by Sophia James
‘Just a trick of nature then?’ Julia Heron opened her fan as she spoke and glanced out from behind it, a girl who knew her worth in the market place of the ton. ‘Lord Winterton looks well tonight, does he not? I saw you speaking with him earlier and you both seemed most intense?’
‘Art has its deep conversations and its age-old fascinations.’ Flora tried to moderate her tone into one of indifference.
‘Papa is still hopeful he may entice you into our home to draw us all.’
Maria interrupted. ‘Mr Rutherford is returning to the country the day after tomorrow. He will have no time at all to be able to consider taking on more work in London.’
The arrival of Roy allowed a natural end to the conversation and Julia Heron begged her leave and left them.
‘I thought you might like a dance, Maria.’ Roy looked to have had quite a bit to drink, his face flushed.
‘If it stops you from taking another brandy for a few moments I think it is probably a good idea. But what of Flora?’
‘Oh, I am sure I can lean against this wall without getting into any trouble.’
‘Are you certain?’ Her sister looked torn.
‘Go and dance, Maria. I shall be more than fine.’
As they went she watched them, Roy’s hand within his wife’s, a sense of trust there and respect.
Marry me, then.
The three words reverberated through her body and she swallowed away the emptiness she had heard in them. How long had Winter known her secret? When had he guessed she was not as she seemed?
The Viscount was over on the other side of the room, talking with a group of men. She could see him easily for he stood a good few inches above everyone else. He did not look at all like a man who had just had a marriage proposal turned down as he threw back his head and laughed. Under the chandelier his hair appeared lighter and it contrasted markedly against the black in his clothes. Julia Heron was cosied up beside him and he appeared to be paying her a good deal of attention.
Another side of his character was present tonight. Here in the ton he looked at home and relaxed, a man who would welcome the discourse of others, a viscount whose lineage was easily discerned in every line of his body and in the indifference on his face. A man who was lauded and admired by others. A man far above her station in life in all the ways that counted.
She would have liked to have drawn him like this. Even as she stood there she could feel her fingers move across his form, picking out the strengths and that which made him unique. She would have fashioned him in charcoal, the thickness of it garnering attention, bold strokes of confidence and ease, the sombre clothes against his lighter hair, muscle pressing against superfine.
She wished she might have been standing there in a gown that was beautiful and feminine, her hair paler than his own and falling in long cascading curls. The cloth she had shoved into each cheek to try and change the lines of her jaw felt dry and foreign and she accepted a glass of wine from a passing waiter to try to alleviate that.
Marry me, then.
Had he even truly asked it? Without a scrap of knowledge as to who each other were and with a history between them that could only foretell disaster? What was he thinking? Why would he imagine it could be possible? Perhaps he felt sorry for her, their enforced proximity in St James’s Square having the effect of allowing him a glimpse into her life since the incident at the inn? Guilt could be a factor. Or plain old pity. A man like him could not possibly have asked her in love.
She failed to see the drunk fellow weaving across the floor because he was behind her. She did not observe him clutch at the hangings of one curtain and drag it down so that it fell heavily in her direction, the banner from the pelmet above sheering away from splintered wood.
She did hear the screams, though, echoing through the room, and she did feel the moment something sliced through the fleshy part of her right calf.
A body landed on top of her before rolling away, the smell of alcohol strong, one burly arm rising to graze her cheek and leave it stinging. She felt the heavy tightness of the shock and the sharp agony of pain. A young woman to her left began to cry and the sound of the orchestra playing a waltz quietened with an awkward lilt until it had all but stopped, only the last strings of a wayward violin vibrating into the silence.
Her leg was bleeding all over the parquet floor of the Duke of Northbury’s ballroom. Indifferently she wondered how much damage had actually been done to her and then all she felt was coldness.
* * *
Florentia Hale-Burton was on all fours trying to get up, her leg pushed beneath her in a strange fashion. He could tell she was hurt even before the curdling cries of those around her took away the sense of it. Through the gaps of all the colourful silk gowns between them James saw that the tie of the ugly black wig had come unfastened and the hair now fell in a macabre way down her face, the lifeless strands covering her like a shroud.
It was as though time simply stopped, the room full of horrified onlookers and the whispers growing even as he strode across to crouch beside the pale Lady Florentia Hale-Burton.
Her eyes met his own, the spectacles fallen and the blueness in the light of chandeliers astonishing. Repositioning her hairpiece, he found her glasses and perched them once again across her nose, praying like hell that no one had noticed something was amiss.
‘I am fine.’ She did not cry or try to explain. No, instead she simply sat there, attempting to draw a steady breath, a slight still figure in the centre of chaos doing her best to be brave.
More and more people were coming to join the throng, their expressions shocked at the blood that was pooling beneath her on the floor.
‘It is the artist, Mr Rutherford. My God, he has been injured and badly, too.’
