Authors: Christina Dodd
So was she ready? She had to be. She was the governess.
She placed her journal on the piano. She nodded to Nicolette, and to Huntington. “I beg Your Grace, let us proceed.”
She thought Jude would be like most men, impatient with the necessity of learning what he thought he already knew and anxious to get it over with. Instead he bowed as elegantly as a beau to his love, and begged, “Miss Ritter, may I have the pleasure of this dance?”
Caroline curtsied. “My lord, I would be delighted.”
“We’re the best amusement Mum has had for months,” he added,
sotto voce.
That explained his curious tolerance with their pretense, and she liked him for his open affection for his stepmother. “I trust we shan’t amuse Her Grace too much, or I’ll find myself covered with chagrin.” She put her hand in his.
He slid his arm around her waist.
And the duchess played the first chords of a lively waltz.
As Jude and Caroline swung onto the floor, she was pleasantly surprised to find that Jude danced very well indeed. He led firmly, but without bullying, he kept time with the rhythm, and he displayed his partner at an advantage. Every eligible young man should be so adept.
Which made her task so much easier. She had set aside several days to teach him to dance, if necessary, but his skill put her far ahead in her schedule. If she were lucky enough that he could converse at the same time, she’d be that much closer to having him ready to become the most sought after beau of the Season. After that it was an easy leap to his betrothal, his marriage, and her independence from poverty and despair. She’d be able to take her sister—
“I have never before danced with a woman who was not truly there,” he observed.
“What?” She glanced up from her calculations to see him smiling at her quizzically. “My lord, what do you mean?”
“We’ve circled the room twice, and you’ve frowned and concentrated on some private agenda the whole time. I can’t imagine where you got the reputation as being a flirt. You’ve ignored me every step of the way.”
She snapped to attention. They were circling the ballroom in great, sweeping spirals. The walls, the tables, the piano all blurred on the wings of the music. Her petticoats rustled, and her skirts flew. She hadn’t danced for so long, and the practicalities of her situation had stripped away her enjoyment. She hadn’t allowed herself a moment to revel in the movement—and if she didn’t pay mind, he wouldn’t learn his lessons, and she wouldn’t get her reward.
“Sir, forgive me.” With deliberate charm, she smiled back at him. “I have a checklist in my mind of things to teach you, and your excellent dancing has moved our schedule forward by days and days.”
“Ah, praise! But pray, don’t tell me we’re done with the dancing! Because with such an excellent partner, I hate to ever stop.”
At his words, a small thrill climbed up her spine. “No, we are not done. Dancing is merely the framework for flirting—but I think you know that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your flattery was duly noted.”
“It isn’t flattery when it’s true,” he said, in a deep, warm voice.
Another thrill shook her, and for the first time since the dance started, she noted other details about Huntington: the arm around her waist was strong and fit, he smelled of clean linens and spice, he moved with the lithe grace of a cat, only he was bigger. Much, much bigger. Better…or worse, depending on how she looked at it, he watched her as if she were the most interesting, exciting woman in the world.
For she was not immune. She, who had spent the last years fending off unwelcome male attentions, now basked in the heat of one gentleman’s admiration. It was a heady feeling, one she had almost forgotten. Yet she wasn’t there to enjoy herself. No one knew that more than she. So with a merry smile, she tempted him with the chance to make an exhibition of himself. “Think how wonderful it will be to attend the grandest ball of the Season. Think how London will gossip when they see how handsome you are, dressed in your wonderful clothing and clasping a classic beauty in your arms!”
His arm tightened, and he swung her in a series of turns that made her head whirl. “I already know the pleasure of dancing with a classic beauty.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Why
was she teaching him to flirt? He seemed only too skilled—and she was only too susceptible. “However, no one but Her Grace can see us. When you’re with the right lady, you’ll cause a sensation. Your name will be on every pair of lips!”
“In the dance, the man is not important. His only desire should be to display the woman like a flower for all to admire. As long as I hold you in my arms, I am invisible.” He leaned close to her ear. “And in all of England, I could never find a woman more beautiful than you.”
She surrendered. Only for the moment, but she did surrender. She gave herself up to the sensation of flying across the floor, to the one perfect moment of happiness that recalled youth and foolishness and passion, to the idea that this man thought her flawless and beautiful. It was as if they were making love to music.
Until the door to the ballroom slammed against the wall.
