Dreaming (2 page)

Letty
took a badly needed breath and raised her hand with the dance card a little higher. Now, standing inches from him, she waited for the question she’d been waiting for all evening.

“
Beg
pardon, Miss Hollingsworth—”

Her smile shined with pure joy. “Oh, I’m not Miss Hollingsworth. I’m Miss Hornsby.”

Standing more stiffly, he said, “Miss Hornsby.” He gave a sharp nod. “I need to pass by.” His voice was curt.

Pass by
?
Letty
looked into his eyes and frowned. He was looking over her shoulder.

With a sinking feeling of dread, she followed his avid stare. He wasn’t looking at her, but instead at a raven-haired girl who stood behind her.

Letty
turned back to him and blurted out, “You want her?”

His look turned hard as stone.

He hadn’t wanted
Letty
.

She recovered herself quickly and stepped out of his path. “Excuse me.” Her voice was so quiet she could barely hear it herself. To hide her humiliation, she averted her eyes. She could feel them well with moisture, and in a matter of seconds the small rosettes that decorated her hemline looked like nothing more than a pink blur.

The orchestra began anew with
Letty
still standing there, staring down, taking deep quivering tight breaths, and searching desperately for the strength to endure this long night completely alone.

There would be many more balls and routs, a thought that did nothing to improve the knot in her stomach. If anything, the thought of more nights like this made her even queasier.

Perhaps it was best she was alone. She didn’t think she could speak to anyone at that moment and not make a utter fool of herself by sobbing uncontrollably on their shoulder.

She took one more fortifying breath, then another, and looked up again, her gaze drawn to the dancers on the ballroom floor, watching them with the same rapt hunger of an orphan watching a family celebrate Christmas.

Within seconds, she found herself looking at the young dandy and the girl of his choosing. Their dark hair caught the golden gleam of light from the hundreds of candles burning high above them. There was a magical quality to the way they glided and twirled through the intricate steps of the dance.

After a turn
Letty
met the girl’s gaze, and she fervently wished the floor would just open up and swallow her. There was pity in the girl’s eyes. Pity.

Biting her lips, she turned quickly, needing somewhere to go. She glanced at the terrace doors, but it was still pouring rain outside. Chin up and shoulders back, she snatched her fan from Cupid and strolled toward the refreshment table with what she hoped was the correct amount of
panache
.

Once near the table she just stood there, not wanting to be gauche and fetch her own cup. Her aunt had drilled the rules of etiquette into her head until she could repeat them in her sleep: A young lady
always
waits for a gentleman to help her down from a carriage. A young lady
always
waits for a gentleman to open the door. A young lady
always
waits for a gentleman to serve her. It seemed to
Letty
that a young lady’s sole purpose in life was to wait for a gentleman to read her mind.

A young man walked up to the table. A moment later he turned back around, a cup of lemonade in each hand.

Letty
glanced at the cups, then met his look with a smile.

He smiled back. And left.

Apparently he was no mind reader.

She tapped her fingers impatiently on her ivory fan and turned back to the table. Cups of lemonade were lined up like palace guards in neat regimented rows. She wondered what dire thing would happen if she just leaned over and picked up her own drink.

She cast a casual glance toward the wall where the turbaned chaperones sat gossiping and speculating. Referred to by many as the old crows’ nest, it was from that illustrious corner that sight of one wrong move, one faux pas, could ruin a girl.

Letting her fan drag casually atop the tablecloth,
Letty
sauntered around the table until she was sure her person blocked their view. With the tip of the fan, she covertly pushed a cup toward the edge of the table, where, with just the right speed of movement, she could snatch up the cup without them seeing her.

One deep breath, and very slowly she slid her hand toward the table.

Closer.

And closer.

And closer.

“Thirsty, hellion?”

She gasped and snatched back her hand. There was only one person who called her “hellion.” There was only one person with that voice. The sound of it always made her feel as if she had drunk an entire pot of hot chocolate. Warm. Sweet, and a little sinful.

She spun around with a whispered “Richard . . . ” And looked up into the face of the Earl of
Downe
, the man she had loved as long as she could remember.

He stood under the candlelight, his dark blond hair damp with raindrops that shimmered and sparkled and made it seem as if he had been delivered to her in a cloud of stars. He picked up a cup of lemonade and held it out to her. She stood there frozen, unaware that her heart was in her eyes.

“Are you going to take this or make me stand here all night?” He raised the cup until it was eye level and looked down at her, amused.

“Oh . . . thank you, my lord,” she said in a half croak, then took the cup and raised it to her lips and drank the whole thing in two giant gulps. She stared into the empty cup, searching for something brilliant and witty to say.

