Touch of a Lady (8 page)

“I say, Miss Preston, don’t scamper off.” Sir Rupert Digby blocked her way. “You missed our chaconne earlier so I believe you owe me this
bourrée.”

“I can’t, Sir Rupert,” she said, knowing she was being terribly rude, but she couldn’t help herself. “I have to go—”

“Come now. Don’t be like that. Wherever you need to be, you can go after this dance. Lord knows, it’s quicker than a minute.” Sir Rupert grabbed her hand, settled one of his paws on her waist and whisked her out to the center of the dance floor before she could protest further. Sir Rupert was right. The bourrée’s steps were quick, but the dance music was Bach and his pieces stretched into next week with interminable repeats.

Delphinia tried to free her hand but Sir Rupert’s grip was like a manacle. She couldn’t escape gracefully and couldn’t wiggle away from him without causing a scene. For a moment, she considered feigning a swoon, but that would only draw more attention to her as attempts to revive her were made and she’d never get away.

Over the strains of the Bach, the longcase clock chimed a quarter to midnight.

The door to the parlour opened and a dark figure slipped inside the room. He was quiet as a wraith. Florence was certain he must be able to hear her heart. It was all she could hear, pounding in her chest, throbbing in her ears.

She shifted on the settee. The rustle of her petticoats on velvet and the creak of the settee’s walnut joints sounded unnaturally loud. The man headed straight for her, his footsteps as sure and unhesitating as if the room was bathed in light.

Florence wondered if he could smell her fear there in the dark and that’s what drew him so unerringly to her.

She gave herself a mental slap. There was nothing to fear. She was simply going to surrender her maidenhead like countless milkmaids did every day. It was no great feat. She only had to allow it to happen.

He settled beside her and took her into his arms. His mouth found hers in a kiss of surprising gentleness. Florence had expected this coupling to be done on the double-quick since they were shortly due for an interruption. She anticipated something as frenetic as a bourrée, complete with fast leg twitches, only performed horizontally. She’d braced herself for this joining as if it were an assault. The tenderness in his kiss completely disarmed her.

He truly loves her, whoever she is
, Florence thought with sadness.
He’s going to be terribly disappointed when the candles are lit.

And she was bound to be disappointed for the rest of her life. He’d hate her for this.

She was near to hating herself.

And him.

The only way she found she could continue kissing him was if she imagined he was someone else.

Sanders.

She decided once she gave the viscount an heir and presented her father with his desperately desired perfect grandchild, she’d behave exactly like a man. She’d take a lover and not worry a fig over her husband. They could enjoy a coldly correct marriage and lead separate, albeit parallel lives.

The decision gave her the courage to part her lips and deepen their kiss. He answered her with a quick thrust of his tongue and to her surprise, warmth spread in her lower belly. A low ache started and Florence laid back on the settee while he pulled up her skirts. A wicked thrill followed his fingertips up her thighs.

Losing a maidenhead wasn’t going to be that difficult, after all.

* * *

“Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please,” Delphinia chanted under her breath, as she flew up the stairs to the second floor. She didn’t know if God would answer the prayer of someone who’d been a party to such a convoluted plan, but she hoped He would. So much had already gone wrong, she and Tristan really didn’t need further punishment.

She’d finally escaped Sir Rupert when the last cadence of the ridiculously long Bach bourrée died. At the same instant, the longcase clock began chiming midnight.

Her chest ached as if someone were spreading her ribs and ripping out her heart. There was no denying it, even to herself. Tristan had probably already bedded Lady Florence there in the dark parlour. There was certainly no time set aside for idle conversation in the plans they’d laid out. But maybe somehow, Tristan had discovered he hadn’t met up with the right woman in time. Maybe . . .

If she could only reach the parlour before Harmony and Lady Bettendorf, she’d be able to salvage the situation.

As she reached the second floor landing, the group of gossips were filing into the parlour at the end of the long corridor. Harmony led the way, holding a candlestick high. There was a collective shriek. Someone called upon Heaven to witness and noted loudly that “Goodness gracious, me! The gentleman’s breeches are around his ankles.”

