Candlelight Wish

by Janice Bennett

  And what about her heart?

  Too many questions remained unanswered and right now exhaustion kept her from thinking clearly. Tomorrow, she promised herself. She would ride early, encounter him in the cold light of early morning reality and see if the magic still lingered. If it did…

  She cast a suspicious glance at her fairy godmother but Xanthe appeared to have fallen asleep.

  Chapter Nine

  In the end Phoebe did not ride in the Park the next morning. Her muddled feelings confused her and she didn’t want to see Miles with her mind in this uncharacteristic chaos. She longed for exercise, to focus herself on controlling a difficult mount, anything that might help restore order to her disordered thoughts. She needed to know what had prompted the tenderness of his touch, of his voice, what lay in his heart.

  But mostly she needed to know what lay in her own.

  She paid a round of morning visits with Xanthe but found no diversion in talk of the ball that would be held that evening at Evanridge House. Miles would be there. She could not possibly avoid him. Of course she probably need have no fear. She could count on him to behave as the gentleman he was and give not the least sign of the emotional upheaval that had occurred.

  He might not even be aware of it. It might all have occurred in her own imagination.

  She still hadn’t come to any certain answer to that question by the time their carriage pulled up in Cavendish Square that night. As she entered the ballroom already filled with the elite of the ton, she wondered for a moment if Xanthe had been at work, enhancing the decor. But her fairy godmother claimed complete innocence, leaving Phoebe to wonder at the dazzling gleam of the chandeliers, the flickering of myriad candles, the silks, satins, laces and jewels that everywhere met the eye. Her own gown, an amber silk underdress with a half robe of blonde lace, had arrived only that morning from Madame Bernadette and Phoebe secretly believed that even Xanthe could not have created anything more beautiful.

  Would Miles like it? Suddenly she had to know. Her anxious gaze searched the crowded room until she spotted him, tall and elegant, less than twenty feet away. She could just glimpse the unmistakable dark head with the thickly gleaming waves of hair. If she went to him, would his eyes light with that warm smile that had caused her such confusion last night? Would he ask her to dance, perhaps a waltz so he could take her once more in his arms?

  For the past several weeks, she reminded herself, she had hated him, blamed him for all her troubles. And now? She couldn’t answer that, not yet. Nor did she dare approach him in so crowded a place where her uncertainty might betray her to so many gossip-minded observers.

  She dragged her gaze away from him and went in search of Xanthe who had continued her progress along the wall, skirting the chairs placed for the chaperones. She found her near the refreshment table, regarding with a gleam of mischief in her violet eyes a lady of regal bearing and haughty countenance. Xanthe, it seemed, had been enjoying herself, for the ostrich feathers that made up the lady’s head now drooped below her shoulders. Even as Phoebe watched, the plumes changed to vivid colors and began to sway in time to her humming.

  Xanthe, her expression not quite prim, turned to Phoebe. “A glass of champagne punch, my love? I believe you will enjoy it.” She gestured toward the table on which stood a giant bowl.

  Phoebe peered into it, her suspicions aroused—and with cause. Xanthe’s hum changed to a lilting tune and a tiny frigate appeared, its sails billowing in a nonexistent wind. A miniature cannon fired at a floating orange segment, which exploded in an array of sparkling lights. Phoebe cast a rapid glance about but no one, not even the footman who stood on duty behind the table, seemed to notice. With a sense of relieved appreciation she watched the ship take aim at another segment, which went the way of the first.

  Charles Dauntry claimed her for the reel that formed and she moved easily onto the floor, relaxing in his undemanding company. She had never seriously considered him a suitor, she realized, despite his frequent visits and flattering attentions. She felt no temptation to do so now either. Tonight she would not think about her wish, about her need to make the most of her opportunity to find a husband. Her determination to do that had nearly brought her to ruin. Tonight she would simply enjoy herself.

