Lady Pamela (20 page)

He had raised his voice, but it went unnoticed in the crowded, noisy ballroom, and Amanda Detweiler had never been one to cringe at the words of an angry male.

“Your regard is finely drawn,” answered Lady Detweiler, “and comes at a price. There are others who may take a wider view. Peregrine Carroll, for example.”

The duke stared down at her, loathe to take this bait, but unable to stop himself. “I do not know that gentleman,” he said finally.

“Lady Pamela and Lord Carroll shared the waltz.”

Silence greeted this. Then–

“Would you have me make a fool of myself?”

“A fool? To look love in the face and deny it, that is the fool.”

Benjamin took a deep breath. “So you say,” he told her, and walked away.

* * * *

Lord Chambers smiled in grim satisfaction as he watched his daughter and Lord Castlereaugh make their curtsey-and-bow, and step through the first bars of the quadrille. He was sure that Castlereaugh had understood his earlier remarks, was sure that Millicent’s suitor knew what would be required of him later in the evening.

The Marquess of Leight! Pah, thought the earl. ’Twould never answer, and the absurd scheme must be nipped in the bud. He would have told his daughter exactly that from the first mention of the marquess, had he not been so tired of the chit’s downcast glances and threatened tears. The earl had no time to waste on female sentiment. He had a surfeit of weeping and remonstrance from his wife.

So he had dissembled and stalled, and suggested hope to Millicent where there was none.

Ironically, the earl had a better opinion of Lady Annabelle’s marital plans for Milly and the Marquess of Leight than even Belle herself. The marquess was related by marriage to the Fitzroys, notoriously soft-hearted and, at his age, could very well be in the market for a wife. The earl could only imagine the scene, Lady Millicent batting her eyelashes, a tear slipping down her cheek, and that harebrained Annabelle Fitzroy in the background, whispering horrible descriptions of Milly’s fate at the hands of Enoch Castlereaugh.

No, the results of such an encounter were unpredictable, and potentially at odds to the earl’s requirements. The marquess was rich, true enough, but he was not the sort of man who would be persuaded by Lord Chamber’s financial exigencies, nor desperate enough for Millicent’s charms to make a hurried marriage. ’Twould not do. Millicent would marry Lord Castlereaugh, and after this evening, the earl anticipated an early wedding.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

At midnight, the Lincolnshires’ ball was just reaching its stride, and the ballroom floor was more crowded than ever. Lady Millicent had managed, with Annabelle’s help, to avoid Lord Castlereaugh for more than an hour, but the next waltz hung over her like a cloud, for her father had insisted she share it with that gentleman.

As a consequence, the pleasure Milly usually took in a grand ball was deserting her, even though Lady Annabelle had been as good as her word, and introduced her to the Marquess of Leight. He had asked her hand for the
pastorelle
, and Lady Millicent found him handsome, and pleasant company, albeit shy.

“Cry!” Belle had hissed, as they stood next to each other in the
chaîne des dames
. But Millicent, despite the distressful circumstances, found that she could not shed false tears. She and the marquess had chatted amiably after the
pastorelle
, but had hardly the time to make a better acquaintance before a be-turbaned dowager arrived at his side, her sad, sallow-faced daughter in tow, and spirited him off to dinner.

Even Lady Annabelle’s stratagems, it seemed, went forfeit to a matchmaking mother.

And, at any moment, the orchestra might begin the waltz. Millicent sighed, and wished she could run away. Some parents sent their sons on a tour of the continent before allowing them to marry, or settle into a profession. Why could she not do so? She would love to travel, thought Milly. Love to see Italy, and Spain, and the south coast of France, of which she had heard so much.

Anywhere but London. Anywhere but here.

* * * *

They were waltzing. Again. They were arguing. Again.

Lady Pamela had been aware of the duke’s presence since the moment she entered the Lincolnshires’ ballroom, but Lord Torrance had ignored her for what seemed like hours, until she had convinced herself he meant it so, meant it to be a declaration of what they did not mean to each other. She had found her feet straying in his direction more than once, but stopped herself, and moved away, and accepted dance after dance until she was exhausted and flushed, and ready to break down either in laughter or in tears.

