“It looks private enough to me.” He took her in his arms. “Do you know how desperate I’ve been to steal a moment alone with you?”
“George, someone might see.”
“Just one kiss.” He crushed her against the solid wall of his chest.
Roxana pushed back nervously, darting a glance at the house. “But my mother may be watching from a window…”
“By God, but you’re mouthwatering. How I ever endured such a long separation, I’ll never know.” George bent his head closer, until his lips were barely an inch from hers and his warm breath tickled her face. “Darling. Don’t leave me hanging, I beg you.”
Roxana gulped. She wished she could enjoy their embraces the way George did. She wanted to feel like the heroine in a gothic novel when he kissed her, her heart fluttering in wild and extravagant rapture and all that sort of thing. Instead, she just felt cornered. She could still recall the first time he’d tried to slip his tongue in her mouth, back before he’d left for Spain. She had not even been aware such things were done, and in her alarm, she’d slapped his face. He’d immediately begged her pardon—but that had been five long years ago.
And he sounded so flatteringly ardent. Though she knew she was likely to regret it—it was only a matter of time until her mother looked out to check on them—she held still and let him kiss her. They were engaged, after all. Why should she refuse like some shrinking schoolgirl?
But the kiss went on, and he didn’t let go. Instead, he opened his mouth and slid his tongue against hers. The next thing she knew, his hand was on her breast.
Involuntarily, Roxana shoved him away. “Don’t!”
She must have sounded as panicked as she felt, for a startled scowl flashed across his face.
“I mean—not now, George. What if someone were to see us?” If her mother had dinned one principle into her head since infancy, it was propriety. She might be twenty-three and soon to be married, but Lady Langley never allowed her to roam about the countryside unaccompanied, and she chaperoned George’s visits like a hawk. Besides, hadn’t Roxana heard enough gossip about girls who’d been seduced and then abandoned to know where such liberties could lead?
George looked as if she were one of his subalterns and he was about to give her a blistering dressing down, but after a weighty pause, he simply heaved a sigh. “Dash it, I don’t know how much longer I can wait. If only you weren’t so cursed tempting.”
And that was how kissing went with George—he always wanted more, and Roxana always wanted less. As much as she worshipped him, often the only real pleasure she found in his embraces came when some excuse arose to cut them short.
It was the one fly in the ointment of an otherwise perfect love, so much so that she’d begun to wonder if something might be wrong with her and she might have an unnaturally cold nature—though why she should have an unnaturally cold nature she could not work out, since she came from a warm, affectionate family. She had no problem hugging her mother, throwing her arms about Tom or showering kisses and tickles on little Harry.
Unfortunately, real ardor was different. It troubled her, for while she wasn’t entirely sure about every particular of what went on between a husband and wife, she knew marriage involved more than mere kisses. Only four months remained until her wedding. Even now, simply imagining being alone with George—alone in that way—made her mouth go dry.
She hoped she simply needed time to adjust after more than five years of keeping herself on the shelf, and her missish fears would fade once she was wed. But what if they didn’t?
Anxious, she peered at her reflection. Better to focus on simpler matters. “Are you sure this gown suits me?” The pale blue georgette clung a good deal more than she was used to, though at least the white embroidery lent it a much-needed air of modesty.
“It’s lovely.”
“You’re sure it doesn’t make me look too thin?”
For years, Roxana’s mother had said the same thing whenever she caught her staring into the mirror, wishing her bosom were in a greater hurry to fill out or the pale flaxen color of her hair would magically brighten into gold—Pretty is as pretty does, Roxana. Which was true, of course, and all very well, but not particularly heartening when it came to dressing for a party. All her life, Roxana had been skinny, with arms and legs that seemed too long for the rest of her and hair that insisted on reverting to a wayward state no matter what pains she took with it. When they were children, her brother Tom had nicknamed her Dust Mop, an epithet that still haunted her every time she looked in a mirror.
