The Valentine's Day Ball (4 page)

Devlin smiled down at her, his dark eyes holding a promise—or should she regard it as a threat?

They both looked expectantly toward the re-opening door.

“I see, Miss Lindsay, that your rescuers have arrived, so I will take my leave of you this evening. I shall call tomorrow to see how you are faring.”

“Thank you, Lord Devlin,” replied Jane, ever conscious of the eyes and ears of the servants. “Goodnight.”

As the darkly handsome Lord Devlin bowed and exited, Jane stared into the dying embers of the fire and fought the feelings that settled on her shoulders. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before addressing the footman.

“I hope I shan’t be too heavy for you, Mickey.”

The hulking footman’s blank face became wreathed in a smile. “You’re nothing but a feather, Miss Jane, to old Mickey.”

She returned his friendly childlike smile. “But that is because you are so strong, Mickey.”

As if deeming it time to interrupt, Pipkin said firmly, “Take Miss Jane to her room, Mickey. Then you can go to the kitchen for a snack.”

The large man smacked his lips and reached for Jane. Though his movements were often rough, he lifted her as gently as if she were a fragile kitten.

Having attained her bedchamber and dismissed her maid, Jane tried to clear her mind of the confusing events of the past evening. Certainly, this Valentine’s Ball had been different from any other. Lord Devlin had seen to that.

And why? She still could not fathom his motives. He had been alternately amused by her, amusing to her, gruff, dictatorial, and…yes, and passionate. What did it all mean?

After several Seasons in London, Jane thought of herself as sophisticated—perhaps even cynical. She was certainly practised in recognizing all the forms of flirtation. But Lord Devlin’s actions and attitudes didn’t fit any of the patterns she’d encountered before. His wasn’t the die-away air of the poet, nor did he shower her with compliments. And though he had kissed her without permission, she didn’t feel he deserved the title of rake. Of course, she might be mistaken. She would have to write to her friend Sally. Perhaps he was merely trying to be interesting.

And that was one thing Lord Devlin was not—interesting!

Just then there was a scratching at the door.

“Come in.”

“Jane… Jane, I—”

Jane opened her arms, and the teary-eyed Cherry flew across the thick carpet and into her embrace, babbling apologies all the while.

“You must understand, dearest Jane, I was so very distraught.”

“I do understand, but you must be made to realize that if tonight’s actions were an example of how you expect to conduct yourself in London, you will quickly be the talk of the town. And not very pretty talk either.”

“I know, I know. And I promise you, my behaviour will be exemplary.”

“Then we will speak no more about it.”

Cherry sat up, drying her tears as best she could with the soggy scrap of lace she still clutched in her hand. With her back half-turned to Jane, she said, “You know, it really wasn’t as terrible a Valentine Ball after all.”

“How is that, Cherry?”

“Well, Lord Pierce did arrive, and it was just as you said. Upon his arrival, he sought me out immediately. It seems his sister Mary made them late, made them all late. He was in a towering rage over it, but I told him very prettily that one could not leave the house with one’s hair not perfectly styled.”

Jane smiled. “That was very charitable of you.”

“I thought so. And then, of course, we also had an interesting new guest.”

“Who might that be?”

“Why, my Lord Devlin, of course. Have you ever seen such a handsome man? And fascinating. I do hope he will call again.”

“I believe he plans to remain in Bath for some time. I have a feeling,” said Jane, “we have not seen the last of Lord Devlin.”

Later that evening when Cherry’s girlish confidences had wound down, Jane reflected on that last statement. And she wondered if it were true. And then she wondered why she wondered.

It was all so vexing for one so logical, predictable, to have these doubts, this curiosity disturbing her peace of mind.

Chapter Two

T
he day after the grand Valentine’s Ball at Heartland was usually as busy as the day before. Guests who had stayed the night rose at their leisure, consumed a huge breakfast buffet, and finally took their leave by two or three in the afternoon.

By that time, the guests who had returned to Bath were beginning to arrive to congratulate the hostesses and offer huge floral tributes that seemed to suck the very air from the stately rooms. Previously, Jane had escaped these trying visits by spending her afternoon on horseback as far from the house as possible.

