Panic seized him. He hoped Lark had no recognition of the man who had claimed her rightful inheritance by default, and if she did not recollect Aubury, Jonathon did not want his own action to give away the game. He schooled himself to remain outwardly aloof.
He chanced a glance at Rebekka. She stood as stiff as a corpse. Her eyes had narrowed to barely open slits and she studied Aubury with scarcely concealed contempt. Jonathon issued another silent prayer.
Aubury took Lark’s extended free hand and bowed over her glove. “Pleasure to meet you Miss Blackburn. Rare beauty you are. Truly lovely.” He turned his attention, most interestedly, to Rebekka but did not address her.
Lark gave him a polite smile, then thrust the plate of refreshments back at Jonathon and answered the Duke of Uttington with her hands. Jonathon’s quick reflexes were all that saved the plate from smashing to the floor.
“I am happy to make your acquaintance,” Rebekka translated.
Aubury’s eyes darted from the young miss to the abigail and finally came to rest on Jonathon. “Want to explain?”
Jonathon did not. Yet, despite his reluctance, knew it was necessary. “Miss Blackburn is unable to speak at the moment. She relays messages with a language she acquired which utilizes hands and fingers.” To demonstrate his skill at this language, he thrust the refreshments plate to Rebekka and signed to Lark all he did not want her to reveal.
“Remember my father’s wishes. If you encounter anyone from your past—your past before you came to live at Somerset Hall, please do not reveal knowledge of them. If we are to play out this charade, it must be done with utmost accuracy.”
“You speak in riddles,” Lark told him with her hands. She turned to Rebekka. “He speaks in riddles,” she repeated.
Rebekka’s eyes grew worried. She shook her head. “No,” she said aloud, simply.
“Trust me,” Jonathon signed to Lark, and then turned to Aubury. “As Miss Blackburn and I are long acquaintances I have learned to use her language. If there is something she would like to say to you, either I or Rebekka, here, will be able to interpret.”
Aubury cast a darkened glance at Rebekka once again. “Not necessary,” he said. He moved his green, aqueous, eyes to Lark. “Must take my leave. Lovely making acquaintance.” He bowed politely and began to back away. “Hope to see you.”
With that, he bade a hasty retreat.
~*∞*~
Lark found the plate of refreshments handed to her once again. She stared at it as if it were a battalion of foreign soldiers come to arrest her.
She hadn’t longed to be confined to her quiet quarters so much in all her days. Absently, she picked at the food on the plate. Her stomach protested as the stale cake staked its claim. Without thought for propriety, her nose wrinkled at the awful taste, and she thrust the plate back at Jonathon with vengeful force. What was she doing here? She did not belong here any more than a marketeer from a London street did. She might be a Lady by birth, but she was no closer to the ton in upbringing than a commoner.
And neither was she close to attaining the perfection expected of Society.
She swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to weep. Jonathon had been right about one thing. This was a charade. And charades was a game at which she was not proficient, especially when the stakes ran so high. This was life, and everything was on the line.
Something mentally snapped, and a quiet calm washed over her. She was wrong. Nothing was on the line. The life of which she had become accustomed had died six months ago with Lord Peter. She had nothing. Nothing in the least.
She glanced up and looked directly into Jonathon’s eyes.
“I know the food is not quite appetizing,” he said. “But we’ll dine in a short time, and I’ll make sure the dinner dance belongs to me,” he told her brightly.
He spoke of dining and dancing as if all were the picture of rightness. He didn’t understand her at all.
He smiled. “I am sorry for the delay in returning to you. As I think you noticed, some acquaintances engaged me in conversation, and I was hard-pressed to escape.”
“It is quite all right,” she answered politely. And it was. There was nothing he could do to make the evening any better. She just needed to escape.
“I saw the Marichioness and her daughter approach you. She was polite, was she not?”
“Of course,” Lark replied, but she caught Rebekka shaking her head in a slow negative reply.
