Chapter Fourteen
Kate had not arrived at Henrit House by the time the ball opened. Grant, anxiously wondering whether she’d decided not to come or if she were merely fashionably late, shared the opening dance with Mrs. Lampton. Grant had driven out to Henrit with them and learned that this would be her last occasion for dancing this year, since she was expecting her first child.
Grant, delighted for them, had wrung Lampton’s hand and insisted on enjoying at least two of his wife’s last dances.
“By all means,” Lampton had agreed generously. “If it gets me off the hook.”
“You are a graceless oaf and ill-deserving of your beautiful wife,” Grant had informed him.
“Oh, I know that,” Lampton had said with such sincerity that his wife had kissed him, and Grant had laughed.
“And how go your own romantic entanglements?” Mrs. Lampton asked now as they came together in the dance.
“You make me sound like the town rake,” Grant objected.
They separated, turned, and joined hands once more.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Lampton said. “But the town is agog. You are seen so often with a certain titled lady.”
They stepped back into their own lines, curtseyed, and bowed respectively as the dance came to a close.
“And is the town outraged?” Grant inquired, offering her his arm.
She took it. “Divided. Some are inclined to be scandalized, others to protect you, others again who believe there’s nothing to it but pastoral care. Cheer up, it would be worse if she were a permanent member of your congregation.”
“I believe you encouraged me in that direction, too,” Grant recalled.
“I never said I wasn’t mischievous. So what of the beautiful Lady C? Is she in your power, or are you in hers?”
She couldn’t have timed it better if she’d tried. Before Grant could answer the question, a late arriving couple appeared in the archway that was the ballroom entrance. Three steps led down from it so new arrivals were highly visible, and this couple caught every eye in the ballroom.
“Lord Vernon and Lady Crowmore,” the liveried servant announced.
She took his breath away. Her raven hair was swept into a vaguely Grecian style, braided with glittering diamonds, with one long, apparently escaping curl just caressing one pale, sloping shoulder. The effect was classically decadent, especially in conjunction with the diaphanous, all but transparent gown that clung to her figure. She must have dampened it. It was pure white, its shapely neck revealing the beauty of her shoulders while, in contrast to other daring gowns of the time, maintaining the modesty of her breasts. A gauzy net that might have been made of air, were it not for the glimpses of red and gold, was draped across her elbows.
One, white-gloved hand lay loosely on Lord Vernon’s arm. He, of course, was impeccably turned out in black satin knee breeches and a coat that fitted him so closely Grant had no idea how he got it on and off. His stance was haughty, and yet there was more than pride in the restless, swiveling of his eyes. He was uneasy, anxious even, and the cause stood beside him, eclipsing every other lady in the room with her style and beauty—and probably mischief.
Grant’s inevitable surge of unworthy jealousy when he saw her with his brother, was quickly drowned in worry for her. Something was wrong.
His instinctive start toward her was brought up short by Mrs. Lampton’s tightening grip on his arm.
“Don’t run at her,” Mrs. Lampton instructed severely. “Contrive to encounter her by accident a little later.”
Perhaps his movement had caught Kate’s eye, for quite suddenly, she looked right at him.
His breath caught. He waited for the faint, lazy quirk of her sensual lips, the secret, conspiratorial smile meant only for him. It didn’t come. She didn’t even acknowledge him as her gaze slid free and she languidly descended the stairs.
Mrs. Winslow hurried to greet her titled guests.
“Don’t gawp,” Mrs. Lampton hissed. “Go and fetch us all a drink.”
Grant obeyed, almost numbly. He’d been so sure Kate’s temper would be recovered by now, that he could make right whatever he’d done to offend her. But that look scared him. It said she didn’t want it put right. It said she wasn’t remotely interested in him.
The wicked lady had finished with him.
*
Cornelius had made good time on his journey back to Blackhaven. They’d come partly by short cuts over bumpier roads, which his wound hadn’t liked although his urgent brain did. He had hopes that he might actually have passed Dickie Crowmore on the way and so would reach Kate first.
His hopes were dashed as soon as he walked into the hotel and saw Dickie Crowmore himself, crossing the foyer at the side of an older man who looked vaguely familiar. Surreptitiously keeping his eye on the pair as they climbed the staircase, Cornelius sidled up to the reception desk.
“Please send up to Lady Crowmore that I’d like a word,” he murmured. “My name’s Cornelius.”
“Her ladyship has gone out for the evening, sir,” the polite clerk informed him.