But this year was different. This year, she was the mistress of Heartland, and even her flibbertigibbet Aunt Sophie had seen fit to remind her of her duty. With her own lecture to Cherry still ringing in her ears, she knew she couldn’t justify deserting her aunt. She grimaced at Cherry who lost no time in appropriating the first young male caller as a suitable escort for a drive.

For Jane, though, there was no escape, so she received their visitors from the gold couch in the gold salon, her foot propped up on a pillow, a lace shawl arranged over her lap. And she smiled and smiled until her cheeks ached, endeavouring to be witty and attentive when all she really longed for was solitude and quiet.

Jane stifled a flash of pique when Pipkin announced Lady Tarpley and her mousy husband, Herbert. Had all her guests been as insipid last night as they appeared by daylight? She closed her eyes, banishing such social heresy from her mind.

Still, the day would have proven less dull if the irritating Lord Devlin had made an appearance. It was not that she wanted to see him, of course. It was merely that he had said he would call to see how her ankle was.

That was the problem. Lord Devlin was committing a social solecism by not calling. And Jane believed in behaving in a socially proper manner at all times. Really, the man lacked refinement. And she was delighted that he hadn’t called.

“Miss Jane,” said Pipkin quietly in her ear.

“Yes?”

“A card has arrived for you, and a flower.”

Jane looked up sharply. It was unusual for Pipkin to act in such a secretive manner. His very correct expression became more blank, and Jane took his cue. Excusing herself to her aunt and their guests, she leaned on Pipkin’s arm as she limped into Heartland’s grand entrance hall.

On a silver tray in the reception room, just inside the massive front doors, lay a single red rose atop a card trimmed in fine lace. Jane again looked to Pipkin for an explanation.

“It was delivered moments ago by a rather grubby urchin who gave it to the footman and ran. He, of course, left it to me to decide if it might be worthy of your attention.”

“And you think it is?” asked Jane, unsure of herself for once.

“I thought a mere letter and rose could not harm you, Miss Jane, ‘for in the multitude of dreams and many words there are also divers vanities: but fear thou God.’”

With this cryptic scripture, the butler backed away and closed the great double doors.

Picking up the card, Jane recognized the hasty scrawl from the
She Stoops to Conquer
card of the ball. Though the decorations on this card were elaborate, the sentiment was short.

If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can be ever acquainted?
--Yours

Jane reread it twice, frowning all the while. Really, this was becoming tiresome. While last night’s card had been intriguing, this one was unnecessarily obtuse. How could she become acquainted with a phantom? And why would she want to?

She had thought it one of Cherry’s ill-advised kindnesses, but Cherry had enough sense not to continue such a charade. And from anyone else, a missive like this was pure nonsense. Not malicious, perhaps, but certainly not worthy of their notice.

Jane returned to the gold salon, steeling herself for participation in the social niceties for the remainder of the afternoon.

Finally the steady flow became a trickle, leaving only a few of her aunt’s bosom friends gossiping gleefully. Jane pleaded a headache and escaped to the privacy of her room. Tucker, who had a tendency to fuss any time Jane was indisposed, was soon dismissed, leaving Jane to the latest Gothic novel from Duffield’s.

The dressing bell rang and Jane toyed with the idea of calling for a tray in her room rather than face more conversation. But again, she knew what was expected of her, so she donned her pale grey evening dress and descended to the dining room.

Jane participated very little in the conversation swirling around her as Aunt Sophie and Cherry discussed and dissected each guest’s dress, manners, and speech. Their words were not spoken in a malicious manner; rather, it was merely social conversation. But neither her aunt nor her cousin truly wished to shred anyone’s reputation—they were both too kind-hearted.

Since Sophie Pettigrew and her daughter were hopeless romantics, a great deal of their exchange dealt with speculations on the couples that had called that day when only the night before they had not been couples. But through a valentine card, a verse, or a scrap of lace, two lives had suddenly become intertwined. And, like matching cards in a game of chance, some pairs were discarded while others were formed.

Finally Cherry hit upon the one name that Jane had managed to dismiss while she had buried herself in that dreadful novel.

“Where was Lord Devlin? Did he call while I was out driving with Mr. Fitzhugh?”

“Oh! You mean that dark-haired man your cousin brought? Such a frightful gentleman,” said her mother, fluttering her shawl as she spoke.