Then she sensed his approach–finally–and felt his presence at her side, his eyes seeking hers. She forced herself to throw him an easy, cheerful glance, a glance friends might give each other, enjoying such a ball.

He had smiled in return. She thought he smiled, but perhaps she was deceived, for ’twas no more than minutes, now, since she had followed him to the dance floor, and his smiles were gone.

Had she even intended to accept his hand for the waltz? Lady Pamela was no longer sure, for Lord Torrance had extended his arm, and she had taken it, and for minutes afterward she was aware of nothing but the feel of her fingers in his, the fire of his touch at her back.

Had he even
asked?

At first, they had chatted amiably enough, although perhaps more haltingly than usual.

“I wouldn’t have thought this many people could fit into a single room and still dance,” Lord Torrance had commented. “Is no-one ever injured?”

“Only if Lord Burgess is present,” said Lady Pamela, with a chuckle.

“Ah.”

“Will you now chide Amanda for exaggeration?” Pam asked him, aware that her friend had made the Lincolnshires’ ball into the be-all and end-all of a London autumn.

“I suppose not,” he answered. “Although I think Lady Detweiler may rejoice in such events more than I.”

Pam fell silent, although he had smiled, and wondered what Lord Torrance meant by this. Did he find present company disagreeable?

The duke seemed to sense her apprehension. He hastened to add, “I take great pleasure in dancing, I assure you. I meant only to say that I also value quiet evenings at home.”

“As do I. But it is something uncommon, don’t you think, for so many people to come together for the enjoyment of one another’s company?”

“Yes,” remarked Lord Torrance. “I noticed that you were enjoying yourself.”

Lady Pamela’s breath caught in her throat.
A rebuke?
she wondered, and then called herself foolish for seeing insult in the commonplace.

 “ ’Tis what one does, at a ball,” she told Lord Torrance, a bit stiffly. “I’m surprised you find it worthy of comment.”

Why would the duke have anything to say of her behavior when he had been ignoring her the entire evening? What right had he to judge her conduct, when he had not even bothered to approach her, to offer a simple greeting? He was a duke, the Duke of Grentham. It was his place to seek her out, and she had no cause to run after him, a fine lady, like a schoolgirl miss attending her first
soirée
.

The duke said nothing for a moment. Then–

“And I see that Lord Carroll is a favorite of yours,” he added.

“Lord Carroll–!” This, thought Lady Pam, was the outside of enough. First he had insulted her in regards the Earl of Ketrick, and at least with him, ’twas true, she once shared affection. But Peregrine Carroll! Was she never to have an innocent dance without risking the duke’s disapproval?

“I believe that is the gentleman’s name. You seemed quite cozy, waltzing,” said Lord Torrance.

Unwise words. Perhaps Lady Pamela should have realized that the duke had no idea of her brief history with Peregrine Carroll. How could he have known, after all? Known that Lord Carroll had made an improper suggestion, shortly after the end of her relationship with the Earl of Ketrick. Known that she had refused him in terms that left no doubt of her feelings.

If Lord Torrance had seen Lady Pamela slap Peregrine roundly across the face, or seen that gentleman’s chagrin at having made so egregious a miscalculation, he might have been less troubled by Lady Detweiler’s cheerful, deliberate meddling. For his words were born of jealousy, and if Lady Pam had thought the matter through, she would have seen it.

Pamela was too angry for such considerations. She would have stopped, then and there, and left him. But the duke was too swift for her. He continued the dance, his arm at her back, his hand tightly gripping hers.

“I intended no offense,” said Lord Torrance.

“Do you spy at me?” she hissed. “Do you ruin every small bit of joy? Is this to be my reward for the time I have spent at your home, the hours I have freely given you?”

These words, unfortunately, hit their mark. The duke had daily worried that she resented the time spent at Marchers, worried that she regretted ever acceding to his request for help. He was stung, and angry as well.

“You need not ever come back!” he told her. “I am sorry to have bored you, to have taken you away from more interesting pursuits.”

“You do not bore me, your grace,” said Lady Pamela, “but your trespass into my affairs grows tedious.”

