A Seductive Lady Rescued From Flames (Historical Regency Romance)

by Emily Honeyfield

  Ernest nodded, popping his cigar between his lips. Together, they darted down the staircase and rounded the corner. From where they stood in the side garden, they had a near-perfect view of the ball through the windows: the glowing orange light, the flickering candles, the dresses sweeping in time to the music. Ernest shivered, allowing smoke to ease from between his lips.

  The ball looked like a perfect painting, the sort you looked at and were meant to sigh and say, “Wow. I would love to live in that world.” But Ernest was a part of that world. It had been passed down to him. Everything about it reeked of privilege and power and beauty and life. And yet, all he wanted, just now, was to flee into the woods, to find Diana, to change his name and the course of his life forever.

  “You seem a bit different,” Michael uttered then.

  Ernest’s eyes flashed toward him. “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t mean to speak out of turn,” Michael said. “It’s only that I never imagined you with someone like…”

  Both stopped talking as Grace appeared in the window. Her smile was enormous, her lips bright red and her cheeks blotchy with laughter. Ernest had never seen her awash with such pleasure. He felt like he was looking at a country on a map—a place he’d never been to before and couldn’t possibly imagine.

  “I’m going to marry her,” Ernest said, cutting through Michael’s words. “It’s going to be dreadful, maybe. But it’s my father’s wish. And to be honest with you, Michael, I have a hunch that nearly everything grows sour after a while. All of life. All of love. So, you might as well do what you’re meant to do. Like we’re all following a script.”

  “When I met Bethany,” Michael began, “I had no idea what I was doing. Fumbling over my words. I couldn’t sleep at night, because I was up thinking about her.” He paused for a long moment, as though he was trying to drum up the courage to tell Ernest exactly what he meant.

  But, of course, Ernest already knew. He knew the process of falling in love. He was in the midst of it now. He was flat on his face with passion for Diana. He imagined them years from then, stretched out on the grass, gazing at the blue sky. He imagined their children scampering around them, creating rules for their games. He imagined Diana sighing and whispering in his ear, saying—

  No. He couldn’t do this. He blinked and tapped his hand across Michael’s shoulder, whispering, “It really is wonderful for you to say such things, Michael. But there’s really so much you could never possibly understand about Grace and me. We’re truly happy. She takes such pleasure in these balls and dances and parties, while I prefer to be on the outside, looking in. Of course, she’ll beckon me back soon—demand that I play the part of the earl. Without her, I’d be nothing. Everyone would speak ill of me. I tell her all the time that I’d much prefer to be only an earl, rather than the sort of man that has to perform his duties. But she knows better. The women always do.”

  Michael’s eyes grew shadowed with sorrow. He dropped his cigar to the ground and smashed it with the side of his foot. “Bethany is pregnant,” he said.

  Ernest’s heart felt squeezed, as though Michael had just been given the sort of life Ernest had always craved. He dropped his cigar, as well, and then wrapped his friend in a warm hug. He inhaled slowly. Although the gesture was short-lived, it felt oddly emotional—as though Ernest was bidding goodbye to any last bit of happiness he might have been allowed.

  Ernest and Michael returned to the ball after that, neither of them speaking. The moment they entered, Grace’s eyes fluttered toward Ernest. Her cheeks flashed pink, perhaps with embarrassment or shame—or just because she knew she’d been caught. Beside her stood the enormous blonde duke. He dragged his fingers through his wild blonde curls and bent down, muttering something in Grace’s ear. Whatever he said made her absolutely dizzy-looking with laughter. Ernest thought she might fall to the ground.

  He’d never seen her lose her composure in such a manner before.

  Michael told Ernest he had to find Bethany. Ernest just nodded, then slowly dragged his feet beneath him, taking the line toward Grace and the Duke of Coventry. As he approached, Grace’s laughter ripped through his skull like a sword. He felt like his brain was bleeding.

  “And that’s when I told her that she absolutely could not wear the same dress as I was,” Grace continued, seemingly without noticing Ernest directly beside her. “And she refused!”

  “No! What an absolute filth of a woman,” the Duke spat back.

  “That’s precisely what I thought. So, I took matters into my own hands,” Grace said, her eyes glittering.

  “Oh, you bad girl!” the duke returned.

  “A woman must do what she must do to survive in this world,” Grace told him. “I can be quite crafty when I want to be.”

  “That isn’t very hard to believe, Lady Bragg,” the duke returned. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re quite a spitfire, aren’t you?”

  “Come now. I haven’t even told you what I did to the dress,” Grace said.

  “Oh, I don’t have to know all your dirty secrets. Just the most interesting ones,” the duke teased.

  “You haven’t told me much of anything about your crafty ways, «replied Grace suggestively. “I’m dying to learn. I have a feeling that you’re the best…”

  The duke tapped his nose with his finger. “It’s best to keep these things to yourself. Or didn’t they teach you that?”