  The lively dance ended but Ashby intercepted them before they left the floor, begging the honor of leading her into the country dance that would form next. She accepted with pleasure, recognizing his company as another respite from worry. Nor was she mistaken. Each time the movements brought them together he had some ready joke or droll comment on his lips concerning his cousin Lady Wrexham’s litter of King Charles spaniel puppies and soon had her laughing. It was with regret that she heard the music end and took his arm to go in search of refreshment.

  The miniature ship no longer inhabited the punch bowl. In its place swam a sea serpent, its long slender body coiling in and out of the liquid, its scales iridescent, its eye winking at her. On one of the coils rode a miniature Xanthe, wings extended, waving gaily. Phoebe watched in fascination as the footman, oblivious to the bowl’s occupants, ladled out glass after glass of the sparkling beverage.

  Lucy, dragging Charles Dauntry with her, hurried over to join them then stopped, eyeing Ashby with an uncharacteristic hesitation. The gentlemen exchanged cheerful greetings then Ashby raised his quizzing glass and leveled it at Lucy. “Don’t you look all the crack,” he said, grinning in appreciation.

  A soft flush touched Lucy’s cheeks but she preened for him, holding out the skirts of her sea-green muslin for his further admiration. “I have received six compliments so far,” she told him.

  “Brat,” he laughed. “You will become quite conceited.”

  “Impossible.” She shook her head. “I shall always have you and Miles to ensure that I do not. One or the other of you is always ready to make some odious comment to me. How is that new colt working out?” she added.

  His smile broadened. “He’s turning into the sweetest goer,” he assured her. “If you behave I might let you ride him some day.”

  “He’s the one who will have to behave,” the girl declared. “I’m glad he’s working out since you were so keen on him. It’s a pity he’s so very plain though.”

  “Plain?” Ashby bridled. “That shows how little you know about horses! He’s a regular high bred ’un,” he declared and the two were off on one of their longstanding arguments.

  Viscount Wolverhampton claimed her for a round dance and as they took their place on the floor a feather drifted down, hovered a moment before her face then continued to the ground. A rounded feather, almost translucent, with golden tips. She looked up and saw Xanthe, still in that impossibly tiny size, perched on a chandelier. Her godmother waved again then gestured toward where a sextet of strings and woodwinds provided the music. The flautist, Phoebe noted in consternation, had taken on the appearance of a white horse.

  With difficulty Phoebe returned her attention to Wolverhampton as the dance began. In the next set Lucy and Ashby took their belated places. Their argument it seemed had ended, or at least been postponed until later. It dawned on her that she had not seen Lieutenant Gregory Harwich this night. If he were not present then Lucy would not be drawn into any unseemly behavior. Miles, she reflected, must be relieved.

  Miles. She hadn’t seen him since that glimpse when they had first arrived. He hadn’t asked her to dance. An uncomfortable emptiness seeped through her. Did he avoid her? Perhaps he regretted the intimacy they had shared the previous night.

  She looked about quickly, searching for him. Perhaps his aunt kept him by her side. But although a gentleman did occupy the chair next to Mrs. Mannering, his hair showed gray and his slight build could never be confused with Miles’ muscular bulk. She recognized him as Mr. Colney who had played the oboe at their musical soiree.

  She circled the viscount with the requisite slow stately step and there was Miles across the room, dancing with a rather plain fair lady in an insipid pale blue gown. Sh
e’d seen them together before, had heard their calm, rational conversation. Lady Sophia Langley, she recalled. This seemed the perfect dance for such an unanimated young woman. She could not imagine what Miles saw in her to please him. Or perhaps it was Lady Sophia’s very lack of independent ideas that appealed to him.

  Miles and his partner separated in the next movement and he took Hanna Brookstone’s hand for a short promenade. Phoebe returned her attention momentarily to the gentleman whose hand she had just taken then looked back to Miles. He said something to Hanna that made the girl laugh then he returned her to Charles Dauntry and the look that gentleman directed at Hanna caused Phoebe to miss a step and drew a laughing rebuke upon her from Wolverhampton.

