by Louise Allen
The dressers, the Maylins' coachman and the groom were now ensconced in three rooms in the inn with Rowan's luggage, looking forward to several days' holiday from their usual duties with all the activity of the inn for entertainment.
The four were sitting in the bigger chamber, playing cards with a pile of broken spills for stakes, when Rowan walked in. The men effaced themselves while Kate and Alice swept the cards off the table and pulled the bell for tea.
In answer to Rowan's concerned questions they were adamant that they were comfortable and happy, but were much more eager to talk about Penny and Rowan than their own situation.
'How are you getting on, my lady?'
'Well enough, Alice. I haven't disgraced your teaching yet I don't think, and Miss Penelope is very patient. But I've brought you this-Miss Penelope's organza. I can't seem to get the wine stain out-and I need something to wear for the Servants' Ball tomorrow.'
Kate tutted over the mark and bustled off downstairs to borrow something from the kitchens that she swore was a sovereign remedy, while Alice dragged out trunks and threw back the lids.
'How about your second-best cream silk?'
'Too fancy, don't you think?' Rowan eyed the thick lace trimming doubtfully.
'Probably. And there isn't time to get a plainer lace to fit this deep vee neck.' Alice folded it back and dug deeper. 'Here! There's the bronze-green silk that has that stain near the hem we can't identify and nothing will shift. It isn't terribly obvious, and it could well be the sort of thing a mistress would pass on to a dresser.'
'Excellent. And the brown kid slippers, because I wouldn't be able to afford the ones we had made to match it, and the cream kid gloves that have been cleaned a lot. Miss Penelope can help with my hair.'
Alice began to sort out the linen needed to go under the gown while Rowan rummaged in the box containing her simpler jewellery. 'This comb, the amber ear drops and this lace-trimmed handkerchief. Perfect.'
Warmed by the tea, and the knowledge that their staff were happily settled, Rowan pulled her scarf up over her nose and trudged off, basket over her arm.
'Hello. Have you sneaked out for a mug of huckle my buff?'
Rowan jumped, dropped the basket and made a wild grab at the handle before the contents fell out on the ground. 'A what? Look what you have made me do, Lucas.'
'Hot beer, egg and brandy,' he explained, removing the basket from her grasp and hooking it over his arm.
'Certainly not. It sounds disgusting. Although I assume that is why you are here. Miss Maylin's groom and carriage are at the inn and I came down to get some things that had been left by mistake.'
'I haven't touched a drop. Smell my breath.' He leaned invitingly close. Rowan pursed her lips and resisted the temptation to meet his. 'See-no spirits. I came to check on my…on Lord Danescroft's horses and grooms and to get some fresh air.'
'I can manage the basket.' Rowan eyed him uneasily. She had half convinced herself in the course of a decidedly restless night that it was only the novelty of such unchaperoned freedom that was making her lightheaded enough to flirt with Lucas, and that if she avoided him she would soon feel her old self again.
'I am going back. It is too heavy for you.' He set off up the lane, leaving Rowan glaring at his retreating back. She picked up her skirts and ran to catch him up.
'You are bossy.'
'So are you.'
For some reason this made her smile. They walked on in amicable silence, Lucas swinging the basket, Rowan hopping over frozen puddles. The lane went down a slight slope, then levelled out. Heavy, wide-
wheeled farm carts had cut deep ruts that had filled with water and now made long, parallel ribbons of ice, perhaps eighteen inches wide apiece.
Lucas set the basket down on a tree stump, took a run, and slid down one shining length of ice, arms flailing to keep his balance. When he got to the end he turned, took another run and did the same thing, arriving back, grinning, in front of her. 'Sorry-couldn't resist that. It has been a long time since I have seen ice.'
One thing two winters in Vienna had done for Rowan was to teach her how to skate. She held out her gloved right hand to him. 'One, two, three!'