  Grace smirked. “I’m a terrible gossiper, to be true…”

  “Ah! But isn’t it all the more interesting to find the person at the ball willing to speak the most garbage about others?” the duke said.

  It was as though they were finishing one another’s thought processes. Ernest almost had to laugh. It felt oddly ridiculous, yet beautiful, as though they were two halves of a greater whole. Ernest sensed that the other people at the ball might get the wrong idea if he didn’t make Grace aware that he was standing directly beside her—so he cleared his throat, making her nearly leap out of her skin with alarm.

  She coughed, blinking at him with panic. “Oh, hello, Ernest.” She sounded like she’d just found a bit of trash on the ground and was addressing it. “How are you doing?”

  Ernest beamed at her. She knew she’d been caught. Ernest was surprised how little he felt about it, one way or the other. He felt only that if this was to be their game, he had to force her to acknowledge that he’d won this round.

  “I hope you’ll introduce me to your friend,” Ernest suggested. He took immense pleasure in the grey sheen that took over her face.

  Grace took a staggered breath. “Yes. Lord Bannerman, this is the Duke of Coventry, Philip. Philip, this is Lord Bannerman.” After a long, horrible, yet wonderful pause, she muttered, “My fiancé.”

  The Duke of Coventry didn’t skip a beat when he heard the word ‘fiancé.’ It seemed he was ready for anything. He struck his hand out, shaking Ernest’s. His eyes buzzed with electricity.

  “Well, well. The lucky man who will take Grace Bragg away from her singledom. How did you manage it, Ernest? She seems like a wild one. Difficult to pin down.”

  Ernest’s smile grew even bigger. He thought he might crack his cheeks open. He was living in a bizarro-world. Had he possibly just found Grace’s perfect match?

  “It was quite a difficult battle, I can assure you,” returned Ernest. “I would wish that task on no man.”

  “No man? Well, that doesn’t sound promising, does it, Lady Bragg?” the duke said, winking at her. “Even your fiancé seems to have some reckless things to say about you.”

  “Love is a difficult thing,” were the words Grace decided to say—much to Ernest’s shock.

  Of course, neither he nor Grace had ever considered saying that they loved one another. That seemed outside the bounds of reason. But now, Grace beamed up at the duke, as though she was the sun and he was the earth. Her entire purpose seemed aligned with pleasing him.

  “If you’re planning to marry this fine woman, then I re
ckon you’re in for your fair share of gossip,” the duke continued. “She hardly stepped toward me before immediately speaking her mind. She’s picked at nearly every gown in the immediate vicinity, declaring that most women in London don’t have any idea how to dress themselves.”

  The duke dropped his head back and let out a hard laugh. Slowly, Ernest’s smile fell from his lips.

  “Don’t paint me to be such a wicked witch,” Grace said, snapping her hand across the duke’s lower arm. “It’s only that some women should really investigate how frequently they’re tucking into their tea biscuits before choosing their gowns. It’s really an atrocious thing, seeing them bounce around like this.”

  Ernest glanced around, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. The music swelled, ensuring that nobody heard what Grace was on about. But in his mind, every lady and man around him seemed awash with beauty. Their eyes were captivated with the splendour of the decorated ball, with the love they felt for one another. Men’s hands were pressed tightly at the base of their ladies’ backs, keeping them close as their feet marched out the steps they’d learned before they fully knew how to do anything else. They were like cattle, trained for a single purpose.

  “You know what I heard?” the duke said, ducking his head low. His eyes bore toward Grace continually, but his voice addressed Ernest, as well. “I heard that Michael—the smug-looking man just yonder—recently lost his father’s fortune throughout a series of bad investments.”

  Grace’s eyes gleamed evilly. Ernest’s heart dropped. He hadn’t heard this whatsoever and was curious why Michael hadn’t brought it up. Of course, their conversation had largely been about matters of the heart, rather than the pocketbook.

  “My goodness. That’s terrible,” Ernest breathed. “I do hope he knows he can come to me with his problems. I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding. Michael was always so terribly kind. I wouldn’t have put him in charge of any business, perhaps, but…”

  “It’s not as though I would put you in charge of any business, darling,” Grace spat. “Perhaps you and Michael are two peas in a pod. I imagine that he only thinks good of people, always trusting them…”

  “Do you suppose that’s what happened?” the duke rattled on. “I always attribute such things to idiocy. I know, as a businessman myself, that I’m continually trying to find the best possible deals, to squeeze the most prosperity out of each investment. I assume that anyone who isn’t perceiving the world in this way is an imbecile in many respects. I’m sure his young wife is quite innocent to the whole thing. Perhaps he hasn’t told her yet…”

  Ernest burned with the knowledge that Bethany was pregnant, perhaps thinking that they were entering into a time of prosperity and happiness. Now, Michael snaked his arm around his wife, whispering into her ear. She looked up, beaming at him, like he had just told her the most beautiful secret. Seconds later, he whirled her onto the dance floor, stepping tenderly. They danced with a look on their faces that told the story of hope, rather than devastation.

