A Waltz in the Park (4 page)

Another one.  She shivered, so startled and grateful she was.  This was how it used to be, back when her stories lived just below the surface.  When words and scenes and people jostled for space in her brain, kept her company and amused both her and her friends and family.

Suddenly she realized just what she was seeing.  Vickers.  With a beautiful, blonde woman.

“Wait!”  Addy stared. “Is that . . .”

“Hestia Wright,” sighed Rosamond bitterly.  “And if he’s still hanging about her skirts then he’s not changing his ways, after all.”

Hestia Wright.

“Do you not understand, Adelaide?”  Rosamond had grown petulant again.  “This means that I cannot keep company with him, after all.”

“But his reformation was just an idea you struck upon,” Addy reminded her absently.  “Your own invention.”

“Well, he should strike upon it!” her cousin exclaimed.  “Truly, it would be the best of all worlds.  I could keep the notice and acclaim I’ve had this Season, and still have a man like that at my side?”  She sighed and continued, but Addy didn’t hear any more complaints.

Hanging about her skirts.  Hestia Wright’s skirts.

Abruptly all the cosmos around Addy adjusted.  Puzzle pieces clicked into place, almost audibly.  Answers to questions slid home like the parts of a well-oiled lock.  Perhaps, just perhaps, all of her hopes might come true.  The dark, difficult horizon suddenly looked brighter, colored with a multitude of possibilities.

Suddenly, Addy couldn’t wait for Lord Worthe’s engagement ball.

Chapter Three

Addy dressed carefully for the event, choosing her wardrobe as carefully as a knight donning armor.  Her violet gown might not stop a lance, but its fitted bodice displayed her curves perfectly and the color darkened her eyes and lent them a more mysterious hue.

She entertained the stray thought that what she should wear was one of those scandalously short, tight outfits she’d seen on the trick riders at Astley’s Amphitheater.  Tonight’s work was certainly going to take a similar level of luck, balance and poise.

She tapped her foot, enjoying the lovely, celebratory air of the evening.  Lord Worthe was only recently known to the
ton
, but Miss Jane Tillney was a favorite.  Everyone’s delight for the happy couple spilled out into the event.  Addy had danced nearly every set, watching the crowd all the while, but she’d seen no sign of Vickers yet.

When she had a chance, she went to ask after Rosamond.  Her cousin, making the most of the white lie she’d told in the Park, had commandeered a throne-like chair, from which she was holding court.

“Am I well?” she whispered behind her fan in answer to Addy’s question.  “Look about you!  Somehow, turning Vickers away in the Park has made me more interesting to a number of other gentlemen!”  Her eyebrows rose high in astonishment.  “Who could have predicted it?”

“Who, indeed?”

“Even if Vickers hasn’t reformed, things might grow a tad more interesting.  Now,” Rosamond said, raising her voice and tapping Addy with her fan.  “I am growing a bit chilled.  Would you fetch my shawl for me?  There’s a dear girl.”

Addy heard someone ask about the scandal of her parents’ marriage as she departed, but she didn’t mind.  Most everyone knew the tale and any suitor of hers must show himself quite above it.  She delivered the shawl and positioned herself a bit apart, taking the opportunity to scan the crowd before her once more.

Which was why she startled so violently when the voice came from behind her.

“Good evening, Miss Stockton.”

With a gasp, Addy spun about.  Vickers.  He’d come from a shadowed corner near a servant’s doorway.  Bright candlelight spilled over him as he stepped into the open, illuminating that marvelous bone structure and picking out the light flecks in his dark eyes.

“Good heavens.”  He could have been a bold, elegant sculpture, come to life.

He stared and she knew a moment’s triumph when he seemed unable to look away from the embroidery trailing the neckline of her gown.

“I’m sorry,” he managed after a moment.  “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She nodded, not quite able to return to normal, herself.

“I meant, rather,” he continued, “to ask if you would honor me with this dance.”

Now she stared—in horrified dismay.  “What?  Good heavens!” she repeated.  “No!  Absolutely not!”

He blinked.  “Excuse me?”

“No!  Are you mad?  You cannot dance with me.”  Frowning, she cast a quick, furtive glance toward Rosamond.  “That is—do you still wish to have that discussion with Lady Mitford?”

His brow furrowed.  “Yes.  It’s why I’m here.”