Maria Warrenden pushed through the crowd, shouldering those who were close to let her through. Roy came behind, his face a mixture of worry and horror, but James had untied her neckcloth and was winding it about Florentia’s knee just above the wound. When he knotted it tightly the bleeding on the fleshy part of her calf seemed to slow and he let out his breath. For this second she was safe, though he could feel the wolves gathering.
‘Rutherford is very thin, is he not?’
‘And remarkably young and girlish.’
‘What is his story, exactly?’
Interest spread around them and as Roy’s wife’s gaze caught his own he simply bent down to lift Florentia into his arms, her lightness as surprising as the fact that she did not fight him but rather buried her face into his chest and stayed still. Winter hoped those in the room would see Florentia only as a young and sensitive youth who had been brought to tears by a shocking and unexpected accident. The blood helped her case, he supposed, though his anger mounted at the thought.
‘Bring him through to our carriage, Winter. I have called for my driver to bring it to the front.’ Roy Warrenden beckoned him and James was glad for the direction.
‘Hold on,’ he whispered to the shaking figure he held. ‘It will only be another moment until we are out of here, I promise.’
But she did not answer as he walked along one side of the ballroom, people scattering before him, looks of horror and speculation on each face he passed.
* * *
Flora knew that Viscount Winterton did not wish for an explanation. Yet. He had looked at her in something akin to warning, the clear green eyes taking in everything.
She knew he was angry, but the mask that had dropped over his features allowed no certainty of anything else, no shared ground at all save for the recent congress of an artist and subject.
Later there would be questions, she knew that, but for now the shock of everything made her cold and shaky and she felt the first tears pooling behind her eyes.
Winter’s clothing held the same smell as his jacket had all those years
before. Citrus, amber and sandalwood, smoky-dark and rich. She watched him because she did not wish to shut her eyes, the stillness that was gathering in all the corners of her body frightening and complete.
When he laid her down on the seat of the conveyance she tried to scramble up into a sitting position, but he held her there, raising her injured leg and securing a blanket beneath it.
‘I hurt my thigh once and this is what the army doctor did,’ he gave as an explanation. ‘You will, however, need to sit very still.’
Maria looked sick with worry and Flora was glad Roy was there to hold her sister’s hand because at that moment she had no energy for anything or anybody else. Closing her eyes, she prayed she would not be ill all over the expensive clothes of James Waverley. Again.
* * *
Blood was still seeping through Florentia’s trousers and her face was so pale Winter thought she might just faint dead away.
Maria Warrenden watched him, he could see the questions in her eyes and he hoped that her husband would have the driver ready to move off soon.
He had sent one of his men to summon a physician and take him to the Warrenden town house in Grosvenor Square. James prayed that the man might be quick in his task and that the injury sustained was not a substantial one.
She was cold, he could tell that, but short of pulling her into his own warmth all he could do was to allow her the heat of his jacket which he tucked around her. Her fingers curled across the edges of light wool and the shivering seemed to be tapering off a little.
With care he unstoppered his brandy flask. ‘Take a good mouthful and you will notice a difference.’
But she simply looked away, ignoring the offer completely and rocking back and forth on the seat. He took a swig himself.
‘Does the injury pain you?’
There was a quick nod.
‘Then that is a good thing. Without that a wound is always thought to be far more serious. It was the same with me after I was injured out of Lugos.’
When he saw her tilt her head as though she was interested in his answer he carried on. Roy was still fussing around with instructions with the driver and Maria Warrenden was now standing beside the carriage with her husband.
‘It was snowing and the pass was high. I thought when I did not feel the pain that I was simply freezing, but afterwards they said I was as close to death as they had ever seen anyone be before and survive it.’
Blue eyes came across his own, worry stamped within them. ‘I am cold, too.’
‘Don’t worry. You always feel that after any accident.’
‘I hit my head...and it’s hard...to breathe.’ Her teeth were chattering now and air that she took was compromised.
He remembered this from last time, the blueness around her lips and the way she spoke as if every word were difficult. Maria had climbed in now and was crying. Ignoring the noise, he simply placed his fingers against Florentia’s throat and talked quietly.
‘Breathe with me. Just quiet breaths. Don’t try to take too much.’ Her heart was racing so fast he could barely hear the silence between.
‘Good. You are doing well.’ He made his voice calm as she began to do as he asked.
Her fingers came up against his, searching for warmth, her slender artist’s hands covered with a crust of blood from the accident. The whole side of one sleeve was drenched in red.
* * *
Florentia wished her sister might stop crying. She wished she were home in the grove of trees at Albany. She wished she might have curled up and slept in Viscount Winterton’s arms and stayed there for ever.
So many differing wishes.
Bryson was in the mix, too, for this was how he had died, his leg bleeding out from the wound upon it after she had dared him to jump the fence. The tears she had held back so far spilled over. Winter wiped them away without saying anything.
