A Waltz in the Park

by Deb Marlowe

  “No, thank you.” She approached the table.

  “Then perhaps we might have that dance?”

  He waited.

  Not long. The animation in her expression faded and those brows, like signal flags, lowered into a thundering frown. “We will not be sharing a dance, Mr. Vickers,” she said.

  Not the answer he’d been expecting. “Won’t we?”

  “We will not—and you must stop asking.”

  His own brows shot skyward. “Your family is quite hard on a man’s sense of worth. I would begin to worry I’d lost my appeal,” he drawled, “had you not been eying me like a hawk from a distance all evening.”

  He thought he’d startle a blush out of her. Instead her face reflected . . . pleasure? And anticipation. He felt a stirring of something similar, starting down low in his gut.

  “Drat. I thought I was being subtle.”

  His interest in this strange, pretty girl just kept growing apace.

  “You did well enough,” he answered begrudgingly. “But a man in my position learns to read the nuances in a room.”

  She brightened. “A rare enough talent, but one I can appreciate.” Pausing, she crinkled her brow. “Your position?” she asked for clarification.

  “Never mind. I assume there’s a reason behind the scrutiny—and this?” He waved a hand. “Besides the fruit tarts?”

  “Yes. I’ve been hoping for a private moment.”

  “We could have had that in a dance.”

  “No, we could not. And I must not seem to be lingering with you, either.” She moved down the refreshment table.

  He sighed. “The countess is not going to ask for my assistance when she departs, is she?”

  She frowned. “Is that how she put you off?”

  ‘Yes.”

  “No. I have no doubt she’ll slip away while you are busy elsewhere.”

  He stifled a surge of frustration. “What is it that you want, Miss Stockton?”

  “I wish to offer my help.”

  “With what?”

  “In your mission with my cousin. My advice was sound, was it not?”

  “Yes.” And completely unnecessary. He left that part out.

  “It’s clear you want something from her.” She lifted a deviled egg and examined it.

  “Only conversation.”

  She set the egg back down on the platter. “The why of it may not be clear, but it will be difficult for you to get it.”

  “For me?” Skepticism colored his tone.

  “I’m afraid so. Especially for you.”

  “Another blow to my self respect.” He considered. “I must assume that you mean to ask for something in return for your help?”

  Now she flushed, just the smallest bit. “I had meant to propose an exchange, yes.” She picked up a tart. Her tongue darted out to take the smallest taste of the burnt cream adorning it. Her smile broadcast her approval.

  It also shut down several of the working gears in his brain. Not too big a loss, though, as his body compensated, sending all that energy to set his gut to churning faster. And his lower bits to stirring, too.

  He rolled his eyes. “I am struck with the sudden certainty that I am not going to like what comes next.”

  “Very astute of you. But you wouldn’t like failing at your objective, either.”

  He looked up as the current quadrille ended. “Miss Stockton, we cannot keep whispering over the canapés. Let us arrange a place to speak frankly.” His eyes roamed the room. “Ah. Yes. Wait fifteen minutes, then make your way onto the terrace through those doors. Wait in the far left corner. I’ll meet you there.”

  He didn’t wait for her acknowledgement, but left the table and picked his way through the crowd to the newly engaged couple. His words of congratulations to Jane Tillney were heartfelt. She was a lovely girl and deserved every happiness. He kissed her cheek, shook Worthe’s hand and then left through the front door. Waving away the servants’ offers to find him a hack, he sauntered away, until half a block later he ducked down an alley and came back, letting himself in through the mews gate and approaching the house through a small, empty garden.

  The girl was there. She stood in profile, her curves clearly outlined against the bright lights of the party, her aristocratic profile only visible as an elegant shadow against the glow.

  It was enough to settle a weight upon Vickers’ chest, and to set his heart beating, as if it meant to throw the heavy burden off.

  He moved in, staying in the shadows and stepping close to the broad, rough-hewn stone pillar supporting the corner of the terrace.

  “Are you alone?”

