“I daresay no one would think a single improper thought even should they find me in your bed, my lord,” she said with self-deprecation.
Braddock let out a sudden burst of laughter, as if he were completely surprised by her wit, but Diane felt like running from the room and giving in to the tears that burned like acid in her eyes. “Perhaps you are right,” he said softly. “But they might be wrong.”
Ah, a bone. He pitied her, after all. “I would be more than happy to act as chaperone this coming Season, Lord Braddock. What is the girl’s name?”
“Melissa. She is the daughter of my brother, who died a fortnight ago. It is an unusual situation. We have no other suitable women in our family. You do still live in Flintwood, do you not?”
Diane was, frankly, surprised that they were practically neighbors. Indeed, on a fine day, it was possible to walk to Flintwood House from her far more modest home. “Yes, I do.”
“Well, then,” he said, as if all was agreed upon, which, apparently, it was.
“Of course, my duties couldn’t officially begin until after my niece’s wedding.”
“Of course,” he said, and looked slightly relieved that their conversation had ended when the music did. Now, Diane realized, he would not be forced to converse with her any longer. And yet, he lingered.
“I...” He looked suddenly uncomfortable.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Would it be too much of an inconvenience for you to spend some time with Melissa before the Season starts?” He gave her a charming, self-effacing smile. “You see, I’ve no experience with young girls and she has had an unusual upbringing.”
“I shall write to you when I return home and perhaps we can arrange something.”
The earl let out a sigh of such relief that Diane found herself smiling at him again before she remembered how startling he found her smile. It came again, that strange look, and she immediately frowned.
“Good evening, Miss Stanhope. You have put my mind greatly at ease.”
Diane nodded, then made her way over to the side of the room, feeling unsettled, a feeling she didn’t much like. No, not at all.
Oscar was so relieved, so completely astonished by his reaction to that rather innocent kiss, he almost wanted to shout out to the world how happy he was. For the first time in his life he felt a glimmer of hope that the coming years wouldn’t be a long, tepid journey of responsibility and tedious duty.
His fiancée, it was turning out, was quite charming and rather a flirt. He hadn’t expected that, hadn’t thought she’d let him kiss her after their last disastrous meeting, and he certainly hadn’t expected that he’d have to force himself not to draw her more firmly into his arms. She
moved
him, this beautiful girl he’d known all his life. He’d hardly wanted to relinquish her to her aunt when they returned to the ballroom.
My God
, he thought,
am I falling in love with my future wife?
It seemed impossible, and he wanted to war against such feelings for they would only give his father satisfaction to see that the choice he’d made for his son had been the right one. Could it be that all this time he’d been fighting the match only to be contrary to his father?
He grabbed a wine glass from a passing waiter and took a thoughtful sip, his eyes seeking out and finding his fiancée. She
was
lovely, he thought, emptying his glass. A wonderful haze of alcohol and love flowed through him. Why hadn’t he seen how lovely she was before now? Certainly he’d known she was beautiful, in the same way that a rose is beautiful. It was something pretty to look at for a day or two before the bloom faded. But Elsie, his lovely Elsie, was becoming more lovely. Such soft lips, such a warm touch. She made him feel suddenly alive, suddenly hopeful about a future that had before seemed so bleak. With just two kisses. Imagine, he thought, what bedding her would do.
Nothing. Elsie had felt absolutely nothing when Lord Hathwaite kissed her, and she’d tried her best, even letting him kiss her twice. He had smiled down at her, but she’d felt none of the thrilling heat she’d felt with Alexander. The most exciting part of the kiss was when they’d heard a twig snap and thought they might be discovered.
At the moment, she wasn’t certain if that was bad or good. It was bad, of course, that she felt none of the physical attraction toward her future husband that she felt for Alexander. And it was good to know, she supposed, that she was not some wanton who got weak in the knees at every man’s kiss.
Lord Hathwaite led her inside and promised to see her for their next waltz. He then left her with Aunt Diane, who looked flushed and hotter than ever.
“Aunt, you look in need of some punch. Shall we go to the refreshment table?”
“I’d like to sit here, if you please. Would you be a darling and get it for me?”
Her aunt truly looked about to collapse from the heat, so Elsie smiled and said she would. As she made her way over to the long table, Monsieur Desmarais saw her and waved her over.
“Madamoiselle Elsie, you are my savior,” he said. “I must leave and I’m afraid I, well, I am not feeling well.”
“Shall I fetch Father for you?” She looked about the room. “Oh, dear, he might be in playing cards and I do not wish to disturb him. He so rarely spends time with his friends anymore.”
“If you could help me find Andre, I will bid you adieu.”
“Andre?” Elsie asked, and then realized with a horrible premonition that he was talking about Alexander. “Where?”
“No doubt with the surrey,” Monsieur said, sounding quite odd. “I’m afraid I’m not well.”
Indeed, his eyes were glassy, his face florid, and he seemed to be swaying a bit on his feet. Elsie realized suddenly that Monsieur Desmarais was quite, quite drunk.
“Sir, I have promised my aunt some refreshment. But if you sit here,” she said, leading him to a chair, “I will be with you directly and we shall find Andre for you.”
She was back in minutes, which was a good thing, for Monsieur Desmarais was trying to rest his chin on the heel of his hand but it kept sliding off. “Shall we find Andre now?”
“Yes. He’s a good boy. A good boy.”
Elsie took his arm, but quickly realized he needed a bit of steering. Getting the artist out of the Browning ball without anyone being the wiser that he was deep in his cups was not such an easy task. The man weighed a great deal more than Elsie, even though they were of a similar height, and steering him in the right direction became more difficult the further they walked. Fortunately, as they were approaching the stairs that had seemed so easy to navigate on the way up but which now appeared impossibly steep, Alexander appeared.
