Chapter Fourteen
Julian prepared for the ball in the same way a pugilist prepared for a prizefight. He rested well, ate well, marshaled his powers of concentration. He readied his jabs and his evasive maneuvers. Tonight was the night he learned the truth—the truth of his enemy, the truth of Leo’s death. Anticipation resonated in his bones. By God, he was ready to deal some blows.
But first, there would be dancing. Merriment before the fall. By the time he arrived at Lord and Lady Ainsley’s assembly (late, of course; it would not do to be punctual), he’d amassed a long mental list of activities designed to help him avoid standing about, gawping at Lily.
The problem was, he had a difficult time finding any gamblers eager for a brisk game of dice, or gentlemen desiring a good, lengthy chat on the aesthetic merits of Covent Garden’s newest Parisian actress. Because, it seemed, every other man at the assembly was perfectly happy to stand about, gawping at Lily.
Within five minutes of entering the assembly rooms, Julian admitted defeat and joined them.
She looked astoundingly well tonight. To Julian, she looked well every night, but on this particular occasion, she’d attained a new pinnacle of elegance. Her gown of shimmering bronze moiré wasn’t the most au courant, nor the most expensive in the room. The simple upsweep of her dark, thick locks wasn’t a new or innovative coiffure. And she did have a few true contenders for the honor of loveliest lady in attendance. But those ladies could go stew in their own beauty. All eyes were on Lily, and her name was on every tongue. In the gentlemen, she inspired open admiration. In the ladies, she inspired rumor and envy. As he passed one knot of besotted young bucks, Julian felt sure he heard her inspiring some shockingly bad poetry.
Julian, on the other hand, could not credit her with any particular inspiration. In fact, he blamed Lily for his difficulty with respiration.
She took his breath away. Oh, she eventually let him have it back, because she was hardly a thief. But she made him work for it, Lily did. To have her within his line of view was to feel the simple act of drawing air had suddenly become a privilege, rather than an instinctive act.
Speaking of bad poetry.
For this dance, she was paired with Mr. George “Denny” Denton, a stalwart and jovial sort of fellow, if lacking in subtlety, and heir to a sizable fortune and estate. He was also an appallingly bad dancer. He made so many mistakes that Lily’s own missteps either went unnoticed or could be blamed on his clumsy lead. Despite the muddle they made of the pattern, they laughed their way through the dance and appeared to be having a high time indeed.
She would do well with a husband like Denny. He would support her, give her children, and be unlikely to ever forget his ridiculous good fortune in securing such a lady’s hand. Denny was an affable, uncomplicated man, well liked by his peers.
Julian, of course, had never despised a man so much in his life.
He forced down the red swell of envy, through no insignificant force of will. Jealousy was a distraction he couldn’t afford this evening. This was Lily’s night to shine, and his night to find answers, at long last.
He drifted into a connecting room, where he found no answers—but he did locate and down a cup of weak punch. He would have liked something stronger, but he needed to keep his wits about him. With Lily’s intoxicating presence already proving a dangerous distraction, he couldn’t afford to blunt his mind further with spirits. He had to be ready for anything. Fists, pistols, knives.
When he returned to the ballroom, a waltz was just getting underway. Dancers thronged to the floor.
Lily wasn’t among them.
“Isn’t this dance Morland’s? Where the hell has he gone?”
Lily tamped down her defensive reaction and gave him a polite smile. “And good evening to you too, Mr. Bellamy. You look dashing, as usual.” That wasn’t quite true. Despite his angry fuming, Julian looked more dashing than ever. But she didn’t suppose he would heed the compliment right now.
“Where is the duke, blast him?”
“He and Amelia already went home.” Lest his anger spike, she added quickly, “I urged them to go. They don’t like to be away from Claudia so late at night, and who can blame them?”
