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One Month Later
The only reason Blythe had agreed to come to the Portings' crush was because Tristan had promised her she would not need to see anyone, be polite to anyone, or dance with anyone.
"I simply do not think it is a good idea for you to stay at home in your room all the time, no matter what has happened. I have been keeping careful ears out, and there is no hint or whisper of your disgrace."
"For God's sake Tristan, stop calling it that! If you agree to stop calling it my disgrace or my ruin, I will go."
Instead of getting stuffy about it, Tristan grinned a little. For a moment, she wondered if it had been a ploy of his all along, to needle her until she agreed to leave the house. It seemed far too devious for her straightforward cousin, but she was getting to a point where she would not put anything past him.
"Good. I know the last few weeks have been hard on you for a number of reasons, but I do not want you to suffer confinement."
As she allowed the two maids to dress and curl her hair and dress her in a gown of green silk trimmed with delicate gold ribbons, Blythe reflected that a part of her was looking forward to leaving her room, no matter how ridiculous the circumstances.
Well, I do believe that I have found the secret. If you want to make women eager about parties and fashions and the latest gossip, you simply confine them until they are almost painfully grateful for any other stimulation.
The thought startled a laugh out of her.
The maid who was adjusting one of the tiny bows around her hem looked up, startled.
"Miss Dennings?"
"Don't mind me. I'm just being foolish."
Blythe couldn't deny, however, that at least some of her mental idle was on purpose. If she allowed herself to fall too deeply into thought, she would think about Thomas, and if she did that... well.
When she was a young girl, she had overheard her parents discussing a terrible thing. Two boys a town over had been playing in a grain house, and one fell through the upper opening and into the grains below. He had been unable to make his way to the side of the grain house and had sunk into the grain, disappearing without a sound. The other boy had gone in after him and also died.
Blythe had had nightmares about it for weeks, the idea of being in a place where she couldn't climb out, struggling against a surface that simply gave way under your best efforts, and slowly, slowly, feeling your strength go as the darkness took you.
If she thought about Thomas too long, she felt as if she were suffocating, and she simply did not want to go under for the last time.
"There, Miss, don't you look lovely? Come see yourself!"
The two girls overruled Blythe's protests and tugged her over to the antique mirror in the corner of the room. The girl who looked back at her was a stranger—gorgeous, rich, and aloof. It was her. It wasn't her. It was, she decided finally, her as she might have been if she'd never run into Seven Dials, never met the Abeggs, never saved Honey and Rose, never met Thomas.
She hated it.
Blythe wanted to tear the gown off and lock herself in her room. But then it would be another night in the four walls of her own bedroom, slowly feeling another day pass by, looking forward to another day of exactly the same thing, and she could not stand that, either.
"All right, I think I'm ready.
Blythe and Tristan arrived late to the Portings' ball, and she was grateful they were immediately subsumed into the heavy crush of people already there. The event was well underway, and everyone had their own agendas and their own plans, few of which involved her.
There were a few young men who tried to charm her, but she clung to Tristan like a cockleburr while giving them her habitual stern look. At some point, sipping her cool lemonade behind a pillar, she heard one young man say to another, "She's lovely to look at, and, of course, she's richer than most everyone here, but, my God, she could freeze the leaves off the trees."
The man's admonition made her smile a little. So, she was at least having the effect that she wanted to have, and if she must have a life of quiet exile, at least she would not be beholden to a husband to do so.
Blythe was almost beginning to forget some of her normal worries when a hard hand clamped around her upper arm.
"Please, Miss Dennings, I must insist on this next dance with you."
The man who was tugging her along was turned away, and for a surprisingly frightening few moments, she had no idea who was demanding her company. Then, as they assembled for the first movement of the dance, she realized it was Lord Cottering, who had asked for her hand and who Tristan had turned down.
"Lord Cottering, I was not expecting to dance. It is not really an activity that I enjoy, you see."