“Not feeling well, mon fils,” Monsieur slurred.
Elsie looked at Alexander, trying to gauge his mood, but his eyes, full of concern, were on the artist. She stood there near the bottom step, unsure whether to follow them or return to the ball, until Alexander jerked his head, commanding her to follow. There was absolutely no warmth in his gaze, but Elsie followed, praying he had not seen her with Lord Hathwaite but fearing that he had. Why else would he look so angry? As she walked behind him, noting how gentle he was with the inebriated man, she wondered what she should tell him.
The truth
, her conscience told her, even as her heart warred against such a command.
Somehow, Alexander managed to practically lift the portly man into the surrey. It seemed impossible, but as soon as the artist sat upon the cushion, he slumped and was snoring loudly.
Alexander came to her, looming over her, his eyes cold with fury, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his jaw bulged. “When you return, come to the ballroom.”
Oh, God, he did see.
He turned abruptly without waiting for her answer, jumped lithely into the surrey and snapped the reins.
But as horrifying as was the thought that Alexander had seen her kissing Lord Hathwaite, Elsie still found enough indignation to be affronted by his imperious tone. “You cannot tell me what to do,” she shouted with false bravado, and nearly bolted when he heaved onto the reins and stopped the horse’s progress.
He jumped down from the surrey and gave her a mocking bow and a smile that did not touch his eyes. “My pardon. If you please, Miss Elizabeth, I should like to discuss a matter of great importance with you.” Then he let out a small laugh that held no humor. “Actually, I’m sure it is of no importance to you whatsoever, but I humbly request an audience at any rate.”
Elsie still did not answer him. Her throat was too thick with unshed tears. But she nodded and watched as he climbed aboard the surrey and drove away without another look.
It was nearly four in the morning before the Huntington carriage pulled up in front of Mansfield Hall carrying three exhausted ball-goers. Elsie looked worriedly at the house, half expecting an angry Alexander to be waiting on the doorstep for her.
“I’m for bed, as I expect are you ladies,” Elsie’s father said, still groggy from his short nap in the carriage.
Aunt Diane wrestled angrily with her skirts for a moment before stepping down onto the graveled driveway. The ball, she said, had not gone well. For a good part of the way home, she actually sulked in the corner, something that was quite uncharacteristic of her.
“Is something wrong, Aunt?”
She stared at the steps as if they were an insurmountable mountain. “I’ve just had a dose of reality this evening, that is all.” Then she turned to Elsie, her eyes unusually bright, and Elsie had the sudden feeling that her aunt might actually be holding back tears. “I want you to know how very lucky you are, Elizabeth.”
Elsie wanted to argue, but that fleeting look of despair in her aunt’s eyes stopped her. What, after all, did she really know of her aunt? Elizabeth actually thought she was content with her life, had envied her the freedom she had as an older woman with the means to live independently. But perhaps, as her mother used to say whenever Elsie envied someone, “You don’t truly know what’s in their heart.”
“I know I’m lucky,” she said. “And I’m sorry if I’ve seemed ungrateful for all that I have. I suppose it’s human nature to want more.”
“Yes,” Diane said thoughtfully, as if Elsie had just said the most profound thing.
The two women walked into the house together and up the main staircase to the second floor, where they went in opposite directions.
“Good night, my dear.”
“Good night, Aunt,” Elsie said, and walked toward her room, only to stop once she heard her aunt’s door clicking closed. She waited but a moment before tip-toeing back down the stairs, her heart hammering in her chest, a feeling of dread making her almost ill. She must tell Alexander about her upcoming wedding. She should have told him weeks ago, which made this confession all the more difficult.
Elsie pushed open the ballroom door and immediately saw Alexander’s silhouette as he stood looking out into the garden. Although it was nearly daybreak, he was only a dark shadow against the early morning gloom. A fine mist fell outside, enshrouding the garden in gray and giving the impression that nothing existed beyond this room. He didn’t turn when she entered but Elsie knew he must have heard her. She walked as far as the sofa, then braced a hand there, feeling suddenly weak and unbearably tired.
“Alexander?”
He remained absolutely still, reminding Elsie of the first night she’d entered the ballroom to find him working by lamplight.
“Who is he to you?” he said, not turning to her, his words unusually clipped.
Elsie suddenly found it difficult to breathe, never mind answer his question. Her hand clutched the sofa hard, as she felt for the first time in her life that she might faint.
“Who is he to you?” he repeated, annunciating each word, as if he were restraining his anger only with the greatest effort.
“We are to be married in May.” Elsie waited for some reaction, but saw only an imperceptible nod of his head.
“I see.”
“No, I don’t think you do. Our fathers signed a marriage contract when I was still a baby. I don’t love him.” Her eyes stung suddenly from unshed tears. Oh, how she hated this, how she wished everything were different.
“We must honor the wedding contract,” she said in a rush. “There was a great deal of money involved. If I do not marry, then my father will be ruined. We’ll lose this house and Mary’s future will be uncertain at best. It all had to do with a vote His Grace needed.”
At that, Alexander’s head snapped up and Elsie took an involuntary step backward. “His Grace?” he asked, with lethal calm.
“I’m to marry Lord Hathwaite and will one day be the Duchess of Kingston.”
Alexander stood at the window and stared at her, his expression one of complete horrified disbelief. “Kingston,” he repeated. “You’re to be...Kingston.” And then he started to laugh, great chest-heaving guffaws that suddenly seemed tinged with bitterness. “Kingston,” he repeated, wiping his eyes, and giving into another bout of uncontrollable laughter.