Then the violinist repeated his call. A flash of scarlet at the ballroom’s head. He rested his free hand atop Anne’s on his sleeve, her heat soaking through the cloth between them, and escorted her to their place.
“I’m so glad you’ve deigned to give me these first two dances, Miss Kirkhoven.” They stood behind Deborah Kringle, in her delightfully unfashionable bright red silk, and the equally unfashionable and insufferably puffed-up spawn of Lord Anson. Other couples clustered behind them in turn, and the cheerful babble encouraged him to keep Anne close and his voice discreet. “For there’s a topic I’ve yearned to discuss with you.”
Her questioning, bewitching eyes faded to a cold wariness. She edged away, forcing distance between them.
Ah. Perhaps he should have phrased that in a more judicious manner. He acknowledged his error in etiquette with a flourish of his eyebrows, but continued regardless.
“And by that I mean the Christmas story of the Child born to save us all.”
The music began. Miss Deborah and Anson set off into the ballroom, calling the dance for them to follow. Or at least she danced; Anson’s steps seemed more closely related to those of a prancing donkey. It would take more than a tailored tailcoat to turn that one into an acceptable husband for a Kringle daughter.
Anne never looked away from his face. Clearly that hadn’t been the topic she’d expected.
“Is there anything more exquisitely tender?” He watched the dancers; Anne refused to and at least one of them needed to know what steps they should perform when their turn arrived. But some masculine instinct within his soul remained very aware of her precise location, her exact attitude and expression. He could no more ignore her than he could regulate the beatings of his heart; indeed, she’d wriggled her beautiful way beneath his skin, and more than he’d intended. “The humble birth of sacrifice and self-denial. In your mind, can you picture the young, enchanting mother, accepting the love of purity and holiness so that she might deliver to the hungry, waiting world the love of God?” He shook his head. It was almost their turn; his moment for making this point would soon be gone, and it seemed likely he’d not have another. “Her behavior, and God’s sacrifice, were never rational, never logical. Merely the most excellent love, given flesh by a woman’s flesh. And for that, all men should be grateful.”
Her hand on his arm burned him through his shirt and coat sleeves like a hand of fire. She’d forgotten to keep her distance, and the heat of her threatened to melt him. Torches; again he smelled the torches. For a moment, he saw another face.
“Such love, my dear, is surely worth any risk.”
Their turn. They started down the dance together, her eyes wider than ever.
Chapter Twelve
Thursday, December 24, 1812 (continued)
Marble columns flanked the ballroom’s entrance, with just enough room behind them for a man to hide without being seen as hiding. From the partial cover they provided, Frederick watched the toff assembly as the first dance began. Of course he’d introduced himself to his host and hostess at the entrance, but he wasn’t there to meet anyone and had no reason to venture forth and socialize. And at the moment he couldn’t care less about dancing. Actually, after seeing Anne’s bewildered, wondering expression as she bounded about in the arms of the enemy, he might never happily dance again.
Most important of his goals for the evening was staying out of Lady Wotton’s sight. They had to survive these first two dances; Anne had no decent means of avoiding them, certainly not without drawing undue attention to herself. Then Alicia would draw off Anne to the conservatory, where he’d be waiting. By then Gregory would have retrieved and hidden Anne’s trunk with his own, beneath the hedge at the Holly Hall property’s northernmost back boundary. The footman would then run to the Spaniards Inn and fetch the coach Frederick had hired, and the blasted coachman had better be ready; he’d paid extra for the man to hold himself poised.
They’d be heading north for the border before the guests sat down to supper, with a shared sheepskin to wrap about themselves against the winter’s kiss. He’d have Anne all to himself for the journey.
And then he’d have her for the rest of their lives. It would be the best revenge possible against the rake who’d sought to destroy her reputation, and what he wouldn’t give to see that rascal’s—
“Shaw?”
A portly shadow moved on the edge of his vision, then Frederick’s safe covert was invaded by — that prig Culver, from the coffee house, of all people. The man’s smile was genuine enough, even with the underlying roguish air that came close to being offensive, and a waft of brandy drifted ahead of him.