Lark shot Rebekka a warning glance full of admonition.
Rebekka shrugged and resumed her pretense of indifference.
“I am glad to hear it. I wish I could say the same about my cronies.” He came to stand beside Lark.
“You see that slight gentleman, there, behind Cyril?”
She nodded once she had located the gentleman.
“He is somehow related to Lady Jersey, or so the story is told,” Jonathon said.
Lark was sure this was supposed to transport her to a place of awe, but Lady Jersey was really just a name to her—one that was thrown about with reverence, but still just a name.
She smiled and tried to look interested. The music began again and ladies and gentlemen paired off, filling the dance floor with spirals of colour. Lark’s heart filled with a hopeless mixture of envy and fright. She wanted to dance with her Lord Somerset, to feel his palm against her own in a waltz, yet not here, but rather at home, where she was comfortable and could mash his toes without making a fool of herself.
She chanced a look at him and her gaze held his. Moments stretched between them, and she wondered what he was thinking behind those hooded eyes. At last, he smiled, and she was once again at ease.
“Would you care to fill your dance card, this evening, Miss Lark?”
She smiled hesitantly and was about to reply when Cyril interrupted them. “Now, now. No monopolies on the fair Miss Lark, Jon. I should like to have a go around the dance floor with her.” He turned to Lark and proffered a hand. “Perhaps you would grant me the next quadrille?”
“You are tiresome, Cyril,” Jonathon told his brother without sign of remorse.
“I am merely trying to make Miss Lark feel at home—and save her dainty toes from being crushed under your clobbering feet,” he added with a grin. His gaze moved to Lark. “Terrible dancer, my brother,” he said cheerfully.
Lark signed such a hasty reply that even Jonathon looked to Rebekka for translation.
“Miss Lark says Lord Somerset is an excellent dancer.”
Jonathon’s lips curved into a wide smile. “There you have it, Cyril. I am an excellent dancer.” He bowed his head in Lark’s direction. “Thank you.”
Cyril quirked an eyebrow at his brother. “And just how would Miss Lark know how well you move your feet?”
Jonathon seemed stopped cold by that pointed inquiry and did not recover for several seconds. Then a smile drew across his lips. “Miss Lark and I have known each other quite some time,” he said. “We have attended many such events during our acquaintance.”
Cyril chuckled, nodding his approval. “Touché. I had quite forgotten the extent of your acquaintance. I shan’t forget again, shall I? Now, back to the quadrille, Miss Lark. You will mark me on your card?”
She nodded for lack of knowledge of another response. The brothers Rexley were quite a pair, all at once seeming both at odds and in alliance with one another. She wondered what it would have been like had she had siblings of her own.
Her eyes misted over as her mind thought of the dim possibility. Had she had siblings they probably would have perished in the fire with the rest of her family.
Without asking permission, Jonathon took her hand. “Shall we have a go at this waltz?”
She smiled and silently rebuked the butterflies that fluttered inside her at the prospect. She had nothing to fear. She had danced the waltz with him many times over.
Yes, and she had crushed his toes more times than that.
“Are you all right?” Jonathon’s worried voi
ce brought her fretting mind back to itself. “You have a grip on my arm as tight as death,” he observed.
Her gaze traveled to where she held his forearm. The sight of her stiffened grasp surprised her. She was completely unaware she had even the strength inside her to produce such a vise. She forced her grip to ease and showed him an apologetic countenance.
“Don’t be afraid. I promise not to allow my pain to show. Should you step on my toes, not a soul will be the wiser.” He grinned, and she knew he was teasing her.
She could not help but be infected by the gaiety. She had crushed his feet so many times that he had most likely grown calluses of protection on them. She and he were laughing still when he took her in his arms and began moving her rhythmically round the dance floor.
