She crossed to her jewel case and took out a string of pearls, which snuggled nicely just below the hollow of her neck. They had come from Papa on her sixteenth birthday, and they suited the gown perfectly. Next went on the matching earrings, gifts from Mama that same year. As she lifted her hands to fasten the earrings, her wedding ring flashed in her eyes. For a moment she thought about the fact this ring might have gone to another, and she knew exactly who that other was.
Well, tonight it is mine, Alessandra thought militantly, fiercely. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the disarray of Geoffrey’s comb and brush from where they had been left after he dressed for the evening, saw the bootjack bolted to the floor next to the stool where he sat to have Winters pull those boots for him rather than sully them on the bootjack. She saw the coins, the handwritten notes, the watch and fob that normally made up the contents of the pockets of his jacket. She knew the scent of his shaving soap, of bootblack, and the leather of his driving gloves. She could recreate in her mind the sounds he made in slumber, the way he sneezed, the music of his laughter. These things made up the days and nights of her life for what seemed like forever, not mere weeks. Increasingly she worried that their vows were to be put aside…but now, at this moment, everyone believed Geoffrey and she were together, that they were husband and wife in fact, not just in word. She must put that pretense into her mind, her very posture.
She had endured the horrendously lengthy meal that had cut her off from most of the gaiety about the table. She had been placed under the scrutiny of the Baron von Brauer’s wise eyes, eyes that had clearly noted her unhappiness. She had needed to abide her mama’s speculation as to the matrimonial prospects of that same kind fellow, and now lastly had been subjected to that awkward and unplanned entrance into the bedchamber by Geoffrey.
These events had fanned an already smoldering ember of resentment, had heaped coal atop coal, fueling the fire that was her sense of ill-usage, until now she was filled with the intensity of angry rebellion and rigid determination. She would return to that ballroom, and she would not be ignored. She was the bride, the one who ought to be holding court at table, the one whose opinion should be solicited, the one who ought to be flattered and made much of. She was Geoffrey’s wife, however temporarily, and she would claim whatever rights ought to be hers.
In that righteous and wrathful frame of mind she went down to the ballroom. Champagne, floating in a frothy bath of shaved ice, had been brought into the room and set up on a table pushed to one side to allow for dancing. One of the servants went by with a tray filled with glasses of the drink, and Alessandra seized one as he passed. She looked over the rim as she sipped, learning where people were and what they were doing, her eyes fairly snapping with resolve. The musicians had not yet begun to play, and their strident efforts at tuning suited her mood perfectly. She saw her papa was talking to the maestro, and her mother was flitting around making sure everybody who wanted one was finding a partner. Geoffrey was in a group of couples, easy to spot because of his height, and standing next to him, her hand lightly on his sleeve, was Miss Bremcott. Everything about the moment and how they stood implied Miss Bremcott meant to open the dancing with Geoffrey, Alessandra concluded, finishing her champagne with an indignant, angry gulp.
She’d be dashed if they would.
Just as Alessandra thought this, Geoffrey turned to Miss Bremcott and murmured something. The woman took her hand away, nodding, and Geoffrey looked up and around. As soon as he spotted Alessandra, he started toward her.
Maybe it was the champagne, or maybe the sudden realization that he was not going to snub her with that woman, but in the space of a heartbeat Alessandra felt much less contentious. She felt the set of her shoulders relax, the bubbly champagne going to her head, making a smile replace her scowl. It made her almost croon as she greeted him, “Geoffrey.”
“Are you ready for our first dance?” he asked, as he took her in his arms.
A shiver, totally unexpected, ran down her spine, surely the result of his warm breath on her ear, or perhaps the by-blow of her heightened emotions.
They were alone on the dance floor. Another shiver went through her as she realized she was positively reveling in the fact that all eyes were on them. She felt the wave of approval sweeping through the room, knew they looked well together. Surely her mother was wrong. Miss Bremcott was wrong. Geoffrey had remembered his duty to his wife…and perhaps his eyes had lit up a little at the sight of her in her rose gown?
He looked over his shoulder, waiting, and finally nodding to her father and the maestro when they failed to take the cue and begin playing. The nod, however, was sufficient, and the strains of a waltz began.
She felt his hand on her back, light, and she felt his hand holding her own. She noticed how he held his arm at the right angle, how he moved smoothly, as a man who had practiced much and well.
“Did you see my father and mother are here> Together at the same event? Did you see Papa was actually speaking to my mother?” he said, close to her ear again. It was hard to miss the uncertain approval in his tone.
“Oh, Geoffrey, that seems well,” she said, her voice dreamy as she silently bid him go on speaking, go on letting her bask in the deep timbre of his voice, the warmth of his touch, the sway of the dance.
“I do not get my hopes up, but, yes, it is something. A start toward some manner of reconciliation, perhaps?”
Dancing with him was simple, it required no thought. He led and she followed. The telltale pressure of his hands guided her, and even though she had never waltzed in public before, her lessons came to the fore and she felt as though she had been doing it for years. For a minute no one joined them, but gradually couples moved forward to sway about the polished floor, their colorful dresses and graceful movements like something from a fairytale. She and Geoffrey said nothing more, giving themselves up to the music, though he did smile at her a few times, smiles that she returned as though she had lost control of her own reactions, moon calf smiles, the result of the unexpected intoxication of her presence in his arms.
It was over much too soon. He escorted her to the side, bowed over her hand, kissed it lightly, and murmured, “Thank you for the honor.”
Then he was gone, moving to ask another to dance with him for the next set that was assembling, a country dance. It was Jacqueline Bremcott who accepted his hand with a dazzling smile.
Alessandra stood and watched, falling slowly down to earth again, until she felt rather as if she were sinking into the floor itself.