Cornelius scowled. “Where to?” Then he slapped his head in sudden memory. “Damnation. It’s the ball tonight!” Which meant not only Kate but Tris and Wickenden and the rest of the Muir household would all be out of town at the squire’s party. Damn them.
Still at least, it would keep Kate out of Dickie’s way for the evening … though she still had to be warned.
“Where is the wretched ball?” he demanded.
“At Henrit,” the young man said, as if everyone knew that.
“And how do I get there?”
“Perhaps you could go with the gentlemen who just arrived, sir. I believe they plan to drive out to the ball just as soon as they can change their clothes. Lord Crowmore,” the young man explained, clearly impressed. “And Sir Anthony Mere.”
Cornelius nodded his thanks. “No need to mention me to them,” he said hastily, forking over the last of the money Grant had given him for the journey. “I’ll make my own way.”
“Mere,” he repeated to himself as he strode back across the foyer and out the hotel door. The doorman tipped his hat politely. “I say, give my driver directions to Henrit House, would you?”
The doorman obliged, while Cornelius climbed back into the coach and racked his brain over the name Mere. He threw his head back against the squabs as the horses moved on their weary way.
“Of course.” Sir Anthony Mere’s only daughter had married the late Lord Crowmore. Kate’s father was here in Blackhaven, with none other than Dickie Crowmore. Cornelius supposed that was a good thing. At least she had her father to look out for her.
*
Kate knew almost at once that her plan was foolish, hurtful, and pointless.
She saw Grant long before he saw her. Waiting at the side of the arch for Vernon to readjust his cravat in the glass provided on the wall, she had leisure to glance into the ballroom.
He was dancing with a woman she’d never met but had seen before, at the Assembly ball when she’d also been dancing with Tristram. A young, comely woman with a kind face. A kindness Kate would never have. She wore an old-fashioned and no doubt elderly blue ballgown, and yet, no one would ever notice what she wore. Grant didn’t. He talked and smiled with her, perfectly at ease, his expression occasionally sardonic or appreciative. They were clearly on friendly terms, friendly enough to tease each other. She could almost hear their banter as the dance came to a close.
Is that how he is with me?
Her throat closed up. In many ways, Kate was the victim of her own carefully played role in her social world. She knew she dazzled men without inspiring any deep or lasting affection. In truth, that had suited her, until Tristram Grant. She’d thought he was different, and he was. But Kate was still Kate. She could still dazzle the curate—the very odd curate—and inspire him to offer her a quite unequal marriage. It didn’t mean he actually loved her. Not in any way that mattered. Not any more than he loved the lady currently on his arm.
Kate took Vernon’s arm almost mechanically, only vaguely heard the announcement before her eyes refocused on him. He looked straight at her, as if he was about to smile. Only he didn’t. Her heart twisted and she moved her gaze forward with her steps.
I can be more than the dazzling curate’s wife. I will be more… But this was not the way, this pretense with Vernon just to punish him for discussing her as if her reputation were true.
In characteristic, self-destructive Kate fashion, she was doing her best to ruin the only relationship that had ever mattered to her. And perhaps it would be best for him if she did.
But to walk away would be laziness. Drat it, she would be good for him. She would make him happy if it took her decades.
A funny choke of laughter escaped her lips, causing Vernon to look at her most oddly. However, civility compelled them both to respond to Mrs. Winslow’s welcome, which was surprisingly effusive given her previous coolness to Kate.
Kate waited for Grant to come to her, surreptitiously watching him over her champagne glass, or over the shoulder of the man she was talking to. She didn’t dance, but she had plenty of male admirers, several of whom had been at the card party in the hotel. They made the waiting easier, for she didn’t need to think in their company. It was so familiar a type as to require merely mechanical responses, smile, flirt, tap the occasional knuckle with her fan, and say anything at all because they weren’t listening to her words. And all the time, she waited for Grant.
He sat with Dr. Lampton for a little, and then he strolled over to Wickenden and Gillie who were unfashionable enough to be together at a party. She saw him dance with Miss Winslow, who gazed up at him with adoring eyes, and converse with several different groups of people. His head began to turn in her direction and she looked away.
What was the matter with her? Why did she not simply summon him with her eyes as she could summon any man from Bernard Muir to Wickenden to Mr. Winslow?
“It’s him,” Vernon said abruptly beside her.