N
icolette’s fingers smashed the chords to bits.
Huntington and Caroline whirled to a stop and broke apart.
In the doorway, a scarlet-faced Nevett shouted, “What are you blasted fools doing?”
“Father.” Huntington used his scarf to fan his face and became, before Caroline’s eyes, a fop once more. “We’re dancing.”
Nevett’s gaze drilled into Caroline. “Why?”
Going to the piano, she picked up her journal, turned to the first page, and offered it to Nevett. “It’s part of my plan.”
He ignored the proffered book. “Why would he need help with dancing? I spent thousands on dancing tutors for him!”
“Thousands?” Huntington murmured.
Nevett scowled at him. “Hundreds!”
“Yes, Lord Huntington is fabulously proficient.” She had enjoyed the dance. She hadn’t planned to, but Huntington made Caroline feel like a flower, like a beauty, and if she could coax him to do the same with the debutantes in the ton, he would be the most-sought-after gentleman in London.
Like the autocrat he was, Nevett made his pronouncement. “Then you’re wasting time.”
“No, I have to see where Lord Huntington is proficient and where he’s inept before we can move on.” At Nicolette’s gasp, Caroline realized she had contradicted the duke, and obviously that never happened. Hastily, she added, “Flirting is like playing the piano or learning a foreign language. The more one practices, the better one is. The trick, Your Grace, is to practice flirting so often and so continuously that one can walk and flirt, dance and flirt, eat and flirt, listen to opera and flirt. The last is not as easy as one might suppose, since the object of one’s affection could be in another box.”
Nevett huffed. “Yes, well, but…”
“The first time we met, I did show you my planning journal,” Caroline reminded him.
He clamped his lips shut.
His wife moved quickly to keep him subdued. “Nevett, what did you envision Miss Ritter would do to teach Jude how to flirt? Have him sit in a classroom and write a paper?”
Huntington drew a handkerchief from his sleeve and flapped it in wild enthusiasm. “I’m good at writing papers!”
Nevett stared at his son, with his foppish clothes and his affected mannerisms, and with a grim expression, he yielded. “Very well, Miss Ritter, continue.” He backed out of the room.
Caroline swore she saw triumph glinting in Huntington’s eyes. Then it vanished, and he sighed in exaggerated weariness. “Miss Ritter, did I pass the test on dancing?”
With flying colors.
She had taken far too much pleasure in the music, the dancing…and his embrace. “I’d like to observe as you dance with Her Grace, if you please,” Caroline said, in the repressive tone she’d heard so often from her own governess.
He smiled at her, smiled as if he knew what she thought.
“And if Her Grace doesn’t mind,” Caroline added.
“She loves to dance.” Huntington took Nicolette’s hand. “Don’t you, Mum?”
“I do, but it’s been months…” Her voice trailed off. Months since they’d received word of Michael’s death, she meant.
Caroline admired the determination with which Huntington handled his stepmother’s reluctance.
“Then of a certainty you must dance.” He gestured Caroline toward the piano. “Miss Ritter, if you please?”
“Do you know what I saw today when I went out?” Nicolette sounded amused and looked amazed as she poured tea in the great drawing room late that afternoon. She handed the first cup to Caroline, who handed it to the duke.
Nevett grunted as he accepted the fragile white porcelain.
“At the corner, we have a beggar who has taken up residence,” Nicolette informed him.
“That will never do,” Nevett blew on the hot brew. “I’ll send a footman to chase him off.”
“Lady Reederman already tried that.” A smile curved Nicolette’s lips, and she glanced at Caroline as if she expected her to share her wicked glee.
And in truth, it did Caroline’s heart good to know
something
could defeat the formidable Lady Reederman.
“He won’t go,” Nicolette said.
“He’ll go with a good swift kick in the arse,” Nevett retorted.
“You don’t want to do that.” Nicolette sobered. “He lost both his legs at Trafalgar.”
Caroline froze, her gaze fixed on the tableau before her—the duchess, her expression fraught with sympathy, and the duke, scowling at the story, yet watching his wife with concern.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“I stopped and talked to him,” Nicolette answered.
Harry. Somehow, Harry had followed Caroline.
“Nicolette, I have told you. You must have a care,” Nevett scolded. “Beggars are scoundrels.”
Caroline couldn’t agree more.