In truth, once she’d seen that list of partners Julian sent her, she’d written immediately to Amelia. Together, they’d worked out matters in advance, ensuring she and the duke would leave before this set. And if Amelia hadn’t agreed to help her, Lily would have resorted to pouring sleeping powder in the duke’s punch. That’s how determined she was to seize this time with Julian.
“I can’t believe they would desert you like that and leave you here alone.”
“I’m not alone. I’m with you. And if you’ll claim it, this dance is yours.” She offered her hand.
He took it. “How can I refuse?”
As they moved to the dance floor, Lily should have known a surge of triumph. Except she didn’t feel triumphant, she felt exhausted. Even before her illness, she’d found events like these wearying. The dancing, the conversation, the constant effort it required to be aware of her every movement, word, smile, and breath and meld them into a flawless portrait of genteel breeding. Even when she enjoyed herself, it left her feeling drained. And tonight, the ordeal was multiplied tenfold. Atop all those challenges were the strain of following conversation and keeping in step with the dance. Sometimes both at once.
By the time Julian took her in his arms, she wanted nothing but to collapse in his embrace and beg him to take her home. But then, years from now, she didn’t want to look back on this evening and remember dancing with every gentleman in the room except Julian. She wanted to remember this night as theirs.
So they waltzed.
“You’re looking at me very queerly,” she said. At least, his stare was making her feel very queer inside.
“Am I?”
She nodded. “So serious and intent. It is a party, you know.”
“I know it’s a party, Lily. If I do look serious, it’s not displeasure. It’s awe. You are radiant, and this moment is … too much to be believed. It’s like I’ve stumbled upon a bit of reality that exceeds all my wildest imaginings, and I don’t know where I’ll go from here.” His gaze deepened, pulling on hers with the promise of raw truth. “I’m so damned proud to be the man dancing with you.”
She had to look away. It was that, or dissolve into tears. He could have no idea how deeply those words affected her. Coming from anyone else, they would be pleasant flattery. Coming from Julian, they were manna in the desert.
Still, she tried to keep the conversation light. “I’ll admit to being rather proud of myself. Let’s hope no one tells my mother’s Aunt Beatrice.”
“Aunt Beatrice can have her moral, miserable corner of heaven, and welcome to it. I’ll take tonight.” He cast a glance about the ballroom. “Truly, this is my perfect exit from the ton. It would be impossible to ever top this triumph. Everyone’s staring at us. Staring at you. I wish you could see the envy on their faces.”
She wished he would stop talking about leaving forever.
“Are you certain it’s envy?” she asked. Julian was right that they were being closely watched. But to Lily’s eye, the expressions of the onlookers read as fascination, rather than jealousy.
“Oh, yes. It’s envy. Admiration for you, tinged with loathing for me.” An ironic half-smile pulled at his lips. “I think they know, Lily. I think they finally see me for who I am. For years, I’ve been able to bluff my way into good company, but now that they see me paired with you … The truth must be obvious. They all see an illegitimate guttersnipe, daring to waltz with a lady.”
“I don’t think that’s what they see.”
They were silent for a moment.
“Have you enjoyed tonight?” he finally asked.
“I suppose I have. I’ve done as you asked, Julian. I’ve danced with every gentleman on your list, conversed with several more besides.”
“Excellent. Has any man distinguished himself in your regard?”
“Yes. One has.”
His jaw tightened. “Can I ask his name?”
“I’m not sure of his given name, to be honest.”
“Really? Describe him, then. I know everyone in the room.”
Lily smiled to herself. Were they really playing this game? “Very well,” she said. “He’s tall. Strong. Dressed to perfection, in a black topcoat and”—she shot a glance downward—“black trousers as well.” She dragged her gaze back up to his face. “He has hair dark as midnight, and a deceptively light wit. Brilliant blue eyes that make my heart skip beats. A smile that warms me in secret places. He’s my dearest friend in the world. And he’s a lovely dancer.”
As they swept into a brisk turn, she took the opportunity to ease closer in his arms and speak directly into his ear. She could only hope she struck the right volume—loud enough to be understood, not so loud as to be overheard. An uncertain tenor, for this most risky of declarations.