It had been an obligation, that was all. That was why Geoffrey had come to claim the first dance with her. It was what was expected. He would do what was expected. Of course, of course. What had she been thinking of?
“Lessie?” Emmeline touched her sleeve. “Are you all right?”
“Oh!” she jerked at the touch and flushed, mortified to think any of her distress might be showing on her face. “No. I mean yes, I’m fine. It’s...it’s a little warm, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps a trifle,” Emmeline said uncertainly.
“I...I think I shall walk in the garden.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No! I mean, we can’t have you becoming chilled now.”
“Peahen,” Emmeline chided softly, her face smoothing into a tentative smile. She took her younger sister by the arm. Without further ado, she led Alessandra from the room, out the French doors and into the garden.
The cool night air did feel good, stroking Alessandra’s heated features, hiding her anguish in the gloom. She could not have stayed in that room. She could not have smiled upon the sight of Geoffrey and Jacqueline Bremcott dancing together.
She and Emmeline stood thusly, without speaking, for the space of several minutes. Finally able to slow her whirling thoughts down a little, Alessandra came to think it was as well Emmeline had come to the garden with her, for she knew if she had come out here on her own she would have opted to stay out all evening, never returning to the dancing, which of course she could not do. She was the bride, the wife, the hostess. Even though the thought now stung like salt in a wound, of course she would have to go back into the party.
“Tell me when you feel once again composed,” Emmeline said softly.
The words were meant as a comfort, surely, but they only increased Alessandra’s distress. “I was so obvious then, was I?”
“Yes,” Emmeline spoke even more softly, with a tiny smile. “I don’t think your feet touched the floor once during that dance.”
Alessandra covered her face with both hands.
“So you are falling in lo—”
“No,” Alessandra cut her off, standing straight as she forced her hands to fall to her sides.
Emmeline fell silent a moment, but then pressed on. “It would not be a terrible thing.”
“Wouldn’t it? What do I know to make that a true statement?”
Emmeline made a tiny clicking sound with her tongue, a worried noise, and added a sigh. The sisters stood side by side for five more, silent minutes, and finally Alessandra gave a fleeting and insincere smile and nodded.
Emmeline offered her arm, and Alessandra accepted, her face carefully arranged.
***
Inside the ballroom, Geoffrey reached for Jacqueline’s hand, their fingers touching lightly as they executed the movement required by the dance.
“Have you heard I am to marry?” she asked. She sounded triumphant—and Geoffrey had to admit her words twinged him, even though they weren’t unexpected. So, I am easily replaced.
He fixed a look on her. “I have. To Lord Aldford. I offer you my felicitations.”
He had known Jackie Bremcott a long time, since she was a puling babe and he in short pants. Was that why he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about her marrying? Or about his taking this woman as his mistress, even though she’d offered it freely only days ago? “How soon do you wed?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Aldford says September.” She lowered her eyes, looking maidenly. “That is a long time to wait,” she raised her eyes, “for love.”
Three months. Her message was easy enough to read: she was telling him she did not wish to risk losing her virginity until after her vows had been made. That is, if she presently retains it. He did not scowl, but he did chide himself; that had been an unkind thought, not least because whatever else could be said of Jacqueline, she was not a stupid girl. Pretty and clever. He could do much worse, when it came to taking a lover.
“I have been arguing for early August, or even late July, once all three weeks of the banns being read out have passed,” she breathed. The action made her breasts press up against her bodice in an eye-catching way. Certainly Geoffrey’s gaze was caught for a long moment.
“I see Aldford was invited tonight,” he said, seemingly in a mood to tweak the beautiful woman before him. “But you danced the first dance with Mr. Camberwell.”
She preened, perhaps gratified he’d noted with whom she’d danced. She glanced toward Aldford with a little pout. “He doesn’t care much for dancing.” She leaned in toward Geoffrey, using the pattern of the dance to disguise the move. “And I wanted my first dance tonight to be with you,” she whispered near his ear.
His neck grew warm under his cravat. The dance separated them, so he had a moment to evaluate his series of reactions: a lack of surprise at her news, a growing certainty she still meant to seek his bed, his own appreciation of her charms. And now this flush. Was it from carnal yearning, his recently growing companion? Or was it guilt, an unexpected sensation borne of coming from one woman’s arms into another’s?
Somewhere around the age of twelve Jacqueline had realized she was quite pretty, he knew, and had begun to affect a frequently imperious manner, including the ability to make men do as she bid just by so little a thing as a glance. He had found himself, on more occasions than he cared to recall, running to do her bidding because of a threatened pout upon that well-shaped mouth. Now he looked down at her breathless, rather expectant expression, and reluctantly admitted he was increasingly wanting such womanly attention.
Still, there was a feeling of…of inevitability. It was rather off-putting. He admired her bosom, her gown’s style, and her flirting green eyes…but part of him balked at the idea of once again letting her batted lashes and pouting lips inform his actions.
He resolved at that very moment he would do whatever pursuing needed to be done. Jacqueline could play what games she liked, but he would maneuver her, not the other way around.
Beginning at once, he took her to the edge of the dance floor—only to look up in time to see the insufferable Lord Graham approaching Alessandra.
With only a murmured excuse to Jacqueline, Geoffrey dropped her arm and strolled to his wife’s side.
“Beg pardon, sir, but I claim this as my dance,” he said to Graham, whisking Alessandra away from the man’s arms.
“But we’ve already danced,” Alessandra said as she fell into step with the music. “I ought dance with Lord Graham.”
“The ninny whose bleating caused us to have to marry? Let him watch what he has wrought,” Geoffrey said.
He knew instantly it was the wrong thing to have said, for Alessandra went stiff. She kept herself from fitting to Geoffrey’s side, only her hand very lightly touching his.