Amy Lake (26 page)

She slid to the side of the bed to stand, and her heart leaped into her throat as she saw the pale figure on the other side of the room.

Oh. She laughed shakily. It was only her new gown. Madame Gaultier–the woman was a miracle worker, Claire had to admit–had delivered it that afternoon, a full twenty-four hours before the ball. It hung against the wardrobe, a ghostly presence, with its silver netting glinting in the moonlight.

But–what was that?  This time Claire knew she had heard a cry, and she realized it came from her husband’s bedroom. She padded softly toward the connecting doorway, thinking–it must still be locked, should I knock?–until, coming closer, she realized the door was ajar. One of the maids must have left it that way, she thought. She reached out to push it open–

It suddenly occurred to her that a man–or woman–in the throes of . . . passion might cry out, and she stilled her hand. But the sound had not seemed to be
that
sort of sound and, hearing a third cry, she realized that Edward was having another nightmare. Entering his bedroom, she made her way quickly to the side of his bed.

Lord Tremayne slept uneasily, the bedding thrown aside, his brow covered with a sheen of perspiration.

“My love,” he muttered.

Claire’s breath caught in her throat.

“No!” said the earl. It was a cry of despair.

She leaned forward to smooth the hair from his forehead. “Edward,” she whispered. “My lord, wake up.”

His eyes flew open but did not appear to focus. He reached out and pulled her down to him, clinging to her passionately. He’s still half asleep, she told herself, her own desires embarrassingly quick to surface.

“Claire,” he said, his breathing ragged. “Claire.”

“Are you awake now, my lord?” she asked, trying not to surrender completely to her own emotions. “’Twas but a nightmare.”

Abruptly she felt Edward’s body go rigid. His eyes focused, and he sat up.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“You were having a nightmare,” she said. “I heard you cry out - ”

“Get out!”

“Gladly, my lord!” Claire answered, stung by his tone. She rose to her feet and smoothed her nightgown. “I shall disturb you no longer–”

“And you are never to enter this room again!” Edward hissed.

“Oh!” cried Claire, and she stomped back into her own rooms, slamming the door behind her.

A few minutes later she heard Edward’s door open, and close, and his footsteps descending the staircase.

I suppose a mistress is accustomed to being awakened in the middle of the night, thought Claire tiredly. It was a long time before she slept, and she was not to see her husband again until he waited to hand her up into the carriage on the way to the Duke of Lincolnshire’s ball.

* * * *

Edward lay in bed, his ears alert for the slightest sound coming from the countess’s suite.

But after the reverberations from the slammed door had died out–nothing.

Why had he pushed her away?   He’d no reason to behave so discourteously, as his wife’s presence in London was hardly her fault. And he could hardly deny that she cut a fine figure among the
ton
–Edward had seen the envious glances directed his way at the
musicale
. His wife had proved herself a worthy countess in every respect he could name. Beautiful, intelligent, an enjoyable companion–

Edward closed his eyes and, immediately, images  from his nightmare returned in vicious force.

Melissa–no, not Melissa. It was Claire in the arms of another man.

A gold locket glittered in the hollow of her neck.  She was waving goodbye, and Edward felt a blinding anguish. He called out, pleading with her to stay.

Claire laughed at him. “I’ll gladly stay at Wrensmoor, my lord,” she said. “Without you!”  

She took the arm of her paramour and walked off without a backward glance.

Edward sought out Frederick for comfort, but his brother only shrugged.

“Let her go,” said Frederick. “You are far better off alone.”

Edward was once again on the steps of St. Alban’s. Claire stood beside him, smiling, her  hand in his.

 No. No!   She fainted, and once again Edward saw the blood.

None of it made any sense. Edward
knew
it made no sense. His wife was chaste. Why he should think otherwise, or why he should imagine Claire as he had last seen Melissa . . .

It was only a dream. But the man in the dream had felt a pain that Edward had no wish to ever again feel. He remembered Teddy Alnick’s drunken speech at White’s–

Love is the end of a man’s life.

He would not let it be the end of his.

