by Mary Balogh
The waltz had never been intended to be a plodding, mechanical affair, everyone twirling slowly and in perfect time with one another. He danced it now as it was surely meant to be danced, his eyes and his mind focused upon his partner, his ears bringing in the music and pouring its melody and its rhythm into every cell of his body, his feet converting that rhythm into movement.
It was a sensual dance, intended to focus a man’s attention on his partner and hers on him. It was meant to make them think of another kind of dance, one more intimate still.
No wonder the British had misgivings about the waltz.
He whirled her about until the light from the candles became one swirling band of brightness overhead, and wound her skillfully in and out of the more slowly circling couples, noting with satisfaction that she stayed with him every step of the way, that she showed not a moment’s fear of missing a step or colliding with a fellow dancer or losing her balance. The bright uniforms of the officers, the paler pastel ball gowns of the ladies, all merged into a swooping melody of color.
By the time the first waltz of the set came to an end she was bright-eyed and slightly flushed and a little breathless. And even lovelier than before.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I like how it is done in Vienna!”
He dipped his head closer to hers. “Would the patronesses of Almack’s approve, do you suppose?”
“Absolutely not,” she said, and then laughed.
The music began again. But it was a slower, more lilting tune this time.
He waltzed her through the crowds as before, weaving in and out, varying the length of his steps, taking several smaller ones, and then moving into wide, sweeping swirls that forced an arch to her back and her neck. He felt the music with his body, moved with it, challenged it, took liberties with it, felt the magic of it. And she moved unerringly with him, her eyes on his much of the time. He held her fractionally closer than the regulation hold, though they touched nowhere except where regulations allowed.
She sighed aloud as the music drew to a close again.
“I did not know the waltz could be so—” she said, but one circling hand, which she had lifted from his shoulder, suggested that she could not think of a suitable word with which to complete the sentence.
“Romantic?” he suggested. He moved his lips closer to her ear. “Erotic?”
“Enjoyable,” she said, and then she frowned and looked at him with a return of her earlier hauteur. “That was not a very proper choice of word! And why have you called me chérie?”
“I have spent nine years on the Continent,” he said, “speaking French most of the time. And my mother is French.”
“Would you call me dear or sweetheart, then, if you had spent those years in England?” she asked. “Or if your mother were English?”
“Probably not.” He smiled into her eyes. “I would have lived all my life with English sensibilities and English inhibitions. How dull that would have been. I am thankful my mother is French, chérie.”
“You must not call me that,” she said. “I have not permitted it. I am English, you see, with all of an Englishwoman’s sensibilities and inhibitions—and dullness.”
She was, he thought, every inch Bewcastle’s sister. Except that he had spotted the rebel beneath the aristocrat, the butterfly eager to fly free of its cocoon. And the woman behind the youthful exterior who was surely capable of hot passion.
“I do not believe you for a moment,” he told her softly, smiling into her eyes. “But if I may not call you chérie, what else is there? What sort of a name is Morgan for a lady?”
“It was my mother’s choice,” she said. “We all have unusual names, my sister and my brothers. But mine is not so very strange. Have you not heard of the Morgan of Arthurian legend? She was a woman.”
“And an enchantress,” he said. “You are aptly named after all, then.”
“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Besides, I am not Morgan to you, am I, Lord Rosthorn? I am Lady Morgan.”
The music began again for the last waltz of the set as his smile turned to laughter.
“Ah,” she said, brightening, “a lively tune again. Dancing can often be very tedious, Lord Rosthorn, would you not agree?”
“As danced the English way, I would have to agree with you,” he said. “But the Viennese way is more . . . er, interesting, would you not agree?”
“When you paused, you intended that I think of that other word, did you not?” she said. “I believe, Lord Rosthorn, you are flirting quite outrageously with me. But beware—I am not as gullible as I may look. Yes, let us waltz the Viennese way since it is more interesting.” She smiled at him.
All of the sunlight and all of the warmth of a summer day were in that smile, and he realized that she was playing him at his own game—or what she thought was his game. She was far more interesting than he had expected. She might even prove a worthy foe.
He hoped so.
“You have talked me into it, chérie,” he told her, sweeping her into the dance, holding her smiling eyes with his own. “We will perform that erotic dance.”
Her cheeks flushed. But she would not look away from him, he noticed. He smiled slowly back at her.
ALMOST ALL THE BRITISH VISITORS TO BRUSSELS HAD driven out to the village of Schendelbeke and across the temporary bridge over the River Dender to where, on the riverbank near Grammont, the Duke of Wellington reviewed the British cavalry. The Prussian field marshal von Blücher was there too.
It was a picturesque setting for such a spectacle. And pure spectacle it was too. First the cavalry stood still for inspection, and Morgan, sitting in an open barouche with Rosamond and the Earl and Countess of Caddick, would have sworn that neither the thousands of men nor the thousands of horses beneath them moved a single muscle. Then Lord Uxbridge, their commander, marched the cavalry past the duke, and it seemed that they moved so perfectly in time with one another that the whole force was a single unit.
