dishonor, I have actually asked you to be my wife, and as to having lied to you about Constance, I can only say again that she and I are most definitely not intending to spend our future together.”

  “Don’t attempt to gull me any more, sirrah, for each further deceit makes you more contemptible. I merely wish to tell you that I am now completely immune to your advances, and that Alexander and I have resolved our differences. We still mean to proceed with our match, sirrah, for just as you were wrong to see me as easy prey, so you were equally wrong about Isobel and him.”

  His blue eyes were now ice-cold. “You are very free with your insults, madam.”

  “With every justification!”

  “Indeed? Well, let me tell you yet again that I do not have any contract or understanding with Constance, and that—”

  “I have read your letter to her,” she interrupted.

  “Letter?”

  “The one you found so difficult to write, and discarded before writing another.”

  A light passed through his gaze. “Ah, yes, that letter. And that is your reason for these charges against me?”

  “It is more than sufficient reason,” she replied coldly.

  “You would certainly appear to think so,” he murmured.

  “Are you going to deny writing it?”

  “No.”

  She raised her chin, hating him for what he had done. “I bitterly regret allowing you to come so close to me, sirrah, for now I feel—”

  “You go too far, Elizabeth!” he snapped. “Believe what you wish, if that is your pleasure, but I have endured sufficient insult. So you are immune to my advances, are you? Well, we will see about that!”

  Before she knew what was happening, he had seized her wrist, jerking her roughly into his arms. He forced his lips upon hers, his fingers hard upon the nape of her neck as he held her head. She could not move, for he was far too strong, and his kiss was relentless, burning upon her lips as if he meant to sear her with his fury.

  His arm moved like iron around her waist, pressing her body against his so that his anger seemed to invade her. There was no gentleness in him, but there was skill. Oh, there was skill. For all their force, his lips teased hers, and for all its strength, his embrace stirred her unwilling senses. She hated him, she hated him with all her heart, but she wanted him as well! She tried to push him away, to deny the feelings he even now seemed able to arouse in her, but she could not. In spite of everything she now knew, she found herself responding to him. Tears stung her eyes, but her lips softened beneath his, parting a little as she gave way to the rich desire that had begun to overtake her whole being.

  With a cold laugh he thrust her away. “So that is your notion of being immune to me, is it? Forgive me if I find that somewhat amusing, madam!”

  Betrayed alike by his deceit and by her own weakness, she struck out, dealing him a stinging blow to the cheek. His head jerked aside, and she would have struck him again, but he caught her arm.

  “Enough, Elizabeth,” he breathed, his blue eyes dark and bright at the same time.

  “I hate you,” she whispered.

  “I think not, but believe it if it is your notion of amusement. You will never be over me, and you will never forget me, I promise you.”

  Her eyes shone with helpless tears. “Maybe I will not forget you, sir, but nor will I forgive you.”

  “I have not done anything for which I require to be forgiven, madam. I don’t know how Alexander has pulled the wool over your eyes about Isobel, but that is what he has done, for she is the one he really wants, and I warn you that she more than returns his feelings. As to my so-called understanding with Constance, well its nonexistence is very simple to prove, but since you are so easily disposed to believe me to be lying, I do not think I will bother to clear my name. Go to Alexander if you wish, but if it is me you want, then you will have to come to me.”

  “I would as soon go to the devil!” she cried.

  “Then go!” He released her.

  Gathering her skirts, she ran from the room. Tears almost blinded her, and sobs caught in her throat as she hurried up the staircase and along the gallery.

  When she reached the privacy of her room she flung herself on the bed, hiding her face in the pillows as she wept brokenheartedly.

  In the breakfast room, Marcus’s face was very pale and taut, and a nerve flickered at his temple as he went to the window and stared out. His heart felt as cold as the snow, and he could still hear her voice whispering in the room. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…

  For a long moment he continued to gaze out, but at last he lowered his eyes. “Oh, Elizabeth,” he murmured. “It cannot be left like this, but has to be resolved once and for all if this damned cotillion of ours is to be satisfactorily concluded.”

&nbs
p; Turning on his heel, he strode purposefully from the room.

