by Anna Bennett
“I believe it’s almost time for the fireworks.” Julie’s cheeks glowed with excitement. “I can’t wait to see them, but I wish they didn’t signal the end of the evening’s festivities.”
“The night is still young,” Uncle Alistair said. “Let us take our wine and repair to the lawn, where we’ll have a clear view of the show, which is spectacular by all amounts.”
“A fine plan,” the duchess said, graciously ignoring Uncle Alistair’s flub and taking the arm he offered. “And we are fortunate—it seems the heavens have cleared just for us.”
The older pair led the way to the lawn, and Lord Darberville and Julie followed suit, which left Beth and the duke bringing up the rear of their little procession.
He offered his arm and leveled a look at her that said don’t even think about refusing. Shrugging, she tucked her hand in the warm, hard crook of his elbow and resolved to enjoy the fireworks.
The duke directed the group to the edge of a clearing, near a row of tall hedges, and they looked up in time to see the first rockets streak through the black-velvet sky and explode in a burst of red.
Julie laughed and covered her ears with her hands.
The crowd cheered, delighted that the show was finally underway, then quieted and settled in to enjoy it.
Beth released the duke’s arm and clasped her hands behind her back. His sideways glance said he didn’t trust her to remain in one spot for more than two seconds—and after the night’s earlier scuffle, she supposed she couldn’t blame him.
They gazed at the sky in companionable silence, but Beth was very, very aware of the duke, standing beside her, his muscled arm only inches from her shoulder. When the duchess applauded, delighting in a brilliant white rocket, the duke caught Beth’s eye and shot her a knee-melting grin. Dangerous, that. But he was genuinely happy to see his grandmother happy.
And that made Beth happy.
As the show continued, however, the duke seemed to grow agitated. The direction of the breeze had shifted, and a cloud of gray smoke floated above the crowd. He rocked his weight from one foot to the other and raked a hand through his thick hair, grabbing a fistful.
Beth stepped closer to him and whispered in his ear. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he whispered back, but a sheen of perspiration covered his forehead. Frowning, he admitted, “I dislike the smell of smoke.”
Ah, yes. She’d forgotten about his burns. According to the rumors, he’d almost died in the fire that had claimed the lives of his parents. It was no wonder he found the acrid smell of the smoke and the crack of the fireworks unsettling.
“If you’d like to skip the second half of the show, you could leave and meet us at the coach afterward.”
“If I didn’t know better, Miss Lacey, I’d think you were trying to rid yourself of me.”
“No,” she said honestly. “I just want to help.”
“You are helping.” He wiped a sleeve across his brow. “Keep talking to me.”
“Very well. I shall say what I attempted to say earlier—that I appreciate you defending me and my uncle earlier tonight. And that I’m in your debt.”
“It was nothing,” he said shrugging. “I would have done the same for any young woman cornered by a band of dissolute drunks.”
His words, surely meant to downplay his chivalry, wounded her a little. Not that she imagined she was anyone special to him. But he had seemed more than a little incensed on her behalf. Perhaps she’d read too much into his actions.
Some of the color had returned to his face, so Beth kept talking. “It may have seemed like nothing to you,” she said softly. “But it was not nothing to me.”
“It’s a good thing you’re a companion and not a governess. Your grammar is horrid,” he teased.
“I’ve never claimed otherwise,” she countered. “My talents lie elsewhere.”
He arched a wicked brow at her. “I’d be very interested in hearing more about your talents, Miss Lacey.”
Ignoring his obvious innuendo and the fluttering in her chest, she rolled her eyes. “If you must know, I’m rather good at gardening and sewing.” There. He couldn’t possibly make those activities seem improper. Although if anyone could …
“I feel certain that your talents extend to other areas as well. However, I think we can safely conclude that you lack skill at parasol combat.”
Beth blinked. “Parasol combat?”
“Roscoe barely felt your blow to his arm. Actually, it was more like a tap.”