  “Perhaps you’re wrong,” Ernest said, forcing the smile to waver from the duke’s face. “They look quite happy to me.”

  The duke shrugged. “People can pretend to be happy about all sorts of things. I, for one, can pretend to be happy just now—yet my champagne glass is completely empty. How am I meant to go on like this? It’s ridiculous.”

  Both he and Grace chortled. Then, as though they’d planned it, they stepped together toward the drink table, diving into another conversation riddled with gossip. Ernest remained where he was, watching them walk away. A wave of disgust passed through him. His stomach clenched, and he thought he might vomit across his shoes.

  An old friend of his father’s, Lord Pennington, appeared beside him. He stroked his thick white beard, his grey eyes shimmering.

  “Good evening, Lord Pennington!” Ernest said, trying to force a bit of brightness into his voice. “It’s marvellous to see you. I suppose it’s been since the funeral.”

  Lord Pennington bowed his head. “Yes. What a tremendously sad day that was. I never imagined we’d have to say goodbye to your father so soon.”

  Ernest felt the whacks of life coming from all sides. Why had he brought up his father’s funeral? Now, his mind traced images of that wretched day. The closed casket, its wood shining. The prayers that solidified the truth of their new existence, assuring that his father would never return.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into me tonight, but I dare say I’m not much for this ball,” Lord Pennington continued, his voice heavy with a sigh. “I see such tremendous happiness on the faces of the youth, at least mostly. Except with you. I see your father’s same sad smile. It’s almost as though his face from years ago was pasted onto yours. You’ve taken me back in time.”

  Ernest sniffed. “I’m not terribly in the mood for this ball, either.”

  “And yet, you’re the guest of honour, are you not?” Lord Pennington pointed out. “The marquess told me himself. He planned to announce you to the entire ball at the stroke of nine.”

  “That’s in 10 minutes’ time,” Ernest whispered, feeling his heart surge with fear. He hated the feeling of being looked at by so many expectant eyes. He wished he had the courage to announce to all of them just how little he was able to follow through on their wishes. He would struggle and ache and fight for a better life for all of them—

  But if he couldn’t see himself out of his own inadequate situation, how could he possibly ask them to rely on him?

  “I was able to meet your fiancée earlier,” Lord Pennington prattled on. He tapped the side of his nose, as though he was trying to alert Ernest of something. “But she’s been latched onto the duke since. I don’t suppose they knew one another before?”

  Ernest felt it too difficult to look Lord Pennington in the eye. “My father’s best friend was Lord Bragg, Grace’s father,” he explained, his words heavy.

  “Ah, of course. Lord Bragg.” Lord Pennington coughed, then, and added, “What a dolt. Never liked the man. I imagine his daughter is fine. Although one can never tell what the offspring will take from the parent, can one?”

  Suddenly, the music halted. The marquess lifted himself onto a chair near the orchestra, forcing everyone's attention toward him. He snapped his palms together, looking giddy and drunk. It was clear he relished this sort of thing: the gossip swirling around him, the grandeur of showing off his home, the drunkenness in the air.

  “Good evening!” he cried. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your dancing, and I assure you that very soon, we’ll return to it. But in the meantime, I have a very important announcement. As many of you know, tonight we are featuring two guests of honour. That is: the newly-titled Earl Bannerman and his beautiful fiancée, Lady Grace Bragg. Please! Come to the front, both of you.”

  Ernest’s heart fell into his belly like a stone. He glanced across the ballroom to find Grace scuttling away from the duke as fast as she could, as though she didn’t wish to be caught alongside him. It would surely taint her reputation if anyone looked at the situation too closely. Of course, it would taint Ernest’s, too—not that he cared much about that just then.

  Ernest felt like he was guided by an invisible force. He forced his shoulders back, started smiling at the people he marched past. Within just a few steps, Grace had forced herself alongside him and snaked her thin arm through his. It was like they were performers in a horrible parade.

  When they reached the front, the crowd smashed their palms together, absolutely in awe of them. Grace beamed, dotting little kisses on her palm and blowing them out. This disgusted Ernest even more than usual. He knew she was playing it all up, squeezing out every ounce of her celebrity. And he couldn’t help but notice that she blew every other kiss toward the duke—and he lifted his fist to catch them, one by one, as though Ernest didn’t notice.

  But Ernest was no dolt. He saw. He understood. The duke and Grace felt they were hiding their brewing love from him. They felt they were too smar
t for him. This gave him a level of unique pleasure: being above the entire thing.