Unable to sleep, he rose from his bed and dressed, deciding that this was the perfect opportunity for a late night foray to White’s. He slipped quickly through the darkened streets, oblivious to everything but his own thoughts, and as his distance from Tremayne House grew his breathing calmed and his mind seemed to clear. By the time Edward reached the club he had decided that he had been right all along. Claire would return to Wrensmoor Park, and he would remain–free, and at his ease–in London.

* * * *

Lady Pamela watched Lord Tremayne and his lady enter the ballroom. Claire’s dress became her well, thought Pam, satisfied to think that Madame Gaultier–her own
modiste
as well– had managed to turn out such a beautiful gown in under three days’ time. The silver gauze of the overskirt was a particularly nice touch.

“Good heavens, what is
she
doing here?” asked Lady Detweiler.

Lady Pamela turned her attention from the Tremaynes and looked around to see the unmistakable figure of Danilla Hansfort on the arm of–

Basil Edgecombe?

“The man must be nearly eighty!” Amanda was saying. “She’ll kill him!”

Pamela frowned. Lord Edgecombe had a comfortable fortune, but he certainly didn’t have the special male . . . talent that Danilla had declared to be her primary interest.

On the other hand, mused Pam, he did have
entrée
into every house of the
ton
, something Danilla Hansfort assuredly did not.

Lady Detweiler had come to the same conclusion. “I bet Lincolnshire didn’t invite the little widow,” said Amanda. “I wonder how long it will take her to unload Basil and find new prey.”       

Pamela sighed. She saw Danilla look around the ballroom, saw the widow fasten her eyes on Lord Tremayne. Oh Edward, thought Pam. If you’re going to encourage that absurd woman again I may just have to wash my hands of you.

* * * *

The Marquis of Leddsfield was a fine dancer, although perhaps not so polished in his steps as the Earl of Ketrick. Claire whirled around the room in his arms, and felt, for the moment, anyway, like the belle of the ball.

“You are the loveliest creature here,” Lord Radleigh had told her, insisting on the first waltz. She had noted her husband’s frown as Radleigh spirited her away from a group of admirers and had felt his gaze on her back. But now . . .

“Who is the woman Lord Tremayne dances with?” she asked her partner. She felt his hesitation.

“Lady Danilla Hansfort, ” said the Marquis, finally. “Widow of Lord William Hansfort this year past.”

Claire raised her eyebrows. The lady in question was spectacularly well-endowed, and her
décolletage
was so low–

“Do they ever fall out?” she asked Lord Radleigh, and then blushed hotly. “Oh, I beg your pardon, I can’t imagine how I came to say that.”

The Marquis shouted with laughter. “I believe that on one occasion ‘they’ did,” he told her. “It was reportedly a memorable episode, but I regret to say that I was not among those present.”  Lord Radleigh  was still chuckling.

“Dear me,” said Claire, still blushing. “I hope you don’t imagine that I am usually so . . . so indecorous.”

Lord Radleigh gave her a long, warm look. “Oh no, my lady,” he said. “I wouldn’t believe that of you at all. What I
do
believe, however,” continued the Marquis, “is that your husband is a fool.”

Claire stared at him. The dancers swirled around them, and her feet moved in the proper time as the waltz continued, but she no longer heard the music over the beating of her own heart.

* * * *

“Oh Harry,” said Amelie Clarence, “isn’t this ball simply delicious?”

The young man at her side was disinclined to agree. Harry Rutherford never felt comfortable at any ball, let alone a crush such as this, and he was quite aware that he was invited only because of the Clarences. Heaven knew how his father had convinced Lord Clarence to sponsor him, he was gangly and awkward and always seemed to say the wrong thing.

He hated crowds. Looking around for means of escape, Harry noticed a tall, raven-haired woman surrounded by admirers–

Good gracious.

  “What is it, Harry?” asked Amelie. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”  The girl tittered, a sound that never failed to set his teeth on edge.

“Harry?”

“No,” her partner said,  “not a ghost. Just someone I didn’t realize was still in town.”

* * * *

Edward had not expected to see Danilla Hansfort in the Lincolnshire ballroom–the duchess had rather definite ideas on who qualified as
haut ton
–but there she was, leading poor Basil Edgecombe around by the nose. The man was a fool, with a besetting weakness for large-bosomed females, and heaven knew, Danilla’s breasts were certainly on display tonight.