“Then you must not dance with me—or anyone else.”  She pointed her chin in her cousin’s direction.  “At least, not until you have procured her hand for a dance.  If you hope for any chance with her, you must listen.  Go now, before she sees you here.”

She started to reach a hand out toward him, but stopped herself in time.  “If she rejects you, Mr. Vickers—”

He reared back, then glanced over at the countess, surrounded by her entourage.  “She won’t reject me.”

“If she does,” Addy insisted.  “Then you must only seem indifferent.”

“She won’t,” he repeated.

She only nodded.  “Off you go.  Be charming.  Request the supper dance—or offer to take her for a slow stroll upon the terrace.  Anything else and she’ll turn you away.”

She bit her lip.  “Go on,” she urged.

Still scowling, he took a step backward.

“Go,” she waved him away.  “Before she sees you.”

With a nod, he turned away.

Addy settled in to watch.  There.  The scene had been set, and hopefully she’d established her role.  Rosamond’s actions were easy to predict.  All she could do was wait and see if Vickers played according to the script.

“Dear me.  Yes, I did promise you a set, didn’t I?”  Lady Mitford sounded almost bored.  “I’m afraid I only have the supper dance left.”

Vickers bowed.  “I’d be honored to have the supper dance.”

“But you see . . . my injury is paining me so . . . I meant to leave before the supper dance begins.”

Vickers clenched his jaw.  He had no need of the Stockton chit’s advice.  His natural inclination was to freeze out the Countess—who was obviously engaging him in a game he had yet to identify.  “How disappointing,” he drawled.  Straightening, he gave her a nod.  “Perhaps another time.”

“Mr. Vickers,” she said quickly.

“Yes?”  It was a cold question asked over his shoulder as he’d already turned to go.

“Perhaps you might assist me to my carriage?  When the time comes?”

He hesitated, tempted to punish her for the odd bit of cat and mouse she’d embarked them on.  But he wanted to speak to her about his father quite badly.  He stifled a curse and gave her a smile instead.  “Of course.  Until then.” 

He strode away fighting irritation—and trying to stifle a sense of intrigue.  Turned down by two women in a matter of minutes.  A first, even for the wicked, debauched Vickers.  But while he felt sure he could beat Lady Mitford in whatever game she was playing . . . it was her niece who sparked his interest.

What was she up to?  Searching, he found her on the dance floor—where she quickly looked away after meeting his gaze.  So.  She was watching him.  And clearly she was also—quite artfully—trying to manipulate him in some way.  He found the notion appalling—and yet somehow adorable as well.  Few men of his acquaintance possessed the stones and fortitude to take him on—and this pretty little girl not only made the attempt, she began to show some skill.

Adeptly she maneuvered herself throughout the evening, keeping him in her sights, watching him without seeming to do so.  Really, he was almost charmed.  As the evening wore on, he tired of the game and decided to take pity on her.  He waited until the refreshment table was depleted and forgotten, then wandered over there—alone and in plain view.

It didn’t take long until her seemingly random course through the room led her near. 

Good girl.

He watched her come.  On the whole, he was enjoying himself.  Only one thing grated on his nerves.  That look of dismay she’d displayed when he asked her to dance—that had been real.  It bothered him.  And as he’d spent years molding himself into a man who lived on cunning, controversy and confrontation, he acted in character.  When he found a sore spot, he poked it. 

Even when it was his own.

“So glad you found your way over here, Miss Stockton,” he called.  “There is still a bit of buttered crab here.  Can I interest you in a bite?”

“No, thank you.”  She approached the table.

“Then perhaps we might have that dance?”

He waited.

Not long.  The animation in her expression faded and those brows, like signal flags, lowered into a thundering frown.  “We will not be sharing a dance, Mr. Vickers,” she said.

Not the answer he’d been expecting.  “Won’t we?”

“We will not—and you must stop asking.”

His own brows shot skyward.  “Your family is quite hard on a man’s sense of worth.  I would begin to worry I’d lost my appeal,” he drawled, “had you not been eying me like a hawk from a distance all evening.”

He thought he’d startle a blush out of her.  Instead her face reflected . . . pleasure?  And anticipation.  He felt a stirring of something similar, starting down low in his gut.

“Drat.  I thought I was being subtle.”