“My weapon had been compromised.” She waved her battered parasol as evidence.
“It could have served you well—if you’d used it properly.”
Beth refrained from rolling her eyes. He certainly seemed to be feeling more like himself, in spite of the ongoing firework show and the haze of smoke surrounding them.
“And I suppose you’re an expert on parasol combat?” she challenged.
He shrugged. “The parasol is certainly not my weapon of choice, but sometimes we must make do with whatever’s on hand.” He took the sorry contraption from her hand and demonstrated. “Instead of swinging it like a cricket bat, you should have gripped it with both hands and jabbed it like a fire poker.”
“Jabbed?” she repeated, skeptical.
“Precisely,” he said. “And you should have used the point to hit Roscoe where he’s most vulnerable—in the eyes, neck, or…”
Beth snatched the parasol out of his hands. “No need to elaborate.” Though they spoke softly, anyone nearby could have heard them between the explosions overhead. She moved a bit closer. “You would have liked me to maim him—right in the middle of Vauxhall Gardens?”
“It would have been no more than he deserved.” More seriously, he added, “Sometimes you only have one opportunity to defend yourself. If you do, you should not waste it for fear of making a scene. Your only thought should be of protecting yourself.”
“I shall keep your advice in mind,” she said, touched by his concern. “But I am unlikely to ever find myself in that position again.”
“One never knows,” the duke replied soberly. “It’s good to be prepared, in any event.”
Beth smiled to herself. She never would have believed that the formidable Duke of Blackshire would deign to teach his grandmother’s companion the finer points of self-defense—and demonstrate with a lace-trimmed parasol.
In front of her, Uncle Alistair pointed to direct the duchess’s attention to a tightrope walker in the distance, illuminated by the glow of the fireworks. The duchess watched, captivated, and soon everyone in the crowd watched as well. The acrobat moved slowly along a rope suspended between two poles that looked like ships’ masts.
Beth relaxed. The duchess seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. The earlier rainstorm hadn’t spoiled her special evening, and neither had the incident with Roscoe—which, thankfully, she knew nothing about. In another half hour, the show would be over, and they’d return home, and the duke would be able to cross off one wish.
Which meant the duchess—and Beth—had only two wishes before their time in London was over. Not that Beth wanted to prolong it, but she did want to be sure that the duchess thoroughly enjoyed her last couple of weeks in town—with her grandson.
Through the mist, Beth held her breath as she watched the tightrope walker inch across the wire. Everyone was transfixed on her silhouette as she seemed to walk between the stars.
But suddenly a flare fired sideways and streaked toward the crowd. Toward them.
Beth felt the heat as a missile whizzed by and landed in the tall hedges behind them.
“Look out!” the duke shouted, rushing Beth and the rest of their party away, just as the rocket exploded.
Chapter TEN
Alex hauled his grandmother and Miss Lacey away from the blast as fast as he could. Darby dragged Wiltmore and his other niece behind them. When everyone in the group emerged from the cloud of smoke, Alex checked each of them to make sure no sparks from the ex
plosion had landed on their clothes.
Damn, but he hated fires.
His heart pounded out of his chest, his nostrils burned, and the boom still echoed in his ears. It was just like his nightmares—where he was a boy, unable to breathe, clinging to his father while flames licked his neck and singed his flesh.
“What on earth happened?” his grandmother asked meekly.
“One of the rockets must have misfired,” he said. “Is everyone all right?”
The ladies and Wiltmore answered in the affirmative. Darby nodded. “None the worse for wear.”
“You have some embers on the back of your jacket, your grace,” Miss Lacey said, frowning.
She pressed her closed parasol firmly against one of his shoulder blades and a spot on his side.
“There,” she said, brushing ash off his sleeve. “The sparks are out, but I fear your jacket may be ruined.”
He didn’t give a damn about his jacket. “Was anyone hurt?”
“I don’t think so,” Darby said. “The hedges took the worst of it, and they were still damp from the storm. If they’d been dry, the whole garden might have turned into a tinderbox. We’re fortunate.”