It was a ragged start: she tried to lengthen her stride to match him; he shortened his. They were already laughing when their feet hit the ice, and Rowan was screaming with a mixture of delight and terror as they skidded down the icy ruts. There was no room to move their feet. The only way to balance was by waving their arms about, and they staggered off at the end, breathless and whooping with laughter.
Lucas pulled Rowan into his arms and they clung together, shoulders shaking, as their mirth subsided. It left them standing there, locked together, tears glistening in their eyes and suddenly in no mood to laugh, only to stare. She seemed to be drowning in the blue of his eyes; he seemed no more willing to unlock his gaze from hers. Something was happening. No, something had happened. Something wonderful… and dreadful.
Slowly she raised her hand, clumsy in its thick woollen glove, and stroked it down his cheek. He turned his face into it, the strong jawbone rubbing along her fingers, then he caught the tips in his teeth and dragged the glove off. The air was cold, but his mouth, as he pressed it into her palm, was hot.
His hat had fallen off again. She stared down at the dark head, bent so intently over her hand. The exposed nape, the vulnerable softness of the skin at the base of his skull, the virile curl of the hair there, the strength of the muscle. So male, so strong, so gentle. Something inside was hurting, as though pressure was building in her chest.
'Lucas?' She hadn't meant to whisper, but that was how it came out. But he heard it and looked up, and she wondered that the word gentle had occurred to her for a moment. The blue eyes blazed, his face was hard with something that reflected the baffling pain inside her, and his mouth when he pulled her hard into his arms and kissed her was savage.
She needed it. Gentleness would have made her cry. Rowan kissed him back without inhibition and the pain dissolved into something dark and urgent and-
'Come on, bor! You going to stand there all day, rutting with that there wench?' The thickly accented bellow brought them apart as effectively as a bucket of cold water thrown over fighting cats. Rowan caught a glimpse of a red-faced yokel perched up on the box of a wide farm wagon, two shaggy horses steaming patiently in the shafts.
With a gasp of mortification she turned her back. Lucas stepped onto the verge, drawing her with him, feet crunching in the snow. 'Sorry to keep you waiting, friend.'
'Ah, well, bor, you needs be doing your courting inside this weather. Fine wench like that'll soon warm you up,' the carter advised cheerfully as the wagon trundled past, shattering the ice on their impromptu skating rink.
'Oh!' Rowan emerged red-faced and flustered from the shelter of Lucas's shoulder.
He looked at her for a long moment, then went back for the basket. 'This won't do, will it?' he observed as he rejoined her and they began to walk on to Tollesbury Court.
'No,' Rowan agreed bleakly.
'Tomorrow is Christmas Day and the Servants' Ball. We will talk after that.'
'Not now?' They had reached the gates; soon there would be precious little privacy.
'Do you believe in magic, Daisy?' Lucas was looking away from her, out across the frigidly still parkland.
'No.' She shook her head.
'Neither do I. But let's pretend, until tomorrow at midnight, that magic does exist-for us.'
Common sense said End it now. The warning voice inside her agreed. You'll get hurt. Rowan listened to them, to the voices of duty and reality. But I am going to be hurt anyway-better tomorrow than today, she thought defiantly. I love him and it is quite impossible.
'Until the stroke of midnight on Christmas night, then I believe in magic'
'Give me your arm. No one can object with this slippery surface.'
They walked in silence. What Lucas's thoughts were she could not guess, but her own, circling, came up wi
th a bump against a mystery.
I know it is hopeless, because I'm not really a dresser and I could not possibly marry a valet. But why does he think it won't do? Oh my God-he is married.
'Are you married?' Rowan demanded, stopping dead outside the kitchen door.
'No!'
'All right. I just wanted to be sure.' She took the basket from his grip while he was still staring at her and went inside, exchanging greetings with the kitchen maids and Cook as she hurried past.
I know this won't do. The Viscount Stoneley cannot marry a servant-even one with illegitimate blue blood in her veins, even one raised gently. But how does she know? Lucas was frowning over the conundrum as he let himself into Will's bedchamber. His friend was sitting in the window seat, gazing out idly, a book in his lap.
