by Anna Bennett
“I’m glad he was there for you—and that he still is. But he’s not the only one who cares for you. There’s your grandmother, of course … and me.”
He reached for the strand of hair that had blown across her face and tucked it behind an ear. “I didn’t tell you about my father’s suicide to gain your sympathy. Only to explain why I’m … the way I am. And why this place is special to me.”
She rested her head on his shoulder and looked up at the swing. “I think I understand. This is where you could be a boy—even after that day.”
“That same evening, while the servants hung black crepe over the windows, Kirby and I escaped here. It was the first time we summoned the courage to jump from the highest branch. I plunged into the river, letting the water wash away the blood—and the horrible images in my head.” He shrugged. “Oddly enough, it helped.”
She nodded, touched by his honesty. “Thank you for confiding in me. For trusting me with the truth.” While she adored the physical intimacy she had with Gray, this was different. Deeper.
It gave her hope that, in spite of all his scars, she could heal him—and perhaps help him love again.
“I suppose we should rejoin the rest of our party.” He sighed, regretful.
“Yes, Mary will be looking for me—as will Lily and Sophie.”
Gray turned to her then, his dark eyes brimming with longing and affection. Spearing his fingers through her hair, he took her mouth in a sweet but knee-melting kiss. And her heart swelled with joy.
Because it seemed to her that this kiss was more than just a kiss. It was a promise—to try to move beyond the past and face the future together.
When, at last, they reluctantly parted, Gray helped her climb down from the rock and back into the boat.
She sat across from him, mesmerized by the smooth, powerful motion of his shoulders and arms as he rowed their boat down the river. She could already hear the faint sounds of conversation and laughter drifting toward them from the shore where they’d meet up with the rest of the group and enjoy a picnic luncheon before returning to the Fortress.
When they were still several yards from the shore, Gray suddenly lifted the oars out of the water and rested them on the sides of the boat. “I’ll speak to your father when he arrives tomorrow. And if it pleases you, I thought we could announce our engagement at the ball tomorrow night.”
Fiona’s belly fluttered. She impulsively leaned forward, circled a hand around Gray’s neck, and kissed him. “That would make me very happy.”
Even now, she felt like dancing. Not on the boat, of course, because she’d topple into the river and ruin one of her favorite gowns. But joy bubbled up inside her nonetheless.
Because at times like this, when Gray was so thoughtful and attentive and kind, she could almost imagine that they’d had the usual, genuine sort of courtship. The kind where the dashing gentleman pursues the beautiful young lady and attempts to win her favor. And she could almost imagine that despite the odds, she might somehow manage to save her sister from an awful scandal and end up with her very own fairy-tale romance.
It could happen. And what better place for a bit of fairy-tale magic than a ball?
On the Reasons We Adore Balls (a Concise List)
1. The gowns. Slipping into a gorgeous—and slightly daring—gown can make a girl feel like the heroine of her own gothic novel: dazzling, bold, and beautiful.
2. The dancing. Every dance from the quadrille to the waltz offers chances for romance: a blush-inducing compliment, a heated gaze, or a lingering touch.
3. The champagne. The festive atmosphere encourages every guest to set aside worries and join in the revelry … and to indulge one’s naughtier side.
4. The candlelight. Everything is lovelier beneath ballroom chandeliers. Paste jewelry sparkles like diamonds; lawn fabric shines like silk. Bathed in the glow of candlelight, even a hopeless wallflower can become the belle of the ball.
5. The possibilities. When the conditions are just right, even the most unlikely of scenarios may come to pass. Scandal can be averted, rifts can be mended … and love can blossom.
“I can’t believe Papa arrives today!” Lily bolted upright in bed, vexingly chipper, given that it was scarcely eight o’clock in the morning. “There’s so much to be done. I told the countess I’d help her arrange the flowers today, and I thought I’d venture into the village to find a small gift for Papa. Maybe a new pipe or smart new hat—what do you think?”
Fiona reluctantly lifted the pillow off her head, rolled onto her back, and pushed the wisps of hair away from her face. “I think it’s dreadfully early to be discussing such things … but I’m sure Papa would adore either—as long as it was coming from you.”
Lily bounded out of bed and yanked open the doors of the armoire. “I know it’s silly, but I can’t help hoping that some little gesture or snippet of conversation might jar him out of the stupor he’s been in. That he might pull us into a fierce hug and kiss our foreheads and tell us how much he’s missed us. Not just since we left to come here to the earl’s house party, but since he pulled away from us … and became so distant.”
Fiona sat up and shot her sister a sympathetic smile. “I know. And I’m glad to hear you haven’t given up on him, because neither have I. Underneath the brusqueness, he’s still the papa we love and adore. Surely the change of scenery will be good for him.”
“Would you like to join me and Soph for breakfast and a quick trip to the village?”
“Thank you, but I think I’ll spend an hour or two sketching this morning before Papa arrives and all the preparations and festivities begin in earnest. I’ll look for you and Sophie in the ballroom this afternoon, and the three of us can assist with the decorations—which reminds me, I wanted to show you something.” Fiona slid out of bed, grabbed her sketchbook, and joined her sister near the armoire. “Last night, Sophie and I worked on some drawings of the ballroom, as we envision it. Have a look.”
