The endlessly debated question was, What to do? Those who envied Lady Katherine her long reign at the pinnacle of society counseled the grand cut. The mothers and supporters of debutantes eclipsed by Blusette’s success earnestly agreed.
But there was the Duke of Dewbury to consider. No one dared offend the Duke of Dewbury, therefore his betrothal to Miss Morgan’s cousin was widely lamented, as it severely complicated the etiquette of the situation. As Miss Morgan would soon become part of His Grace’s extended family, naturally His Grace would feel it necessary to offer her his protection. An invitation which excluded Miss Morgan must therefore exclude His Grace and Lady Cecile. This, of course, would rightly be construed as an offense by His Grace, and thus could not be countenanced. But to include the Duke of Dewbury and Lady Cecile meant including Miss Morgan and Lady Katherine. Hostesses worried over the matter and conceived massive headaches. Drawing rooms hummed with endless discourse regarding how best to proceed.
During the week following The Incident, as it came to be known, the ladies of Grosvenor Square, escorted by an amused Duke of Dewbury, attended the King’s Theater, drove daily through Hyde Park, strolled through Pall Mall during the winter hours, shopped conspicuously, and presented a stoic and united front. No one guessed the agony of uncertainty which cast a daily pall over Lady Katherine’s chamber.
Katherine punched her pillow, sighed and stared into her cup of morning chocolate. “Lady Batten swears support. She has promised to host an assembly soon. And we will be invited.”
“But she’s delaying,” Aunt Tremble noted gloomily. “No doubt she’s placing a few discreet inquiries, attempting to discover who will or won’t accept an invitation if we are to be present.”
“Our fate has not yet been decided,” Cecile said, stating the obvious.
The ladies lapsed into glum silence as Blu lifted her gaze to the snow pelting the windowpanes. After an initial burst of astonishment and enthusiasm when she had first seen snow and felt it on her cheeks, she had decided she loathed it. Today she longed for the hot sun of the Bermudas, where it never snowed, never froze one’s bones, and no one cared about invitations.
“Why don’t we host a party ourselves and put an end to the suspense?” she suggested irritably. They looked up as she shrugged and spread her hands. “Whoever accepts our invitation cannot then cut us later. We’ll learn how bad our situation is by the number of declines.”
“And we’ll have done with it. Oh Blu,” Cecile enthused, leaning to embrace her. “What a perfect solution. Don’t you agree, Mama?”
Lady Katherine tapped a finger to her cheek. “It’s brazen, it’s simply not done, but... as Blusette suggests, we’d put an end to the suspense. Tremble? Do give us the benefit of your opinion.”
“The suggestion is excellent.” A thoughtful expression pleated the wrinkles on Aunt Tremble’s face. “But I would add a refinement.” She paused dramatically. “We invite Lady Peter and Lord Humphershire.”
“Oh no, Aunt Tremble,” Cecile gasped. “How can you suggest such a thing?”
“Of course.” Blu laughed and clapped her hands. “Don’t you see, Cecile? Aunt Tremble suggests we turn the tables on our biggest detractors. What a sly blowsy you are, Aunt.”
“Well,” Aunt Tremble said modestly, lowering her eyelids. “One has a taste for politics, or one doesn’t. I’ve enjoyed a bit of success in my time.”
Lady Katherine nodded, thinking it through. “Yes, I see. Our invitation will be interpreted as an apology. If Lady Peter and Lord Humphershire accept—their presence will be construed as meaning all is forgiven. If they refuse...”
‘‘Their refusal will be viewed as exceptionally bad form,” Aunt Tremble finished. She gazed at them with a bright face. “Opinion will swing against them.”
“Excellent!” Cecile said, her eyes lighting. “We guarantee a successful event, as everyone will attend to see if Lady Peter and Lord Humphershire will appear! How clever you are, Aunt. You’ve rescued us.”
