Authors: Kate Noble
“Really?” His eyebrow went up, a dark blond arch that bespoke a mischief he rarely showed.
“Of course!” she laughed. “My family has the tendency to overwhelm . . . and now that my sister and her husband and children are here . . .” she trailed off, under his constant, warm gaze. “You have not come to the house in days; I am certain my father is likely to expire for lack of conversation.”
“I had some business in Windermere; it took me away,” Dr. Berridge explained. He looked down at her, his eyes piercing, probing. Victoria felt a strange prickling down her spine when she met his look; a strange warmth spread across her cheeks.
“And you?” he asked, his voice barely a thrum. “Have you managed to find conversation without me?”
She felt his hand at the small of her back and the slight movement of his thumb. “Some,” she swallowed, her mouth inexplicably dry. “Lady Jane has . . . visited, and Mr. Brandon never misses an opportunity to . . . ah, set my back up.”
“Good.” He smiled, adopting a playful, jovial tone. “I should hate to think you lonely.”
True, she hadn’t been lonely—how can one be lonely surrounded by so many people? But Victoria had to admit, the house had missed his calming presence. Everyone was loose nerves, everything was both terribly important and too trivial. And it all needed taking care of.
However, at that moment, with Dr. Berridge’s—nay, Andrew’s—hand and gaze holding hers, she couldn’t remember what a single one of those things were.
Thank goodness he didn’t require any answers of her, because Victoria was in no position to give them. The oddity of her feelings was certainly just the heat of the room. Her awareness of his proximity . . . that was simply the effect of the dance.
“Dr. Berridge,” she said breathlessly, “we are friends, are we not?”
He let out a short gust of air, never taking his eyes from hers. “Yes, Victoria. We are friends.” A note of sad detachment had crept into his voice. A loss.
But before Victoria could even pay it heed, the music came to an abrupt and unscheduled halt.
A murmur flew through the crowd, and the sea of revelers parted.
“Oh my goodness,” Victoria breathed, when she managed to spy what had captured everyone’s attention.
If Jane had expected any outbursts or dramatics from her brother when she introduced Mr. Brandon to Jason, she was to be disappointed. Not even a flicker of surprise crossed his face. Jason merely bowed neatly, and Mr. Brandon returned the gesture. They chatted a few moments about Manchester and its architectural history—about which Mr. Brandon knew sadly little—never once touching on Penelope and Jason’s shared adolescence.
She was tapping her feet in time to the music, letting her attention drift just a little. Dr. Berridge seemed to be doing very well with Victoria on the dance floor—she was a very warm pink, and she fit easily into his arms. Jane watched with reckless hope as Dr. Berridge stepped infinitesimally closer to Victoria, leaning in—and whether they were aware of it or not, skirting the bounds of propriety.
“Still staring at your darling doctor?” Jason breathed at her side. Mr. Brandon and Penelope had turned their attention to Lady Wilton’s long recitation of dietary instructions for children, i.e., whether or not warm stew was appropriate for a toddler, and Jason had apparently (and wisely, in Jane’s opinion) turned his attention elsewhere.
However, he had turned it to his sister. Which could only prove annoying, she thought as she held back an eye roll.
“He acquits himself rather well on the floor, don’t you find? Especially for a country doctor.” She gave her brother a poisonous look.
Jason grumbled slightly. While Jane had taken to her dancing lessons with verve and joy, Jason never had. In point of fact, he had only stood up four times this entire evening, and that was only for reels—the only dance he was confident he could do.
“Well, your wiles may not work on him this time,” Jason said with a smirk. “The poor man seems to have eyes for none but his partner.”
“Victoria?” Jane replied, shocked that Jason had managed to see what others (Victoria in particular) could not. “Whatever makes you say that?”
“You’re not the only member of this family with intuition.”
But the only one who can use it properly, Jane thought, but kept it to herself.
