by Sophia James
She smiled because all her antics and movements were completed with him in mind. The way he walked, and spoke and was. Without Bryson she knew she should never have chanced such a deception.
Her fingers went to a ring he’d worn that now sat on her hand. The gold was solid and real somehow, a circle that had not broken.
Would Viscount Winterton be there tonight? Would he come if he knew she was invited or was he still away seeing to the specifics of the property he was acquiring? She had not seen him since she had exited the carriage outside the Warrenden town house. But she had dreamed about him. She had dreamed they were before a beautiful country house in the sunlight and that he had pulled off her wig and kissed her, hard and true.
Ridiculous, she thought, and shook away the image. He was probably doing his very best to never see her again.
She had drawn him every single day, late at night when the others were asleep and when there was no chance of interruption. She had drawn him in colour as well as in all the shades of grey.
She hoped he would be there. She did. She wanted to meet him again and feel his eyes on her own. She wanted to ask of the portrait and of his new home.
My God, what was she thinking? James Waverley, Viscount Winterton, would hold no interest in who she was. Every woman in society was angling to catch his eye after all and with his investments in the lucrative timber trade he was exactly the sort of man the society mothers would want for their daughters.
The night suddenly seemed less of an adventure and much more of an ordeal to get through and when Maria came in with her new blue gown, her hair a cascade of ringlets, Florentia felt suddenly sick.
‘I know that look, Flora, but you have to come. Roy would be devastated if you did not and we have already sent back our intention of attending.’ She suddenly smiled. ‘I never realised how much you looked like Bryson. It’s nice, because I miss him.’
‘Me, too.’
‘If Father were here...’
‘I doubt he will ever be well enough to return to society.’
‘Maybe if your abductor had been proven dead he might have, but to never hear a word again and your reputation ruined as it was, I think he simply lost his will for life really. If Roy was to act like that I’d probably simply hit him over the head for I certainly wouldn’t be pandering to his moods as Mama is want to suffer Papa’s.’
* * *
The room was crowded when they arrived, the Duke of Northbury’s town house one of the largest and grandest Florentia had ever seen. From one end of the first salon right along to the other there were lengths of blue shot silk hung with corded red tassels which in turn were threaded in jewels. In front of each hanging stood huge urns filled with flowers, the aged terracotta embellished with drawings of ancient Grecian gods. Arabella Carmichael would have enjoyed such bounty, Florentia thought, for many of the blooms were out of season and must have been brought in from warmer climes. She wondered about the cost of it all.
It was like a wonderful tapestry of colour and form and texture, a beautiful living painting that faded and reformed under the light of chandeliers and the shadows of quiet darker corners. With the music playing and the chatter constant Flora closed her eyes so that she could memorise it, for the grace and movement was a tableau she might never see again. But to paint it with strokes of energy and boldness...
‘I thought you had returned to Kent, Mr Rutherford?’
Her eyes snapped open. Winterton stood before her, dressed this evening in black save for the snowy cravat at his neck, folded high across the scar.
She chastised herself for feeling so uncertain, her newly found bravery reduced by his presence. ‘This is the last social occasion I have promised to attend, my lord, before I go home.’
‘Then it is a fine choice. The Duke’s soirées are always...interesting. The man has a genuine notion of the theatrical and a budget to indulge his very eclectic taste.’
As she glanced up at him she saw the bruise on his cheek had almost gone. The pale green of his eyes against his tan always surprised her.
‘You are here with the Warrendens?’
‘I am, my lord.’
A servant dressed in the exotic clothes of an Indian maharaja came and offered them wine, the golden tray he held inscribed in Egyptian hieroglyphics.
‘One cannot be over-concerned about mixing up dynasties when the serving tools of the Raj are so very hard to come by.’ Winterton stated this dryly when he saw her observation. His expression was distant, a man with a thousand masks and not one of them the truth.
The danger in him was shocking and for a second Flora forgot how to breathe, but stood there watching him, the thickness in her throat wrenching and unfathomable. When a striking and sensual woman stepped in from one side to take the Viscount by the arm she moved back.
‘I have finally found you, Winter, and so many of my friends are asking for your company.’
There was a quick flare of anger in his eyes, but this disappeared as instantly as it had come. Tipping his head, he gave her his farewells and accompanied the newcomer away without any resistance whatsoever.
Maria joined her a moment later. ‘The Heron girls have just asked me if my sister was still unsure about stepping into society. I told them she has no care for the deceptions prevalent here.’
‘A brave rejoinder, perhaps, given our circumstances?’
Maria managed a smile. ‘Winterton is always surrounded by females and looking at him I can understand why. He does seem to favour the Heron girls, but then they are awfully attractive.’
A bevy of the most beautiful women in society had indeed gathered about the Viscount and he by no means looked disconcerted. The hand of the woman who had spirited him away lay possessively upon his arm.