“Thought I recognized you. What on earth are you doing skulking back there? Come out and meet everyone, now that you’re considered acceptable company.”
The last thing he wanted to do. And could the obnoxious cockade be any more, well, obnoxious? “Good evening, Culver. It’s so entertaining, watching from the sidelines, that I thought I’d indulge my inclination for a while.”
Culver laughed and it sounded false, or forced. “Gathering secrets for your next literary creation, eh? What a cheeky riser you are. Say, weren’t you sweet on that tasty little baronet’s daughter at one time? The Kirkhoven chit? Haven’t seen you with her in dog’s ages, though, eh?”
On the dance floor, Anne and His Nibs came together, retreated, approached again. Then they joined arms with Miss Warren and that fool, whatever his name was, as well as Deborah Kringle and George Anson, the lot of them circling around each other like parti-colored spokes on a horizontal wheel. Anne’s bewildered gaze never left Cumberland’s face, and something cold and evil twisted inside Frederick’s soul. The wondering way she stared at him—
“I’d thought to cut her out myself, you know, before Cumberland entered the scene. How the deuce is a fellow supposed to compete with a flaming duke, by all that’s proper? Her virgo can’t remain intacta much longer, by Jove.”
The mounting urge to plant a good, sound uppercut on Culver’s inviting chin might yet overwhelm him. But any fracas would draw the attention of every person in the room. Including Lady Wotton, who stood beneath the orchestra’s balcony, on the left-hand side of the ballroom, and so far seemed to be happily ignoring his little hiding place while concentrating on every move Cumberland made. With that Medusa’s eye on him, His Nibs wouldn’t get away with even approaching the outskirts of flirtation.
Which was good news and bad news. Good news, in that it protected Anne. Bad news, in that it would be more difficult for them to escape.
Frederick forced a smile as Culver babbled on. He’d have to hold his tongue and try to be civil, while keeping an eye on his besieged sweetheart, her ferocious duke, and her energetic, protective mother.
All at the same time.
It was going to be a wearying evening, indeed.
****
He’d changed.
Perhaps it was the heady atmosphere of the sparkling society, the elegant gowns and flashing jewels, the blazing chandeliers, the stunning display of it all. Perhaps he’d received some news of a sister, a friend, a beloved niece, which made him think twice before destroying someone else’s beloved. Perhaps it was the charitable sentiment of the season, which seemed to have touched him somewhere deeply hidden and still honorable within his soul.
Whatever the cause, the change was undeniable. It was as if some mask of flesh and pretense had been stripped away, leaving behind a charming, sophisticated gentleman where previously had stood a stalking predator. His proper and cultured behavior toward her now could not present a sharper contrast to the raffish man she’d met in the coffee house and had been forced to tolerate since.
Another swing around with Tess Warren and her beau, Deborah and George Anson, their sleeves forming a whirling kaleidoscope of colors: pale pink, grey, scarlet, black, her own lilac, His Grace’s midnight blue. Then they separated and Anne danced back into line, silks and muslin rustling around her and the music bounding
them along. Whoever was beside her, Anne didn’t notice. All she could see was her own dancing partner, and while he glanced around a few times, his attention never wandered from her for long. Only this time, it didn’t seem threatening nor heady. But courtly.
Courtly.
It was inexplicable, confusing, and delightful, all at the same time. But most importantly, if this was the real Ernst Anton Oldenburg, First Duke of Cumberland, then Anne could not claim to dislike or disesteem him.
Nor could she continue so easily to dismiss the rumors aligning him with the royal house of Saxony.
And at that thought, a chill began in her breast and shivered along her arms, leaving goose flesh behind despite the rigors of the country dance they performed in the rapidly heating ballroom.
She capered with royalty.
And whether she ever attended another Holly Hall entertainment again, no one could erase this moment nor deny it had happened.