Then Lady Bettendorf’s voice boomed above the rest. “Oh, I say, it’s Lady Florence!”

Delphinia stopped dead. The duke’s daughter had been recognized. With Tristan.

She sank down to sit on the top step because she’d have fallen down otherwise. She raised a shaky hand to cover her mouth to keep from crying out. Then when she finally managed to stifle the scream that was still trapped inside her, she wrapped both arms around herself and rocked, keening in silent misery.

Ruined. Everything was ruined. Why had she not
Seen
this coming sooner?

Tristan would have to marry Lady Florence now. There was no avoiding it. And that left Delphinia . . . utterly alone. There was no question of finding another man to love. Tristan was her very heart.

A long march of days stretched ahead of her, each more joyless than the last.

The image matched the bleak future she’d
Seen
for Tristan when his signet ring first spoke to her in the gypsy tent. She’d always believed her choices meant something, but perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps the future was pre-determined and there was no escaping it, no matter what she did.

Strains of a stately sarabande filtered up the stairwell. The ball was still in progress. She couldn’t bear to see Tristan now. Not with Lady Florence on his arm. She’d never be able to school her face into passivity as word of the scandal broke over the house party. But perhaps she could hide in plain sight if she managed to find one of the curtained alcoves empty. So she wobbled to her feet and, clutching at the railing, made her way down to the ground floor ballroom.

She lifted her chin and blinked back the tears. If anyone remarked on her high color or the fact that her eyes were unnaturally bright, she’d plead the headache that had dogged her all evening. She’d never had headaches when she allowed the voices of objects to slip briefly into her mind before. Of course, she’d never opened herself so fully to them, or accepted visions from so many inanimate objects in such quick succession.

Or maybe the headache had been her warning that events were coming that could not be changed.

When she reached the ballroom door, Delphinia pressed her palms against her closed eyes and drew a deep breath before entering. Fortunately, the crowd was focused on the dancing master who was leading a group through the forms of a supposedly new dance which looked suspiciously like a very slow gigue.

Del didn’t spare them more than a glance. Her only concern was that she be able to slip into the first alcove and sink into the cushioned seat without attracting any attention. She breathed a sigh of relief when she settled without incident. She couldn’t face anyone now.

The window behind her stood open and a breeze washed over her, lifting the curtains, further obscuring her from the rest of the party. There in that sheltered little space, she finally let the tears come. They scalded down her cheeks. She wept for Tristan. She wept for herself. She even wept for Lady Florence, who would know no joy in her coming marriage.

How could she when her husband loved another?

Del’s shoulders shook. She covered her face with her hands, not caring any longer if anyone saw her grief. She didn’t care what happened to her. She didn’t care about anything.

She was too sunk in misery to be more than mildly surprised when someone reached through the window behind her and wrapped a strong arm around her waist. One quick jerk and she was yanked away from the well-lit world of His Grace’s ballroom and into the murky shadows of his garden. A hand clamped over her mouth when she tried to cry out for help.

Against her expectations, she did care what happened to her, after all.

The lovers hastily rearranged their clothing while the cadre of gossips looked on. Florence smoothed down her petticoats and straightened her wig. She still hadn’t found the courage to look Lord Edmondstone in the eye, but she was grateful beyond words when he extended a hand to help her stand.

Lady Bettendorf stood tapping her toe and making tsking noises. “Honestly, Lady Florence, we expected better of you. And so did His Grace.” She cast a gimlet eye at Lord Edmondstone. “The duke will be mightily disappointed in you, my lord. Mightily.”

Florence wished he’d say something. Anything. Her nerves were stretched taut as a portrait canvas. Then he said the last thing she expected.

“Lady Florence is without blame for this incident. I take full responsibility.”

Florence’s gaze cut to him sharply. The voice didn’t belong to Edmondstone.

“Sanders,” she whispered in disbelief.