"Well, perhaps I can convince you otherwise. It can be quite an invigorating experience."
He smiled at her, and she wondered if she were in another place, she might find it charming. As it was, it only made her shrug as they trod the first measure.
"I have never been over-fond, I am afraid."
"Well, that may only be because you have never found the right partner. And, may I say, you never will if you persist in turning them away."
"Lord Cottering, you must realize how inadvisable it is to discuss anything of that nature while we are dancing—"
"Why did you turn down my proposal?"
Blythe almost lost her step. Something sharp and broken filled that last statement, as if his words were made of shattered glass. Could the man really have fallen in love with her?
"I am very sorry, but I hardly know you. I do not think that we would suit, my lord."
"But we could grow to care for one another, don't you think? It is only a lack of knowing that prevents a lack of loving."
"I was under the impression that the knowing should come before the loving."
The next section of the dance called for them to lean in, miming a kiss to the right cheek and then to the left. It made this particular dance very popular among the ton, but Blythe had never cared for it.
As they leaned in close, Lord Cottering's head turned a little, and her eyes widened as she felt his lips brush against her cheek.
"Or perhaps the loving can come before all, if one is just a little adventurous."
Blythe had two choices. She could shove him away and storm off the floor, leaving in an explosion of gossip and shock, or she could put up with this disgrace and hope that it did not happen again. Neither seemed very attractive to her, so she opted for a third way.
"I am afraid that I am not a very adventurous young lady, Lord Cottering."
As he started to make a response, Blythe deliberately stepped out of the pattern, setting her on a collision course with Lord Cottering. When he tried to correct it, she pressed against him, stumbling and then landed with her foot squarely over his. She was not a large woman, but her foot came down with all her weight on it, and Lord Cottering uttered a high sharp cry that sounded to Blythe something like the whine of a dog.
"Why did you do that? I was just making a suggestion. Surely, you did not take me seriously."
"Of course not, my lord. I know that a man such as yourself would never do anything to offend the sensibilities of an innocent young lady."
She said the words calmly and coolly, and if Lord Cottering wanted to disagree with her, he kept it to himself. They finished the dance and if his bow to her was shorter than strictly polite, and if he did not escort her back to the sidelines as was customary, no one took much notice of it, as Thomas and Georgiana Martin had arrived.
Blythe felt as frozen as a statue as the majordomo announced the pair, and all of the time that she had spent not thinking about Thomas proved to be utterly useless. Just because she hadn't been thinking of him didn't mean that his name wasn't written in her heart, that she couldn't feel his lips moving across hers.
God, why didn't you just take me as your mistress that night? We could have left, gone somewhere, anywhere, and I wouldn't be here feeling as if I was going to burst into tears in front of the better part of London Society.
It was strange seeing him like this, from across the room and without him being aware that he was being watched. She could see how genuinely handsome he was and what a brilliant matched pair he was with his sister. They were both blonds with flashing bright eyes and ready smiles, Thomas with a lazy sardonic grace, and Georgiana with an exuberant vivacity that charmed everyone who saw her. There was a reason Martins were sometimes called angels with a streak of the devil in them. Even as Blythe watched, Georgiana and Thomas made conquests left and right. Everyone wanted to be close to them, be seen with them, talk with them, and gain their favor.
When one lovely girl, a Parr and related to the Marquess of Billingsley, came boldly up to Thomas and said something quietly to him, he looked at her with an amused smile and nodded. Blythe watched, a low agony underneath her heart, as he took his leave of Georgiana and let the girl lead him to meet a gaggle of her friends.
Take your damned hands off him.
The words popped into Blythe's mind, laced with fury and grief, and she shook her head. She could not allow this to get out. Passion had led her on a grand adventure, but Thomas was a closed door. He had to be if she was going to keep him safe from Tristan's accusation.
Very well. If Thomas was so very popular, and if he was going to be the center of everyone's eye, it would make him all the easier to avoid.