The Secret Mistress (34 page)

Past tense?

Present tense?

He was
such
a novice at all this. And part of him was still wary. How could he be in love? And how the devil could he be in love with
Lady Angeline Dudley
? He deliberately brought to mind his first two encounters with her—at the Rose and Crown and on Rotten Row—and looked along the dining table to where she was seated between Sir Webster Jordan and Christopher. She was talking with great animation to the former, and he was smiling back at her.

She was a young, warmhearted, exuberant girl, full of dreams and hopes and charm and quite, quite unconscious of her own vivid beauty. Her mother would
still
have disapproved of her, he thought. The competition would have been too stiff.

She lifted her eyes and caught him looking at her. And for a moment—it was so brief that he might have imagined it—she gazed wistfully back. Then she smiled more brightly and lowered her eyes while she listened to what Jordan was saying.

He was not going to take her at her word. He was not going to forget about marrying her. If there was one thing he had learned about women, limited as his experience was, it was that they did not always say what they meant or mean what they said. Dealing with women was
not
an easy thing. But like all skills worth acquiring, it needed to be worked upon.

It was to be an evening of dancing. It was not the best situation in which to begin some determined wooing, but perhaps not the worst either. This was no London squeeze after all, and the musicians were no professionals. He danced an energetic hop with Miss
Marianne Briden and a slightly more stately one with Alma. They all watched as Lorraine and Fenner waltzed together.

And then Lady Palmer asked the musicians to play a whole set of waltzes and there was a buzz of approval from the guests.

Edward drew a deep breath, but he dared not hesitate.

“Lady Angeline.” He stepped up to where she was standing, talking with Eunice and the Reverend Martin. “Would you care to waltz?”

Her lips formed a soundless O, and she glanced at Eunice and even made a small gesture toward her with one hand. But then she smiled.

“Thank you, Lord Heyward,” she said and set her hand on his sleeve as he led her farther onto the floor of the drawing room, from which the Persian carpet had been rolled back earlier in the evening.

His grandmother was beaming at him, Edward could see. Alma, who was with her, was smiling and nodding in his direction. His mother was looking hopefully at him. So, actually, was Lady Palmer. And for the first time he could feel encouraged rather than trapped by their obvious approval of this match. If only it were not a waltz! Or any dance at all for that matter.

“Perhaps,” Lady Angeline said, “you would prefer to sit and talk, Lord Heyward. Or perhaps you would like to stroll outside.”

The French windows were open though there was no one outside.

“Shall we compromise,” he suggested, “and
dance
outside?”

Perhaps his legs would feel more like legs—one left and one right—if he waltzed in the darkness without any critical eyes upon him.

“Oh,” she said. “Very well. But I am surprised you did not ask Miss Goddard. She is your friend, and I am sure you would not wish to see her be a wallflower. Your mother and sisters would understand if you danced with her.”

“A wallflower?” he said as he led her through the doors and out onto the cool terrace, which was illuminated only by the candles
within the drawing room. “Eunice has had a partner for every dance so far. She is going to dance this one with Windrow.”

“I do not like that,” she said. “And
you
ought not. He is not a man to be trusted.”

“Not even in a drawing room full of fellow guests at a house party?” he asked her.

“But if they should venture beyond the sight of everyone else,” she said, “I do believe you ought to be concerned.”

He had been given the strange impression both yesterday and today that Windrow was actually interested in Eunice—perhaps because she was no easy victim to his charms. Nothing would come of it, of course. Eunice was far too sensible to encourage him, even if she appeared to be enjoying his company right now. She was laughing at something he had said. Eunice should laugh more often. She looked younger and lovelier than he remembered her looking at any time since he had known her.

And then the music began and he forgot about Eunice and Windrow and everyone else in the drawing room. He set a hand behind Lady Angeline’s slender waist and took her right hand in his left. He felt her other hand come to rest on his shoulder. Her eyes were large in the darkness. They were looking directly into his.

He even forgot that he could not dance, or, rather, that he did so with extreme awkwardness. And that the musicians were not particularly skilled.

He had been wrong about the candlelight. The sky was clear overhead. The moon was waxing toward the full. A million stars twinkled with varying degrees of brightness. The air was cool but not cold. They moved into the steps of the waltz.

It was the only time ever he had enjoyed dancing. Perhaps because he did not even realize that was what he was doing. They moved as one, in and out of the beams of light cast by the drawing room candles, and they twirled beneath the stars until it seemed that it was they that were whirling in bands of light while the two people beneath them stood still.

Her body was warm and supple, her hand clasped in his. She wore a perfume—or perhaps it was soap—so faint that it seemed more the fragrance of
her
. It wrapped about him like a soft shawl, warming him against the cool of the evening.

They did not speak. It did not occur to him that they might. It did not even occur to him that they were
not
conversing. The silence was eloquent enough with its background of music and voices and laughter.

And when it was over, they stood a foot apart—less—and gazed at each other.

“Lady Angeline—” he said softly.

“Thank you,” she said brightly as he began to speak. She smiled dazzlingly. “That was very pleasant, Lord Heyward. It is chilly out here, is it not? I shall be glad to get back inside.”

And the spell was broken.

Was it possible that it had been one-sided, that only he had felt it? Had she been feeling chilly all the time they danced and anxious for the music to end so that she could go back indoors?

He did not believe so.