  She started and then laughed a little.

  “Oh, how well you did that. I never saw you come.” She nodded. “Yes. I’m alone. I acted out a dreadful coughing spasm until the courting couples abandoned the spot.”

  He smiled in the dark. “Good. Now, tell me what it is you want from me.”

  “A partnership,” she responded instantly.

  He waited.

  “I can help you. I can convince Rosamond to speak with you.”

  “And what am I to pay for the price of this conversation?”

  “You speak in the singular. Do you really expect to accomplish whatever it is you intend in one conversation?”

  He recalled his earlier thought—that Lady Mitford might not even know what knowledge she possessed—what she might have seen or heard that was making his father so jumpy. “If I’m lucky.”

  “And if you are not?”

  He remained silent.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said smugly.

  He wondered what that looked like on her angelic face.

  “I’ll convince her to speak with you, cooperate with you however you need. It won’t be so easy, you know. Her situation is not so simple as it has been in the past.”

  “What’s changed?” he asked.

  “It would be foolish of me to tell you, wouldn’t it?”

  He was glad she was quick enough to realize it—and amused that she thought he wouldn’t be capable of finding it out.

  “And what will you require in return?”

  She kept silent a moment and he realized she was making sure they were alone.

  “First, you must give your solemn promise not to embroil the countess—or myself—in any sort of scandal.”

  He stilled. “I’m sure you are aware, Miss Stockton, that what I am embroiled in is an ongoing battle.”

  She rustled as she nodded. “I’ve heard a bit of it.”

  “Then you must also have realized that scandal is my greatest weapon.”

  “Nevertheless, you must agree to keep my cousin out of it.”

  “And what else?”

  Leaning down, she lowered her voice to an appealing rasp. “A meeting. I want you to arrange a meeting for me—with Hestia Wright.”

  All the slow molten heat she’d awakened in his blood froze in an instant. He gripped the balustrade she leaned over. “Are you in trouble? In danger?” Girls of her sort did not generally speak of Hestia Wright, let alone pursue an acquaintance. He thought of Brynne Wilmott—now the Duchess of Aldmere—another aristocratic girl whose dire straights had led her to seek Hestia’s help just a short time ago.

  “No. It’s nothing like that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “When you speak with her . . . to arrange things . . . tell her that I wish to pay a debt.” Another moment of silence. “Liliann’s debt.”

  “Who is Liliann?”

  “She will know.”

  She was telling the truth. He heard it in her voice. He let go of the railing.

  “I’ll prove the worth of my trade, if you wish,” she hurried on. “I’ll provide you a chance to speak to Lady Mitford, but you must do as I say.”

  But alarm bells were ringing in Vickers’ ears. This was more complicated than a bold, pretty girl flaunting Society’s rules and flirting with a hardened rake under their noses
. She didn’t even know what she was asking. How could they work together? He lived on vengeance and anger, while she breathed light and innocence. The whole idea reeked of Trouble. Distraction. Chaos masquerading behind a curvaceous purple dress and an intrepid wit.

  He had a mission. The work he’d dedicated himself to for so long. He couldn’t allow himself to stray now.

  But what if he did need her help? And what if she truly needed his? He’d been friends with Hestia too long to be able to abandon a girl in real need.

  He cursed under his breath.

  “Fine,” he clipped.

  She was still bent low over the railing, speaking earnestly. “Tomorrow evening. You must attend Lady Lisle’s literary salon.”

  He groaned. “She favors poetry.”

  “And so does Rosamond. Be there. Be polite, attentive for a short, socially acceptable interval. No more. Don’t try to engage her again.”

  Every feeling revolted. “I prefer the direct approach.”

  He could feel her smile in the dark. He was surprised her grin of triumph didn’t light up the terrace. “If you knew Rosamond at all, you’d know that she does not.” Reaching down, she touched his shoulder. He felt the warmth of that little grip from the top of his head down to his toes. “Trust me. I’ll get you what you want.”