Lily blinked at the rough images as Fiona flipped the pages. “Fi,” she said softly, “you are brilliant. I hope you realize that.”
“The ideas are all Sophie’s. I simply put them on paper.”
“There’s nothing simple about it,” Lily said. “I hadn’t thought it possible to be more eager for this evening, but now I am. I can’t wait to see the ballroom transformed.”
“I’m eager, too,” Fiona admitted. “Now pick a day gown and I’ll help you dress. No need to ring for Mary.”
Lily laid a finger alongside her cheek, thoughtful. “I shall choose the grey. Can you guess why?”
“Because it will provide the greatest contrast with the stunning red silk you plan to wear tonight?”
“Precisely,” she replied, eyes twinkling. “You see? We did learn some useful tidbits at Miss Haywinkle’s.”
* * *
Shortly after breakfast, Fiona escaped to the garden with her sketchbook. Amidst the untrimmed shrubs and sprawling vines, she sat on a bench near the mermaid fountain and opened her drawing pad to the portrait of Gray.
He may not have been there in the flesh, posing for her as he had before, but during the hours she’d spent with him on the boat yesterday she’d made plenty of mental images—and she intended to incorporate the most important elements into her sketch today. Not physical traits like scars or dimples or the shape of his face but, rather, intangible things: the humor in his eyes as he’d teased her about the swing; the juxtaposition of his virile self-confidence and unexpected vulnerability; the way he’d smiled at her—as though she understood a joke only the two of them were privy to.
As usual, she lost track of the minutes, but by midday she slowly emerged from her creative haze, especially satisfied.
At last, she’d finished her sketch of Gray.
And it was the best she’d ever drawn.
It captured the most important things about him—the essence of who he was. Yes, he was still a powerful, brooding earl. But he was also a wounded boy and a devote
d grandson and a loyal friend. He was a passionate, considerate lover and one of the hardest-working people she knew.
And she loved him.
Anyone who looked at the sketch would realize that truth in an instant.
Which was why, despite the encouraging developments of recent days, she was not yet ready to share the portrait with anyone—and most especially not Gray.
When the time was right, she’d show him the portrait and tell him how she felt.
Until then, she would close up her sketchbook and wait—allowing time for his feelings to catch up with hers. For she had to believe they would.
Delighted with the day’s efforts, Fiona made her way back to the house and passed through to the drawing room, where she found Mama, Lady Callahan, and the countess taking tea.
“There you are!” Mama said with a tsk. “Fiddling with your drawings when you should be resting up before the ball.”
“I’m not tired, Mama. Has Papa arrived yet?”
“No, but I expect him soon,” she answered breezily.
Fiona could have twirled from sheer happiness. “I think I shall go help Lily and Sophie in the ballroom.”
“How many guests are we anticipating tonight?” Lady Callahan asked.
“An excellent question,” the countess remarked. “We received a few more replies late yesterday afternoon. Fiona, my dear, before you go, would you fetch the list for me? It’s over there—on the escritoire.”
“Certainly.” Fiona found a large sheet of paper filled with names written in various hands on top of the desk and brought it to the elderly woman. “Shall I tally the number of guests who’ve accepted?”
The countess shot her a grateful smile. “Please.”
Fiona was scanning the list from top to bottom, keeping a mental count of affirmative replies, when an unusual but vaguely familiar flourish caught her eye. The lowercase f in Lord and Lady Heflin’s name had a distinctive, ornate loop where it dipped below the other letters that reminded her a little of—
Dear God.
Her fingers went numb and the paper trembled in her hand. The handwriting on the list … It was the same as on the blackmail notes.
“Well, how many are coming?” Mama prodded.
“I … I lost count.” Fiona clutched the back of the sofa for support and blinked hard. Perhaps she’d only imagined the writing was the same. Surely any number of people formed their f’s in the same way. Didn’t they?
Please, please, let this be an odd coincidence.
Because the idea for the ball had only come about during the house party.
Which meant that it was quite possible whoever wrote Lord and Lady Heflin’s names on the list was staying at the Fortress—and that the blackmailer was there, under the very same roof as Fiona and Lily.
Chapter 26
“Forgive me,” Fiona sputtered. “I must have sat in the sun a bit too long.” She fanned herself with the paper, then forced herself to look at the list of guests again, quickly counting the names with a check beside them. “Fifty-eight, not including those of us staying here.”
“I shall tell the staff to prepare for seventy,” the countess said. “A grand number for our celebration.”
Fiona nodded in agreement, even though she only half-listened. She simply had to find out who had written that distinctive f. “Are you certain the list is current?” she asked the countess. “Perhaps a few more replies straggled in today?”
“I don’t believe so. Giddings would have delivered them to me with the post.”
“Is it possible that someone forgot to record a reply?” Fiona fished shamelessly. “I myself only wrote down a half-dozen names. And I recognize Lily’s and Sophie’s handwriting on another dozen or so. Who else has been tasked with adding guests to the list?”
