Sweet Madness: A Veiled Seduction Novel

by Heather Snow

  “It fits me exactly,” she said. “However did you manage it?”

  His wry grin flashed in the cool moonlight and was illuminated further by the warm flicker of the lantern that hung from the pole near his face. “I filched a gown from your wardrobe, of course. I took it to the draper I’d noticed in the mining village and inquired whether he could do what I wanted. He was able to get the fabric and lace from a shop in town and he and his wife worked night and day to get it done for me. I know it’s far from the elaborate gowns you used to wear to such soirees—”

  “No. It’s perfect, Gabriel.” And it was, she realized. The simple, modern style was very different than she’d ever worn, which she found she liked, because it didn’t feel to her as if she were trying to step back into who she’d been before. Maybe that’s why it hadn’t bothered her so much to put it on, as her old clothes seemed to.

  His grin turned to a genuine smile before he turned his attention to driving them.

  The trip to the home of Mr. and Mrs. James Bell took only a few minutes given the brightness of the moon and the well-maintained roads in this part of Shropshire.

  “I’ve been thinking about tonight,” Gabriel said as they made the turn onto the drive of the early Georgian manor. “If our main purpose for attending is truly to see whether our work together has helped me conquer my aversion to crowded ballrooms—and therefore that this association theory of yours is making me better—then I think I should try it alone.”

  She turned toward him and frowned.

  “The thing is,” he went on, “I was able to manage it before when you were by my side, and not so much when you were not. For me to trust that I’m improving, I need to face it on my own.”

  “Without your talisman,” she said.

  “Precisely,” he said, though his voice didn’t sound quite as confident as his words. “I’d like to go in together, but after we’ve greeted our hosts, I’d ask you to retreat to a retiring room or such and let me go into the ballroom without you.” He gave her a smile. “If I’ve not run screaming from the place within a quarter hour, we can assume I’ve met with success.”

  “All right.” She nodded slowly, understanding his reasons but not necessarily liking the idea.

  The gig swayed to a halt in front of the well-lit manor house. Penelope was taken aback by the amount of activity going on around them. Carriages were backed up, letting passengers out, while others were parked wherever there was room on the drive. A harried-looking servant stepped forward to take the reins. Penelope didn’t miss the odd look at their choice of conveyance. Gabriel leapt down first and offered his hand to Penelope to assist her, placing her gloved hand upon his arm as they made their way to the house.

  Music and conversation spilled from the open door of the manor as they neared. Bell Hall was not nearly as large as Somerton Park, but it was still a grand country home. Having been to a couple of affairs here two years past, Penelope remembered that the ballroom wasn’t far from the entrance. The Bells’ soirees were generally very well attended, packing nearly most of the area’s residents into the small space. Judging from how many revelers lingered in the foyer and parlor, tonight’s to-do was even more so.

  Gabriel’s arm was tight beneath her hand, but he gave no outward show of nerves. Penelope resisted offering any words of reassurance, letting him do this his way.

  After their cloaks were taken by a servant, they moved into line to greet their hosts in the parlor just off of the ballroom.

  “Lady Manton,” Mrs. Bell said warmly when they reached her and her husband. “How fortunate we are that you are visiting your cousin at the same time as our little fete.”

  “The good fortune is mine,” she returned with a smile. “Lady Stratford sends her regrets, but as her lie-in is fast approaching . . .”

  The older woman laughed. “Ah, yes. I well remember those days, having borne five of my own—all daughters, mind you,” she said, her assessing gaze shifting to Gabriel.

  Penelope smiled as Gabriel’s eyes widened slightly. “May I introduce Lord Bromwich? Gabriel, Mr. and Mrs. Bell.” Not that an unmarried marquess needed any introduction. She was certain word of his stay in Shropshire, and his expected attendance here tonight, had reached the ears of every matchmaking mother in a twenty-mile radius. It might even be the reason the Hall seemed filled to overflowing. It looked to be a crush to rival any London ball she’d ever attended. She glanced over worriedly at Gabriel. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to let him face this alone.