“Frightful? I would say
delightful
.” Cherry sighed. “And so handsome! Did you know he’s spent the last ten years abroad, Mother? Some barbarous island. Cousin Roland was telling me about the place—flowers blooming everywhere, immense beaches of white sand stretching forever, and deep blue water. How I would love to go there!”

Her mother smiled indulgently. “And no doubt have a handsome husband to guide you, my dear.”

Cherry’s giggles intruded on the picture Jane had been building of this wondrous island of warmth and beauty. She looked up from her trifle and delivered a repressive frown at mother and daughter.

Laying her fork aside, Jane said firmly, “I must go to bed. My ankle is beginning to throb. I hope you’ll not take offence if I bid you goodnight.”

Her aunt and cousin got to their feet as Pipkin stepped forward, helping her rise. Her awkward and hasty retreat was accompanied by their sincere expressions of concern.

Jane knew she was behaving strangely, and she felt guilty for worrying them needlessly. Her ankle was not bothering her in the least, just as Lord Devlin had predicted, but she thought she would have gone mad had she been forced to endure one more story about one more guest, especially that particular guest.

Later, as she readied for sleep in the huge feather bed, Jane recalled her aunt’s description of Lord Devlin.

“Frightful,” she had called him. Jane, too, had considered his darkly handsome appearance a bit too forceful at first. But
frightful
?

As she fell asleep, her only remembrances of Lord Devlin were the sensations caused by the touch of his lips on hers.

b

As soon as Jane got out of bed the next morning, she tested her ankle and was relieved to find it strong as she took a turn about the room.

Tucker entered with her morning tea. “Oh, Miss Jane, do be careful. Why I remember my cousin—you remember my cousin Jim—he got a catch in his neck, refused to go to bed, and now he has to walk with his head layin’ on his shoulder.”

Jane smothered her laughter. “I hardly think an ankle and a neck the same case, Tucker.”

“Not exactly, but you can never be too careful.”

“I shall be very careful,” promised Jane, sinking onto the green chaise longue.

Tucker placed the tray she carried on the table at Jane’s side. Pouring steaming tea into the fine Sevres cup, Tucker asked, “You’ll be riding today, Miss Jane?”

“Yes, I think I’ll have Mrs. Brown pack a light nuncheon, and I will ride to the abbey.”

“Alone, Miss Jane? Ain’t right, you ridin’ all that way without so much as a groom.”

“Now, Tucker, it is not as though I am a child.”

“Ye’re a gently bred, unmarried lady and shouldn’t be out alone like that.”

“On my own estate?”

Ignoring her, Tucker continued. “Besides, the abbey’s dangerous. Who knows when a good wind will tumble down another wall. Ye might be hurt.”

Jane drained her cup and stood up, towering over the rotund little maid. Patting Tucker’s arm, Jane said, “You may be right, but it is the one place I can escape where no one will follow me. And after yesterday, dear Tucker, I must get away before I give full rein to my tongue and tell my sweet aunt or cousin to go to the devil.”

This absurdity brought a reluctant grin to her servant’s face. Shaking her head, Tucker moved to the wardrobe and began removing Jane’s black riding habit.

“As if you ever would,” she said over her shoulder. “Ye’d best wear your woollen cloak. The sun’s out, but there’s a frightful winter wind.”

Later, galloping across the home wood, Jane felt the cobwebs blow away. Leaning closer to the sleek sorrel’s neck, she urged him on and over the first wooden fence then slowed her mount.

This was what she had needed all along. The worries and stress of the ball were forgotten in the exhilaration of the wind blowing her hair free of the confining chignon at the nape of her neck.

As for the disturbing Lord Devlin? He was naught but an annoying fly swept from her mind by the freedom enveloping her. His lordship had no strange hold on her; she had merely been suffering from a fit of the dismals.

She stroked Sinbad’s glossy neck and pulled him up at the top of the hill that overlooked the stately old mansion with its green lawns and surrounding woods.

“Now, isn’t this better, my beauty? I wager you’ve been feeling miserable, too, confined to the pasture this past week?” The horse’s ears flicked backwards as he listened. “This is where we both belong,” said Jane. A gentle touch of the reins sent the horse down the far side of the hill.

It took almost an hour for Jane to reach her destination, the old ruin of an abbey from the eighth or ninth century. The setting had been a favourite of her father, who had fancied himself an amateur antiquarian. He had often taken his small daughter with him when he researched the site, and Jane felt closest to his memory when she visited the abbey.

