Cynthia Bailey Pratt (28 page)

“A paltry cut. Miss Wingrove. Permit me.” His fingers were quicker than her own. She watched his face, noted its frown and began to hope with a painful jolt as her heart beat again. Then, he showed her his card. “Ten of clubs. Miss Wingrove. I shall see you tomorrow. I look forward to our association eagerly. Most eagerly, indeed.”

With great care, as though it were important, Danita replaced her cards on the stack with precision, aligning them perfectly. “Sir Carleton is not to be harmed.”

“As I said. I will apologize, in writing.”

“Then I will see you tomorrow. But first, you will write.” Lifting his pen from the desk, she flicked open the inkwell and dipped the quill. Then, she smiled again like Berenice.

“One would think you do not trust me. I am wounded. But you will learn. Very soon, you will learn.”

While he wrote, making great show, Danita walked to the window and looked out. She had lost. Perhaps she should have prayed harder. No, that was blasphemous, to pray over cards. She could have prayed for Sir Carleton. Danita did so now. They would never meet again. When she went away, in company with the duke. Sir Carleton would never wish to see her again.

Leaning her forehead against the cool glass, she kept her thoughts light for fear of drowning in self-pity. It was too bad she had to leave now, she thought. Just when she honestly understood what Sir Carleton found so thrilling about gambling. There had been a such a good chance that she would win. Carleton thought she brought good fortune. What a pity she could not bring it to herself. Looking at the duke’s reflection behind her, she thought that if all else failed, she could always attempt to bring him to bankruptcy by her frequent losses at table.

“There,” the duke said with some satisfaction as he drew a flourish beneath his name. “I’ve left it open so you may read it, my dear. I know you will find it suitably abject. My writing style was much praised at school.”

Taking it, she read the letter carefully. His words were those of repentance. Only she would notice the contempt in every line. “Very well.” She folded it and tucked it into the top of her dress. “I will deliver it, myself.”

“Not to Sir Carleton! I would not have my prize ... what is the word Miss Clively used? I would not have you besmirched, before taking that pleasure myself.”

For the first time, Danita colored. “I shall take the letter to Lord Framstead. He will give it to Sir Carleton. Nothing of that sort crossed my mind.”

“Don’t let it. I should be very disappointed to be ... disappointed in that regard. Rumors aside, I believe you to be an innocent. I depend upon it.”

Though her cheeks were hot, she said with composure, “As you wish, Your Grace.”

“That’s a good girl.” He smirked and then said, “Do you know Lord Framstead’s direction?”

“No,
I don’t.”

“My man will call a chair for you, if you will wait.” He went out into the hall to summon the butler. While he was gone, Danita pondered his words. What a good idea! If her innocence was to be lost, anyway, why not offer it to Sir Carleton first? The memory of a near kiss returned to her. He could not be totally indifferent to her.

“There,” said the duke. “It’s all arranged. I have only to say farewell. Farewell until tomorrow!” He seized her hand and carried it to his lips. Unlike most gentlemen who merely made a pretense of kissing hands, he pressed his lips against it and kept them there for what seemed an hour. It was all Danita could do not to wipe it on her cloak afterward.

He opened the door for her, his thin lips curved in an odious ape of a grin. Despite her disgust, she could not help pausing on the threshold. “There is one question I have been intending to ask for some time, in regard to those rumors. I now know who began them, but...you and those others, you knew I was there at that card party with Sir Carleton. Why did you not denounce me?”

“Miss Wingrove, you shock me! Do you think gentlemen of honor would stoop so low as to gossip about a lady?”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. What can I have been thinking of?”

Quickly conveyed to Lord Framstead’s house in Russell Street, Danita tried to pay the chairman when she stepped down. But the duke’s butler had seen to it. She asked them to wait, for she would not be long.

Trotting up the steps, her hood billowing back to reveal her bare head, she raised her hand to the knocker only to have the door open before she touched it. “Sir Carleton!”

He smiled down at her. “What a pleasure to see you. Miss Wingrove. Do you call upon Framstead? An invitation?” he asked, his eyes falling upon the letter she tightly grasped in one ungloved hand.