“It’s the way he looks at her—the way he’s holding her,” Jason said, his face turning a bit red. “I don’t actually have to explain this, do I?”
Jane shook her head at her brother, relieving him of the necessity of conversation with any emotional content.
But, it did make Jane’s mind wander—and yearn, perhaps, for what she didn’t have. When was the last time someone had pulled her a hair too close on the dance floor, she thought, suddenly a smidgeon peevish. When was the last time someone slid a step closer than he should have been? Not that she had any desire for anyone here to do those things—but the excitement of grazing fingers, of a long stare across the room . . .
The electricity to be borne from a simple touch. She had danced and flirted in London during her first season, so youthful and naive—and then again this past season, trying to recapture some of that golden innocence and joy. But never once since coming back into Society had she felt touched.
She wanted anticipation. She wanted that moment when you forgot to breathe and were swept away by the possibility of what was to come.
That was when the music stopped.
That was when she saw him.
Byrne Worth stood at the far end of the hall, the black night framing his darkly clad form, making his pale face and shockingly white neckcloth seem disembodied, monstrous, a vision out of a gothic horror novel. Some of the ladies actually gasped at the sight.
No wonder he was cast the villain by this town.
His icy blue eyes roamed the room and met with nary a returning gaze. Everyone ducked their vision, or chose at the moment to find a fascinating bit of wainscoting to examine. Everyone, that is, except for Jane.
When his eyes latched on to hers, Jane did not avoid his gaze like the others. She held it clearly, happily. But at the same time, Jane was struck by the sensation that she was unable to look away.
He looked dangerous.
He looked nervous.
The voices began to buzz and hum around them, but Jane’s gaze was anchored on Byrne.
“What on earth—” Lady Wilton commented under her breath.
“Is that him—Mr. Worth?” Penelope whispered to vigorous, angry nodding by her mother.
“Who’s Mr. Worth?” Mr. Brandon asked.
“I told you about him—the one Mother thinks is the highwayman,” Penelope answered.
“Not just me—the entire town knows he is the culprit.” Lady Wilton sniffed. “He has thwarted your father far too long. He will not stand for him being among decent folk. How dare he think—”
As Lady Wilton grew her head of steam, Jane pulled her brother to her side. “Jason, you need to go over and greet Mr. Worth,” she said in a rushed undertone.
“Why on earth would I do that?” Jason scoffed. “He’s not exactly welcome.”
“Three reasons,” Jane said, her voice deadly serious. “First of all, you are the Duke of Rayne’s son. You lead. Secondly, he deserves thanks for taking you in when you needed it. You did,” she added, before he could protest.
“And third?” Jason asked as he heaved a reluctant sigh.
“And third, if you do not act as a peer should and make him welcome, there will be a public lynching at this assembly. Lady Wilton is right on that score—they will not stand for someone they view as a dangerous outsider being here.”
Jason glanced up and noticed the growing ire of the townsfolk. Mr. Cutler and Sir Wilton were nearest the doors, and in general were, as leading gentlemen of the town, the first to greet newcomers. But neither had moved. Indeed, Mr. Cutler had a terribly ruddy anger about him, as if a few too many cups of punch and a heightened sense of authority would soon prove to be an explosive combination. He was whispering something in Sir Wilton’s ear, whose complexion soon matched Cutler’s. And by their line of vision, any explosion to come would be directed at Byrne Worth.
“You owe me,” Jason muttered.
“If you do this properly, the entire town will owe you.”
Jason straightened his coat and his shoulders. And then, with the dignity taught only at the finest schools and handed down through generations of aristocratic intermarriage, Jason crossed the room and came to stand in front of Byrne Worth. And gave a short bow.
The entire assembly hall watched as the Marquis extended his hand to the highwayman. They waited, unblinking, as the latter transferred his cane, his ever-present weapon, to his other hand. And then they shook.
