The Queen's Ball

by Anthea Lawson

  “I expect so.” His gaze met hers, green eyes the color of shadowed oak leaves, no trace of a smile on his firm lips.

  As she had feared—and expected. “Will you give me something to remember you by?”

  “Of course.” He pressed her hand. “Anything you ask.”

  Her heart thumped wildly. Oh, it was daring of her, but this was her last chance . . .

  “A kiss,” she said softly. “Just one.”

  If she were fated to life as a spinster governess, she wanted a glimpse of what it would be like to share a kiss with the man she loved. A single, perfect moment to hold next to her heart and carry with her always.

  His eyes widened a fraction, but he nodded. Without a word, he pulled her into the shadows behind the columns. His head dipped to hers, and between one heartbeat and the next, their lips met.

  Sensation glittered through her, as though starlight were pouring atop her head and sifting down through her body in silver waves. The place where their mouths touched tingled, and she swayed forward. He caught her against his chest, and tears pricked her closed eyes at the feeling of being pressed so close to him.

  It was anchor and storm all at once, safety and tempest whirling in a delicious mix through her very being.

  And then it was over.

  Blinking, she stepped back. His gaze fixed on hers, Kit gave her a crooked smile that seemed equal parts tenderness and regret.

  “Will that do?” he asked.

  No, she wanted to say. Never. Stay with me.

  Instead, she gave him a somewhat stiff nod and stepped back into the main gallery. None of the others in the room had seemed to notice their brief absence, although she thought she saw a flutter of pastel skirts at the entrance to the Throne Room.

  After a moment, Kit joined her.

  “My ship sails next week,” he said, a hint of bleakness in his voice.

  “And what of your quest to find a bride?” The words felt like shards of glass in her throat, but she must ask.

  “I believe Miss Olivia Thornton is amenable to my suit,” he said, not sounding any happier than she.

  Ellie swallowed. She did not know Miss Thornton other than as a very distant acquaintance. “She seems a pleasant young lady. And well dowried, I suppose.”

  “Yes, that.” Kit shook his head, his expression strained. “Please, can we talk of something else?”

  “There she is!” Delia’s shrill voice cut through the air.

  Ellie glanced at the doorway to the Throne Room to see her stepfamily approaching. A sneer of triumph on her face, Delia marched in the lead, followed by Abigail and Lady Tremont. Ellie curled her hands into fists, resisting the urge to turn and flee. Cold apprehension washed through her, erasing the last echoes of Kit’s kiss.

  “Eleanor.” Lady Tremont’s voice was hard. “How very irregular. You have a great deal of explaining to do.”

  Ellie’s throat went dry as she confronted Lady Tremont’s baleful stare.

  “My godmother sent me a ball gown,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “And Henderson accompanied me.”

  “You should have joined us directly,” Lady Tremont said. “Instead, I discover you sneaking off with Lord Christopher—”

  “I asked Ellie to dance,” Kit said, stepping forward to shield her. “She’d only just arrived. And then the crush on the dance floor demanded we take a moment to catch our breaths. If you must find fault, Lady Tremont, then I ask you lay it at my feet, not hers.”

  Delia sniffed and gave him a pointed look. “You are not the gentleman you’ve led us to believe, Lord Christopher.”

  “I never pretended to be anything other than who I am,” he replied.

  “Be that as it may,” the viscountess said, “you are henceforth forbidden to visit our home, sir. And speaking of which, we are headed there directly. Girls, collect your things.”

  Ellie wanted to protest that she’d only just arrived, but the evening was well and truly ruined in any case. She moved toward the ballroom to retrieve her slippers, but Lady Tremont took her arm in a tight grasp.

  “No more sneaking away into corners,” her stepmother said. “You’ll wait outside with me while they bring the carriage around.”

  Pointedly turning her back on Kit, the viscountess stalked to the doorway leading into the Green Drawing Room, pulling Ellie along with her.

  Ellie glanced over her shoulder, hoping Kit could read the apology in her eyes. It was a mortifying end to a night that had careened from bliss to humiliation, and it was certainly not the way she’d wanted to bid him farewell.