“He’s as likely to slit your throat as to answer your charitable queries.” Nevett placed his cup on the table.
Not that, but Harry was far too adept at liberating a reticule from its owner, and if he took Nicolette’s, the theft would be in part Caroline’s responsibility.
Nicolette put her cup down, also. “He would have to coax me down to his level, then. He
has
no legs.”
Caroline wanted to faint.
“Your soft heart will be the death of me.” Nevett sounded as if he had never meant anything more.
“My maid accompanied me.” Nicolette smiled at her husband. “Listen, dear. Harry is a charming fellow.”
Standing, Caroline wandered to the window and peered out, looking for the familiar figure on his cart.
“He could be spinning you a Banbury tale,” Nevett said.
“He could be,” Nicolette answered, “but the fact remains, he has no legs.”
“I heard you the first two times,” Nevett said dryly. “How much did you give him?”
Caroline waited in dread to hear what Harry had done.
“I emptied my reticule into his hat, a sum of perhaps two pounds.” Nicolette burbled with laughter. “He said I was such a generous lady, he wouldn’t cut my purse this time.”
Putting her hand to her chest, Caroline sighed with relief.
Going to Nevett’s side, Nicolette perched her hip on the arm of his chair and slid her arm over his shoulders. “You’ll have to admit, any beggar who refuses to do Lady Reederman’s bidding is a man worth knowing.”
Remembering Lady Reederman, Caroline had to agree.
Apparently, so did Nevett. “Has he actually faced off against the old witch herself?”
“And sent her scuttling back to her house.” Nicolette burbled with laughter. “How I wish I had seen it!”
“Man deserves a medal for bravery under fire. Wonder if he has one?” Nevett mused.
Without thinking, Caroline said, “No. He was only a common sailor.” Both sets of eyes turned to her. “I assume,” she added, “or someone would be caring for him, and everyone knows the sailors were shamefully abandoned after they wrestled control of the seas from the French.” Harry’s words, although without the street accent. “If Your Graces would excuse me, I had thought I would take advantage of the sunshine and go for a walk.”
“Good idea.” Nevett examined her. “Put some roses in your cheeks. You’re too blasted skinny for a gel your height.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Caroline skittered from the room.
She requested her outer garments in a low, intense tone that sent the footman scurrying after them and raised Phillips’s eyebrows. “In a hurry to go out, Miss?” he asked in sonorous tones.
“Yes.” She snatched her mantle, hat, and gloves from the footman. “Thank you.”
Her regal disdain brought Phillips’s eyebrows winging upward. She knew she acted more like an imperious duchess than a disgraced debutante. Let Phillips make what he wanted of her manner. She didn’t care.
She sailed out the door and down the street, hoping Harry remained on his corner, and desperate to discover why he had followed her—for she didn’t for a minute imagine his appearance was an accident.
Was he checking on her?
Did he plan to blackmail her?
Briskly, she walked toward the corner, her mantle flapping in the cool spring breeze. She had had so many men use her, abuse her, she could scarcely imagine a man who would not take advantage of her bettered circumstances to improve his own.
As she rounded the corner, a voice at her feet said, “Hit’s a sad day when a lady o’ yer caliber steps on a poor legless veteran o’ the great sea battle o’Trafalgar.”
“Harry, I didn’t step on you.” She looked around to make sure they were unnoticed, then back at him. His cart was nothing more than a board nailed onto four lopsided wheels. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscled from the effort of pushing himself along the street. He wore wool gloves with the fingers worn-out from his ceaseless efforts, a short, ragged brown cape with a deep hood, and the face that peered out at her was pallid from lack of sun and lined with old pain and constant disappointment. Yet his pale eyes watched her with lively respect and the area around them with suspicion, and she never doubted she was safe here with him.
He continued his loud lament. “Poor wounded ol’ soldier sitting ’ere minding ’is own business and the beautiful young lady ’as no respect or care.” He rattled his cup. “But a bit o’ coin will help assuage yer guilt, m’lady.” In a lower tone, he added, “And no one will be any the wiser if we talk a bit.”
No one was peeking out any windows that she could see. Only a few carriages traveled along the main road. Hopefully no one would notice at all, but at least if they did, she would appear charitable and he grateful. Slowly, she opened her reticule. “What are you doing here?”