Jane was not in a position to overhear any words that had been exchanged, but Jason grinned with good humor and slapped Byrne on the back in that way that was adopted long ago as a friendly yet masculine sign of acceptance. Those simple gestures—the handshake, the slap on the shoulder—had the ability to end wars.
And tonight was no different, if on a slightly smaller scale. It was as if all the tension that held the Assembly Hall in stasis leaked out the windows. The music began again, the dancing began anew. Mr. Cutler’s anger cooled into befuddlement and then a shrug, as another glass of punch fell into his hands.
Jane let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Sir Wilton’s mouth was set in a hard, disapproving line, and a few people looked taken aback, but most everyone else returned to their revelry uninterrupted.
Because no one was about to cut a Marquis for his associations. Not in London. And certainly not in Reston.
“Lady Jane!” Victoria squeaked as she trotted to her side from the dance floor, Dr. Berridge not far behind. “Did you see what your brother has just done?”
“I did,” Jane replied. “What is your opinion, Doctor?”
“I think it’s good to see Mr. Worth out, but I find it interesting he came at all,” Dr. Berridge said. “He’s never come to an assembly—at least not so long as I’ve been here. And he’s not exactly welcomed.”
“But don’t you see?” Victoria said, her face flushed with awe. “That’s what makes what the Marquis did so very brave. He stood up and welcomed him, making it so everyone else would have to as well.” She gave a worshipful sigh. “That’s what makes him wonderful.”
Oh dear. Dr. Berridge stiffened, unable to hide the dejected expression on his face. It seemed that any headway he had made during the last dance was to be undone by Jason’s simple gesture toward Byrne. It almost made Jane sorry she had forced Jason to do it.
Almost.
Because when she looked over at Byrne, something strange occurred. A flutter of nervousness in the pit of her stomach. The nerves under the surface of her skin began to awaken—sleepy, lazy things, too long dormant. A small hitch in her breath, the anticipation of possibility—all that she had mourned the loss of, suddenly, slowly, coming back to her—alive and active and . . .
Touched.
Byrne knew this was a mistake. He was more nervous than he let on—more nervous than he had been in a long time. His expression may have been grim and uncaring, but to the careful eye, one would see his posture was that of a man ready to flee. An instinct borne of stepping into enemy territory a thousand times before.
Dobbs had been commanded to stay with the horses, just in case a hasty exit was required. He could sense the tension in the room, the hatred and dismissal vibrating off the ladies and gentlemen of Reston—those versed well enough in local gossip to be certain of the absolute truth dispensed there. Oh yes, this had been a mistake. Just like the leisurely walk through the village two days ago had been a mistake. But two days ago, all he had to do to escape was walk a straight line. Here, he would have to turn around—a cowardly act. But one, given a crowd’s ability to turn quickly into a mob, he was ready to do.
Until, that is, he found her eyes.
Sinking into the warm brown of Lady Jane’s gaze, Byrne found himself still, tethered to her as a ship to its anchor. No, there would be no turning around.
The murmurs gathered around him, growing in pitch and anger. He would wait them out. Civility would win out, wouldn’t it? All the same, Byrne gauged the men nearest to him—who was most likely to come at him, who could possibly be of assistance.
Just as he was making the grim realization that there were very few men he could count on for said assistance, assistance came from the most unlikely of quarters.
“Mr. Worth—pleasure to see you again,” Jane’s brother Jason, the Marquis last seen waking up in a pool of his own drool on Byrne’s settee, said loud enough to reach the ears of all who wished to listen. He bowed smartly and then extended his hand—a northern custom, the handshake, and its use in this instance very intelligent. The boy had read the room, apparently.
“I hope you appreciate this,” Jason said through gritted teeth, as he pulled Byrne close and slapped him on the back. “My sister insists a mob would claim you if I didn’t.”
Ah. Apparently it had been Jane who read the room, not her brother. Pity—Byrne almost shifted his low opinion of the man, and instead found it, and his high opinion of his sister, confirmed.
“A mob might be an exaggeration. But not by much.”