  Hanna and Charles Dauntry? She caught another glimpse of them and saw the adoring expression on the girl’s face that looked up into his. Hanna and Charles Dauntry indeed. He must be at least eight years her senior. But of affable temperament and kindly disposition, she reminded herself. He was also a leader of fashion and Hanna had always an eye for a gentleman’s social position. Yet there were several present, younger than Dauntry, with titles and address sure to please the most exacting of ladies. Hanna had flirted with them without showing preference for any one over the others until she’d met Dauntry.

  Phoebe felt a pang of compassion for Hanna’s poor mamma. The woman had dragged her daughter to town in the hopes of snatching Rushmere for her before Phoebe could bring him up to scratch. After the dazzling prospect of a marquis, a mere honorable would seem a dreadful comedown. Yet Dauntry was by far the better man and she could only hope Mrs. Brookstone could be brought to realize it.

  The dance ended and Wolverhampton led her from the floor. He paused for a moment to exchange a greeting with a friend and Phoebe continued, looking about for anything absurdly out of place that would indicate where she might find Xanthe. As she peered through the crowd the knots of people shifted and there came Rushmere himself, walking directly toward her.

  Anger and embarrassment collided within her, leaving her with no idea what to do or say. She could not make a scene in the middle of a ball, that much she knew. Discretion, she decided, dictated retreat. She spun about on her heel and found herself staring at a familiar emerald stick pin stuck in the snowy folds of a simple but elegantly tied neckcloth.

  Oh the devil!

  She allowed her gaze to travel upward, past the stiffly starched shirt points of moderate height, past the newly scraped chin so square and stubborn, past the firm mouth with the corners crooked upward into a heart-wrenching smile, past the classical nose and into eyes that glowed more amber than green. Their light faded and his jaw tensed as his gaze focused beyond her. She glanced over her shoulder to see Rushmere frozen, staring back at Miles with an expression of mixed resentment and alarm on his face. This vanished beneath a mask of indifference. The marquis gave a short nod then strolled off at a slight tangent.

  Miles stared after him for a long moment, as if making sure the man had no intention of returning. Then he transferred his gaze to Phoebe and smiled once more. “Are you free for this dance?” He offered his arm and she took it.

  She had expected to feel nothing but embarrassment in his company yet she found she welcomed the solidity of his support. Without any trace of the awkwardness she had expected, she said, “He could not have dared approach me.”

  “It is possible he was as disconcerted to see you in his path as you were to see him,” Miles suggested. “Or perhaps he wished to apologize.”

  “I should not have listened!” she exclaimed.

  “Quite right.” Miles nodded, his amusement returning. “One should not encourage mushrooms.”

  An unsteady laugh broke from her. “You are abominable,” she informed him.

  He awarded her a sweeping bow as he positioned her in the set. “It’s heartening to have one’s efforts appreciated.”

  In the next set Lucy took her place with an all too familiar gentleman in a scarlet coat. Phoebe stiffened. He must have arrived only minutes before and just when she’d hoped for an evening without his presence. She cast an anxious glance at Miles and saw his scowl.

  This changed to a lopsided smile as he met her gaze. “You see I do nothing.” He took her hand for the opening movement of the dance. “At least I shall give her no cause to think herself a martyr.”

  She circled the lady who stood diagonally to her then returned to her position as Miles repeated the movement with the other gentleman. The reasonableness of his tone and manner surprised her. She mused on this as she took the hand of the gentleman opposite and circled with him then faced Miles, her hand raised, palm to his palm.

  The contact sent an unexpected thrill through her. She looked up, apprehensive and met his steady gaze. His eyes, she noted as they walked slowly about one another, had gone deep green, as dark as a storm-tossed sea, impenetrable. The music, the other people who crowded the room, even conscious thought faded into the background. Only he seemed real and she, anchored to him by that touch as soft as a whisper, as binding as a silken cord.

  The dance continued. They separated, came back together, separated once more, yet she would swear they remained linked together. Even when they were at a distance she felt the warmth of his touch lingering on her hand, the power of his presence wrapping about her. Awareness of him filled her until even breathing seemed extraneous.