“Yes, Miss Clively ... I ...” She could not speak. He was there, warm and alive. In her hand, she held a letter that would keep him both these things. The sacrifice she was about to make for him was nothing compared with the value of his continued life. But it would have been easier if he had not smiled so at her. The comparison between his open delight at seeing her and the gloating possessiveness of the duke was too strong.

“Well, pass in, pass in. You find him at home. Shall I come in with you?”

“No, I need only stay a moment.”

“A moment in your company, Miss Wingrove, is a foretaste of paradise.”

“Oh, don’t!” Danita had heard enough empty compliments at the duke’s to last her the rest of her life. “I mean, you must not flatter me.”

He drew her into the cool shade of the foyer, out of the chairman’s interested glance. “Is there something wrong? You seem perturbed.”

His fingers rested on her shoulders as he looked into her eyes. Danita gazed up, knowing this might be the last time she’d ever see him. She must make an effort to memorize every feature of his strong, smiling face. Her hands, of their own will, came up to lay on his chest, rising and falling in time to its deep swell. “I’m perfectly fine,” she said, her voice scarcely a breath.

“Indeed, you are.” His hold tightened, then, his hands slid down her back, pressing her closer. Danita let her eyes close as she relinquished all conscious thought. Whatever he wanted to do was what she wanted him to do. She lifted her head, invitingly.

His kiss was sweet
and wild, never demanding, yet refusing nothing she offered.
Her fingers and toes curled as his body warmed her between the open folds of her cloak. She wished her arms were not between them so that she might feel his strength all along her. Yet, when she moved to bring this about, he misinterpreted her action and stepped back.

Danita blinked and swayed as his support was removed. “I beg your pardon. I don’t know what came over me,” he said stiffly.

She wanted to tell him not to stop, or rather to begin again. Mad notions filled her brain, ways to assure him that he had done only what she most longed for him to do. She felt like suggesting that they investigate Lord Framstead’s house for a spare bedroom, or that they leave together for Number 15. If necessary, she would not regret finding a private room. But while she tried to think of a less wanton suggestion that would keep her beside him, he turned a slow red.

“Pray excuse me. I shall hope to have the pleasure of callin’ on you tomorrow afternoon. My morning, unfortunately, is otherwise occupied.” He bowed, smiled, and left, leaving Danita to throw out too late a hand to hold him back.

Chapter Fifteen

Petulantly, Berenice tugged another silken gown from her wardrobe and tossed it onto the pile on the end of her bed. She sniffled. It was too bad of Cousin Danita to treat her so, after her selfless attempt to help her. All she’d wanted to do was bring the Duke of Lichoakes to his senses. The sight of an innocent face when evil was about to be done often brought the wicked man back to the regions of morality. At least, that was the way it went in books.

And now, to make things worse, her father had just informed her that they were going to Barbados. They were not even to wait until the end of the summer, let alone wait for her longed-for Season in London. She’d been requested to look over her gowns, to choose the ones she’d take. There was no possibility of taking her entire wardrobe. No ship, he’d said with a dry chuckle, could carry such a burden.

No one, she reflected with another sniff, seemed to care for her feelings at all. Of course, it would be pleasant to see Mother again, and she was sure her brothers had grown out of all recognition. Still, it seemed too bad that they must go so soon. Berenice was sure her grandmother could change  Father’s mind, but she had not been allowed to see Grandmamma for several days, not since the dinner with the Massinghams.

The maid came in, shaking her head over the disarray. “Oh, Martha,” Berenice sighed, “do you suppose they even wear ballgowns in Barbados?”

“That valet of your father’s says there’s grand balls every winter. I’m sure, I wish I was going. He says there’s never been such a place for marrying as in the tropics.”

“Yes, that’s something to think of. But, I shall hate to leave my beaus. Mr. Newland, and Sir Carleton, and...and the others.” Leaving the maid to make sense of the chaos around her, Berenice crossed to the mirror. She took careful survey of every point that any man had ever called beautiful. After reassuring herself, she fell to considering the men themselves.