  “Goodbye, Kit,” she called.

  His expression set, Kit made her a low bow, as if she were truly a princess. He straightened and their gazes met one last time.

  Then Lady Tremont hustled her out of the room, and everything was gone. Her hopes. Her dreams. Her childhood friend.

  Everything, except herself.

  Ellie pulled her arm out of her stepmother’s grip.

  “I can navigate the stairs on my own,” she said coolly.

  Not to mention the rest of her life. On the morrow, she would pay a call on Lady Merriweather to return the sapphires—and secure her help in finding a governess position as quickly as possible.

  ***

  Kit watched Ellie go, a hot, uncomfortable knot in his chest.

  He shouldn’t have kissed her—he knew better—but he’d wanted to for weeks, if not years. And she had asked.

  Unfortunately, all he wanted to do was keep kissing her. That, and sweep her off to India with him. She would thrive there, he suspected, once she grew accustomed to the climate and culture.

  Tonight, he’d seen the old Ellie—the girl who’d challenged him to a tree-climbing contest and, when he’d lost, forced him to read books of poetry that he’d found surprisingly enjoyable. The girl who’d teased him into being a better person and awakened his sense of adventure. The girl he’d once known he’d marry—known fiercely, with the entire burning surety of his fifteen-year-old heart.

  As Kit stood in the opulent gallery, the sounds of gaiety drifting from the Throne Room, the realization slowly crystallized within him. His younger self had been right.

  He could not marry anyone except Eleanor Tremont.

  If he did, he knew that, despite his best efforts, he would constantly compare whomever he wed with Ellie, and find her lacking. That was a sure recipe for a miserable marriage.

  Ellie might have no dowry, but life with her was the only path to happiness he could see. For both of them, if he read her emotions aright.

  He must find a way to save the tea plantation without marrying for money. True, he and his father had spent long nights turning the problem over and they had not seen a better way.

  But he could not save the plantation at the expense of his own heart.

  There had to be a solution—and he vowed he would find it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ellie regarded her bare wardrobe, then glanced at the partially empty trunk on her bedroom floor. Perhaps she would fill the rest of it with her favorite books. There was no guarantee her new employer would let her make free with their library, after all.

  “Must you really leave?” Abby asked from her perch on Ellie’s bed. “And to take a job as a governess, of all things? I’m going to miss you.”

  “I know.” Ellie sent her a fond glance. “But I must take this position with the Granvilles, especially as Lady Merriweather arranged it on such short notice. Please, try to understand.”

  “Oh, I do.” Abby grimaced. “As soon as I can, I’m going to find an agreeable husband and leave the house, myself.”

  “Don’t settle for just anyone.” Ellie tucked her small pouch of jewelry into one of the trunk’s pockets. “You deserve someone who will treat you with consideration.”

  Abby heaved a sigh. “I would much prefer love—but as Lord Christopher has been banned from the house, there’s no hope of that.”

  Not that Kit had ever inte
nded to offer for Abby, but Ellie kept that thought to herself. There was no need for unkindness, especially during this last hour before her employer’s coach came to collect her.

  “Kit has left for India, in any case,” Ellie said, the knowledge weighing heavily upon her heart.

  She’d hoped for a note of farewell, at least, and kept a careful eye on the mail to make sure Lady Tremont didn’t get her clutches on any envelopes meant for Ellie. But the days had passed, and there was nothing from Kit.

  And now he was gone.

  “Miss Eleanor.” Mr. Atkins rapped upon her half-open door. “You have a caller.”

  Sir Granville must have sent his carriage early.

  “I’ll be down in a moment,” she said.

  With a sigh, she shut the lid of her trunk. As she straightened from doing up the latches, Abby flung herself off the bed to give her a tearful embrace.

  “Don’t go,” her stepsister said with a choked sob.

  “There, there.” Ellie patted her back. “I’ll have one day off a week, and I’ll come visit. The Granvilles don’t live so far away as all that.”