Tying Sinbad inside the wall of what had once been a large stone chapel, she made her way to the altar. This area still boasted four walls, but the roof had burned and fallen in several hundred years before. Indeed, her father had estimated the abbey had been abandoned in the fourteenth or fifteenth century.

Out of habit, Jane brushed off the stone slab where she imagined a smooth wooden altar had once stood. Sitting down, she remembered how as a child she had pretended the raised stone platform was her oven and had baked all sorts of exotic dishes. She smiled and leaned back on her elbows, staring up at the chilly, blue February skies.

Once, when her father had wandered into the alcove and found her reclining on the stone slab pretending to be a sleeping princess, he had rebuked her for defiling a holy place. She had turned to her father and said, “I don’t think the monks will mind, Papa. I shan’t get it dirty.”

He had tousled her long, straight hair. “Then I suppose it will be all right with them.”

Jane smiled at the memory.

Later, as a romantic young miss on holiday from school, she had been wont to escape the annoying attentions of her young cousin Cherry, who had by that time come to live at Heartland. This had required slipping the supervision of the groom assigned to her also, because the crumbling abbey had been responsible for her father’s death.

One of the outer walls had collapsed on him, trapping his legs beneath a small mountain of stone. Jane had been away at school when it occurred, but in her young mind, she had blamed herself—if only she had been with him, he would not have been pinned underneath. She would have released him in time or at least ridden for help. As it was, it was the next day before they had found him. The circulation in his legs had been cut off too long, and the bones in one thigh were crushed. He lived almost two years, but being an invalid took the heart out of him, and he was never the same.

Only his daughter had been able to bring a smile to his face. It was he who had insisted she not blame the abbey, saying that he could not bear it if his clumsiness destroyed all the wonderful memories they had shared.

So Jane continued to visit the abbey whenever she could. Her visits brought comfort rather than grief, for she never failed to visualize her father stepping through the grassy, stone-strewn cloisters.

On this day, the familiar deep peace settled on her troubled spirit. When she closed her eyes to the clouds floating across the sky, she could almost hear her father say, “Well, my sleeping princess, can I wake you with a kiss or will that turn me into a toad?”

After an hour of solitude, she said goodbye to her special retreat and remounted, her equilibrium once more restored.

Jane pulled back on the reins as she and Sinbad reached the top of the hill overlooking Heartland. She surveyed the valley and the road leading to the house. The drive was lined with trees, and she could not decide if that was actually a carriage she had glimpsed moving toward the house.

She shrugged. It didn’t matter now; she felt quite capable of playing the gracious hostess again. She sent the horse down the hillside at a gentle trot.

Where the trees reached the vast lawn, the drive of crushed seashells turned to the left before dividing, one path leading toward the front door and the other to the stables behind the house.

There was a carriage approaching the house, a rider at its side. Who could it be? Surely all of Bath had been to Heartland the day before. There could be no one else left to call.

Even as this thought crossed her mind, Jane realized there was one guest who had not visited the previous day. She studied the rider and horse carefully. It was a huge horse, possibly seventeen hands, yet the giant steed did not dwarf the rider.

Yes, it had to be him. He sat so casually in the saddle, seemingly relaxed though the horse crab-stepped back and forth, trying its best to run away with the bit. Jane was too far away to see his face, but she felt certain it was Lord Devlin.

Jane slowed her restive mount to a walk. Perhaps if she dawdled, she wouldn’t be forced to endure this particular visit. It was cowardly of her, but she felt unwilling to surrender her peace of mind, and another encounter with Lord Devlin just might produce that effect.

She watched as the rider leaned over, as if speaking to an occupant of the carriage, before turning his horse in her direction.

Jane also turned her horse—nonchalantly, she hoped—and headed back into the line of trees on the top of the hill. Moments later, she heard the rapid approach of a horse. “Drat the man!”

“Why, Miss Lindsay, are you avoiding me?” said Devlin in a deep voice.

“Not precisely,” she lied.

“Ah, then you mistook me for someone else.”

The self-satisfaction in his tone made Jane want to grind her teeth. Instead, she shook her head, determined to be civil.

“Not at all, Lord Devlin. As a matter of fact, l did not see you. I merely decided to extend my ride.”