  But after greeting his hosts and spending a few moments in masculine conversation with Mr. Bell, Gabriel made his excuses, leaving her to answer Mrs. Bell’s questions about him as he forged on to the ballroom. As Gabriel departed so did Mr. Bell, while several matrons found their way to where Penelope and her hostess chatted, wanting to appease their own curiosity about the very eligible marquess.

  Penelope, however, had a difficult time keeping up with the conversation. Yes, he was the Marquess of Bromwich. No, she didn’t know if he was in the market for a wife nor what kind of female he preferred. Yes, he was very rich, owning three estates, plus a palatial townhome off Grosvenor Square. No, she wasn’t aware of any mistresses or by-blows. Instead her eyes kept straying to the ballroom door. She’d heard Gabriel being announced a few minutes ago, then nothing. Her insides twisted as time crawled by. How was he faring? Was he fighting off the urge to flee or had breaking his association of ballrooms to battlefields worked? She gritted her teeth harder with every tick of the nearby ormolu mantel clock. This waiting was awful!

  Less than seven minutes in, she could no longer stand it. She extracted herself as politely as she could and quick-stepped her way into the ballroom. She had to shoulder her way past the clapping masses, who were clearly enjoying a rousing quadrille, but she finally broke through the crowd enough to scan the throngs of faces for his.

  She saw him almost immediately and her breath caught in her throat. Gabriel wasn’t just in the room, he was dancing. More than that, he was smiling—grinning from ear to ear, to be more precise. Her hand came to her chest, which ached as she watched him. His was the smile of a man who’d been freed from a terrible burden. Her eyes pricked with tears. How happy—how grateful—she was to have played even a small part in making that happen.

  His eyes found hers then, almost as if he’d sensed her presence even from across the crowded room. They flared with some intense emotion she felt all the way to her toes before glancing away to focus on his partner—the eldest Miss Bell, if she wasn’t mistaken.

  Having seen that he was well, Penelope felt a strange urge to fade back into the crowd. He would find her if he had need of her. She found a spot very near a large potted plant and tucked herself against the wall where others would be discouraged from approaching her, but where she could still see Gabriel.

  He was getting better. Even though she knew they had a long way to go, they were making significant progress. Relief welled up in her, causing the tears that had only been prickling threaten to fall and her hands to begin to tremble. She’d done the right thing, stealing him away from Vickering Place. Only now could she admit how terrified she’d been of making a mistake. Of making things worse. As she had with Michael.

  But look at Gabriel now. As he laughed at something his partner must have said, Penelope marveled at how at home he seemed, where only weeks ago even the thought of being here had shaken him so badly he couldn’t breathe. Now she was the one hiding at the back of the ballroom like the wallflower she never was, shaking like a leaf.

  The quadrille came to a close. Penelope watched as Gabriel escorted Miss Bell back to a group of young ladies who were probably not that much younger than she. And yet, as they twittered and laughed gaily, she felt so far removed from that kind of innocence, she might as well have never been so.

  A swift, sudden anger overwhelmed her, burning through her heart. A blanket of confusion and guilt doused it quickly, however. Who was she mad at? Michael? Miss Bell
and her friends? She had no right to be angry at anyone but herself for the turn her life had taken. She never would have thought she’d be uneasy in a ballroom, however. When had she become so? She wouldn’t know, she supposed. She’d avoided them since Michael’s death herself, a part of her past she hadn’t felt comfortable returning to. But just like her penchant for black, she’d never analyzed the change. She’d just gone on.

  “Is everything all right?”

  She started at Gabriel’s question. She’d been so lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t seen him bid Miss Bell and her friends good-bye and cross the room.

  No. No, it wasn’t all right. But she didn’t wish to talk about it, especially not there. She wanted to go back to Somerton Park. Penelope pasted on a smile. “Of course. More important, is everything well with you?”