  * * * *

  Isobel was sitting by the fire in her room. She wasn’t crying now, but her eyes were tearstained. She felt hollow, for even though she was sure she had at last done the proper thing, she could not escape from the love she had for the man she had sent back to her cousin.

  There was a knock at the door, and her maid went to answer it. She returned in a moment. “It’s the duke, Lady Isobel.”

  Isobel’s heart sank, for she did not want to receive visitors at the moment, but there was nothing for it but to admit him. “Please show him in,” she replied.

  He came in, his quick glance taking in the marks of her tears. “You and I should speak, Lady Isobel,” he said quietly.

  She hesitated, and then dismissed the maid. “That is all for the moment, Annie,” she said.

  “My lady.” Annie curtsied and discreetly withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.

  Isobel looked at Marcus again. “What is it you wish to say to me, sir?”

  “I have a rather delicate proposition to put to you, Lady Isobel, and all I ask is that you hear me out before replying.”

  “A delicate proposition?”

  “Very delicate, and very important,” he replied, with a glimmer of a smile. “You may be shocked and offended, or, on the other hand, you may realize that what I am about to suggest would be very much to your own personal advantage. Will you hear me out?”

  She searched his face for a long moment, and then slowly nodded. “Yes, my lord duke, I will hear you out.”

  Chapter 17

  Marcus leaned on his billiard cue, watching as Alexander bent to make a shot. They were whiling away a little time before dinner, and both wore evening clothes. It was now quite dark outside.

  The billiard room lay on the western side of the house, beyond the grand chamber, and its windows overlooked the part of the park where the montagne Russe stood among the pine trees. It was a small room, and a log fire roared in the hearth of the stone fireplace, warming the still air so much that both men had removed their coats and played in their shirts and white satin waistcoats. A ceiling lamp was suspended low over the green felt surface of the table, and it was a concentrated light that left most of the room in shadow, except for the dancing light from the fire.

  Alexander’s mind wasn’t on the game, for he muffed the shot even after he had taken a great deal of time about it. The ivory cue ball rolled aimlessly across the green felt, coming to rest fruitlessly against the cushion that surrounded the playing surface. With an impatient snort, he put his cue down in a final manner. “I’ll have to cry off, Marcus, for I simply cannot concentrate.”

  “So I’ve noticed, for you’ve given me nearly every chance I can think of,” replied Marcus, taking both their cues and replacing them on the rack on the wall. “Cognac?” he asked.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Alexander went to the fireplace, leaning a hand on the mantelpiece and then pressing one of the logs down with his boot.

  Marcus poured two generous glasses from a crystal decanter on a nearby table, and then gave one to his friend, “What’s bothering you, Alexander? You seem—er—distracted.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing of any real consequence.”

  “That isn’t how it appears to me, indeed I would say that it is something of considerable consequence. Would it help to talk about it?”

  “It would, but I cannot. It’s better if I say nothing at all, for the problem is not mine alone to bear.”

  “It concerns Elizabeth as well?”

  Alexander nodded, not noticing the use of her first name only.

  “When we spoke in the grand chamber yesterday evening, you mentioned that there was a gulf between you. Am I to take it that that gulf is still there?”

  “Yes, No. Oh, I don’t know.” Alexander drained his glass in one gulp. “I wish it was simple, but it isn’t, and I’m desperately afraid of doing the wrong thing.”

  “My friend, let me give you a word of sound advice. Follow the dictates of your heart, and you will not go far wrong.”

  Alexander looked at him. “Is it advice you follow yourself?”

  “Yes, never more so than now.”

  Alexander could not say anything more, for there was a tap at the door, and Isobel’s maid came shyly in. She gave him a neat curtsy. “Begging your pardon, Sir Alexander, but Lady Isobel wishes to see you.”

  “See me?”

  “Yes, sir. She says that it is very important that she speaks to you before dinner.”

  “Very well, I will go to her now.”

  “She is in the great hall, sir.” Annie lowered her eyes.

  He was taken aback. “The great hall?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Puzzled as to why Isobel would choose such a public place to speak to him, he turned to Marcus. “If you will excuse me…?”

  “By all means.”