‘James Waverley is soon to be thirty. Hopefully he will settle on someone to take as a bride if only to put all of these desperate females out of their misery.’
Florentia laughed, but she could hear the falseness in it as surely as her sister probably could. As she glanced across the room his eyes met her own and she stood transfixed at what she thought she could see. A fine regard and respect.
She took in a breath, the wig tight about her head and the stock at her throat constricting.
The other woman had turned to see what had caught Winterton’s attention, anger crossing her brow, but, seeing only the thin form of Frederick Rutherford, merely smiled and turned away.
No competition there, Flora thought the gesture implied, the soft rounded womanhood relaxing into an amused benevolence.
When Roy came to claim Maria in a dance it allowed Florentia the chance to move into an alcove with long windows overlooking the garden.
She was glad for the moment of aloneness though she felt a presence behind her and knew that it was the Viscount. Without turning, she waited for him to come and stand beside her, the lights in the gardens reflected on both of their faces.
‘Could I show you a painting, Mr Rutherford? I am sure you would find it of interest.’
‘A painting?’
‘It is in the Duke’s library and he has allowed me the use of the room.’
‘I am not sure...’
‘It would just take a moment.’
She glanced around, trying to see her sister, but there were only strangers standing about them and, short of a rudeness, she could not dredge up any true excuse as to why she should refuse. He would expect her to be interested and so as he gestured to her to follow him she did so, down a short unlit corridor and into a chamber at the very end.
The painting stood on the far wall, the lights around it giving its darkness a particular space.
‘It’s a Van Dyke.’
She moved forward with amazement. ‘I cannot believe that this portrait should be here, close enough for me to touch.�
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‘The Duke’s great-grandfather gave a particular service to Charles the First, it seems, and the painting was his reward. It has been in his family’s hands for years.’
Florentia moved closer to see the brush strokes and the small details of the work. ‘The elegance and authority are traits in all of his works. He painted the King and his wife many times.’
‘You are well informed, Mr Rutherford.’
Winter had moved up next to her now and close, the smell of sandalwood and freshly washed male easily discerned. The darkness around them and the silence was complete. Much further away she could hear the sound of music.
When he lifted his hand to run a finger across the line of her cheek she was shocked by such an intimacy.
‘Your knowledge of the arts is beguiling.’
She swallowed, the horror of her situation unfolding. Was he attracted to her as a boy? Pray God, he would not take this further.
‘You asked me once if I believed in Fate, Mr Rutherford. Perhaps this is ours.’ His interest had fallen to her lips, a gentle tracing of the shape under the pad of his thumb.
She could not understand just what might happen next.
‘Perhaps it is our fate to meet in the most unexpected of places and under the most dubious of circumstances.’
‘Dubious?’ Her voice was strained.
‘Me and you...here. Like this. Alone. Do you not think it fortuitous?’
There was a new tone now in his words. One of humour if she might name it and careful question. A game of cat and mouse was the bread and butter, no doubt, of any spy, and he was rumoured to be a good one.
She could feel the breath of his words against her cheek as he spoke and his hand had fallen lower across her shoulder and down the line of her arm.
If he truly did not know her, then this game was dangerous, but if he did...?
‘Do you ever play the rune stones, my lord?’ She asked this because she knew the answer even before he shook his head.
‘Then perhaps you should. For protection.’
‘Against what?’
‘Enemies come in all shapes and sizes and society holds a narrow view of what is right and what is wrong.’
He laughed at that and when he ceased he leaned across and whispered in her ear.
‘Is this wrong? Are you my enemy, Lady Florentia Hale-Burton?’
Her world simply stopped, the whirl of colour turning grey and all balance lost under the pounding beat of her heart.
Dread rendered her speechless.
‘If you expose me, Florentia, I will not deny the charges. Everything that has happened to you was my fault. I accept that.’
‘Do you?’
‘You tried to save me when we fell from the carriage even after all I had put you through. Why?’ His words came soft and when she did not answer he carried on. ‘I thought perhaps...’ Again he stopped.
‘You thought what?’
‘That you might not have hated me as much as I believed. That there was a chance you could forgive me for what I had done to you and your family. What I am still doing to you, with your disguises and your secrecy.’
‘Pity isn’t a flattering word, Lord Winterton.’
‘You think it such?’
‘I have been an outcast for years. How could I think anything different?’
‘Marry me, then. I can protect you from them all.’
She could not believe he could possibly have said this. ‘Guilt is not a solid basis for a union, either. Even a ruined woman hopes for more than that.’
‘Marry me and we will leave London and society. We will make a new life at Atherton Abbey.’
‘And my family? You think Papa will give his blessing? You think he will not crow your name in distaste from every rooftop he could find when he sees your face? When he knows it was you who kidnapped me?’
‘I think he will see sense and do what is the best for his daughter’s reputation.’