“Of course it’s you,” she whispered. “There’s only you. And if you’re determined to see me wed, you’ll have to do the duty yourself, Julian. Because I won’t have any other man. No one else makes me feel the way you do. No one ever will.”
Beneath her hand, his shoulder muscles bunched and tensed. A defensive reaction, but one that only spurred her on. She gazed over his shoulder at the colorful whirl of dancers. “You’re right. Everyone in this room is staring at us. They’re watching us with unguarded envy, and it’s all because they see the truth. We’re so obviously in love.”
He tripped over his own foot, landing firmly on hers. Lily suppressed a sharp cry of pain. At least she needn’t wonder whether or not he’d heard her words. They managed to cover the misstep with a quick turn, but it was a close thing.
He tried to pull back, presumably to speak with her. But she held him tight. “Not now. Please, let’s just enjoy the dance.”
He struggled for a moment more, leading with an erratic rhythm. But before long, he gave in. Their steps fell into a sympathetic cadence. The tension in his shoulders released, and his gloved hand warmed where it gripped hers. And although they were already dancing indecently close, he spread his fingers over her back and drew her closer still.
His thumb caressed her just between the shoulder blades, stroking a current of pleasure down her spine. It was the gentlest of touches, but it was deliberate and true. An admission. I love you, too. He could have stopped the music, called everyone’s attention, and declared mad, passionate, everlasting adoration for her—in rhyming couplets—and this would still be better. Now, she felt triumph. His was the only resistance she sought to conquer.
Lily allowed her head to tilt, just slightly, until her temple came to rest against his jaw. She felt his sigh stir her hair, and it roused her deep inside.
When this dance ended, there would be a reckoning. Julian might refuse to admit to his feelings, or refuse to acknowledge hers. Even these sweetest of emotions might not overcome the bitterness and guilt entrenched in his soul.
But while they danced like this, holding each other with such tenderness, he could not deny their bond. So long as this waltz lasted, they were in love—for everyone to see.
It ended far too soon.
They came to a stop. Lily was aware that all around them, people were moving. Couples were separating and re-forming for the next set. For the first time all evening, she pretended deaf ignorance. She couldn’t bring herself to let him go.
With one last surreptitious caress, Julian released her. She was afraid to even look at him, because she knew his eyes alone would spell their fate. Would they be filled with love? Hope? Regret? Sadness?
Finally, she braved a glance.
All of the above.
“Lily,” he began. Then he stopped, looking uncertain how to continue. He tilted his head, as though an idea might shake loose, and began again. “Lily …” His gaze cut to the side. “Lord Weston is approaching. He has the country dance.”
Lily wanted to growl. To the devil with Lord Weston and the country dance. She mentally rifled through the stocking drawer of acceptable feminine excuses—fatigue, dizziness, the need for refreshment … Why hadn’t she thought to turn an ankle during the waltz?
But before she could seize on a way to demur, Julian passed her hand to Lord Weston, bowed, and disappeared. Lily found herself making a numb circuit of the room—a circular promenade in prelude to the dance. As they walked, she searched the borders of the room for Julian. Her heart leapt every time she glimpsed a shock of dark, ruffled hair, but they all belonged to imitators, not the man she sought.
She queued up with the ladies, and then her attention was consumed with following the steps and paying the minimum of polite attention to her partner. Lord Weston was a nice enough man—she didn’t wish to be rude, but her concentration was obviously elsewhere. She missed her cue to move diagonally and curtsy to her corner, leaving poor Mr. Barnaby bowing to thin air.
But in the crowd behind him, Lily spied a cluster of gentlemen gathered in a corner, and amongst them—
There was Julian. The breath she’d been holding rushed out of her. Thank goodness.