  For the first time since his eighteenth birthday, those words summoned an image of something besides his father’s humbling defeat—reason enough to turn and walk away.

  Instead he heaved a sigh. “Fine. We’ll do it your way, the first time.”

  She was still smiling. He heard it in her voice. “And then?”

  He stepped away so that her hand fell away from him. “And then we shall see.”

  Chapter Four

  Miss Merry Vale’s Ode to the River Thames stretched as long and twisted as the great river itself. Addy was as thrilled as the rest of Lady Lisle’s guests to reach the end of it. But as the audience stood and began to file back toward the reception rooms, she merely switched seats. Leaving Rosamond in the company of Sir Harold Stobbins, she crossed the room and plopped herself down just behind Mr. Vickers.

  Good heavens, those shoulders. They were even more impressive up close. Such a broad expanse of fabric reached all the way across his chair and intruded into the space allotted to his neighbors. If she had sat next to him instead of behind, would she even now feel the press of them against her?

  The idea set her heart to thumping, but she refused to let it show. All about them people surreptitiously stretched and murmured low as they shook out benumbed limbs, but Vickers—and those shoulders—remained still and quiet.

  Had he fallen asleep? He would likely not have been alone. Holding her breath, she leaned in close, listening for the sound of deep, even breaths.

  “You owe me, Miss Stockton,” he said suddenly, quite loud and clear.

  She gasped and jumped and nearly fell from her chair.

  “The balance of our agreement was mightily skewed when I was forced to listen to Miss Vale rhyme life giving waters with druidic squatters.”

  She laughed. “That was dreadful, wasn’t it? But not as bad, I think, as Saxon settlements and Roman betterments.” She frowned a little. “Did you hear the sound that went through the room at that moment? What would you call it?” She thought a moment. “A faint, pained moan? That adequately describes it, yes?”

  He half-turned in his seat and her breath caught.

  He was laughing.

  And she was falling, into dark eyes brightened with amusement and a handsome face transformed by wry humor. What a difference it made in him. He’d been compelling before. He made her blood heat now. She urgently wanted to laugh with him. To shout in triumph or stand on her head or tell a thousand funny tales—anything to keep those eyes filled with light and matching the smile on his lips.

  She didn’t make any of those tragic mistakes, of course. Instead, blinking, she gathering her composure. “Lady Mitford is primed and ready to speak to you.”

  The smile faded and she took a stranglehold on her disappointment. He glanced over toward her cousin. “Are you sure? I thought she seemed unusually subdued today.”

  “She is, a bit. We had an unusually subdued conversation in the carriage on the way over. I promise, it has left her receptive to you.”

  Brow furrowed doubtfully, he watched Rosamond with Sir Harold. “I’ll put my trust in you, then.”

  The words warmed her more than was likely wise. “Here’s what you shall do. Go and fetch two drinks. Sir Harold will likely soon make the offer to do the same. You can move in once he’s gone, and the conversation will go from there.”

  His mouth twitched. “You wish me to literally beat him to the punch?” He raised a brow. “I suppose it is a sound strategy.” He stood. “Come?” He offered his arm. “I’ll fetch you a glass as well.”

  She hesitated, wishing she could agree. But he had his goal and she had hers, and she’d already taken a risk, sitting here with him. “I’d like to, thank you, but I must resist the temptation. It wouldn’t be wise.”

  He looked surprised . . . and perhaps a little insulted. “It’s only a drink,” he said with irony. “Nothing so binding as an actual set of dances.”

  Oh, she had wounded him, just a little. She felt guilty, but also a small, quick zing of feminine power.

  Still, she should make him understand. “You said you’d heard my dreadful nickname, yes?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “The Celestial, do you mean? Or are there more?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, that one. I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s also been helpful.”

  “It cannot have been easy to live with,” he surprised her by saying. “You’ve far too much sass. My mind boggles at the picture of how many times you must have been forced to hold your tongue.”