But she was edgy. She did not trust him, perhaps, to be more than the dull, plodding suitor who had acted out all the platitudes and clichés of a marriage proposal a month ago and had admitted, when pressed, that he was proposing only because he had kissed and compromised her the night before.

What an insufferable ass he had been—as well as an utter simpleton.

It was no wonder she did not trust him now.

The only question was, was it too late to redeem himself? Had his cold manner then killed all her love for him? If she
had
loved him, that was. But she had loved him this afternoon. He had no experience by which to judge such things, but one did not
need
experience. He had felt her kiss and her arms about him. He had gazed into her eyes.

“Yes,” he said now and offered her his arm.

Five minutes later she was dancing with Windrow and sparkling
and laughing up at him, and Edward felt that he could cheerfully kill the man. But he was dancing with Eunice, and he determinedly gave her his full attention.

“Are you enjoying the house party, Eunice?” he asked.

“Oh, of all things,” she said, which seemed an extravagantly girlish thing for Eunice to say. “I have never before been to a house party, you know. And I am
twenty-three
years old.”

Ah, he thought as he smiled fondly at her, the butterfly was emerging from the cocoon, was it? The solemn, bookish girl was suddenly realizing that there was life to be lived and that it must be done
now
because time moved inexorably onward. He just hoped she had not pinned all her hopes for happiness upon Windrow, though he did not believe she would be so foolish. He was not about to utter any advice, however. Eunice was quite mature and sensible enough to order her own life.

“And you,” she said. “Are you enjoying
yourself
, Edward?”

“I am,” he said and smiled.

“You see?” she said softly. “I was quite right, was I not?”

He was not really sure what she meant, though he
thought
he knew.

“Yes,” he said. “You were.”

She smiled warmly back at him.

B
Y THE MIDDLE
of the following afternoon Angeline was in despair—for more than one reason.

The least important—oh, it was very much the least—was that she had seriously underestimated her leftover feelings for the Earl of Heyward after she had rejected his marriage offer. She had been angry with him at that time and horribly disappointed, so of course she had convinced herself that she did not love him at all and that she
was
loving all the busy activities of the Season and the attentions of numerous other gentlemen. She had even persuaded herself that she was on the brink of falling in love with two or three of them.

It was all nonsense, of course. For she had fallen in love with Lord Heyward the first time she set eyes upon him, and she had not fallen out of love since. It
would be done
, but it had not happened yet. And yesterday had not helped at all.
Why
had he not gone to Miss Goddard’s rescue as she had been confident he would, instead of insisting upon helping Angeline get rid of the nonexistent stone in her shoe? And why had they not remained with the group afterward? Why had he kissed her? And why had she allowed it? Why had they waltzed on the terrace last evening instead of inside the drawing room? Even that would have been bad enough, but being outside was disastrous. She had never been so deliriously happy as when they were dancing, and never so deeply in the grip of despair as when she came to her senses afterward.

For he had then danced with Miss Goddard, and it had been another waltz because that was what everyone had wanted, and they had talked the whole time, never taking their eyes off each other’s. She had glowed with obvious happiness, and his eyes had smiled warmly at her the whole time even if the rest of his face had been in repose.

Oh, they were meant for each other. There was no doubt in Angeline’s mind—and surely there could be none in the minds of his mother and sisters either, or in that of his grandmother. And she could not resent the fact, because she liked Miss Goddard exceedingly well and genuinely wished for her happiness.

Why
, instead of teaching her poetry and drama and needlework, had her governesses not taught her the most important lesson anyone could learn—that life was really not going to be easy after one was free of the schoolroom?

And there was the second, and more important, reason for Angeline’s despair. For she had pledged herself to bring Miss Goddard and the Earl of Heyward together. She had even gone so far as to tell Miss Goddard what she was doing so she could help bring about her own happily-ever-after. She had agreed to do it, had she not? That meant she wanted the Earl of Heyward, that she
loved
him. Angeline was so happy for her that she sank one rung further down the ladder of despair.

And the answer to
that
was to redouble her efforts. Though they were not working nearly as well as she had thought they would. Well, not at all, in fact. Goodness, she had schemed to have both Miss Goddard and Lord Windrow invited here, only to discover that Lord Heyward did not seem unduly alarmed by the attentions Lord Windrow was paying the woman he loved. It was all very frustrating.

Angeline went out riding in the morning with a group of other guests. Miss Goddard was not one of them, however, so there was no chance to implement anything. For some distance she rode between Lord Windrow and Tresham, and the two of them talked of going fishing with some of the other men after breakfast. Lord Windrow
also mentioned the fact that it was his mother’s birthday and that he really ought to ride over to his home later to dine with her and spend the night before returning tomorrow.

“Will she not come here?” Angeline asked. “I am sure Cousin Rosalie would be delighted to have her, and we could all give her a grand celebration.”

It was perhaps not quite the thing to invite someone to Rosalie’s house, especially for a birthday party, without first consulting Rosalie herself, but Angeline was sure she would not mind.

“Alas,” Lord Windrow said, “my mother is not strong, and she is something of a recluse. If I am to see her on her birthday, I must go to her.”

“You will upset the balance of numbers here if you do,” Tresham said, “and doubtless throw Rosalie into consternation. Such things matter to the ladies.”

“Far be it from me to do anything so dastardly,” Lord Windrow said, smiling at Angeline. “I shall think of some solution. Tell me, Lady Angeline, is there a color
not
represented in your rather splendid riding hat? It would be a shame if there were. It would be sitting all alone on a palette somewhere, feeling rejected and dejected.”