She felt like a princess in his arms as he twirled her, his leading touch light yet strong. She ignored the stares and deliberately focused on his cravat. It was impeccably tied, impeccably white with a hint of pattern woven into the fabric so expertly that only at this close range could it be discerned. She closed her eyes and reveled in the music. Dancing with Jonathon in the quiet library had been an exercise, but waltzing with him on a floor full of dancers was an indescribable experience. She felt lighter than air as Jonathon skillfully twirled her.
Her eyes fluttered up to his face, and he smiled down at her. “You are lovely, Miss Lark, and I cannot tell you how grateful I am that the good Countess Lieven introduced this most sinful dance to us that I might hold you this closely under the scrutiny of others.”
Heat rose within her like steam from a pot of boiling water. Indeed, she thought she might boil over herself. Yet, the warmth was not frightening, but ever sublime.
She didn’t find the dance to be sinful, but she couldn’t say the same for the corruption of her innocent thoughts. Suddenly she wished they were once again dancing in the confines of the library—not to hide from Society, but for the intimacy the room provided.
She scanned the room. They were indeed under scrutiny; all eyes seemed to be upon them. Lark realized she cared not a whittle. She smiled brightly and drank in the exaltation brought on by waltzing with Jonathon. She was accustomed to living her life in exile, why should she care if she were not accepted now? She had been silly to worry. She needed to focus only on Jonathon holding her in his arms. That was all that mattered...
And then she espied the Marchioness of Abberley. The woman leaned over and whispered something to another finely dressed lady. That lady pointed a gloved finger in Lark’s direction, her mouth fallen open.
Lark strained to find them again and again as Jonathon twirled her around the room. Dread dampened her spirits, and her stomach searched for her boot buttons. All joy dissolved as quickly as it had risen. She wanted to scream at Jonathon to stop moving her; she wanted to see the women, to decipher what they were saying as they pointed at her—at her.
With the effect of a toppled house of cards, the news traveled down the row of ladies. As each lady turned to the next, that one cast a shocked glance in her direction, then cocked an ear to the next in line. Then, as if to add insult, when it came her turn, Lady Wescotte allowed the gossip to continue without apparent hindrance or correction.
Lark felt as if she were a moth caught within the glass encasement of a sconce. Suddenly she was center stage and trapped. Surely, like the moth, the heat would become too intense and she would perish.
She closed her eyes and tried to forget the meddlesome women. They were strangers, she told herself. What did it matter, their opinion? Hadn’t she just decided it didn’t matter?
It mattered.
She was not so naïve. She knew of the ridicule Lord Peter had received. She had overheard arguments between Jonathon and his father, between Cyril and his father, over the why’s of what he had done to them. She was not so naïve to think it didn’t matter—she merely wished to be.
Decidedly, she trumped up some inner courage she had not known existed and opened her eyes. If they were going to criticize her for not being able to speak, she certainly was not going to give them an added reason to flap their lips. She was going to show them she knew thoroughly how to dance.
Despite her conviction, her gaze strayed once again. This time it fell not on the ladies, but on Nigel Aubury. She didn’t know how her eyes had found him; he was almost completely hidden by a large potted tree. Perhaps that is what drew her attention. His intense gaze followed her across the dance floor as if she were a two-headed snake.
Like the visions of a nightmare, she could not forget his locale. Each time she was twirled in his direction, she found him all too easily. His watery gaze filled her with anxiety, his examination so fierce. There was a feral look to him that chilled Lark through to the bone, and regardless of how she tried, she could not shake the uneasy feeling.
The stale cake she had partaken of earlier became rancid in her stomach, and her legs tried to give way. She looked with desperate eyes to Jonathon and was gratefully aware when he perceived that all was not right with her.
Chapter Nineteen
“You are unwell,” he said as he led her from the other revelers.
I am well she wanted to scream out. But it would have been a lie, even if she had found her tongue. In truth, the rejection of the other women didn’t overset her as much as Aubury’s gaze. He truly looked as if he hated her—and that could not be since she did not even know the gentleman.