“Someone’s got t’ watch out fer ye. Did ye think ye could wander off in the company o’ an unknown gennaman and not come back without me worrying?” He sounded sincerely concerned.
But she watched him with wary eyes, wondering what game he was playing.
He must have read her trepidation, for he snorted. “What, do ye think Oi’m like yer father, out t’use ye fer me own purposes?”
She had never told him about her father.
“Hit’s a sad day when a young lady can’t tell ’er enemies from ’er friends.” Harry sighed with gusty dismay and pulled such a long face, she couldn’t help herself.
She chuckled. “You’re right. You’ve been a wonderful friend to me.” She looked down at the meager amount of coins in her wallet. “But really—why are you here?”
“Oi ’eard ye took yer bag and went off with a gennamen, and Oi wanted t’ see that ye wanted to. Some gennamen have a habit o’ taking young ladies where they don’t want to go.”
“Not Lord Huntington. He escorted me to his parents’ house, where I have taken a position as governess.” Wisely, she decided not to fill him in on the details, and tossed a coin into the cup.
“ ’Ere now. A pretty lady like ye can afford more!” Harry said loudly. Then more quietly: “Good fer ye! Oi told ye ye’d come out right.”
“So far.”
“What about the other gennaman? The first one? Oi heard ’e wasn’t such a welcome visitor as ye thought.”
Goose bumps rose at the thought of Lord Freshfield. “Harry, how do you know these things?”
“Oi ’ear things. The ’ores and beggars gossip, and the gennamen and ladies think Oi’m deaf as well as lame.”
Taking another coin from her meager store, she tossed it in the cup. “The other gentleman is not a gentleman.”
“Well, then. Oi’ll keep an eye out fer ’im and warn ye when ’e comes about.”
“Are you going to stay here?” she asked, aghast.
“Hit’s a good corner. People come and go, and there’s one lady ’oo really wants me t’ leave, so Oi ’ave t’ stay, ye see.” He smiled and showed the gaps in his teeth. “Why’s that, ’Arry, ye say.”
“Why’s that?” she repeated obediently.
“Oi can’t let the uncharitable ol’ besom wallow in ’er sins. If she don’t see the error o’ ’er ways, she’ll go t’ ’ell.” He patted the ground beside his chair as if the flames were burning his hand. “So ye see, by staying ’ere, Oi’m saving ’er soul.”
“You’re not doing yourself any harm, either,” Caroline said shrewdly.
“ ’Ey, there, cynicism isn’t nice in a pretty girl.”
She wondered when that had happened. Four years ago, she hadn’t known what a cynic was. Now it appeared she was one. “At one time I was nice. I don’t think I am anymore.”
“Ye’re practical. That’s better.” Harry’s voice grew softer again. “Ahoy, there. Ye’ve got a surprise sailing up on yer port side. Best look lively!”
Caroline glanced to her left. A man walked toward her, right toward her, and although Nevett had warned her this moment would come, she was ill prepared for the sight of her father’s florid face, and even less prepared for the fulsome smile he directed toward her.
That smile made her skin prickle and the hair on the back of her neck lift.
Mr. Ritter never smiled like that except when he was foreclosing on widows and fawning on aristocrats. The duke must have truly put the fear of God in him that he bent it now on his erring daughter.
He stopped before her, every inch the prosperous merchant: stout, with a snub nose, two chins, and lengthy gray whiskers that crawled down the side of his face. He wore good, solid, conservative clothing, carried a gold-headed cane, and took pains to preserve the shine on his black boots.
“Daughter Caroline, how good to see you.” He glanced down at Harry. “Is the beggar bothering you? I can kick him away.”
“No!” She took a breath, not wanting her father to see her revulsion. It would never do to let her father know she had a friend such as Harry. Mr. Ritter used every bit of knowledge to his advantage, and the less he knew about her and her circumstances, the better. “No, thank you, sir, I was simply putting a few coins into his cup.”
“He’ll spend them on drink.” Mr. Ritter took incredible care to present the appearance of nobility, yet didn’t comprehend that servants spread the word about his stinginess throughout London. He took equal care to present the appearance of philanthropy without actually performing charitable deeds, and failed to understand the difference.
At their feet, Harry rattled his cup, and whined, “Alms fer a poor veteran, m’lord?”
“No. Get away from us!” Mr. Ritter lifted his cane threateningly.
Caroline realized she might have to intercede, and she didn’t want to.