Mr. Newland was awfully serious. Even his proposal, flattering though it was, had been almost a legal affair. She felt no pang at parting from him. Sir Carleton had never thought of her except as a child, and for a moment she pouted. But Lord Framstead; he actually talked to her, as though he were interested not only in how she looked, but the way she thought. At the thought of never seeing him again, a small pain struck in her heart like the tocsin of a high-toned bell.

Oh well, she reflected with a sigh. It’s all done with now. And wondered whether she’d allow herself to get sunburnt to an even golden color, or if she should buy another parasol before she left. Perhaps she would. She needn’t use it, if she did not choose to.

Involved by this dilemma, she did not notice Danita dragging herself wearily up the stairs. Therefore, when Edward Stowe called that afternoon, Berenice went down to be with him alone, believing her cousin still to be visiting the duke. She told herself that she would never stoop to seeing another girl’s beau behind her back, but neither could she reconcile it with her conscience to leave a visitor alone to wait for another.

“You know,” she said after greeting him, “we shan’t be living here much longer. I am to go to Barbados with my father; there can be no reprieve.”

“Barbados? But that’s hundreds of miles away!”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Her eyes veiled by her lashes, Berenice said with real feeling, “I am sorry to leave.”

“Sorry to leave England?”

“Yes, it is the only home I’ve ever known, and also sorry to ... to leave my friends.”

Lord Farmstead placed his hand gently over hers. “Which friends?”

Berenice could not quite bring herself to look at him. Her heart was beating very strangely, and she felt both hot and cold.

He should not look at her so, if he was in love with Danita. He
would
not look at her so, if he were in love with Danita!

“Why, all of them, I suppose,” she said softly. “I shall not see anyone from Roselands again, as we are to leave from Bath. I’m sure my horse will miss me. And then there is Danita.” She peeked at him quickly when she said the name. But her focus was blurred and she could not tell how it affected him.

“Will you miss no one else?” His voice was more serious than usual and had a new force. Berenice lifted her lashes. He was so close that the merest turn of her head would bring him within kissing distance.

“Well,” she said, “ I suppose ...”

Lord Framstead snatched his hand away from hers. “What do you mean about Danita?”

“What?” she asked mistily.

“Miss Wingrove is not going with you?”

Her eyes assumed their accustomed clarity. “I don’t know. Nothing was said. Besides, the duke and she—” Berenice bit back the words.

“The duke? The Duke of Lichoakes? What has he ... oh, God, the letter she brought me for Blacklock! The apology! I thought it queer. Quick, Berenice, what did she give him in return? There must have been something he wanted?”

“He didn’t want me,” she said, the wound still fresh. “I thought it very impolite of him to say what he did, even if he is a duke.”

“Blacklock must be told!” the young earl declared, jumping up from his seat. “I hope he does duel with him after this!”

Berenice also stood up and grasped at his sleeve. “But what about me?”

“God blast me for falling in love with such a beautiful ninny!” He shook his arm free. “Why didn’t you tell someone this story before? Never mind, I know. Your fluffy head was full of nothing but yourself. Good evening, Miss Clively!”

Berenice stood alone in the middle of the morning room carpet. “You love me?” she said to the air, answered only by the slamming of the front door. Two tears rolled over the brim of her lower lids. Then the front door slammed again, rattling the windows. Lord Framstead strode once more into the room.

“Yes, I love you.” He grasped her by the upper arms and hauled her forward. He kissed her like a man goaded to the limits of his endurance. She had not time to react or even to curve her arms about him. Almost thrusting her away, he said, “And I hope you like Barbados!”

He was gone again, leaving a very puzzled young lady behind him. Gently touching her ravished mouth, she tried to figure the matter out. He claimed to love her. He had certainly kissed her as no man ever had before. But he had said such things to her! “A beautiful ninny?” she mused. It was good to be called beautiful, but did he really think her a fool? ‘Selfish’ too, he had said. Was she selfish?

Berenice sat down and thought until she had the headache. Then, crossing to the writing desk, she drew out a piece of paper. Dipping her pen, she began her letter of refusal to Mr. Newland. As she wrote, her somber expression lightened, until by the end she smiled as merrily as ever in her life. Dipping her pen again, she wrote on a fresh sheet, “Dear Edward ...” and then paused, at a complete loss.