  When they were in town, that was. She didn’t mention that the family was planning to repair to their country estate for the rest of the summer. Why add to Abby’s unhappiness? With her mercurial nature, she’d recover as soon as Ellie stepped out the door.

  Well, perhaps not that quickly, but still.

  Leaving her stepsister blotting her eyes, Ellie went downstairs. She paused before the parlor door to pat her hair into place, wondering who Sir Granville had sent to escort her.

  A man stood in the center of the room. Ellie froze, heart clenching as she saw it was not some unknown stranger, but Kit Newland, grinning unrepentantly at her.

  “Hello, Ellie,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if the butler would let me in.”

  With a tremendous thud, her heart resumed beating.

  “It’s really you?” she asked, trying to balance her careening emotions. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—or quite how to interpret his unexpected visit. “I thought you’d taken ship already.”

  “Not yet,” he said. “I brought you something.”

  He stepped forward and handed her the slippers they’d hidden behind the curtains at the Queen’s Ball.

  “You fetched them out?” she asked, a catch in her throat.

  He certainly had no obligation to do so, and his thoughtfulness nearly undid her altogether—no matter that she despised the too-small slippers.

  “Of course.” He raised his brows. “It wouldn’t do to leave evidence of the crime behind. This way, you can dispose of them properly.”

  “Please don’t tell me you delayed your journey simply to bring back my slippers,” she said, setting them aside.

  “Not entirely.” His expression turned serious. “The truth is, there’s something I couldn’t bear to leave behind.”

  Her hands trembled, and she squeezed them tightly together.

  “What might that be?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “Can’t you guess?” He took another step and gently set his hands on her shoulders. “My heart, Ellie. Don’t you know it’s in your keeping?”

  She shook her head. “But . . . what of Miss Thornton and her dowry?”

  “After the ball, I realized you were the only one for me. Drat it, I’m not doing this properly.” He released her shoulders and went down on one knee. “Miss Eleanor Tremont, would you do me the very great favor of becoming my wife?”

  She wanted to say yes—oh, how she wanted to—and yet . . .

  “What about your tea plantation?” She knew she must turn him down, despite the anguish burning in her chest. “I can’t let you ruin your future for me, Kit.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to,” he said solemnly. “Lord Brumley has agreed to become an investor.”

  Ellie drew in a disbelieving breath. “He has?”

  Kit reached and took her hands, smoothing her fingers and clasping them in his. “It took some convincing—and even more time to settle the paperwork, or I would have been here days ago—but yes, the plantation is saved, whether I marry for money or not.”

  “And would we live in India?”

  “Is that agreeable to you?” Concern shaded his eyes.

  “Yes,” she said fervently. “I would very much like that. And more to the point, I would very much like to marry you, Lord Christopher Newland. Someone has to keep that title from going to your head, after all.”

  He gave a shout of laughter and stood. Then they were in one another’s arms, and Ellie’s despair turned to a brilliant, shining joy.

  “What’s this?” Lady Tremont’s voice snapped through the room. “Lord Christopher, you are not welcome beneath this roof. I require you to leave, immediately.”

  “He can’t.” Ellie faced her stepmother defiantly. “He’s my betrothed.”

  Lady Tremont blanched, her eyes wide with shock.

  “You can’t marry,” she said in a voice shrill with anger. “I forbid it. Forbid it! Do you understand?”

  Kit stepped between them. “Too late. And now I require you to cease threatening my fiancée.”

  “Out!” Lady Tremont shrieked, pointing toward the door. “Out, the both of you.”

  “Gladly,” Ellie said, feeling a sure calm descend over her. “My trunk is already packed. See it delivered to Lady Merriweather’s. Come, Kit.”

  Ignoring her stepmother’s poisonous glare, she brushed past and headed for the front door, Kit at her shoulder.

  Mr. Atkins held the door open, an apologetic look on his face.

  “So sorry, miss,” he said. “I’ll send Henderson to you.”