  There it was again, that warm rush. The comfortable feeling of being known. “You have no idea!” she laughed. “But as tempting as it is to shock someone with a bit of deviltry, that sterling reputation is necessary to my plans. So, while I don’t mean to insult you . . .”

  “You cannot be seen too often in the company of the wicked Vickers.”

  She bit her lip and glanced over at Rosamond and Sir Harold. They were the only ones left amongst the seating as her cousin played up her imaginary injury. Everyone else had passed through the doorway open in the folding wall that allowed Lady Lisle to separate her long salon into two areas. “Perhaps I’ll just walk you to the door.”

  He shrugged and offered his arm again. With a little thrill she laid her hand there.

  An immediate flush started in her chest and began to climb higher. How warm he was! The heat surely affected her brain, because she began to imagine what that lean, strong arm might feel like without his linen and his very fine wool coat.

  Too quickly—or at least before she could mentally remove any more of his clothes—they reached the end of the aisle. To the right stood the doorway, to the left a screen across a corner, presumably hiding a servant’s entrance. A pedestal stood between them, close to the screen, topped with one of Lady Lisle’s massive urns of fresh flowers.

  As they approached, Addy heard a small cry and caught a glimpse of a shadow darting behind the screen—and saw the pedestal shift and the urn begin to wobble.

  She opened her mouth, but before she could act, Vickers was there. He caught the fragile urn before it smashed to the floor. Unfortunately he could do nothing about the wave of water that sloshed out, carrying with it nearly half of the carefully arranged flowers.

  Addy jumped back, but the leading edge caught a section of her hem, wetting it through. From behind the screen came a gasp of horror and a stifled sob.

  Vickers replaced the urn, but Addy approached the corner. “It’s all right. Truly. Come out.”

  They waited. After a moment a young girl slunk from behind the screen, head down. Not a maidservant, as Addy had thought, but a gently bred girl, perhaps twelve years old, envel
oped in a fine wrapper. She lifted her chin as two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “I am so very sorry, miss!” Her eyes drifted over Addy’s gown and the tears started flowing faster. “Oh, your beautiful gown! I do apologize. I know I ought not to have come down and now look at what I’ve done!”

  “No, don’t fret!” Addy hastened to reassure her as she wrung out her hem. “It’s only water. It will dry.”

  But the girl caught sight of the mess on the floor and began to sob in earnest. “It was wrong, I know, but it was only—”

  The rest grew unintelligible.

  “You wished to hear the poetry?”

  The girl nodded and valiantly tried to stifle her tears, but the sight of Vickers seemed to be the last straw. “Oh, Mama will b. . .b . . be furious!”

  “Nonsense,” Addy interrupted. “No one has seen you save for the two of us—and we will certainly not spread the tale.”

  This did not have the beneficial effect she’d hoped for. The crying continued.

  “Come now,” Addy said desperately. “This is not so bad! Have you not heard of the royal princess, locked in a tower, who vowed to hurl flowers down to her favored suitors and urns down upon the heads of those who displeased her?”

  That stopped her for a moment. “No,” she said on a hiccup.

  “The princess had such a temper, she filled the courtyard with pottery shards before she found a man worthy of a posy. At once, she set him a series of tasks he thought he’d never complete.”

  The tears dried up. “What were they?”

  “Why don’t I tell you while you and I gather up the stems and Mr. Vickers goes to fetch a servant to wipe up the water?”

  The girl nodded. Addy raised her brows at Vickers, who stared very hard at her for a moment, then started off. “After she tossed him a lovely stem of lilac, the princess told her swain he must climb a far off rock face . . .”

  The story ended as they pushed the last of the flowers back into place. “Now, you can run back upstairs with no one the wiser,” Addy told the girl.

  “Thank you, ever so much.” The child curtsied, then gave a nod past her—and Addy turned to find Vickers returned and watching them. His curious expression caught her, and she stared, trying to decipher if it was heated or soft, or an odd mix of both. Behind her the girl slipped away and they were left in a stretched, taut silence.