  The concern on his face didn’t precisely disappear, but it was pushed aside by an expression of triumph. “I’ve never been better. Truly.” He breathed in, as if experiencing the world in an entirely new way. “Thank you, Pen. It’s really working.”

  She nodded, her smile turning real. “I think so, too.”

  The strains of a waltz met their ears then, and Gabriel held his hand out to her. “A celebratory waltz, m’lady?”

  She stared at his fingers for a long moment. She used to love to waltz, but that was another thing she hadn’t done since Michael had died. Another part of her that had apparently been spoiled, because right then, with the unpredictable way she was feeling, she didn’t think she could bring herself to dance it, even with Gabriel. Anger spiked again and flitted away just as quickly, leaving her feeling even more off kilter.

  She shook her head. “A-another time, perhaps?”

  His gaze became troubled again, but he merely withdrew his hand. “Of course.”

  “Actually,” she said, touching her fingers to her forehead, “I think I would like to return to Somerton Park. If you don’t mind.”

  A frown turned his lips. “Certainly,” he said, taking her elbow gently. “Let us go.” He steered her through the crush, tension vibrating off of him, but somehow Penelope knew it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her. She accepted her cloak gratefully when they reached the front door, wrapping the heavy garment around herself and pulling the oversized hood up around her face. A few minutes later, Gabriel handed her into the gig and they were on their way back to Geoffrey and Liliana’s.

  He didn’t press her on the short ride home, though from the worried looks he sent her, he’d dearly wanted to. Penelope pulled her cloak more tightly around herself and stared out at the passing scenery. The night had chilled, leaving a sheen of moisture over the foliage that glistened in the moonlight. The landscape looked as cold as she felt, and nearly as bleak.

  When they arrived at Somerton Park, Penelope slipped down from the seat on her own and hurried to the entrance. She didn’t wait for anyone to meet her but rather went straight to her room and shut the door behind her. For the first time in a fortnight, she went to bed alone.

  * * *

  Gabriel stood at the interior sitting room door that joined his room to Penelope’s, his hand poised to knock—much as he had been these past few minutes. He lowered his fist to his side. Did it matter if he knocked? If she told him to go away, he wouldn’t listen. He’d go in anyway.

  So that’s what he did.

  Thankfully she hadn’t locked the door. He’d have hated to be forced to explain to Stratford why he’d kicked in the man’s door.

  Gabriel had to search to find her. Her room was dark, the only light coming from a weak fire in the grate. His eyes looked for her on the bed, but her silhouette was not there. Nor was she at the vanity, on the chaise near the foot of her four-poster, or pacing anywhere in the room.

  Finally he spotted her, or what had to be her, curled up into an impossibly small ball in a wingback chair in the far corner. Her arms were wrapped around her knees and her head rested atop them, her blond ringlets pulled back into a simple knot, making her look very much like a vulnerable child. His stomach clenched into an aching fist.

  He moved quickly into the room, dropping to his knees on the carpet before her chair. “Pen? What is it?”

  His chest clenched, too, when she lifted her head and he saw her tear-ravaged face. Actually, the tears had dried away, but they’d left their tracks behind, and her eyes were swollen and rimmed red. She sniffed in a rush of air. “I can’t waltz anymore,” she said, as if that explained her pitiful state.

  “All right,” he said carefully, shaken to see Pen thus.

  “A-apparently I detest ballrooms and I can’t wear colors anymore, either,” she said, nodding to an open trunk piled high with haphazardly tossed dresses. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes and spilled over, which seemed to appall her. Her lips pressed hard together even as she trembled. “And every few minutes or so, I’m angry as hell about it!”

  “All right,” he repeated softly in an attempt to soothe her. He wasn’t certain exactly what she meant, but he recognized her fragile state. He’d witnessed men on the battlefield in various stages of emotions, ranging from despair to rage to terror—and everything in between—and he saw that it wouldn’t take much to push Penelope over the edge of something or another. “You’re angry,” he agreed. “At me?”

  She blinked several times. “No.”

  Even though he hadn’t thought he’d done anything to upset her, he still breathed a sigh of relief. He never wanted to be responsible for her tears. “At yourself?”