The solution was not as immediate or as satisfying as a duel would have been, but Blu saw instantly that Aunt Tremble’s refinement would put quit to the scandal. At least the focus would shift. For she could predict the outcome. Lady Peter would instantly recognize the box into which she had been placed, and she would attend Lady Katherine’s party as her only socially acceptable recourse. Given Lord Humphershire’s character, he would refuse the invitation. His lack of form and manners would shift the scandal full upon his shoulders—a probability which pleased Blu enormously.
She had thought long on Lord Humphershire’s rude behavior, and could not account for it. While she knew she was this season’s novelty, still no one had questioned her background or status, nor had anyone hinted Blu did not belong. Except Lord Humphershire. In his rude gaze, she had imagined recognition and condemnation. And this made her uneasy, as she knew of Humphershire’s crusade to sweep the oceans clean of men like her father and Thomas.
Her first thought was to ask Thomas what he knew of Lord Humphershire. Her second thought was: no. In her heart she knew she did not dare speak privately to Thomas for fear her longing would rise in her eyes for him to recognize.
Turning her gaze to the snowy window, she listened absently as the party plans unfolded. But she thought of Thomas. She remembered the heat of his strong hand on her back as they danced, the touch of his fingers scalding hers, the look of absorption darkening his wonderful eyes.
“Oh Cecile,” she murmured, sighing. “If it were anyone but you.”
“What, Blusette?” Cecile asked, placing her hand on Blu’s arm. “I didn’t hear.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I spoke aloud.” She gazed into Cecile’s lovely eyes and felt her stomach cramp. “When is the wedding?” she blurted out.
“In the spring. A week after my birthday.” Cecile laughed. “I do love you, Blusette. One never knows where your mind will hop to next.”
“What do the doctors say? I know you were bled last week... is there any news?”
Cecile glanced at Lady Katherine, who was bent over her lap desk busily preparing a guest list. “There is no news, Blusette,” Cecile said quietly. “Nothing has altered.”
For the first time in Blu’s life, she wanted something she could not have. The pain of it consumed her.
17
Lord and Lady Batten were first to arrive. They moved along the receiving line murmuring a word to each of the Grosvenor Square ladies. “I don’t believe the gossip,” Lord Batten growled in Blu’s ear when he reached the end of the receiving line. “But if it should be true, I’m confident Humphershire, that ass, gave good cause.”
“It is true. He gave cause and I thrashed him,” Blu murmured for his ears alone. She had conceived an affection for Lord Batten and his gruff manner. There was something about his aging good looks and brusque manner that reminded her of Beau Billy Morgan. “Mark me, my lord, Humphershire is not to be trusted. He’s a nasty bastard, that one.”
Lord Batten laughed and pressed her fingertips to his lips. “That he is, Miss Morgan. You are not the first to remark it, and I doubt you will be the last.”
Thomas arrived next. “The square is jammed with carriages,” he assured Lady Katherine, who visibly relaxed at the news. Her, golden head lifted and the line eased between her eyes.
Thomas smiled and Blu’s heart turned over at the sight. “No one would miss this event,” he said, winking at Cecile, who smiled up at him before he moved to kiss Aunt Tremble’s bejeweled hand.
When he stepped in front of Blu and took her fingers in his palm, she gazed up at him helplessly, unable to speak. He was dazzling tonight, wearing winter velvet and molded doeskin breeches. Each time she encountered him, it was as if she had forgotten how tall he was, how broad his shoulders and how narrow his waist and hips. Each time she was conquered anew by his sensual naked mouth and intent gray eyes. Gazing at him now, she experienced a physical craving to touch the snowflakes melting in his dark hair, to brus
h the dampness from his cloak. The need to touch and be touched overwhelmed her.
When he raised her fingertips to his lips and she felt the soft tickle of his mustache brush her hand, she sucked in an involuntary breath and swayed on her feet. Her hand convulsed into a fist and she thanked God for it lest she surrender to the temptation to caress his cheek. When he lowered her hand, he looked into her eyes and it seemed to Blu that he held her fingers a fraction too long, but she couldn’t be certain as time lost all meaning in his presence.