  “Please do.” She paused. “When we depart for India, I’ll offer you a place. If that’s all right, Kit?”

  “Of course,” her fiancé said, his hand warm at her back. “And your maid too, it goes without saying.”

  A loud crash from the parlor made them turn, and Mr. Atkins winced. “I’m afraid that was the Chinese urn. You’d best be going.”

  Ellie nodded. “Please tell whomever Sir Granville sends that I’ve had a change in plans.”

  She would have to make her apologies to that family, and to her godmother, but under the circumstances, she wagered they’d understand.

  As she and Kit climbed into the cab he’d hired, another shriek of rage drifted from the house. She’d no idea why her betrothal had sent her stepmother into such a fierce tantrum, and she had no intention of returning to find out.

  “Lady Merriweather’s,” Kit told the driver, and the man nodded.

  The coach jolted into motion, and Kit took her hands once more.

  “I even brought a ring,” he said, a bit forlornly, “but that didn’t go at all as planned.”

  “It was a memorable proposal, at any rate.” She smiled at him, her spirits rising with every moment they traveled away from Tremont House. “May I see it?”

  He drew a small velvet bag from his pocket and shook out the ring. “I had to guess on the fit.”

  She held her left hand out, and he slipped the ring onto her finger.

  “It’s perfect,” she said, looking down at the yellow tourmaline surrounded by diamonds.

  “The closest thing I could find to a daisy,” he said with a smile.

  “Absent that flower, it will have to do.” Then she laughed and leaned forward to kiss him, and everything was right with the world.

  ***

  It was not, of course, quite as simple as that.

  Lady Merriweather required several explanations, but at last she was satisfied and agreed that Ellie might remain with her until their departure for India.

  Henderson appeared in due time, along with Ellie’s trunk, which proved to contain some books and Abby’s second-best pelisse. The additions made Ellie’s heart warm even further toward her stepsister, and she vowed to ask Kit’s parents to look in upon Abby when they arrived in England.

  The most surprisi
ng development, however, came three days later, when Papa’s solicitor paid Ellie a call.

  Her godmother gave a nod, as though she’d been expecting such a visit, and accompanied Ellie down to the yellow parlor to meet with the man—a brown-haired fellow named Mr. Tippet.

  After the pleasantries had been concluded, the solicitor set his folder of papers on the table before them.

  “Now that you’re to be married,” he said, “we have the details of your inheritance to be worked out.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Ellie regarded him with some confusion from her place on the sofa. “I was given to understand that Papa left me no money.”

  Mr. Tippet gave her a precise nod. “True, but only until your marriage. Then you are to come into the thirty thousand pounds he left you.”

  The breath left her in a whoosh, and she sagged back. It was a substantial sum, and suddenly Lady Tremont’s rage at hearing of her betrothal made sense.

  “Excellent,” Lady Merriweather said, lifting her quizzing glass. “If I might take a look at those papers?”

  The solicitor pushed the neat stack her way, and she made a few hms and tsks as she paged through.

  “I take it my stepmother knew of this provision,” Ellie asked, the first surge of anger overcoming her shock.

  “Of course she did.” The solicitor blinked at her in dismay. “Do you mean to say she did not inform you? She said the news would come better from her and bade me not to speak of it.”

  “No.” Ellie’s voice was hard. “She said nothing.”

  So much of Lady Tremont’s behavior made sense now—keeping her in mourning, treating her as a servant so that she would remain downtrodden in her own home. Telling her she had no dowry! It was the outside of enough. Bitterly, Ellie wondered how many callers her stepmother had turned away for fear of Ellie catching some suitor’s eye.

  “I am so sorry.” Mr. Tibbs sounded flustered. “I had thought . . . that is, I assumed . . .”

  “Not everyone is as honorable as you are, sir,” the Baroness said dryly. “However, all the paperwork appears to be in good order. Congratulations, my dear. You are an heiress.”

  Ellie still could not grasp it. If only she’d known! She and Kit might have married right away.

  And then she would have spent the rest of their marriage wondering if he loved her more for herself, or for her money.