Had Dorcas Wentworth-Gower reached this same stunning conclusion? Had his mask slipped before her in a similar manner? Last season, at the Countess of Bath’s ball, mutual friends had described Dorcas’s devoted, blissful smile as she’d danced with the ton’s most notorious rake, and their scornful snickers had caused more damage to the poor girl’s reputation than anything he’d done that night, when considered from this new perspective. Perhaps Dorcas, too, had seen beneath the skin of this sophisticated and complicated man, the same one who’d just taken her hand and circled her, every step precise to the music.
And his intense, flattering attention remained riveted to her.
To her.
Such an intelligent man could not possibly have permitted himself to fall into such false, ridiculous patterns of behavior by accident. Creating that Pangloss veneer must have been deliberate, intended to shield himself, perhaps protect himself, from the vagaries of beau monde society and its cutting cruelties. In the end, he’d done no lasting harm. After all, Dorcas was now Mrs. Robinson, married to a draper’s son, yes, but more importantly, to the man she loved. And hadn’t someone said that Lydia Townshend had eloped with the civil servant her parents had banned from the house?
Just as she was doing that night?
As it all became clear, Anne linked right arms with His Grace. They circled around each other, the skipping music lightening her slippers and drawing her into his warm, appreciative affection.
And she did the only thing she could possibly do.
She smiled.
Chapter Thirteen
Thursday, December 24, 1812 (continued)
The sudden shift in Anne’s behavior toward the Duke of Cumberland could only be considered disturbing, and Lady Wotton distrusted it. Why on earth would the girl suddenly show such affection to a man who’d clearly proven he couldn’t be trusted? Perhaps she wasn’t all that clever, if she hadn’t sorted that out. And perhaps she should yank her daughter out of this dangerous atmosphere before the public seduction could go any further. Difficult slighting a duke, considering how much of good society his ill-will could influence; just as difficult slighting the Kringles, whose winter entertainments remained sacrosanct for anyone who stayed in town following the season’s end, as Anne had rightly reminded her.
But the humiliation she’d suffered in the gallery, with Anne and His Grace walking off without a backward glance — that would not soon be forgotten. To the family parlor, forsooth, to show her something; it required no imagination whatsoever to picture precisely what her daughter had been shown. Such dithering she’d never known before; oh, if only the Baron Wotton were here to advise her.
Behind the refreshment table, Lady Kringle settled the ladle into a holder beside the punchbowl and handed her a stemmed champagne coupe. “Lady Wotton, do please give me your considered opinion of our punch. Cook so wanted to add ginger to it, but I thought that would make it too sweet. What do you think?”
Reluctantly, she turned from the dance floor and accepted the drink. The punch was a clear peachy orange and little bubbles fizzed to the surface, floating and popping. Lady Wotton sipped it and rolled it across her tongue. The bubbles exploded on the roof of her mouth; fresh, gentle, a bare touch of sweetness with a dry twist beneath. Rather like Lady Kringle herself, come to think of it. Champagne with peaches and perhaps a little brandy?
“My dear Lady Kringle, this is exquisite.” But she couldn’t lose track of Anne. A glance over her shoulder found the patently unsuitable couple halfway down the line, holding position while other dancers whirled around them. His Grace wore a particularly tender, duplicitous smile, and Anne’s glow lit up the ballroom. Silly child. “I’m so sorry, did you speak?”
Lady Kringle’s eyes twinkled. She dipped her head, stirring the punch, and chunks of peaches swirled around the bowl within the brew. “Would it benefit from ginger, do you think?”
They weren’t speaking out there, at least, no words bouncing between the dance lines. A small mercy. But their smiles, their evident mutual delight, was scandalous. The rumble of voices around the room, magnified and echoing beneath the musicians’ loft, made it impossible to tell if the gossip had already begun. If not, it surely was coming. “No, I’m entirely of your mind. Any additional sweetness would distract — I mean, detract from the purity of the flavor.”
Gloved hands reached across at the same moment, clasped, lifted as they skipped into the center, retreated back. That stare between them had been held entirely too long.