Alex arched a brow. It didn’t feel like luck was on his side tonight.
And yet, above them the fireworks display continued. The acrobat walked on her tightrope.
Meanwhile, he still tried to tamp down the panic that had flooded his veins.
Miss Lacey placed a hand on his arm and spoke softly in his ear. “Shall I tell the duchess it’s time to leave? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind missing the end of the show, and we’ve certainly had our share of excitement for one night.”
Alex wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of that place, away from the whizzing rockets and deafening explosions and suffocating smoke. But the sight of Miss Lacey’s pink cheeks and sparkling eyes had him shaking his head. She was obviously dazzled by the tightrope walker and the fireworks display, and if he was honest with himself … he was a little dazzled by her.
“No. It will be over soon. Enjoy the show. We’ll leave immediately after.” And within the hour, he’d be in his study with a glass of brandy—or three—in a futile attempt to ward off the terrifying dreams that would plague him tonight.
Miss Lacey shot him an assessing glance, and her pretty eyes narrowed with concern. As though she knew.
He pretended to turn his attention to the tightrope walker, but in actuality, he was doing two things: periodically checking the hedges in case a few remaining sparks caused them to burst into flames and planning an escape route for his party in case another rogue rocket should suddenly hurtle their way.
Miss Lacey stood close—as though she wished to keep an eye on him. Completely unnecessary, of course. But nice. Her mere presence caused his demons to retreat—for a while, at least.
He reached for the folded parasol she held and inspected it, frowning at the broken spokes and burnt silk. “I don’t know why you haven’t disposed of this by now—it’s beyond ruined. Order a new one and bill it to me.”
“I intend to keep this one. I rather like the black spots and its jaunty angle when it’s opened.” She took it back, pointed the tip at his side, and arched a brow. “And it still could be of use—as a weapon, of course.”
“Touché.” He closed his fist around the top of the parasol while she held the handle, initiating a mock tug-of-war. And when their gazes locked, the air between them crackled.
For the space of several heartbeats, neither of them moved. Then they heard a woman behind them whisper loudly—as though she’d had too much wine. “Seems the Duke of Blackshire has a new paramour.”
“I’m not certain whether we should offer her our congratulations or condolences. He can’t be content with one miss for long,” her companion replied.
On the opposite end of the parasol from him, Miss Lacey’s smile faded a tad.
“Who is she?” asked the first woman.
“I’m not certain, but I believe I saw Lord Wiltmore with their party, which means she must be…”
“… one of the Wilting Wallflowers? With the duke? One can only surmise he lost a wager.”
“Or perhaps someone dared him to flirt with her.” An unladylike hiccup escaped her, and both women fell into fits of laughter.
But all the sparkle was gone from Miss Lacey’s eyes … and it gutted him. She released the parasol and looked away.
“Pay no attention to them,” he said to her. “They’re foolish and drunk.”
“I know,” she said, despondent. “But they’re simply saying what everyone else is thinking.”
“Would you like me to speak to them? I will, if it would make you feel better.”
“No. It would only create more of a scene.”
God, he felt helpless. She’d comforted him earlier, and he could think of nothing to say. “Would you like to leave? I’ll gather everyone so we can go.”
“No. Do not worry about my feelings. I’m used to the insults. I’m just relieved that Julie and Uncle Alistair didn’t hear them.”
Damn. He felt like the villain in a bad play. He’d carelessly labeled her and her sisters the Wilting Wallflowers before he even knew them. And now he was catching a firsthand glimpse of the suffering those thoughtless words had caused her. How could he have been so callous?
“I know what it’s like to be the subject of gossip,” he said. It was true. Not the gossip, but the fact that he was the subject of it. “The best course is to pretend like you don’t care.”
“You probably don’t even have to pretend.”
If she only knew. “You might be right. Or maybe I’ve just become very good at pretending.”
She sighed forlornly. “I suppose it’s been a trying evening for both of us.”