Fanny sighed. “You look beautiful, Roxana. In fact, I wonder why I even bothered to come tonight. None of the gentlemen will be able to spare me a single glance.”
“Oh, Fanny!” Roxana swooped to her friend’s side and wrapped her in a hug. “What utter nonsense. Any wallflower moments you may have experienced in your life have been entirely due to shyness, and not for any other reason. Don’t you dare think otherwise.”
Fanny’s brown ringlets bobbed as she looked down at her slippers. “I do realize I need to put myself forward more. I mean to, but it’s so hard to know what to say. I wish I could simply relax and enjoy parties the way you do, but I’ve never had the knack.”
Roxana squeezed her hand, though it baffled her how anyone could fail to enjoy parties. She adored them—setting out, dressed in her best and brimming with anticipation, arriving to the glow of torches and the clamor of conversation. Mingling, laughing, rubbing elbows with her friends and neighbors. And this wasn’t just a card party or a rout, but a real ball, which meant music and dancing and all the gaiety that went with them.
“I’m so grateful you’re here,” Roxana said. “You know how Mama feels about George, and I could use the moral support.” Her mother, in fact, had been sighing like a bellows all day. Lady Langley still had not reconciled herself to Roxana’s engagement, though she was the official hostess of the ball.
Fanny raised beseeching brown eyes. “Will you promise me one thing?”
“Anything.”
“When you end up with a surfeit of dancing partners—and don’t protest, Roxana, for you know you shall—promise me you’ll direct a few of them my way.”
“You’re talking nonsense, but even so, I promise. If there’s anyone to direct, that is. And if you’re not already besieged by an excess of partners yourself.”
Stealing one last look in the mirror, they gathered up their fans and headed downstairs.
* * *
Alex arrived tardily enough to avoid the receiving line, since he had no wish to shake George Wyatt’s hand and offer his congratulations—not his proudest moment, but at least he’d steeled himself to attend. His late arrival meant he landed in a full-fledged crush. Not only had the neighborhood turned out in force, but so had a surprising number of Wyatt’s brother officers.
He had to say one thing for the cavalry—they put on a good show. The Riddlefield ballroom was a sea of scarlet coats, shining sabers and gold braid. Immediately he felt out of place in his Bond Street evening clothes, a crow in a muster of peacocks. Bowing to the chaperones sitting in the corner, he took up his usual post nearby—standing with his back against the wall, watching the party. Like a toothache sufferer unable to keep from worrying a bad tooth, he scanned the crowd, hoping to see Miss Langley.
A few feet away, old Mrs. Truitt was commenting on the proceedings. Though Alex did not mean to eavesdrop, Mrs. Truitt was quite deaf, and always spoke at the top of her lungs.
“Who is that GIRL by the PUNCHBOWL?” she boomed to her companion, Miss Hill.
Miss Hill’s pale eyes flitted over the gathering. “The one in the daring gown?”
“Is that a GOWN? I thought it was her SHIFT.” Mrs. Truitt cackled at her own remark. “Who is she?”
“Miss Cole, I believe.”
“They are raising chits deuced BOLD these days.” She gave her companion a dig in the ribs. “Too bad the young bucks don’t go about wearing only half their clot
hes that way, eh?”
Coming here was a mistake. The festive strains of the orchestra swirled around him, mingling with the hubbub of conversation. Everyone else seemed in high spirits, while he could find little cause for celebration. Roxana Langley was moving on with her life.
A red-coated officer strolled up beside him. “Quite a crush. Friend of the bride-to-be or the groom-to-be?”
Alex could hardly answer I’ve been eating my heart out with love for Miss Langley since she first made her come-out, so he simply shrugged. “Neighbor of both.”
“I served with Wyatt on the Peninsula.”
“I gathered as much from your uniform.” It was rather hard to miss.
And then he spotted her—slender, vivacious, blonde as an angel, wearing a gown that matched the lake-blue of her eyes. Though he’d been about to introduce himself to the officer, Alex broke off as Miss Langley headed toward them. For a moment, he simply stood and stared.