Mr. Barnaby moved back into place, blocking her view, but at least she knew Julian was there. He hadn’t left, and that meant her battle was more than half won. After this dance, she would plead a headache or similar and beg Julian to see her home. From there, she just needed to entice him to stay. Desire danced over her skin, raising the little hairs on her arms. She would hold him tonight, and nothing—not even clothing—would come between them.
But first, she had to last through this dance. Fortunately, this particular dance was a pattern designed to showcase a single couple at a time. There were long periods of standing still, interspersed with brief interludes of circling one’s partner, then returning to one’s place while the couple at the top of the dance traveled the length of the floor, joining the queue at the opposite end.
As she and Lord Weston made their inchworm-like progress toward the head of the line, Lily strained her neck for glimpses of Julian. It became more and more difficult, as he seemed to have drawn a crowd. This must happen at every party—she had seen it happen at Leo’s own gatherings. All of the gentlemen, and the bolder of the ladies, would throng around Julian just to hear what amusing thing he’d say next, and to see whether he could be coaxed into doing one of his popular imitations.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about watching it now. Seeing him at the center of attention did give her a sense of satisfaction. Much the same, she would imagine, as it made him proud to see her admired. But she knew there was so much more to Julian than cheap party tricks. She wished he would allow people to know that side of him—the real, genuine man inside. If he knew the regard he engendered was sincere, he might have a better sense of his own worth.
Lord Weston moved toward her, and Lily circled him with a dutiful smile. As they parted, another couple moved down the row, and they made another sidestep closer to Julian’s end of the room. Again, she found her gaze wandering to him.
On closer inspection, Lily didn’t like the scene at all. Julian was still surrounded by guests, but the look on their faces did not signal laughter or amusement. No, they looked shocked and affronted. A few of them appeared to be flat enraged. There must have been an argument, because Lily saw heads turning in Julian’s direction. Despite the ire of those around him, his mien remained smug and insouciant. As if he was enjoying the fact that he’d made a scene.
Almost as if he’d tried to make a scene.
Drat it all. Lily and Lord Weston had reached the top of the queue, and here came their turn to run the gauntlet. She advanced to the center of the floor, took Weston’s hands, and allowed him to sweep her down the aisle, all the way to the other end of the floor. And there she was stuck. An eternity passed before the pattern shifted and allowed her a chance to glance toward Julian’s corner again.
By the time it did, the knot of gentlemen had dispersed.
Julian was nowhere to be seen.
Curse etiquette. She walked away from the dance, pushing her way toward the area where she’d seen him last. Clustered around, small groups of guests talked and grumbled amongst themselves. At least, she assumed they were grumbling, given the stormy sets of their brows and the heightened color of their complexions. She caught words here and there—distressing phrases like “insufferable upstart” and “never again” and “cut direct.” Even their hosts, Lord and Lady Ainsley, stood beside one another, red-faced and pointedly avoiding one another’s gaze.
Lily spied Amelia’s oldest brother in the crowd. “Laurent,” she said, urging him aside. “Have you seen Mr. Bellamy?”
He made a chagrined face. “I believe he’s left. Or was made to leave.”
“Why would he do that?” she wondered aloud, more to herself than to Laurent.
“To avoid a duel, perhaps?” Laurent shook his head. “The fool just rattled through the list of men in this room he’s cuckolded.”
“But …” Lily felt as though she’d taken a punch to the stomach. “But it’s not as though his dalliances are a great secret.”
“Everyone knows about them, but they’re never discussed. It’s one thing to entertain ladies in private and quite another to boast of it in company, you know. He’s unleashed a veritable plague of marital disharmony. And if he values his own health, Bellamy won’t dare to show his face anytime soon. Even if he were invited, which is doubtful. Can you believe the man even said—”
Lily turned away, muttering her thanks to Laurent for the information. It really mattered little what, precisely, Julian had said—she understood why he’d said it.
That night will be your second London debut. And my own grand farewell.
Laurent’s reaction was exactly what Julian had desired. He meant to leave fashionable London society and cut ties, irrevocably.
Including ties with her.