Her affairs. Pam’s own words were chosen unwisely, for both the gentleman and lady were of volatile temperament, and of a passionate nature that flared with each touch, each moment spent in close proximity. It was a characteristic they had managed to conceal from everyone but each other. They were wounded, and knew how to wound in return.

“I,” said the duke, coldly, “will trespass upon your
affairs
no longer.”

Lord Torrance stopped dancing and stepped back. Lady Pamela took a deep breath and held her chin high. The music faded. They stood in the middle of the Duke of Lincolnshire’s ballroom and faced each other, within arm’s reach and a world apart. He bowed, a deep, formal flourish. She curtseyed to the ground.

He waited as a gentleman, for her to turn from him, to be the first to leave.

Lady Pamela walked away.

* * * *

“My lord,” breathed Millicent, “you...you are hurting my arm.”

Lord Castlereaugh’s grip eased fractionally, but he continued to propel Milly toward the far end of the ballroom and the doors outside, to the Lincolnshires’ garden terrace.

They were not, it seemed, to finish their waltz, and Lady Millicent would have been glad to be rid of him, had he returned her to her mother, or Lady Annabelle. But Lord Castlereaugh had insisted that they take a turn on the terrace.

“I think it’s time,” he told her, leering, “that we become better acquainted.”

Lady Millicent couldn’t imagine what Castlereaugh intended, or why he thought he could make so free with her. The terrace offered several small alcoves where a young gentleman and his lady might have a modicum of privacy for a brief
tête-à-tête
, but nothing more.

And Lord Castlereaugh, in Milly’s experience, had no interest in conversation.

* * * *

Benjamin watched Lady Pamela move swiftly, without a backward glance, through the crowd on the ballroom floor. Was she crying? He could not bear to think she might be crying.

How had this happened? Why had he let her go? It seemed all a mistake, a stupid mistake made from pride and a fast-dissipating anger. Benjamin told himself he was an idiot to follow her, that they would only quarrel anew, but he could do nothing else. Crossing the floor in a few long strides, the dancers melting away before him, he arrived at the large, double doors leading outside. The doors were already standing open from the heat of the ballroom.

But Lady Pamela was no-where to be seen. A few couples were enjoying the limited privacy afforded by the terrace; otherwise, no-one. Benjamin stood at the stone balustrade and peered down into the gardens, glad, at least, that the moon shone full.

There. He caught a glimpse of silver satin and white lace, and recognized Lady Pamela’s elegant figure and gleaming white-gold hair. She was walking swiftly along one of the graveled paths, through the Lincolnshires’ terraced rose garden–famed throughout the
ton
, Benjamin recalled–and into the back meadows. He followed without any care that he might be seen, or that someone might note his hurry, taking the staircase steps by twos and threes. He felt an urgent need to talk to her in private, to run his fingertips along the line of her jaw, to reach down and brush his lips against hers. A need to have done with all pretense between them.

They had both chosen to ignore the truth of what had happened between them at Luton Court.
Lady Pamela wished it so
, Benjamin had told himself. ’Twas not his fault! He had done everything he could, had offered her marriage, an offer she should have accepted.

But he was no longer convinced by his own words.

Pah. They should have been married months ago. She was his, thought Lord Torrance, and he was finished with allowing her to refuse his hand.

* * * *

During the waltz Lady Annabelle had lost sight of Millicent and Lord Castlereaugh in the crowd. Only Clarence Peabody–and the Earl of Banbridge–had any idea where Milly had gone.

Lord Peabody had earlier noticed Lady Millicent’s distress at Lord Castlereaugh’s touch, and had seen how that gentleman ogled her, as if ’twas only the earl’s presence that restrained him from pawing at her bodice. This made Clarence feel uncomfortable, and Clarence did not wish to feel uncomfortable. Now she was dancing again with the man–

Clarence watched as Milly was led from the ballroom, he frowned and cleared his throat and harrumphed. Then Lord Peabody shrugged and turned back to the ball.

Clarence Peabody’s disposition was indeed sensitive, but it had never advanced within spitting distance of a backbone, and his feelings toward Lady Millicent had taken a very recent turn for the worse. At the fringes of society, and not a person to inspire the sharing of a fine piece of gossip, Clarence had been one of the few gentlemen in London to know nothing of the Banbridge’s true financial situation. But–