  Her nod was more circular than anything, as if it couldn’t decide what to be.

  So she was angry with herself, but that wasn’t quite it. He glanced again at her messy trunk, and the dresses draped over it or stuffed within. If she couldn’t wear colors, as she’d said, it meant she felt she had to stay in black, an obvious reference to her guilt and widowhood. “You’re angry with Michael,” he said, understanding.

  “Yes!” Her face crumpled. “What kind of person does that make me? I can’t be angry with him. He was sick.”

  He reached and covered her clasped hands with one of his. They felt like ice beneath his skin. “Of course you can, Pen. Hell, I’m angry with him myself.”

  Her eyes widened and she stared intently at him. “You are?”

  “Yes. When I realized he’d taken his own life—” He stopped, unable to voice the whole of his feelings. Because along with having to accept that Michael’s death had been a pointless tragedy—and his anger at his cousin for that thoughtless, foolish act—he also had to cope with the knowledge that had Michael lived, Penelope would never have been driven to treat soldiers, and therefore never would have been able to help him. She certainly wouldn’t be in his bed, and God help him, he didn’t know if he would give her up even to bring Michael back. What kind of person did that make him? “I would think it perfectly normal. He may have been sick, but Michael’s choices changed your life forever. Through no fault of your own, everything you’d hoped and expected for yourself was taken away from you.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Her lip quivered violently, letting him know all was not well beneath the surface. “Michael’s death was my fault. Even he said so, in the letter he left for me near his body.”

  “What?” The word shot out of him with the shock of it all, but his stunned confusion swiftly turned to rage. That bastard! How could Michael have left such a thing for her to find?

  “Not in those exact words, of course. He said he was”—the first sob escaped, a broken sound that cracked him as well—“that he was s-sorry he’d been such a disappointment to me.” She sniffed as tears poured in earnest. “That he’d never thought there was anything wrong with how he was until he m-met me.”

  “Oh Christ, Pen.” He reached for her, but she pressed her shoulders back into the chair in a bid to escape his embrace.

  “He lived his whole life happy,” she said, “until I came along. He would still be alive if I hadn’t badgered him constantly, if I had
n’t pressed him so hard, if I had just been the society wife I was raised to be and let him live his own life when he asked it of me. I even failed him in that.”

  “That’s—” Bollocks, he almost said. “Rubbish. Pure tripe. You loved him. You wanted him to be well. There is nothing wrong with that. I don’t care if you turned into the veriest fishwife. Michael made his own choices. The responsibility lies with him.”

  She shook her head, and he could stand it no more. He leaned forward and tugged her into his arms, crushing her to him as he rose to a standing position that pulled her upright as well. He didn’t relent as she struggled. Instead he stroked her hair, whispering nonsense until she settled against his chest, her poor body shaking with silent sobs.

  They stayed that way for a long time, Gabriel alternately wishing to take her pain for her and fantasizing about digging up his cousin and shooting him himself. Five, ten, fifty times over.

  “Pen, you have to see . . . You were a baby, for God’s sake,” he murmured against her hair. “You weren’t equipped to handle an illness like Michael’s. And from what you’ve told me, he did nothing to help himself. He could have reached out—if not to you, then to me. Hell, to a complete stranger. But he didn’t. It sounds to me that he thought of no one but himself, even to the end. I pray he was sick. I pray he didn’t think about the damage he’d inflict on those he left behind—on you—because if he had, that would only make him cruel.”

  She shuddered in his arms, once, twice. He continued to just hold her and eventually her crying ceased. When Pen pushed against his chest again, he let her go. She stepped back, but didn’t look at him. Instead she stared off over his shoulder, her mind having gone somewhere else. Her eyes looked haunted. Haunted in a way he recognized. He’d seen those same eyes in his own mirror many times.

  “Have you—” he began, realization dawning. “Have you ever considered that you are suffering from battle fatigue yourself?”

  Her pale eyes turned to his then.