Then he was stepping to one side, handing his cloak and hat to Mr. Apple, and a line of people jammed the doorway, moving along the receiving line. Aware that Thomas watched, Blu raised her head high and curtsied and offered her hand and murmured polite greetings. She went through the paces, greeting guests whom she knew had sullied her name.
And, like Lady Katherine, Aunt Tremble, and Cecile, as she began to grasp that absolutely everyone had accepted their invitation and now flowed through the foyer toward the ballroom and card rooms, as she began to understand they were not ruined, but instead a success, Blu’s smile curved in confidence and her voice lightened to a more natural tone.
As she had predicted, Lady Peter arrived, musty and hipped at being outmaneuvered, but present and grudgingly willing to be mollified. Lord Humphershire stayed away. As also had been predicted, the news of Lord Humphershire’s absence swept the rooms as the music began, and public condemnation settled firmly in his direction.
“We’re saved,” Aunt Tremble chirped happily when everyone had arrived. Peeping out the front door, she beamed at the crush of carriages blocking the square. “Monsieur, see that Mr. Birns serves hot chocolate and pasties to the grooms and coachmen before midnight. It’s cold and wet tonight. I wouldn’t want Lady Katherine to hear of it, but a dollop of sky blue in the coachmen’s chocolate might be welcomed.”
Monsieur smiled and bowed. “Her Ladyship already offered the suggestion, Madame.”
“She did?” Aunt Tremble’s mouseskin eyebrows soared and she turned toward the ballroom door. “Well, well. Is it my imagination, Monsieur, or is Katherine becoming human? Gin for the coachmen, imagine her thinking of it... and I do believe I hear her laughing.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Monsieur said, waving a finger before her nose. His bright eyes sparkled behind his goggles.
“Such changes in this house...” Aunt Tremble poked at her plumpers, adjusting them in front of her gums. “Monsieur—do you dance?”
Shock caused his wig to tremble, but it no longer showered powder around his shoulders as it once had. “Madame! Is this an invitation?”
“Yes,” Aunt Tremble decided. “Yes, I suppose it is. Well, Monsieur?”
“It would raise a scandal, Madame. Lady Katherine would never approve!”
“Flam.”
“Flam, Madame?” Monsieur’s eyes widened.
“That is one of Blusette’s expressions,” Aunt Tremble confided, as if he did not know. She straightened her tiny shoulders and narrowed twinkling old eyes on the ballroom door. “I want a scandal of my own, Monsieur. I demand it.” Taking his arm, she dragged him forward. “If I come to my senses and faint at dancing with a servant, do hold me erect and see the game through. That is an order, Monsieur. Do you hear?”
Staring at her, he nodded and swallowed. “Are you certain, my lady?”
She looked at him and pressed his arm. “If you weren’t a Frenchman, Monsieur, and if I were sixty again and in my prime, I’d give this town a real scandal!” To his delight, she fluttered her blackened lashes and wiggled one of the mouseskin eyebrows in what once must have been a devastating flirtation.
“Madame,” he said gallantly, bowing before her. “To me, you don’t appear a day over fifty-five.”
“Flam.” But she was smiling broadly as she led him onto the floor. “Ah Monsieur,” she said, satisfied. “Did you hear that gasp? Do you observe the Duchess’s stare? How lovely.”
~ ~ ~
Blu danced every dance, danced until her slippers ached around her feet and her mouth had stiffened from smiling. She held her head high and her expression offered no apology. As she knew every eye watched, she concentrated on her manners and took pains to perform exemplarily. No one would leave tonight carrying a hook upon which to hang a word of criticism.
That the ball was successful beyond their grandest hope could not be doubted. If the evidence before her eyes should fail to convince, Blu had only to glance at Cecile or Lady Katherine. They were dazzling in their relief and triumph. Not even Aunt Tremble’s amazing dance with Monsieur could dim the evening’s luster. For their sakes, Blu was pleased.
For her own sake... well, that was another matter. There was only one person whose good will signified. Lifting her head, she smiled into Sir Loren’s soft eyes, but it was Thomas’s gaze she played to, Thomas whom she hoped to please with her graceful dance steps. Thomas whom she smiled for, whom she lived and breathed for. She could not account for how or when this had happened. She only knew it was true.