  And he, did he feel the same? They came together once more and she looked up into his eyes to see their gleam no longer rested on her. She followed the direction of their frowning gaze and saw Lucy with Lieutenant Harwich, the girl staring at her companion with the oddest expression on her face. Phoebe looked away, feeling as if she intruded. Did Lucy too feel that nothing on earth mattered but the man with whom she danced?

  Miles glanced down at her, his expression somber. “How does one make a child of her inexperience realize that an infatuation is not a good basis for a marriage?”

  A shaky sigh escaped Phoebe and when next they came together, she said, “Especially when she is convinced she has formed a lasting passion.”

  Miles’ lips twitched into a wry smile. “Lord, I feel ancient and staid and far too sensible.”

  Phoebe nodded. “It is almost enough to make one long to do something rash, just to prove one has not settled into old age.”

  A deep unexpected chuckle sounded from him. “Almost,” he agreed.

  Their palms came together once more as they circled and that longing filled her, to forget her responsibilities, to forget her fears, to be reckless and laughing, just once. But the music ended and he was thanking her and she knew the opportunity had slipped through her fingers.

  As he bowed over her hand, he asked, “Do you ride in the morning?”

  Well why not be reckless? she reflected. She offered what she hoped was a beguiling smile. “Do you?”

  “What are you about?” A spark of interest lit his eyes.

  “I thought perhaps you might care to drive instead.”

  “Did you?” The spark increased to a gleam. “Now why would you think that?”

  “Because you wish to do something reckless.”

  He looked disappointed. “Driving my bays could hardly be considered an act of recklessness.”

  “It would if you were to show me how to handle the ribbons.”

  “To show—” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “My dear Miss Caldicot, might I have the honor of giving you a driving lesson?”

  “You do not have to,” she declared, suddenly conscience-stricken. “It is only that I saw you letting Lucy drive the other day and you seemed so patient with her.”

  “I would be honored.” He bowed over her hand. “At eight then?” And with that he left her.

  She did not have the opportunity to speak with him again that night and she feared he might forget. But at eight the following morning when she hurried outside she found the curricle with the two neat-stepping bays harnessed to it waiting before the door. As she started to des
cend the steps the neighboring door opened and Miles appeared on the porch.

  “Punctual as always, I see,” he said, smiling and joined her at the vehicle. He handed her up, climbed in on the other side then showed her how to hold the ribbons and how much contact to keep with the horses’ mouths.

  The pressure of his gloved hands on hers proved a considerable distraction but she forced herself to concentrate. Not for worlds would she cause these gorgeous animals distress by hauling on their heads or giving conflicting signals. And not for worlds would she earn Miles’ disapproval.

  The early morning traffic set the bays skittering and Miles resumed control. So effortlessly he managed the pair. Now that she’d had a chance to feel the pull of two horses rather than just one as when she rode, she could better appreciate his skill and the ease with which he communicated with the animals. She sat in silence, watching his deft hands as he eased the horses through the carts and wagons that went about their early business.

  At last they turned through the gates into the safety of the park and Miles offered her the ribbons once more. She took them and under his patient tutelage they completed their first round in far better style than they began it. By the end of the third round she won a warm “Well done!” from him and that simple praise filled her with a glow that lasted until they returned to Half Moon Street.

  He escorted her to her door but refused her offer of refreshment, saying he had an appointment for which he already ran the risk of being late. He took her gloved hand and for a moment she thought he might kiss it despite the soft kid leather but he merely pressed it then strode up the steps to his own home. Phoebe entered the house, her thoughts lingering on the touch of his hand, the gentleness of his voice, his calm patience as he explained for a second or even third time the fine points of backing a pair or looping a rein.

  Patience, yes. But had there been anything more? Any warmth, any hint that he might be forming a tendre for her? And what did she feel for him? The stirrings of infatuation? That didn’t seem likely. She wouldn’t describe her feelings as violent, not at all the emotion that beleaguered poor Lucy. What she felt was more comprehensive than friendship, more solid than mere liking, as a happiness held deep within. Or at least it would be a happiness if she thought it might be reciprocated.