She blinked him into focus. Lord Vernon had left her and returned to her side several times since they’d arrived, though she couldn’t quite recall when he’d last reappeared. Irritated now with her admirers, she shook them off and allowed Vernon to lead her away.
“Who?” she asked.
“Tristram. You asked me to bring you to make Tristram jealous.”
“Of course I didn’t,” she said irritably. Then she frowned. “Well, it wasn’t quite as simple as that, but perhaps it was something similar.”
“Seriously, Kate? You and the curate?”
“He is much more than the curate and you know it!”
“Of course I do, he’s my brother,” Vernon retorted. “What I don’t understand is why you know it? Why do you even know him in the first place and what the devil is he to you?”
“That is none of your business,” Kate said loftily. She cast him a quick smile. “On the other hand, I apologize if I misled you. You know I’m selfish and mean. I won’t marry you, Vernon, but I hope we can be friends.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you throwing me over again?”
“No. You merely remain thrown.”
Vernon gave a reluctant smile. “Damned if I know why I like you, Kate.”
“Find yourself a congenial heiress,” Kate advised. “You’ll come about.”
“Maybe I will,” Vernon said as his erratic gaze fell on Jenny Smallwood tripping onto the dance floor on Bernard’s arm.
“Not that one,” Kate said severely. “She’s too young and too vulnerable.”
“Well if you think I’m going to let you chose which heiress I—” He broke off, staring at the ballroom entrance. “Good God.”
Kate followed his gaze and saw Cornelius in the archway, smiling at Mrs. Winslow while clearly apologizing for his improper dress. Obviously, he hadn’t had time—or means—to don evening wear.
“Cornelius,” she said, starting toward him. “He isn’t meant to be here.” Vernon allowed himself to be dragged. And approaching from the nearer side of the room, Grant was already there, patiently waiting for Mrs. Winslow to release her uninvited guest.
Despite his improper dress, it seemed Mrs. Winslow was prepared to tolerate the Honorable Cornelius Fanshawe. Certainly, no one was rushing to arrest him as an escaped French prisoner of war. Of course, he no longer looked the same savage, bearded, ragged person who’d leapt over the harbor wall. Although Kate hoped Major Doverton, who was somewhere in the ballroom, would not come too close.
“Ah, your brother is here, my lord,” Mrs. Winslow told Lord Vernon as she rustled past, smiling. “What an unexpected reunion.”
“Unexpected indeed,” Vernon murmured to Kate. “Tris told me he wasn’t here.”
“He wasn’t. He’s come back.”
Cornelius was talking quietly and rapidly to Grant, who finally glanced up and saw Kate and Vernon. And this time there was definite alarm in his eyes.
“Gil, take her away from the door,” he said urgently.
To her surprise, Vernon actually began to obey, guiding her into a swerve. But she wasn’t having that. Pulling her hand free and turning back to Grant and Cornelius, she demanded, “Why are you here, Cornelius? What is—”
“The waltz,” Grant interrupted. “Definitely, mine.” And before she could think, Grant was at her side, his hand at her elbow, sweeping her onward.
“It is not the waltz,” she disputed. The orchestra, in fact, was silent.
“It will be any moment,” Grant assured her. “I’ve been counting.”
She narrowed her eyes. All over London, it was known as a danger signal. “Do you imagine I can be passed among you like some parcel? Pushed and ordered around like an importunate child?”
“God, no,” Grant said so fervently that the wind suddenly vanished from her sails. “Look, I’m well aware you can shake me off one way or another, though you should know I’ve steeled myself for the blistering verbal attack that I’m sure has sent hundreds of grown men running for cover over the years.”
“Would you run?” she asked, distracted.
He shook his head. “I can’t. I don’t want you to see him until you’re ready. Or at all, really.”
“See who?” She tried for coldness. “You’re not making any sense, Mr. Grant.”
Grant smiled at Mrs. Fenton and her family as they passed. “Cornelius came back because he saw Dickie Crowmore leave a posting inn in the direction of Blackhaven. Worse, not only has Dickie now booked into your hotel, but he’s on his way here to the ball.”
Kate frowned. “Surely he can’t have been invited.”
“There’s more. He’s with your father.”
Her step faltered. “My father?” She didn’t know how she felt about that. The sense of betrayal was so familiar it had become part of her. Surely there couldn’t be more? She tried to think. “Then Dickie knows I’m not dead.”
“Not necessarily. According to what Cornelius learned at the inn, he believed you were dead then.”