The countess frowned slightly. “Oh, well, I pressed various people into service. I would have seen to it myself, but my eyesight isn’t what it used to be. I prevailed upon whoever was nearby when I received a reply.”
Fiona arched a brow. “Even the gentlemen?” She pretended to be impressed; in truth, she was still struggling to come to terms with what she’d seen. The scoundrel who was threatening Lily and blackmailing Fiona could very well have been hiding in plain sight all week long.
“Oh yes—the gentlemen, too. Gray wrote a few names for me.”
“Gray? That is, the earl?” Fiona gulped. She refused to believe it could be him.
“Indeed,” the countess said proudly. “And, at various times, the other young men. Lord Pentham, Lord Carter…” She tilted her head, thoughtful. “Even Mr. Kirby.”
Fiona’s mouth turned dry as cotton. “You don’t say.”
“As I recall, they were all eager to help—excellent sports.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Fiona waved the guest list in the air. “I’ll leave this on the escritoire, where it will be ready in case any last-minute additions are required. I’m off to the ballroom, but Mama, would you please send for me when Papa arrives?”
“If you insist. I, for one, think your time would be better spent resting and preparing yourself for the ball.”
“Please, Mama.”
She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Very well.”
As Fiona left the drawing room, she was already making plans to return—with the blackmail note. She needed to see it and the guest list side by side in order to be certain that the handwriting was the same, but the sick feeling in her belly told her what she didn’t want to accept—that the blackmailer was someone she knew and trusted.
At least there was a silver lining to the discovery. She’d woken that morning thinking that the blackmailer could be anyone in London.
But if the writing matched, she was much closer to identifying the villain. In fact, the number of suspects would be whittled down to three: Lord Pentham, Lord Carter, and—though she hated to even entertain the thought—the person Gray considered a brother. Kirby.
* * *
Gray walked from the stables toward the house with an uncharacteristic spring in his step. If someone had told him one week ago that he’d not only be hosting a ball at the Fortress but that he’d also actually be looking forward to it, Gray would have informed that person that they were completely and unequivocally mad.
But because of Fiona, everything had changed. He’d changed.
Instead of grumbling about the expense of the ball and fixating on all of the house’s imperfections and dreading the prospect of making polite conversation with people he scarcely knew, he was dreaming about dancing with Fiona.
And imagining her standing by his side, smiling up at him as he announced their engagement to all the guests.
He was also plotting ways to steal a few moments with her at some point during the evening. Maybe after the guests left and before the servants awoke.
Fortunately, one way or another, they’d be married very soon. Perhaps her father would procure a special license; maybe they’d elope to Gretna Green. Gray didn’t much care how or where they were married—only that Fiona would soon be his.
He entered the house and was heading for his bedchamber to change when he spotted her ahead of him on the staircase, making his heart beat double-time. She held her sketchbook under one arm and wore a soft blue gown that brought out the fiery hue of her hair. “Fiona,” he called, bounding up the stairs two at a time, like an eager puppy.
She turned and waited for him on the landing. “Gray.”
He gently tapped the pencil tucked behind her ear. “You’ve been drawing this morning, I see. Anything special?”
She tightened her grip on her sketchbook. “Yes, actually. But I’m not quite ready to share it. Soon.”
Ignoring the twinge in his chest, he shot her an understanding smile. “I was out riding this morning, but I came in to wash up and make myself look respectable before your father arrives.”
“That’s very sweet.”
He sidled closer and grazed a hand over her hip. “My current thou
ghts are not sweet. They could best be described as wicked.”
She laid a palm on his chest and smiled shyly. “I confess I’m rather fond of the combination—sweet and wicked.”
“Then it is a good thing you can supply the sweetness. I can provide the wickedness. In spades.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone before circling a hand around her wrist, pulling her close, and brushing his lips over hers.
He loved the way her eyes instantly took on a sleepy, dreamy look and all the tension seemed to drain out of her body.
But something was different about her today. Faint lines showed on her forehead, and she seemed vaguely distracted. “Are you anxious about my meeting with your father?” he asked. “I promise you I shall be on my best behavior.”
She traced a fingertip along his jaw. “I’m not worried about that. My father is an excellent judge of character. I’ve no doubt he’ll like you.”
“Is something else worrying you?” he asked. “I know the threat of blackmail must weigh heavy, but now you needn’t face it alone. As soon as we have a moment in private, I’ll examine the letters for clues and devise a plan—a counterpunch that will rid you of the bully once and for all. I’ll protect you and your family. I swear.”
“Thank you.” The lines on her forehead softened. “I just want to put the whole thing behind me. To forget it ever happened.”
Gray wrapped her in his arms. “I know.” But he didn’t say what he was truly thinking—that unless and until they confronted the blackmailer, they’d never be completely free of the threat. “I hate that some greedy, opportunistic bastard is trying to take advantage of you … and yet, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be with you right now.”
She wound a hand behind his neck and leaned into him, arching a brow when his erection pressed against her belly. “Then I suppose I should thank him.”