'Not downstairs socializing, Will?'
'Thinking. I can't get a moment to myself down there. If I'm talking to Miss Maylin, Grandmother is hovering, hanging on every word. If I'm not, she's at my elbow trying to get me back.'
'Maddening. Still, you are seeing enough of the girl to convince yourself she won't do, I imagine?'
'She is terrified of me.' Will dropped the book on the floor and swung both feet up onto the window seat, leaning forward to rest his folded arms on his knees and presenting Lucas with the uncommunicative barrier of his shoulders.
'You see-impossible for a countess. The girl's a mouse.'
'A very sweet mouse, and a very kind one. She would be wonderful with Louisa.'
'Do you want a woman who is frightened of you? Of the life you must lead?'
'No. But-'
'I'm sure she would make a wonderful governess, but that is not what you need. You need a Society hostess and an exciting woman in your bed to give you sons.'
'God! Do you not think I have had enough of exciting women? One was enough.'
'You need one who loves you.' Lucas stayed where he was, wondering, with a flash of pain, who he was arguing with.
'I loved Belle. You have no idea what it is like to love and to lose, Lucas. None.'
'Oh, yes, I have.' But he said it too quietly for Will to hear, turning his back to begin laying out his evening clothes.
'How did the music go?' Rowan asked.
Penny shrugged. 'As usual. I played adequately.'
'And the singing?'
'I whispered-as usual.' She fidgeted with her reticule, finally tipping it out on the bed and sorting through the spill of trifles. Rowan tried to study her expression, but Penny would not meet her eyes. 'How are Alice and Kate? And Dorritt and Charles, of course.'
'Very comfortable, and enjoying their holiday. See-your organza is clean again.' It had taken three more rinses, and then careful pressing with warm irons, but now it was perfect again. The manual work had allowed her to think in rather more tranquillity about Lucas. Because of the mystery surrounding Lady Danescroft it was easy to see mysteries everywhere. Lucas simply did not want to become entangled with a woman. He could tell she was falling…no, becoming attached. That was all he could see, surely? He could see this, and was acting to let her know it was going no further than a flirtation.
As Penny admired the dress Rowan let her mind wander back to him. It was her duty to marry well. Sooner or later she was going to find a man, a suitable gentleman, of whom Papa approved and whom she could respect enough to marry. She did not have to love him. Many people would say it was desirable that she did not. And in her heart she would hold the image of the man she did love. So impossibly.
'Did you say something?' Penny looked up.
'What? No. A hiccup, that was all.'
She would go to the ball and have her magical evening with Lucas. And then, like Cinderella, it would all vanish at midnight. Only she would leave her heart behind with him, not her slipper.
'Rowan?' Penny was watching her, frowning. 'You look sad. What is wrong?'
'Nothing.' She forced a smile.
'You are tired, and bored with this, I am sure. I do appreciate you being here, you know.'
'How is it with Lord Danescroft? Honestly?'
'I wish I was not so shy.' Penny looked down at her hands, clasped tightly together. 'I wish I had the courage to speak out about what I truly want.'
'It's the rest of your life, Penny. You must tell the truth about how you feel. I can't help you. I realise that now. There is nothing about Lord Danescroft that your father could possibly object to, and I truly believe he is innocent of everything except making a very poor choice of first wife.'
'Yes.' Penny drew in a deep breath. 'I will do my best. Now, what are you going to wear tomorrow night?'
CHAPTER EIGHT
December 25th
'Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Daisy Lawrence!'
Rowan paused at the top of the ballroom stairs and blinked. The room was thronged with the indoor staff of the big house, the outdoor staff, estate workers and the tradespeople and professional men who serviced Tollesbury Court. Those who were married had brought their spouses and their adult children. It was almost as hectic a crush as a Society ball: the noise level was certainly as great.
But the guests were decidedly different, she realised as she began to descend. There were the upper servants, dressed as she was in the good-quality discards of their masters and mistresses, well groomed, assured in their setting. There were the lower indoor staff, more plainly dressed, awkwardly on their best behaviour, but comfortable in a room they knew.