“Forgive me,” she murmured when her steps faltered and she stumbled.
“My error,” Sir Loren Battersea apologized.
It was Thomas she yearned for.
When the dance ended, she fanned the perspiration at her temples, then slipped from the ballroom before she could be claimed for the next set, ducking through the double doors out onto the dark terrace.
The snow had stopped. Pale moonlight broke through the clouds and sparkled across the thin layer of frost and snow coating the skeletal garden. Immediately a rush of cold night air flowed over Blu’s hot face and breast and she shivered, welcoming the cold and loathing it at the same time. Would her Bermuda blood ever thicken against the English chill?
“Blu.”
At the sound of his voice, she whirled toward a shadow leaning against the stone terrace wall. Now she saw the fiery tip of his cigar, glowing against the dark night. The moonlight was faint but bright enough to confirm it was Thomas.
Common sense urged her to turn and flee. For weeks she had avoided being alone with him, and for good reason. Go, she commanded herself. Return to the ballroom at once.
But her feet would not obey. As if drawn by a magnet more compelling than intellect, she moved toward him, her expression an agony of indecision. She saw him stand away from the wall, saw a fiery arch as he tossed his cigar into the garden before his arms dropped to his sides.
Of a sudden Blu comprehended she had not stepped out to the terrace by fortuitous accident. The heat and the crush of the dancers were merely excuses she had created for herself. In truth, she had seen Thomas leave the ballroom and she had followed.
“Oh Thomas,” she whispered, halting before him. In those two words lay a vast dimension of despair. Lifting her head, she gazed helplessly into his eyes, her face a portrait of frustrated longing. “Oh, Thomas.”
Although he did not touch her, his gaze caressed her cheeks, her mouth. “I cannot bear to watch you in another man’s arms,” he said finally, speaking in a low, raw voice.
There was a time when she might have used that admission to mock him. But that time lay far behind them, and they both knew it.
Blu closed her eyes. “I live only for the moment when the next dance is yours.”
“I think of you every moment of every day.”
“You are my last thought at night and my first thought each morning.” Once she gave voice to her confession, the words came in a torrent. She could not have stopped them if she tried, and she was powerless to try.
He covered his face with his hand. “Sometimes I think if I cannot have you, I shall go mad.”
“Oh God, Thomas.” Placing her trembling hands on his shoulders, she let her head fall forward onto his chest. “What are we going to do?”
Touching him was like stroking lightning. A jolt of fire shot through her body and drew her nerves taut, ignited her skin and her privates. Her mouth dried and her breath quickened. And when his lips touched her hair and
she heard his low groan, when his arms closed around her, no force on earth could have made her step away from him. This was where she belonged, in his arms. This was her world, not Morgan’s Mound, not Grosvenor Square, but here, in the small space within the circle of his heat.
When he lifted her chin, she gazed deeply into his eyes, then offered her lips in helpless surrender. His rough, urgent kiss inflamed her and her hands rose to fly over his face, his hair, his shoulders, pulling him to her, seeking to merge into his mystery.
The music and the murmur of the dancers faded from her mind as his hands burned a circle about her slim waist. The, cold night vanished. There was nothing, nothing but Thomas and the moment. His kiss, their passion. Nothing else existed or could matter.
When his mouth released her, she wrapped her arms about his neck and clung to him.
Then the world intruded.
Blu heard a strangled sound and she whirled to face the doors to the ballroom. There she saw Lady Katherine outlined by the blaze of light falling onto the terrace stones.
“How could you!” Shock made Lady Katherine tremble. She stumbled backward, her stunned eyes fixed on Blusette. “I will speak to you at once. In my closet.” Her skirt swirled in a billow of rose-colored silk, then she was gone.
“Christ!” Thomas swore, staring after her. “Wait here, Blusette.”
“No, Thomas.” She bit her lip and smoothed her skirts, still shaken by his kisses. But now she felt the cold night chill. “I’ll speak to her alone.”
“I’m to blame for this.”
Lady Reluctant Page 30