“How could any normal woman not be in love with every single one of the officers?” Rosamond asked with a laugh, though she whispered the question so that her mama would not hear. Morgan sometimes found her friend just a little silly in her enthusiasms, but really she had a point on this occasion. Morgan would not have missed the outing for anything in the world. She would probably be paying insipid afternoon calls with Aunt Rochester now if she were still in London. On the other hand, when she had tried a short while ago to draw the Earl of Caddick into a discussion on whether the necessity for military discipline ought to outweigh the human right to individuality, she had drawn blank stares from the ladies and a mere grunt from the earl.
The Life Guards were part of the review and were turned out in all their scarlet, immaculate splendor. They were mounted on magnificent and perfectly trained horses—the best in all Europe, according to Captain Lord Gordon. He was among them now. So were many other young officers who were part of their usual group of friends.
If ever matters did come to the point at which the British cavalry was forced to gallop into battle, Rosamond predicted aloud, the French cavalry would surely venture one look at them and take to their heels in sheer panic. The French infantry would be too terrified even to flee. Not that matters ever would get to that point, of course.
Morgan was not so sure on either count. Alleyne had warned her just the day before that the situation was beginning to look rather grim and that it was altogether probable that the Caddicks would decide to return home to England soon. And surely, she thought, years of warfare should have taught everyone in Europe that it would be foolish indeed to underestimate Napoléon Bonaparte and the French soldiers who had always fought for him with such unflagging bravery. Many of the British, of course, were unwilling to admit that anyone was capable of bravery except an Englishman.
She kept her thoughts to herself.
After the review was over, Captain Lord Gordon and several of the other officers rode up to the barouche to pay their respects to the earl and cou
ntess and to chat with the young ladies. Morgan was very aware that this afternoon’s visual spectacle was no circus show. It was the reality of real men preparing for war—for killing and being killed. She twirled her parasol above her head and gazed at them each in turn. It was hard to picture all this male vitality in so desperate a struggle.
“The Duke of Wellington is anxiously awaiting the arrival of more foreign troops,” Lord Gordon was explaining to her, having maneuvered his horse right alongside the door next to which Morgan sat. “And it is said he is terrified lest the rest of the seasoned troops who fought with him in the Peninsula not arrive back from America soon enough to push the French back should they be foolish enough to attack us here. But it is clear to see that our cavalry alone is strong enough and ferocious enough right now to complete the task with ease.”
There was a cheer from his grinning fellow officers.
“Would you not agree, Lady Morgan, after having watched the review?” he asked.
Morgan knew very well—surely everyone must—that it was always the infantry that won or lost a battle.
“You certainly looked very formidable indeed,” she told him.
“And the Life Guards in particular?” he asked her. “Everyone knows that we are the cream of the crop, so to speak, that all the Englishmen of highest rank choose the Guards—if their families can afford it—and that we have all the best horses. Have you noticed how the rest of the cavalry and all the infantry and artillery regiments look up to us with envy and awe? Especially the green jackets?”
His companions cheered and laughed again, and Lady Caddick smiled complacently. Rosamond was engaged in a private conversation with Major Franks, who had ridden around to her side of the carriage.
Morgan wished they did not all seem so disconcertingly like a group of schoolboys predicting a win at cricket over a rival school. She could not help wondering a little uneasily how such unseasoned troops would perform under fire. Most of the green jackets Lord Gordon had referred to were riflemen, and most had fought in the Peninsula and were seasoned, battle-hardened troops. Many of them were somewhat shabby in appearance, but Morgan had noticed that other soldiers spoke of them with considerable respect.
“The Life Guards did look particularly magnificent,” she agreed.
He smiled warmly at her. “You must not fear, Lady Morgan,” he said. “For one thing, no Frenchman in his right mind is going to fight for Bonaparte again if it can possibly be avoided. For another, Brussels is surrounded by our own Allied troops in an impenetrable fortress of protection. And for another, if all else fails, the Life Guards certainly will not. You are quite safe from harm.”
There was another good-natured cheer.
“I do not feel threatened,” she assured him.
“We would not keep you here in Brussels if there were any danger, I do assure you, Lady Morgan,” Lady Caddick told her, “and as I assured the duke, your brother, before we came here.”
“In a way,” Lord Gordon said with boyish eagerness, his whole attention still on Morgan, “I am sorry that Bonaparte never will get close to the doorstep of Brussels. I would love nothing better than a battle to show him a thing or two about the English cavalry in general and the English Life Guards in particular. If Wellington had had us with him in Spain, I daresay it would not have taken him so long to push the French back into France.”
“Perhaps not,” Morgan said. “But you are here now.”
She was feeling decidedly indignant. Until just last year, her brother Aidan had been a cavalry officer. He had battled his way across Portugal and Spain and into France, fighting the Peninsular Wars with Wellington’s forces every slow step of the way. She had never heard him claim that his regiment—or even the cavalry alone—had won the war. He always spoke with respect of all the military forces—cavalry, infantry, artillery, British, and allied—who had fought. He even spoke with respect of the French. But then, of course, Aidan was older and more experienced.