Edward could see the widow surveying the room and decided it was time to take steps to evade her notice. But his height always made him an easy target in a crowd, and he soon realized that it was too late, that Danilla was already edging towards him through the crush of people. Why she would even speak to him after their last meeting, when he had practically pushed her out of his carriage, was beyond his understanding.

Well, no, it wasn’t. He knew what Danilla really wanted, and he was aware of what aspect of his own reputation continued to intrigue her. Edward scowled, thinking he had suffered enough at the hands of demanding females. It was time to visit Gaston’s, to make his arrangements there. Lady Hansfort would just need to contain her disappointment this evening, because he wasn’t about to–

The sea of waltzing couples parted for a moment, and he saw across the ballroom to where his wife turned and glided on Leddsfield’s arm. She was laughing, noticed Edward, laughing and smiling that wide, blinding smile that always made him feel as if his breath had been taken away.

“Hmm,” came a familiar, sultry murmur at his elbow. “I see Lord Radleigh is collecting your castoffs.”

“Damn you, Danilla, shut up.” said the earl.

Lady Hansfort laughed. “My, my, so touchy!  Shouldn’t I be the offended party?  After our last encounter–” 

“Ah, yes. My apologies, Lady Hansfort. I can’t imagine what I was–”

Danilla gave an airy, dismissive  wave. “Apologies are boring,” she said, adding, “Come waltz with me, my lord.”

The earl frowned at her.

“Oh, don’t worry!  I have no long term designs on your virtue, I assure you!”

“Danilla–”

“Just one waltz,” she said, moving very close to him. “I find myself growing bored with the
haut ton
tonight, my lord.”

“And I suppose you have a better idea for our entertainment?”

“Well, one idea, at least. Come, Lord Tremayne,” said Danilla, almost whispering now, her fingertips running lightly up his arm.  “Surely we can find you something better to do than watching the countess dance.”

There they were, again–Edward saw Claire’s dark hair in silhouette against the Marquis’ fair. He grabbed Lady Hansfort and swung her out onto the floor.

* * * *

“Not Claire de Lancie, silly, it’s Claire
Tremayne
,” said Amelie. “You know, the Countess of Ketrick!”  Another titter.

Harry set his jaw and forced a smile.

“Everyone is talking about her!  She hasn’t been to town in ages, you know, they say the earl has to practically force her to visit London, she refuses to go anywhere with him, and Gladys said that . . . ”

The girl prattled on while Harry’s mind–never noted for its quickness of understanding–tried  to grasp this new information. Claire de Lancie . . . Tremayne. Back in London.

* * * *

Earlier, Claire’s husband had informed her that they were obliged to have at least one dance together.  “Otherwise people will talk,”  he said. Claire wasn’t sure if she was looking forward to the event or not, but Edward was nowhere in sight, so for the moment she could put it out of mind.

Dancing was tiring work, Claire decided. She cried off her next engagement–a roundelay with some blushing viscount–by claiming fatigue and sat down in the most inconspicuous corner she could find.

Such heat!  The crush of people in the duke’s ballroom was overwhelming, the hothouse atmosphere enhanced by the enormous quantities of flowers imported for the occasion. Claire felt sure she wasn’t the only member of the assembly now regretting His Grace’s passion for gardenias. And the jasmine–such an odd combination of scent. She fanned herself and wondered–

Where was Edward?

A cool breeze at her back lifted a few tendrils of hair, and Claire looked around to see that some overheated soul had opened one of the doors to the outside terrace. It would feel wonderful to have a breath of fresh air–surely no one would object–

Once out on the terrace it was but a few steps down to the gardens, and Claire couldn’t resist a short stroll. For old times sake, she told herself, although Jody wouldn’t be hiding in some out of the way corner tonight to spirit her over the wall. The duke’s
parterres à la française
were famous, and even though the blooms were obviously not at their best this time of year, Claire could see the design of the beds quite clearly. A slight breeze tonight carried the fragrance of evening primrose, and the familiar scent made her homesick for Wrensmoor. She continued to wander for a few minutes, until she found herself in taller grass.

Ah, well. Claire turned around and headed back to the ball.