Jonathon led her out into the night. The evening breeze washed her with chilled air and a shiver racked her body.
“Forgive me,” Jonathon said. “Stay well, and I’ll return presently.” He left her for only a moment and returned carrying her pelisse. Wrapping it around her shoulders, he held her close to his body.
“I should hope no one sees us thus,” he told her, “else both our reputations will be ruined. But I dare not let you catch your death.”
Lark leaned into him, not caring about her reputation. His strong arms around her were enough to make her feel safe. She didn’t want to go back inside—ever. She wanted to remain in her safe haven at Somerset Hall, with no knowledge of Society, and with Society having no knowledge of her.
She still could not comprehend why Lord Peter had thought she needed protection, and neither did she care. The ton was a harsh lot, and she wanted nothing further to do with them. Surely if she disappeared again, the need for protection would be ended.
A shudder overcame her again and Jonathon’s grip tightened on her arm. “Do you wish to go inside? Before, you looked as if you needed some fresh air else you might swoon, but we can go back indoors if you are cold.”
She shook her head. Inside was decidedly bad. She watched a fine carriage pulled by a team of four white horses pass along the road. Even at this late hour, people were out and about. Why? she wondered. It was much more comforting to remain behind locked doors. Lord Peter may have been criticized for his reclusive behaviour, but in her opinion, he had the right of it. After all her yearning to be free, Lord Peter had had the right of it. How ironic.
“Would you like to explain what overset you so?” Jonathon’s voice vibrated through his chest and skittered across her back. It was odd how comforting just a sound could be.
She twisted to see his face. Worry was evident in the hard lines that now creased his brow. That was comforting, too. Whether the truth be that he considered her merely as a responsibility or as a wife, at least she meant something to him in some small way. But how could she tell him of her terrifying experience? It was indefinable. She had been afraid of a look, of a stare, of a few frustrated, haughty gossiping women.
“You must trust me, Lark. If we’re to be married, you must trust me explicitly. I would never wish harm on you.”
She pulled away from him, then, so she could speak, but the sudden chill stunned her to speechlessness. She had not fully realized the comfort of his warmth until the contact was severed. Desolation claimed her. If she told him she was consumed by fear of just a look from a stranger, w
hat would he think of her? Even she thought her reaction was irrational. Surely, a man as strong and immovable as Lord Somerset would think her childish—and a child was far from the image she wished him to embrace.
“I am fine,” she signed. “I merely became too hot. So many people, you understand. I am not used to such activity. I do apologize if I caused you worry. That was not my intention. I—”
He showed her his palm. “Please, slow down.”
Her hands slowed. “I am sorry. I am overly agitated this evening. I was so afraid I would bring you shame.” The words had sprung from her fingers before she realized what she was saying. Embarrassed, she dropped her head, studying the crystal white gloves covering her hands.
She felt, more than heard, when he moved towards her. Even through the thick pelisse and ample material of her gown’s short sleeves, his heat penetrated her body. She lifted her head slowly and came to meet his gaze.
It was her undoing. Raw affection shone in the depths of his dark eyes the likes of which she had never experienced. She swallowed the lump of awareness that rose in her throat as her eyes threatened to spill with tears.
Turning her head, she avoided his eyes, but he did not allow it. Slowly he moved his hand up her arm and with a single finger, turned her face towards his once again.
“No,” he said huskily. “Don’t turn away.” He cupped her chin in his hand, and she wondered absently how his hand had managed to move from her arm to her chin without ever breaking the contact between them. “Do you not know you could never bring me shame, Lark Blackwell?”
He caressed her cheek. “You are a daffodil after a spring shower. My life has been a thunderstorm—a struggle to fit into something I never actually believed worthwhile. Yet, I would not change a moment of my wait for sunshine, for you are the flower that blooms from the bud of all my discord.”
The Resurrection of Lady Somerset Page 15