Her thoughts were diverted at that point when her eyes alighted on the figure of the Earl of Rosthorn, who was riding a short distance away with a gentleman Morgan did not know. She recognized the earl immediately. She had not seen him since the evening of the Cameron ball, but she had not forgotten their waltz—or their conversation. Although honesty forced her to admit that she had enjoyed herself at the time, she remembered with disapproval. He had treated her with a familiarity she resented—he had persisted in calling her chérie even when she had commanded him not to. And he had quite deliberately set out to shock her, telling her about the causes of his banishment from England, and using that word—erotic—to describe their dance. He had used it twice. And he had held her just a little too close while waltzing with her and had even moved his head a little closer once or twice to speak softly in her ear. He was, of course, a rake, and he had used his charms on her as if he thought she were a green girl and therefore quite unable to discover what he was about.
She had made up her mind after the ball that if he approached her ever again, she would give him the cut direct. She was not going to dance to anyone’s tune. She was a Bedwyn, after all.
The earl had seen her. His eyes met and held hers, an expression on his face that was not quite a smile—it was half mocking, half amused. It lit his lazy eyes and tugged at the corners of his mouth. Morgan disdained to be the first to look away. She raised her eyebrows in what she hoped was a fair imitation of Wulfric when he wished to depress pretention and turn the recipient into an icicle. And then Lord Rosthorn was guiding his horse in the direction of their barouche, winding in and out of the press of other carriages and riders.
Botheration!
The group of officers parted to let him through, a few of them looking somewhat surprised.
“Ah, Lady Caddick, ma’am,” he said, taking his eyes off Morgan at the last possible moment and touching the brim of his hat courteously to the countess. “I was hoping to encounter you here. How do you do?”
“Lord Rosthorn,” Lady Caddick said, all amiability. “Have you been enjoying the review? I was never better entertained or more proud in my life. Are you acquainted with Caddick?”
The gentlemen, who apparently were indeed acquainted, exchanged affable nods, and Lord Rosthorn addressed the remainder of his remarks to Lady Caddick herself, while the rest of the group paused politely and looked on.
Morgan was more than a little irritated. She was longing to give him a withering set-down on some pretext.
“I am planning a picnic in the Forest of Soignés,” Lord Rosthorn said, “and am in the process of considering my guest list.”
“A picnic!” Rosamond exclaimed, looking away from Major Franks and darting a bright look at Morgan.
“A picnic by moonlight,” Lord Rosthorn added, smiling warmly at Rosamond before returning his attention to her mother. “It would give me the greatest pleasure, ma’am, if you and Lord Caddick would agree to be among my guests and to bring your daughter and Lady Morgan Bedwyn too.”
Rosamond clasped her hands to her bosom.
“And your son as well,” Lord Rosthorn added, “and any other officer of the Life Guards you would wish included in the invitation.”
“That is extremely civil of you, Lord Rosthorn,” Lady Caddick said. “We would be delighted to attend, would we not, Caddick?”
Lord Caddick grunted.
“Splendid!” the earl replied. “I shall do myself the honor of calling upon you in Brussels as soon as I can give you more specific details, then, ma’am.”
He did not linger. He turned his horse and maneuvered it through the crowd again to rejoin his friend a short distance away. But before doing so he looked fully at Morgan, made her a polite bow, and favored her with that half-smile again, as if they shared some amusing secret. She half expected him to call her chérie.
“Well!” she said crossly to no one in particular.
She felt considerably ruffled. How dared he? He had not addressed a single word to her. He had scar
cely even looked at her once he was close. And yet she had been given the distinct impression that they were all invited to his picnic because of her.
What was he up to?
She would dearly have loved the opportunity to consider his invitation, twirling her parasol nonchalantly as she did so, and then to refuse it quite publicly and distinctly without offering any excuse. Simply no. Instead, she had had to sit in silence and listen, like a child whose wishes are not consulted.
It would serve him right if he really was planning his picnic for her sake and she failed to attend.
His French accent had been quite noticeable throughout the short conversation. But he was British, was he not? Did he expect her to find his accent irresistible just because French—or English spoken with a French accent—was said to be the language of love? A rake might at least be more subtle in his approach.
Of course, she thought, pitting her wits against those of a rake would surely enliven her days somewhat—her days really had become rather tedious. And the idea of a picnic by moonlight in the Forest of Soignés had definite appeal.
“Who does that fellow think he is?” Lord Gordon asked, his voice irritated, one of his hands tapping out a rapid tattoo on the door of the barouche. “He expects us all to be impressed by his title though he has not set foot in England for years but has instead been moving around the Continent acquiring an unsavory reputation. I can believe it too. He muscled his way in at the Cameron ball two evenings ago and took the first waltz with Lady Morgan, which I had determined should be mine.”
“I had promised the set to no one, Captain,” Morgan reminded him sharply while Rosamond turned to talk excitedly to Major Franks and the other officers buzzed among themselves and Lady Caddick was making some remark to her husband. “It would have been improper to dance with you again so soon after the opening set. The Earl of Rosthorn was properly presented to me and asked formally for a set of dances, a request that I granted.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said hastily. “It is just that I find the fellow impudent and would not have him force his attentions on you if you are unwilling. Perhaps you are not.”