Chapter Seven
Buyukdere, May 20, 1811
Evening. At a ball held at the marble-covered palace of Mr. Anthony Lucey. The ballroom faced the Bosporus on one side and an almond orchard on the other. In addition to several officers of the British army and navy, guests included the Italian ambassador and French and Russian diplomats. Sir Henry Godard and his niece Sabine were also in attendance. Lord Foye had just arrived.
But for the colorfully patterned and tiled ceiling, the room might have been anywhere in England. If Foye were to close his eyes, he could easily imagine himself back in London. He didn’t, though, because he was not a sentimental man. The music was achingly familiar, at the moment, a contredanse that had the couples on the floor laughing and flirting as they moved through the steps. The orchestra, consisting of violin, cello, flute, and French horn, was first-rate.
Though he was thousands of miles from London, the scene reminded Foye of Rosaline. She had loved to dance. For all he knew, she still did. No doubt Crosshaven was kept busy dancing. For love of Rosaline, Foye had attended and danced at nearly every ball for the entire season of their engagement. He had been pleased to do so because it made her happy, even though he did not enjoy dancing. Since then, he’d slowly come to believe he’d made as lucky an escape as Rosaline. Their marriage would have been a disaster for them both.
Foye stayed where he was, just inside the doorway wondering if he could bear to stay long enough to avoid being thought a boor. He would at least have to greet Lucey, but after that was done, he could leave without anyone noticing much. There was no compelling reason for him to stay.
He was not going to dance tonight.
Candlelight flashed off the gold braid, pins, and tassels worn by the officers. Thankfully, there were enough men not in uniform—either employees of the Levant Company or noncombatants attached to the military—that the ballroom did not have an overwhelmingly martial feel. He was no more conspicuous than usual. As for the ladies, Foye did not see a single able-bodied woman who was not dancing.
God. What a pathetic creature he’d become to so begrudge the young their romance. So be it. He would pattern himself after Sir Henry and decline into his old age without caring a whit what anyone thought about him. He scanned the room in search of something that would distract him from his puerile mood. His attention eventually landed on one young woman who was not dancing.
Miss Godard sat with her uncle at the side of the ballroom. She wore a frock too plain for a ball, with her hair arranged in curls at the back of her head. The color of her hair was unbelievably gold. A few brave soldiers lingered near, but with Sir Henry scowling as he was, Foye was not surprised no one dared approach her.
While he stood there like some love-struck dolt, which he most certainly was not nor would he ever be, Miss Godard looked directly at him. Across the room their eyes met and damned if he didn’t feel a shock of sexual anticipation. He’d been abstinent too long, but regardless of his state of sexual self-denial, she was a very, very pretty woman. Not a girl. A woman. And he wanted her. Quite badly.
She broke the contact, leaned over to say something to her uncle, and afterward left her seat. Foye watched her circle the room, heading toward him. He was not the only man to react to her. As she moved along the perimeter of the ballroom, other men watched her, some openly, others with sly, quick glances, depending on whether they were with a young lady who ought to be the focus of their attention.
Miss Godard drew the male eye despite her plain gown, which did not bare enough of her shoulders or bosom to be interesting. And yet Foye doubted he was the only man whose thoughts were painted over with lust. She had about her an air of self-possession that made a man think, Here is a woman worth having at the end of the pursuit.
Of course, there would be no pursuit. He could control his urges as well as the next man. Besides, she had no romantic interest in him. Or any man.
She stopped just shy of where he stood. Notwithstanding her self-possession, she was all of twenty-three, he reminded himself. And he was fifteen years her elder. She surely saw him as too mature and too unfortunate in his looks to be considered anything but an acquaintance.
She curtseyed and slid her gloved hands behind her back so that all he saw of her arms was the bare flesh between her elbows and the ends of her short sleeves. There was an entire civilization of thought behind her eyes. Her youth deceived; her looks misled. Sabine Godard was mature beyond her chronological age. The aching sweetness of her face and the curve of her bosom did not mean she was without complexity of thought or mind, something he was sure most other men failed to comprehend.
Conflating her appearance with her character was, he realized, the mistake other men made with her. Indeed, she was young and lovely enough to arouse any man’s interest. With her, though, the usual courtship always failed; witness Lieutenant Russell. Sabine Godard was not a woman to be won with flattery and gallantry. One must woo her mind, not her heart which, like his, was set someplace very far away.
“Lord Foye,” she said. He took a breath and smelled the roses. “When I told Godard you were here, he sent me to fetch you to him.”
He looked down at her and smiled faintly. “Miss Godard.”
“Come, my lord, and say good evening to Godard.” She smiled, and for the first time since he’d met her, he was the recipient of a genuine smile of hers. That his desire, his inappropriate ardor for her, only increased did not improve his mood. “He will be so pleased if you do.”