‘The best? The best.’ She repeated those two words, sneering at him in a way that she knew was not attractive but she no longer cared. It was one thing to be married in love and quite another to be married in shame or duty. The best of a bad situation.
‘No. I cannot marry you, my lord.’ She could barely get the words out.
* * *
He wished he had said it differently. He wished he could take his words back and start again, this time not immured in guilt but in respect.
Florentia had removed her glasses and was wiping them against the silk in her waistcoat and for the first time he truly saw her eyes for more than a fleeting second.
He remembered them like a punch to the stomach. Their blue honesty. The grey at the edges. The flashing shards of anger mixed with sadness. He wanted to reach out then and take her hand to hold it warm against his own, two people beached up by history on to some sort of foreign shore that neither could fathom. Shipwrecked by uncertainty.
She was beautiful. He had always known that.
She had turned now and was out of the door before he could stop her, making her way into the busy melee of the main room. As he caught her up an old friend, Frank Reading, slapped him on the back.
‘Been looking for you, Winter. I have some need for timber and I hear you are just the man to provide it.’ His eyes went across to Florentia, who had replaced her spectacles and regained her composure.
‘You’re the artist, aren’t you? I have been hoping to make your acquaintance for society is abuzz at your talent with a brush.’
‘Mr Frederick Rutherford, this is Lord Frank Reading.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.’
James heard the timbre of her voice lower and gain that certain cadence of masculinity. He had not realised how convincing she sounded as a boy until she had spoken to him in a different voice altogether.
‘I don’t suppose I could persuade you to make a painting for me, Mr Rutherford?’
‘I am afraid not, my lord. I am leaving London for a long while. Family commitments and the need for privacy,’ she went on and left the words hanging.
‘I hear you have done a portrait for Winter. I for one cannot wait to see it. From the whispered gossip it is magnificent.’
Florentia shrugged and James understood what her art truly cost her in just that small gesture. It was as if she did not wish to acknowledge or discuss the paintings she had left behind, a sort of bereft anger displayed on her countenance that was gone as soon as he recognised it.
Others had joined them, too, squeezing in around them, asking questions of him and of her, dissipating any closeness. He wished he might have simply lent forward and led her away, to take her into the garden in the moonlight and...kiss her.
That ludicrous thought made him swear beneath his breath in a single heartfelt curse. She had dismissed his marriage proposal summarily less than five minutes ago. She would hardly be interested in less.
The words had astonished him even as he had said them.
Marry me. He had never once in all his life uttered that to any woman before and there had been many vying for such an offer both in America and here. He could not believe how he had meant it either, how he had hoped that she might say yes.
Had Lady Florentia Hale-Burton upended his sense in some way as to render him into this man that he barely recognised? He had not seen her for almost six years, and still did not truly, for the disguise she wore was a good one.
Maria Warrenden had come out to claim her now and they were walking back to the main ballroom, the light catching them both as it streamed through the large glass doors.
Florentia was so much thinner than her sister, more fragile, brittle almost. Was this his doing? He could see the platforms built into her shoes and he frowned at the shape of her le
gs through thin silk, glad that her jacket was of a long length and covered much of what he did not wish others to see.
He swore again. He had no right to such opinions, no mandate to even think such things. When he saw that Reading watched him thoughtfully he turned away and arranged his face into the more normal expression of indifference.
Nothing seemed quite right any more. It was as if his life had slipped a cog since meeting Florentia and he could not get it back on track. He wanted to follow her inside and talk to her again just to hear her voice and listen to her odd opinions.
God, she must be laughing at him now with his ill-considered marriage proposal and his patent desperation. Swallowing his brandy in three large gulps, he felt all the better for it.
* * *
Julia Heron was watching her intently from the small distance where she stood with a few of the other girls whom Florentia recognised from her first foray into society.
Just as she was about to walk away the Heron girl broke from the others and came directly up to her.
‘You have the look of the Hale-Burton brother, Mr Rutherford. Bryson was his name. I thought to tell you before another does. I puzzled on the resemblance the other day when you came to our town house, but could not quite put my finger upon it. Tonight it is right here before me.’
Flora saw the frown deepen on Maria’s brow. ‘Ancestry often has that certain trick of stamping likenesses on those who come next, Miss Heron. My sister and I have often been mistaken for each other as well.’
‘Your sister? I sometimes wonder how she is faring, Lady Warrenden?’
‘She fares very well, thank you, although she is busy with her life at Albany.’ Maria was quick in her reply.
‘I had heard she was dabbling in painting?’
‘She is indeed. Mr Rutherford here has been her tutor.’ Her sister’s answer held a note of panic that Florentia hoped Miss Heron did not detect and, setting her mouth in the grim line she had perfected over the weeks of playing the artist, she nodded.
‘And how is it you are related to the Hale-Burtons, Mr Rutherford, to hold such a resemblance?’
‘Loosely, Miss Heron. Our fathers were second cousins.’