She bobbed a playful curtsey as she joined them. “Lieutenant…Russell, isn’t it? How good to see you again.” She looked at Alex. “And Ayersley. I missed your arrival.”
The lieutenant swept her an extravagant bow. “By Jove, ma’am, I’m in alt. To attend such a crush, and have the most ravishing beauty present remember my name!”
This bit of gallantry won him her most brilliant smile, until she noticed Alex was staring. She glanced down at herself. “What is it? Did I spill something on my gown?”
He jerked his eyes away. “No. I was only…that is, you look very well tonight, Miss Langley.” He wanted to kick himself. The lieutenant had called her a ravishing beauty, and the best he could manage was a witless stare and You look very well tonight?
She shot a puzzled glance at him, but the lieutenant had no trouble chatting with her and soon proved an able distraction. He wished her happy, she thanked him, and the two of them fell to discussing the recent troop review in London. Alex stood by like a spectator at a tennis match—at least, until a comrade called the lieutenant away.
Left alone with Miss Langley, Alex gazed out over the dance floor, racking his brain for something to say to her. Before he could come up with a gloriously witty bon mot certain to win her undying devotion, she asked, “How soon are we to get that setter pup?”
He seized the conversational lifeline. “As soon as it’s weaned. About a month yet, I expect.”
“Pray don’t mention it to my little brother, then, if you should see him. Harry has no patience and will drive us all to distraction if he gets wind of the plan.”
“Is this to be his first dog?”
“For all intents and purposes, yes. He’s too young to remember Shadow.”
“Ah, Shadow!” The name brought back a flood of memories. “Tom and I used to take Shadow with us on some of our earliest shooting expeditions. Tom was most fond of that dog.”
“We all were. All except Mama, that is. And that was only on account of his dreadful habit of—”
“Yes?” Alex prompted when she stopped. “You were saying?”
She blushed. “It’s nothing.”
He glanced across at her, wondering what he’d done wrong now.
“Oh, dear. I don’t mean to put on mysterious airs, Ayersley, truly. It’s only that Shadow’s habit was not the sort of thing a lady ought to mention.”
“I see.”
“Though I suppose there’s little sense in being coy about it now. You’re probably imagining something even more unseemly than the truth. I’m afraid Shadow had a habit of—well, behaving in a rather abandoned fashion against visitors’ legs.”
“I assure you I wasn’t imagining anything more unseemly than that.”
She laughed—a delicious, musical sound. “It is dreadful, isn’t it? Once he even did it to the vicar. Tom had to drag him outside by the collar, while Mama looked as if she were about to faint. Thankfully Mr. Spotterswood had the grace to pretend he hadn’t noticed.”
“That must have stretched Mr. Spotterswood’s dramatic abilities considerably,” Alex said, actually relaxing enough to smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure to give Harry a bitch pup. Females are never so indecorous.” They watched the crowd for a few seconds more while he worked up his nerve. He glanced across at her. “Perhaps…er…”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you might honor me with a set?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ayersley, but all my dances are already promised.”
“Ah.” He should have known better. She hadn’t even hesitated before turning him down. “That’s—that’s quite all right.”
“Why not ask Fanny Sherbourne?”
He gave a tight nod. “Perhaps I shall.”
If there was anything worse than being rejected, it was having to put a nonchalant face on rejection. He had stuck his neck out, and now there seemed no dignified way to pull it back in.
She asked how his mother was faring, and he answered, “Better, thank you.” She remarked on the spell of good weather they’d been having and inquired whether he’d had the chance to get out and enjoy it, and he could only shake his head. She had just complimented the orchestra and asked whether he agreed when, to his mingled relief and regret, her next partner arrived to claim his set.
She walked away on the officer’s arm, chatting easily with him, smiling again. Alex gazed after her. Maybe it was better she was officially engaged, so they could both move on with their lives. A man could only go on bashing his head against a wall for so long.