“Very well.” He held out his arm and waited. “Oh, come now,” he said in a low voice. “We’ve had this conversation. Did we not come to a satisfactory conclusion, then?”
She looked at his arm and smiled, a private sort of smile. Then, she placed her hand on his arm. “Yes, my lord. We did.”
“Excellent.” He decided that Mr. Lucey was right. Miss Godard ought to be married. Just not to someone like Lieutenant Russell. A military marriage had its rewards, of course, but she needed not a man of uniform but one of intellect. A man who would appreciate the uniqueness of her mind. “Now, are you enjoying yourself tonight?”
“Mr. Lucey gives a ball at least once a fortnight.” She looked up at him, as of course she must, given their relative heights. The crowd was thick, and they could not walk quickly. They were at ease with each other, or, more accurately, she was at ease with him. It seemed confession was indeed good for the soul. “Godard enjoys the spectacle, I think.”
“There is at least good conversation to be had,” he replied. His sentiment had the advantage of being honest. Dancing interested her as little as it did him, and he did enjoy conversation with men of intellect such as Sir Henry. And his niece, for that matter.
“Mrs. Lucey expects skullduggery tonight,” she said.
“Indeed?”
“Don’t look just yet, but there to your right is the Italian ambassador. In the dark gray coat. He’s very charming. Mrs. Lucey and I suspect he means to attempt to lure his cook back tonight. I advised her to post footmen at the entrances to the kitchen. And to offer the cook another salary increase.”
He laughed. Not only because it was polite of him but also because she had so unexpectedly amused him.
“Do you think you will dance tonight?” she asked.
Foye looked down at her, eyebrows raised. Now here was an interesting development. A door opened wide for any other man. “I am too old for dancing, Miss Godard.”
She tipped her head sideways with her chin tilted toward him. There was amusement in her eyes. For a moment his breath really did stop in his chest. What the devil was she thinking? That he was foolish? Prematurely old? Or was she smiling because he hadn’t followed with the question every other man would have asked after being led to the well, so to speak?
“I’m quite sure several of the young ladies will be swooning at the thought of dancing with a marquess. Miss Anna Justice among them, I am quite sure.”
“Anna Justice.” He stopped walking, and so did she. He felt perfectly foolish for thinking for even a moment she had been hinting at anything with respect to her. She stayed with her head cocked, assessing him. “The notion of young ladies swooning to dance with me is absurd.”
She gave him another of those penetrating looks of hers, the kind that sent a jolt of heat through him. Her eyes were the reason, he decided. The way the outer edges tipped up just enough to make the shape exotic. Her eyes made him think of sleepy kisses at the conclusion of an exhausting night.
“I expect,” she eventually said, “that you underestimate your appeal to the fair sex.”
“I think not.”
They stood looking at one another, and for Foye, the ballroom ceased to exist. Noise died away for him as he lost himself in her eyes. What was she thinking? He would give a great deal to know. He wanted to reach inside and touch the spark that flickered there and make it his.
“But why?” she asked. And quite genuinely. Without any recognition of him as a man and her as a woman. He had never, ever met a woman so completely immune to the possibilities inherent in their differing gender.
Ridiculous. What he was thinking was ridiculous beyond words. Beyond comprehension.
Foye looked over his shoulder as the world rushed back. He was just in time to see an overly enthusiastic dancer veer too far from his pattern. The gentleman lost his balance and, one arm flung wide, sent several spectators reeling toward the wall. Someone shouted, “Look out!”
The warning was inadequate and too late. Three soldiers tumbled backward into the spectators. One fell and caused two more guests to trip. A collision was unavoidable. Foye turned his back just in time. More shrieks and shouts went up. Bodies careened into him, hitting him hard and carrying him and Miss Godard toward the wall. He grabbed her around the waist with one arm and held her tight against him because if he hadn’t, she would have been knocked to the floor or crushed against the wall.
He fought to keep his feet and managed to stop their tumble by jamming his other hand against the marble wall. Pain shot up his arm from his wrist to his shoulder. Miss Godard ended up trapped between his body and the wall.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. Oh damn, but his wrist ached.
A hum of sexual tension shot through him when he looked down. Her eyes were open wide and fixed on him. One of her hands was trapped between their torsos, the other gripped his upper arm. Initially, he continued holding her because the crowd around them remained unsteady. Not everyone was up yet. At least one of the parties involved in the collision was drunk, and Foye wanted to be sure there would not be a further disturbance before he released her.
She continued to look up at him. Into him, and he was aroused almost beyond endurance. Around them, people groaned or laughed or asked if someone was hurt. A woman who’d fallen to the floor was crying.
“No,” she said. She was breathing hard, trying to catch her breath and failing, and my God, but he had a view of her breasts that put wicked thoughts in his head. “I can’t breathe,” she said.