The orchestra struck up once more. Annoyingly, it was a waltz. He really had been counting the dances. Somewhere it warmed as well as amused her.
She said, “I wrote to my parents last week, just after Mrs. Winslow invited me. I mentioned the ball. Why would my father have come to Blackhaven? Oh dear, do you suppose Dickie told him I was dead?”
“I think it’s unlikely.” His arm encircled her waist and suddenly old wounds and new fears receded, just because he was there. “Would your father attend a ball if you were dead? I suspect Dickie wants your father with him—along with as many other witnesses as possible—when he receives official news of your death. I’m sure his shock would have been beautiful to behold, although not as impressive as his shock on finding you alive.”
It made sense. “He’s forming a bond with my father,” she said, stepping back with Grant as he began to dance. “They already conspired to hustle me out of London.”
Grant nodded. “No doubt Dickie wants your father to vouch for him, officially or otherwise, if any suspicion attaches to him.” He glanced toward the entrance, then back to her, and his face softened in a way that melted her heart. “I don’t want to be discussing things like this when I’m dancing with you.”
“Is that why you tried to palm me off on Vernon?” she asked sardonically.
“No, I didn’t know how far Dickie was behind Cornelius. I just wanted you away from him. But you don’t obey Vernon.”
“I don’t obey you either,” she retorted.
“And yet here you are.”
“Because I choose to be.”
“After ignoring me all evening?”
In spite of herself, she flushed. She couldn’t explain it to herself, let alone to him.
He said softly, “Are we quarrelling, Kate?”
She shook her head, and his thumb caressed her gloved hand. “You confuse me,” she said, low. “I don’t know what you want of me, what I want of you. This … frightens me, Tris. And I’ve had enough of fear. I vowed years ago I would never be frightened again.”
His eyes seemed to consume her. “Fear is part of caring. If it helps, I’m terrified.”
She swallowed. “Then this is even more insane.”
“Perhaps. But you fit so perfectly in my arms, it must be right. I feel I could dance with you right out of the room and across the sky.”
“You see?” she managed. “Insane.” And yet something in her leapt to meet his words. She wanted to dance away from the world with him. Just with him. She blurted, “I hate that you’re Vernon’s brother.”
A quick frown pulled down his brow. “Don’t. I can’t change that. It’s not as if we’d compare notes.”
“Don’t you?” she said at once, and his eyes searched hers, his frown deepening.
“Not in any way that matters. Were you at the church this afternoon?”
“Why should you think so?” she countered, unwilling to admit it.
“Because it’s the only time I’ve spoken to Vernon in two years. I’m not perfect, Kate. I’m as jealous as the next man, and it seems I still say things deliberately to hurt my brother. It was never intended to hurt you, and if it did, I’m sorry.”
“It’s only ever the truth that hurts me.”
He jerked her closer, as if by instinct. Certainly, he didn’t appear to notice that he held her quite indecorously. His heat burned through the flimsy fabric of her gown.
“The truth is,” he whispered intensely. Anticipation closed her throat, churned in her stomach. She couldn’t breathe. “The truth is, I—” He broke off, his eyes flying toward the door. Dexterously, he turned her, dancing her away to the far side of the ballroom, and off the dance floor. “There, of course you must have a drink. Champagne, perhaps.”
She blinked at him, bemused as he guided her into an anteroom, to a table full of bubbling glasses. It was much quieter than the ballroom, with just three older gentlemen standing in a group near the table.
Grant greeted them politely and picked up two glasses, moving away from the table before he presented one to her.
“Dickie has just arrived,” he murmured. “And I presume that’s your father with him.”
“How do you know Dickie?” she asked curiously.
“I don’t. I recognize him from Cornelius’s description. An aggressive slug in an expensive coat.”
In spite of everything, laughter snatched at her breath. “That’s Dickie.”
“Besides, Mrs. Winslow clearly didn’t know him. Between us, we are bringing her a lot of uninvited guests.”
“At least most of them are titled. And fashionable. Her ball will be talked of in Blackhaven for years.” Though hopefully not for the wrong reasons.
Grant clinked his glass gently against hers. “I never expected you to be dealing with him face to face. If you just walk past his line of vision once, where people can see his reaction, I’ll do the rest.”
“Oh, no,” Kate said. She sipped her champagne. “I’ll face him. I want to see in his eyes what he’s done. Tried to do.”
A smile tugged at Grant’s lips as he raised his glass to her. She swept past him to the door back into the ballroom—and came face to face with Dickie Crowmore.