* * *
“Happy, darling?” George murmured as he waltzed with her.
Roxana raised her eyes to his. She wasn’t sure whether it was his thick golden hair or the air of command he projected in his scarlet regimentals, but if he were any more handsome, she would have melted into a puddle at his feet. “Positively giddy. I knew once you came back, life would never be dull again.”
He grinned, flashing white teeth in a face tanned by the Peninsular sun. “As if the life of the most beautiful girl in Derbyshire could be anything but a dizzying whirl of admirers. I’ve seen the men falling over themselves tonight in their eagerness to dance with you, my friends from the Fifth leading the way. You look good enough to eat.”
George was not far off in his description of his brother officers. All evening, debonair cavalry officers had been lining up to partner her, each one more flattering than the last. She no longer felt like an unremarkable country nobody, she felt like a princess—no, even better than a princess. She doubted princesses were ever called “good enough to eat.” How fortunate could one girl be?
Turning her about the dance floor, George let out a chuckle. “Look at that dull dog Ayersley over there with the other wallflowers. Have you ever seen such a quiz?”
“I tried to talk to him earlier. I suspect he was wishing me at Jericho the whole time.” It had been the only awkward interlude of the evening. Why had she even bothered to try, when Ayersley was as unsociable as ever, and just as unreceptive to her efforts to be friendly? It was obvious he’d only asked her to dance because she’d put him on the spot, standing alone with him beside the dance floor. He’d waited until all her sets were spoken for, and he’d asked in the most halfhearted manner possible. He’d even avoided paying his respects in the receiving line. It was a shame, really, for Ayersley looked quite handsome in his evening clothes, his dark coloring and patrician features showing to advantage.
“Why does a killjoy like that even come to a party in the first place?” George asked. “No, wait. I can answer that. Like every other man here, he came to look at you.”
George was always saying such things, paying her absurd, wildly flattering compliments. “As much as I’d like to imagine all gentlemen share your good taste, I’m afraid Ayersley is in love with another girl. He told Mama he’s found a lady in London he means to court.”
George snorted. “Did he? I can just imagine what kind of horse-faced bluestocking would catch his fancy. And what could he possibly have to say to the
girl? ‘Excuse me, m-miss, but would you care to hear me l-lecture fallen women on the w-wages of sin?’”
“He isn’t that bad, George. And I imagine the girl is quite pretty, though it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s every bit as starchy as he is. They probably sit rows apart at musical soirees and poetry readings, sneaking glances at one another and blushing furiously.”
George laughed, his arms tightening about her. “Gad, I’m glad to be back here with you.”
She sighed, relishing the moment, storing up the memory to be savored later.
For the next few hours, Roxana danced with partner after partner. Everyone wished her happy. George’s friends flirted and teased, and the local gentlemen offered their own good-natured raillery. How could any girl not enjoy such an evening? And the best part was, she and George were now officially betrothed.
She would have liked to spend more time with him, of course, but he was busy talking and laughing with his friends from the Fifth—laughing so loudly that in several instances heads turned to investigate. When he wasn’t with his friends, he was usually at the center of a knot of young ladies, regaling them with his war stories. Roxana was content just to drink in the sight of him—and of course to laugh and dance with the other gentlemen.
By the time the orchestra took its next break, she was parched. Since George was deep in conversation and she was too thirsty to wait for her next partner, she set off to fetch her own drink. Two officers stood in the way with their backs to her, blocking the path to the punch bowl. They must have been late arrivals, for she didn’t recognize them from the receiving line. One was a captain with a ruddy complexion, the other a hawk-nosed cornet. She was just about to ask them if she might please squeeze past when a scrap of their conversation brought her up short.
“And you’re sure she wasn’t the fiancée?”
“No, couldn’t have been. The fiancée is supposed to be a blonde. ‘Face like a Grecian statue,’ Wyatt says.”
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