“It hasn’t been a complete loss.” Impulsively, he reached for her hand, laced his fingers through hers, and gave a little squeeze.
She blinked in surprise and looked up at him.
He held his breath, wondering if she’d pull away. Hoping she wouldn’t.
Because holding her hand was the best part of his whole damned day. Hell, it might be the best part of his year.
* * *
Beth didn’t pull away, even though she should have. A few seconds ago, she’d felt sad and miserable and angry about a stranger’s snide remarks. Now, all she could think about was the warm pressure of the duke’s hand and how her whole body tingled from that simple touch.
Of course, she was just providing more fodder for nasty gossip, but she wasn’t sure she cared. Their hands were mostly hidden by her skirts. The duke brushed his thumb over the back of her hand, sending delicious shivers up her arm and making her pulse race.
Perhaps he wasn’t as cold-hearted as she’d thought. He seemed truly sympathetic, and he certainly had nothing to gain by comforting her. It wasn’t as though he was interested in her in a romantic sense … or was he?
Impossible. Just yesterday, he’d seemed to detest her.
When she’d recovered her senses sufficiently to speak, she attempted to change the direction of the conversation. “This night did not go as smoothly as I’d hoped, but I feel certain that the duchess’s next two wishes can be accomplished with less drama, your grace.”
He winced at her use of formal address. “You should call me Alex.”
“No, I shouldn’t.” She could hardly imagine it.
“And I should address you as Elizabeth.”
“What’s wrong with Miss Lacey?” she asked.
“Nothing’s wrong with your surname. It’s perfectly fine.”
“I’m glad you approve,” she said dryly.
“I shall use it when we’re in the company of others,” he said, “but when we’re alone … I like Elizabeth.”
“My sisters call me Beth. So did my parents, when they were alive.” She wasn’t quite sure why she’d shared that fact.
“Fine, then I shall call you Beth too.”
Oh, but he was g
ood—making it seem like he was accommodating her wishes. Still, she couldn’t allow it. “I don’t think that would be wise. I’m practically a member of your staff.”
“No,” he countered. “You don’t work for me.”
He was correct, if one discounted the deal they’d made. But there was no sense in splitting hairs. After all, once he’d succeeded in sending his grandmother away, Beth was unlikely to see him again.
And the truth was that she found it difficult to argue with him as long as he caressed the back of her hand like he was … flirting.
“Fine. Address me however you like.” God help her, she was weak.
He grinned like he’d won big at the gaming tables. “Thank you … Beth.”
She attempted a cool nod, as though she were quite accustomed to having handsome gentlemen hold her hand and whisper her given name under a sky lit with fireworks. “You made your grandmother happy tonight,” she said. “I thank you for that.”
“She does seem happy,” he agreed. “But I find myself curious. Are you happy?”
Beth blinked. She’d never really stopped to consider the question. In the years after her parents’ coach had careened off an icy bridge and left her and her sisters orphans, she’d been busy simply trying to survive. But then her sister Meg had fallen in love and married an earl, and they no longer had to worry about money. Meg was certainly happy, and Beth was happy for her. But she suspected the duke was asking her something altogether different.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “It seems that I am always worried about something.” It was true. From the time she was a girl, she’d worried about everything from scarlet fever, to catastrophic storms, to the once-very-real possibility that she and her little family would land in the poorhouse. Beth had always had a knack for spotting potential trouble and latching onto it until the threat was resolved. How else was she supposed to protect her sisters and her uncle?
“What are you worried about right now?” He looked at her earnestly, as though her answer mattered very much.
She thought about the stormy boat ride, Roscoe’s threats, the nearby explosion, and the gossipers’ barbs. Maybe it was the duke’s solid presence or his deep voice, or the pressure of his calloused thumb on her hand, but all of those worries melted away and she simply existed in the moment. The evening air kissed her skin, a light breeze tickled the curls at her nape, and the fireworks lent everything around her a magical glow.