Then there were the outdoor staff, red of face and decidedly weather-beaten, stiff and proud in their Sunday best. Mingling with them were the tradesmen and their families, the doctor and the curate, the banker's agent and the shopkeepers, their respective prosperity and standing accurately reflected in the gloss of the ladies' dress fabrics and the cut of the men's coats.
Lord Fortescue had done them proud. A string band was playing on the rostrum, hired footmen circulated with laden trays of wines and cordials, and the hothouses had yielded up some of their precious blooms to make the evergreen arrangements glow in the candlelight. On her visits to the kitchen, nervously checking to make sure she did not bump into Lucas, Rowan had seen Cook ordering about a battalion of hired staff to produce a lavish supper.
Now Cook herself, magnificent in deep green bombazine and a turban, was holding court halfway down the room. The prevailing fashion for high waists and low-cut necklines could hardly be said to be flattering to her, but Rowan considered that she had seen less impressive dowager duchesses.
'Miss Daisy?' It was Mr Philpott, nervous in high collar and slightly shiny suit. 'I expect all your dances are taken already.'
'Why, no-none are. I have just come down.' Rowan opened her dance card and showed its clean pages.
She circulated, chatting, her card filling slowly but surely. Where was Lucas? Had he decided after all that this was a mistake? It was becoming hard to maintain her poise and her smile and to focus on whoever she was speaking to, not look over their shoulder for a glimpse of a dark head and elegant back.
She was exchanging polite, if barbed compliments with some of the other dressers, whose sharp eyes had seen the mark on her hem and were smug as a result of it, when she felt a touch at the nape of her neck-as tangible as though he had laid his fingers there. Lucas was watching her.
'Miss Lawrence. May I hope your card is not filled?'
'Mr Lucas.' Her curtsey was shallow, the graceful acknowledgement of a gentleman who was her equal. She was aware of Miss Browne's raised eyebrows, but ignored it. Another few days and she would never see these women again. Provided she did nothing to bring opprobrium upon Penny, she did not care what they thought. She lifted her wrist so he could write in the card against whichever of the four remaining sets he chose. When she looked down she saw the bold 'L' against every one-including the supper dances.
It was shocking-or it would be if this was a London Society ball, or Almack's, or anywhere else Lady Rowan Chilcourt frequented. But this was a ball out of place and out of time. A magic b
all: the rules did not apply to her. She let the little card drop on its wrist cord and smiled. 'The second set, then Mr Lucas. I look forward to it.'
With a bow he was gone, leaving her to the mercy of Miss Browne and her colleagues. 'You have made an impression there, Miss Lawrence. Are you looking ahead to when your mistress and his master are married?'
Rowan laughed lightly. 'Goodness, no. But he is the best-looking man in the room, don't you agree?'
They bridled, scandalised by her boldness, but then Miss Pratt giggled. 'He is indeed. Why, we are all jealous.'
Rowan smiled and passed on to meet the head gardener's wife and pretty daughter, both of whom were looking very handsome, with hair well dressed. She felt a pang, wishing she could emulate them.
Lucas's dark looks suited the severity of evening black tailoring and crisp white linen. He was as well groomed and dressed as many gentlemen, whereas she had had to be very wary about her appearance.
Her heart wanted her to look as beautiful as she could for him-to style her hair in the most becoming way, to dress in the silks that best showed off her colouring, to wear her pearls to gleam against her skin. But it was not safe. Soon she was going to have to go back into Society: she had to preserve a distance between Daisy Lawrence, even in her prettiest gown, and Lady Rowan.
She feared she would disappoint him, but the look in his eyes when he came to claim her for the first dance of the set put her mind at rest. A series of vigorous country dances with Mr Philpott had put colour in her cheeks, but she could still blush when he took her hand for the quadrille, murmuring, 'Magic, my lovely.'
The formality of the dance steadied her, and the need to watch out for the less able dancers on the floor