And then there was a flurry of activity as Roy re-joined them, the horses called on and the carriage jolted into motion.
But the Viscount had disappeared. He was gone and Maria was there beside her, face crinkled with horror.
‘I knew this was a foolish idea, Florentia. I knew that we should be caught finally and that more scandal could follow.’
Roy, sitting opposite, laid a hand upon her shoulder.
‘Only an omnipotent deity could have had such a vision, my love, and if the upshot is that we all retire back to Kent, well, we were going anyway.’
‘Everybody was looking at you strangely, Flora, and if they guess what we have been doing you will never be allowed to come back into society. You will always be an outcast and you will never sell another painting.’
‘I don’t think your bedside manner is h-helping me, Maria.’ Her sister sat closer to her at that and took her hand in her grasp.
‘There are things that are so very unfair in life and its time you had some luck.’
‘Luck?’ Flora winced as she moved her foot for her toes caught against leather and the shooting pains made her shake. Blood had begun to seep out again and was staining the seat. ‘Where is the doctor? Will he come soon?’
‘Winter has sent for a physician. He will be at the house when we arrive in a few moments’ time, I am sure of it,’ Roy said, his tone full of question.
‘And the Viscount?’
Maria frowned. ‘He left. Why do you ask about him?’
‘He...helped me. Did you thank him?’
‘I did. He seemed...more familiar than usual.’
Florentia lay back against the seat, the pain in her leg making her feel dizzy.
Chapter Ten
James called into the town house on Grosvenor Square the next morning because he had dreamed all night that Florentia Hale-Burton’s health had worsened and he wanted to see for himself that it had not. The physician had assured him the lad was recovering, but he had seen the amount of blood she had lost and she was so very slight, after all.
Roy took him through to a bright room at the back of the house where Florentia was lying on a sofa, her leg raised on two pillows. Warrenden seemed tense and uncertain, giving James the impression that his presence here was as welcome as the plague.
Today Florentia’s colour was better and he could see she had been reading. The lad’s clothes she wore were less formal than those he had thus far seen her in and she wore no neckcloth or jacket. On his entry she scrambled up to a sitting position and the wince of pain across her brow at such a movement had him swearing.
‘Winter has come to enquire about your health, Frederick.’ The tone Roy used was strained, no doubt wary of further participation in such a charade. Still, James thought, he could use it to his advantage.
‘I wonder if I might have a word with Mr Rutherford in private, Roy?’
Short of rudeness there was little the other could do but agree, for there was no reason whatsoever to refuse the request of a lord wanting a small and private chat with a younger man with whom he had done business. James was pleased Maria Warrenden was not about as he doubted she would have withdrawn without a fuss.
‘I shall be in the room next door, Frederick, should you want me.’
Not far. Within earshot. A simple shout will have me back.
When the door shut behind him there was a deafening silence which Florentia sought to instantly fill.
‘I am much recovered this morning, thank you, Lord Winterton.’
‘James,’ he drawled, trying to keep out the anger. ‘I am certain we have long since passed the point of such formality, Florentia. Even Winter would do.’ Unsure as to whether Warrenden was listening on the other side of the door, he kept his voice down and was glad when she nodded.
‘I do not think your charade has been discovered. The gossip this morning is on the severity of the wound and of the amount
of blood lost. I have heard no mention at all of more worrying things.’
‘That was because you replaced my glasses and wig quickly and I thank you for that.’
He could see in her eyes as he looked away the shadow of his foolish proposal and he wished like hell that he had not made it.
‘I must also thank you for sending your physician to attend to me. He was a c-competent d-doctor.’
Her niceties were disassembling under the burden of manners, the voice of the lad lost into a higher and sweeter inflection.
But he did not let this distract him as he came to the point. ‘If the disguise you have donned as a boy is anything to do with my abduction of you all those years ago...?’
She stopped him. ‘It is not.’
He frowned because her expression was showing the exact opposite. ‘I do not believe you. I think you agreed to do my portrait because you wanted to understand exactly what sort of a man I was.’
She stayed silent.
‘And when you found out that I was more than sorry for my part in your...numerous difficulties since and wanted to rectify them, you ran.’
‘Rectify them?’ Now she had found her voice.
‘With marriage, and my offer still stands. It is the only honourable path that I can see to follow. A linkage of the Hale-Burton name to my own to ward off further controversy and awkwardness.’
‘Controversy and awkwardness?’ Her anger worried him as she scrambled up her face six inches from his own, blue eyes blazing. ‘Your first marriage proposal was dreadful, Lord Winterton, but this one is even worse.’
‘Is it?’
The control that he had held for ever suddenly snapped as he dragged her against him, his lips coming down across her own. He could not remember ever being so angry or so aroused, but as he slanted his mouth over hers he understood the danger that she presented.
He had kissed so many women, but this one was unlike any of them. It was like kissing quicksilver, one moment one thing and the next something entirely different. It was like meeting his destiny.