If her hostess had said something in the interval, she hadn’t heard it. But the silence over the punch bowl stretched, more painful than the tacit complicity on the dance floor. And Lady Kringle’s sculpted eyebrows lifted, turning her face into a visual question mark. Lady Wotton had to say something.
“An elegant flavor, so it is,” she said. “And your decorations! Just delightful.”
Lady Kringle laughed.
Oh, dear. She’d selected her topic poorly, it seemed.
“I can see you’re taking your duty as protective dam very seriously indeed.” Leaning across the table, Lady Kringle topped up the coupe; somehow, Lady Wotton had drunk half the punch. She’d thought it a sip. “As well you should.”
Lady Kringle leaned even closer and lowered her voice. “Unasked advice, I realize. But do relax a trifle, my dear. He can hardly take off with her while everyone is watching.” Lady Kringle straightened, lifted an empty coupe, filled it, and sipped, merry blue eyes dancing above the rim.
A frisson of temper rippled through Lady Wotton, stiffening her spine. How on earth could she respond to that? Merely because Lady Kringle dominated the thinner air at this social elevation did not mean she could intrude into a purely personal affair. Besides, she was relaxed. Of course she was.
All she could do was smile — stiff, formal; Lady Kringle might believe she’d taken offense and perhaps she had — and step away.
At the loft’s edge, where the chandeliers’ light left off and the refreshment area’s girandoles didn’t quite reach, she paused in the gloom, sipping the punch and trapping the bubbles against her palate. Her humiliation had increased; Lady Kringle had cheerfully seen to that. The threat of good society’s rejection of her and her family, should they retire early from the ball, lost some of its importance if good society showed itself willing to reject them even if she didn’t.
Perhaps she should call for the carriage. The second dance approached its dénouement and they could leave immediately following.
“…yes, the Kirkhoven family, down in Kent.”
The voice came from a bevy of dames seated along the wall. The eldest, her plumed headdress wagging as she shook her head, lifted a quizzing glass and peered toward the dance floor. “Rather refined for a dalliance, I would have thought. Not his usual style.” When she lowered the glass, her eyes glittered. “Still, a man’s allowed to change his tastes, I suppose.”
Cats. And poorly dressed, to boot. Those plumes were ghastly.
More importantly, the gossip had started, and that meant she
had no time to spare. Footmen stood near the ballroom’s entrance, over by the columns, and she’d dispatch one for her carriage now. Then she’d snatch her daughter from a fate worse than death.
Lady Wotton set sail for the entrance.
****
With Culver finally gone, no doubt seeking a more appreciative audience elsewhere, Frederick’s breathing eased. And once she grew calmer, as well, Anne played her part better than any actress he’d ever seen in amateur theatricals; cause for admiration, that. Perhaps too well, though; that felt like a green-eyed monster clawing him from within. During the arms right she smiled at Cumberland so sweetly, with enchanting happiness lighting up her face, and all he’d have to do was lean forward and steal a kiss, in front of the entire ballroom. They were that close.
With such a smile for another man, did she really love him? Or should he simply turn and walk away, before they took their next, irretrievable step? And if she was that much of a fool — for that smile held deep layers of trust, as well as happiness — did he really want her?
The intensity of his heart’s shouted, overwhelming response drove the niggling worry from his mind. Frederick smiled across the ballroom.
If she wanted one final dance, even with such a man, he’d watch it and wish her joy.
Because soon, so very soon now, Anne would be his wife.
And nothing could prevent—
The crowd around the refreshment tables parted and a small figure, daunting with umbrage and steaming with tightly-held but not subtle indignation, huffed her way through.
Lady Wotton, and she aimed right at him.
For that one wild moment, panic out-shouted Frederick’s every thought. But no, Lady Wotton wasn’t looking at him, and she wasn’t walking toward him, or at least not precisely. Her target seemed to be the archway leading to the anteroom and gallery, but that was bad enough because she’d walk within arm’s reach of his hiding place.
Scandal on Half Moon Street Page 8