  Replacing his glass on the table, Alexander snatched up his coat and hurried out. Annie lingered for a moment, waiting until he had gone, and then looking inquiringly at Marcus.

  “Shall I go to Mrs. French now, Your Grace?”

  “No, give Lady Isobel at least five minutes.”

  “Your Grace.” Curtsying again, the maid went out.

  Marcus swirled his cognac, and then drank it. The maid had arrived exactly on cue. On cue? How singularly appropriate that phrase was. He stretched across the table and rolled the ivory cue ball toward the corner pocket. As it fell satisfactorily into its allotted place, he smiled. It was only to be hoped that everything else would be as obliging before this most important night was over.

  He put his glass down on the table, and then went to pick up his black velvet coat from the chair where he had left it earlier. He put it on, and then teased the lace frills of his shirt from the tight cuffs. In five minutes or so he would know whether his plan was going to work.

  Taking a deep breath, he left the billiard room, but he did not follow Alexander through the grand chamber, instead he went in a different direction, taking a small back staircase that would bring him out on the minstrels’ gallery above the hall. From there he would be able to observe everything as it unfolded.

  * * * *

  As Alexander crossed the grand chamber, he heard someone playing the piano in the hall. He emerged through the arched doorway and paused as he saw that it was Isobel. She looked breathtakingly beautiful in a pale green silk evening gown that had dainty silver spangles scattered over its high-waisted bodice. The gown’s neckline was low and daring, showing off how slender and willowy she was, and her hair was swept up into a graceful and very fashionable knot at the back of her head. Diamonds flashed at her pale throat, and the bruise on her forehead had been rendered almost invisible by the judicious application of a little color from her Chinese cosmetic box.

  She seemed to be unaware of his presence as she played a lilting melody that he recognized as vaguely familiar, but could not quite place. As he went slowly toward the dais, she saw him, and a soft smile curved her lovely lips. She continued to play, and at last he realized what tune it was. She was playing L’Echange.

  She gazed at him as he came up the few steps on to the dais, and her playing proceeded without faltering as he leaned an elbow on the piano, smiling down into her eyes. The refrain of the cotillion rippled over the vastness of the candle-lit hall, where the suits of armor stood like a silent but appreciative audience.

  The final notes died away, and she spoke in the ensuing silence. “I had to speak to you,” she said softly.

  “I thought it had all been said,” he replied, loving her so much that he could barely restrain himself from sweeping her up into his arms.

  “I know what I said, and I know that it is very wrong to love you as I do, but I cannot help myself. Alexander, I must be with you, for without you I fear I shall wither away.”

  She reached out tentatively toward him, and in a moment his fingers had closed convulsively over hers.<
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  * * * *

  Elizabeth was seated before the dressing table in her rooms as Violet pushed the final pin into her coiffure. The last thing she felt like was facing Marcus at the dinner table, but she knew that that was what she must do. She gazed at her reflection in the small mirror before her, and saw that although she had applied a little rouge to her cheeks, a little more was still needed if she was to appear cheerful and unperturbed.

  Violet had taken great care with her hair, teasing little curls around her forehead, and twisting the longer tresses back into a loose knot from which fell one plump, curling ringlet. The gown she had chosen was made of cornflower-blue taffeta with little petal sleeves, and its low square neckline was trimmed with golden embroidery. Her only jewelry was the pair of gold earrings Marcus had regained for her.

  She was just applying a little of her favorite lavender water when there was a knock at the outer door. “See who it is, Violet,” she said.

  “Madam.” Putting the comb down, the maid hurried through to the other room.

  Elizabeth heard a female voice, and thought it sounded like Isobel’s maid. Getting up, she went into the bedroom. “What is it, Violet?”

  “Lady Isobel is feeling a little unwell, madam. She went down to the hall and became faint. She wishes you to go to her straightaway.”

  “Yes, of course,” replied Elizabeth without hesitation.

  Violet brought her her shawl, and a moment later Elizabeth had picked up a lighted candle and hurried from the room.

  Violet expected Annie to go with her, but instead the other maid held back, showing no inclination at all to return to her mistress. “Shouldn’t you go to Lady Isobel?” Violet asked, puzzled.

  “There’s no need, because there isn’t anything wrong with her,” Annie replied.