His interest in this strange, pretty girl just kept growing apace.

“You did well enough,” he answered begrudgingly.  “But a man in my position learns to read the nuances in a room.”

She brightened.  “A rare enough talent, but one I can appreciate.”  Pausing, she crinkled her brow.  “Your position?” she asked for clarification.

“Never mind.  I assume there’s a reason behind the scrutiny—and this?” He waved a hand.  “Besides the fruit tarts?”

“Yes.  I’ve been hoping for a private moment.”

“We could have had that in a dance.”

“No, we could not.  And I must not seem to be lingering with you, either.”  She moved down the refreshment table. 

He sighed.  “The countess is not going to ask for my assistance when she departs, is she?”

She frowned.  “Is that how she put you off?”

‘Yes.”

“No.  I have no doubt she’ll slip away while you are busy elsewhere.”

He stifled a surge of frustration.  “What is it that you want, Miss Stockton?”

“I wish to offer my help.”

“With what?”

“In your mission with my cousin.  My advice was sound, was it not?”

“Yes.”  And completely unnecessary.   He left that part out.

“It’s clear you want something from her.”  She lifted a deviled egg and examined it.

“Only conversation.”

She set the egg back down on the platter.  “The why of it may not be clear, but it will be difficult for you to get it.”

“For
me
?”  Skepticism colored his tone.

“I’m afraid so.  Especially for you.”

“Another blow to my self respect.”  He considered.  “I must assume that you mean to ask for something in return for your help?”

Now she flushed, just the smallest bit.  “I had meant to propose an exchange, yes.”  She picked up a tart.  Her tongue darted out to take the smallest taste of the burnt cream adorning it.  Her smile broadcast her approval.

It also shut down several of the working gears in his brain.  Not too big a loss, though, as his body compensated, sending all that energy to set his gut to churning faster.  And his lower bits to stirring, too.

He rolled his eyes.  “I am struck with the sudden certainty that I am not going to like what comes next.”

“Very astute of you.  But you wouldn’t like failing at your objective, either.”

He looked up as the current quadrille ended.  “Miss Stockton, we cannot keep whispering over the
canapés.
  Let us arrange a place to speak frankly.”  His eyes roamed the room.  “Ah.  Yes.  Wait fifteen minutes, then make your way onto the terrace through those doors.  Wait in the far left corner.  I’ll meet you there.”

He didn’t wait for her acknowledgement, but left the table and picked his way through the crowd to the newly engaged couple.  His words of congratulations to Jane Tillney were heartfelt.  She was a lovely girl and deserved every happiness.  He kissed her cheek, shook Worthe’s hand and then left through the front door.  Waving away the servants’ offers to find him a hack, he sauntered away, until half a block later he ducked down an alley and came back, letting himself in through the mews gate and approaching the house through a small, empty garden.

The girl was there.  She stood in profile, her curves clearly outlined against the bright lights of the party, her aristocratic profile only visible as an elegant shadow against the glow. 

It was enough to settle a weight upon Vickers’ chest, and to set his heart beating, as if it meant to throw the heavy burden off.

He moved in, staying in the shadows and stepping close to the broad, rough-hewn stone pillar supporting the corner of the terrace.

“Are you alone?”

She started and then laughed a little.

“Oh, how well you did that.  I never saw you come.”  She nodded.  “Yes.  I’m alone.  I acted out a dreadful coughing spasm until the courting couples abandoned the spot.”

He smiled in the dark.  “Good.  Now, tell me what it is you want from me.”

“A partnership,” she responded instantly.

He waited.

“I can help you.  I can convince Rosamond to speak with you.”

“And what am I to pay for the price of this conversation?”

“You speak in the singular.  Do you really expect to accomplish whatever it is you intend in one conversation?”

He recalled his earlier thought—that Lady Mitford might not even know what knowledge she possessed—what she might have seen or heard that was making his father so jumpy.  “If I’m lucky.”

“And if you are not?”

He remained silent.

“That’s what I thought,” she said smugly. 

He wondered what that looked like on her angelic face.

“I’ll convince her to speak with you, cooperate with you however you need.  It won’t be so easy, you know.  Her situation is not so simple as it has been in the past.”

“What’s changed?” he asked.

“It would be foolish of me to tell you, wouldn’t it?”