“If you ladies will excuse us for a moment, I believe Lady Florence and I have a matter of some importance to discuss,” Sanders said with a beautiful bow. He took control of the situation and, as adroitly as a blue heeler shepherding a stubborn flock of ewes, he steered the women back out of the parlour. “After all, as you will no doubt attest, provided you can summon the courage to disparage His Grace’s daughter, no further damage can be done if we are left alone for a few more minutes.”

This earned him a few giggles from the younger members of the group and a raised brow from Lady Bettendorf. The veiled message was received. Even the scandalous truth about someone as wellborn as Florence was not something to be bandied about without fear of retribution. Rumors of this exploit were going to be held close to their collective bosoms. Sanders closed the door behind them with a loud snick of the latch.

Then he turned back to face Florence, his confidence sagging a bit along with his shoulders. “Do you hate me?”

She flew across the room and into his arms. “Hate you? Not for worlds.” She kissed his neck. “I wanted it to be you. Oh, if only you knew how desperately I wanted it.”

He found her mouth and they wasted several of their precious stolen minutes kissing as if they hadn’t just swived each other to exhaustion. Finally, Florence pulled back, gulping air.

“How did you arrange this?”

“Simple,” Sanders said. “Tristan and I have been friends since we went off to Oxford together. That loathsome toad Sir Rupert came to me with word that Tris and his lady love were planning to meet here tonight and arrange to be caught to insure they had to wed. But if Rupert knew about it, chances were good that someone else might, too. So the plans had to change and I directed you to the parlour. It was an easy thing for Tristan and me to agree that I’d take his place here. He’s known how I feel about you for some time now and—”

“And how is that exactly?”

“You are the star in my heavens, the crème in my brûlée, the starch in my neck cloth—”

She gave him a playful swat on the shoulder. “Now you’re just being silly.”

“I do that sometimes, when I’m trying to keep people from realizing I’m being serious. It takes the sting out of rejection you see, and you did reject me, my lady,” Sanders said. “Several times.”

She bit her lower lip. “I didn’t want to.”

“Then I’ll never bring it up again, so long as you don’t reject me now.” His expression sobered and he dropped to one knee. “I love you, Florence. And I couldn’t bear to see you go to anyone else, not even my friend. So I tricked you. It was unconscionable, but I couldn’t help myself. Will you put me out of my misery and be my wife?”

“After this evening, I haven’t much choice.”

“That’s true. Society demands we wed. But if you say yes, I promise you’ll never regret not having a choice.”

Florence knelt down beside him and bracketed his perfectly ordinary face in her hands. He loved her. Just her. Sanders’s soul was the most handsome in the world. “I don’t regret it already.”

After the man pulled Delphinia through the open window, he propped her over his shoulder and carried her off like a sack of potatoes. “Hush, now,” her captor ordered as he strode toward a waiting coach. “Or you’ll bring the whole household down on us.”

“Tristan?” she said, surprise nearly sucking all the breath from her lungs.

“Who else?” Tristan threw open the coach’s door and shoved her through without ceremony. He climbed in after her and rapped on the ceiling to signal the driver that they were ready to depart. Once the coach rumbled forward, he pulled Del into his arms and kissed her soundly.

She wanted to lose herself in his mouth, to dissolve into his embrace. She wanted to keep riding this coach to wherever they were bound and never return to the real world. But that wasn’t how things worked. Tristan had compromised the daughter of a duke. He would not be allowed to pretend it hadn’t happened.

Delphinia pushed against his chest. “What are we doing running off like this? The duke will come after you and his wrath will be terrible.”

“No, he won’t.” Even in the dim interior of the coach, Tristan’s smile was luminous. “His Grace will be far too upset with Sanders to worry about me abducting one of his house guests.”

“Sanders? Why?”

“Because he was the one who was discovered with Lady Florence in the second floor parlour by your friend Harmony and Lady Bettendorf this evening.” He took both her hands in his. “You see, our plans were found out somehow by Sir Rupert Digby.”

“I might have known.”

“Ah, yes, the bourrée that lasted a lifetime. That was my idea, I fear. We had to keep both you and Digby away from the parlour so Sanders convinced him that he was playing an important part in helping Lady Florence by dancing with you.”