But before she could open her mouth he had reached out and tilted up her dance card. It was all she could do not to jerk her hand away before he saw the humiliating fact that her card was empty.

His face was unreadable, but he seemed to watch her for the longest time. Then, just as he had done in a thousand of her dreams, he wrote his name in a large masculine scrawl across the card. He dropped the card and held out his hand.

She just stared at it.

“I believe this dance is mine.”

She met his look. It was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms and sob her gratitude. For once in her life, for once in the company of Richard Lennox, she did the proper thing. She placed her hand in his, and felt a small flutter deep inside her. After a half curtsy, she let him lead her to the dance floor, praying to God that she wouldn’t fall flat on her face and ruin everything.

The music filled her ears with notes more lovely than Mozart ever wrote. She moved slowly, feeling as if she were in one of her most enchanting dreams.

He touched her other hand and she almost cried out, so sharp was her reaction to him. Like one whose heart had just taken wing, every sensation in her young body came instantly alive. The air became tactile, the candlelight as warm as an embrace. Each breath she drew was honey, each note of music the sweetest of sounds.

In less time than it took a tear to fall, she was dancing. With Richard. She couldn’t will her eyes to look up at him, and she was so nervous she had to concentrate on her steps.

“You miscounted, hellion.”

She stumbled, but he pulled her into a turn, one strong arm keeping her steady. She looked up at him, then, half embarrassed, half thankful, completely besotted, and she whispered, “How did you know?”

He leaned down slightly and whispered into her ear, “Your lips are moving.”

She flushed, red and hot, so flustered that she went in the wrong direction, throwing the entire line of dancers off. By the time she’d found her way back to him, he was making a serious effort to hide his amusement.

No one else was. She dipped her head to keep from seeing their smirking faces, and on the next turn her fan caught on the hem of his velvet coat. Shackled to his coattail, she was forced to follow him down the gentlemen’s line of the dance as she tried to loosen her fan.

She stepped on his foot three times during the remainder of the dance. But at least she didn’t fall. Next time she prayed for something, she’d have to remember to be more specific.

Ten minutes after they had started, the music, sadly, stopped. Eyes closed, heart pounding, she finished in a deep curtsy. Too soon, way too soon. She didn’t even realize she had been holding her breath until she released it.

In utter silence, he led her from the floor over to Cupid’s alcove. She turned, thanked him, then added quietly, “I’m sorry about your foot, my lord.”

He said nothing. His face carried that same look of casual indifference it always wore of late, and she wondered what he was thinking when he wore it. Vaguely she heard him voice his pleasure before he made a quick bow and walked away.

Her gaze locked on his broad back, clad in a dark green velvet coat that matched the deep color of his eyes. Even when he had joined a group of men on the opposite side of the room, she could not will herself to look away. His friends clapped him on the back and stood there talking and laughing. Never once did he give her another glance, but she didn’t care because he had danced with her.

Her mind in cloud castles, she sagged back against the wall and stared at nothing. If, for the remainder of the season, she never danced again, it wouldn’t matter, because Richard Lennox, recently the Earl of
Downe
, the center of her dreams and the object of her affections for six long years, had actually danced with her. At a ball. In front of everyone!

She looked up at Cupid, balanced on a pedestal, his arrow drawn. Then she stared down at her dance card for the longest time, watching Richard’s signature as if she expected it to just disappear, to fade as so many of her dreams had in the cruel light of morning. She ran her fingers over the handwriting. But it didn’t fade.

His name, bold and dark, stared back at her. She knew then that it hadn’t been a dream. It had been real.

She took a deep breath. His scent lingered around her. She could still feel the warmth of his hand touching her, still see his face looking into hers, still hear that chocolate voice.

She could still feel the tingle of his grip on her waist as if he had marked her. She looked at her hand, the one his had touched, and wondered if she could ever bear to wash it. Her mind flashed with the impulsive youthful thought that nothing but lemonade would ever touch her lips again.

Ever so slowly, she untied the pink ribbon around her wrist. With a huge sigh, she clasped the dance card to her heart. And out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw Cupid wink.

Chapter 1

Devon
,
England
, 1815

The Earl of
Downe
was known for his horsemanship—which was fortunate because it was harder than hell to stay on a horse when one was drunk. It was even harder at night, and this night was darker than a rake’s past.

But Richard Lennox and his mount knew these dank moors. Over the years, they had ridden hell and hounds to the cliffs and on to the small cove below, where he’d found solace away from a house that had never been a home.

He rode across those moors now, away from his estate, until he couldn’t taste the stale air of the past, only the briny scent of the sea. He could breathe again.

Horse and rider slowed as they neared the cliffs, and Richard relaxed. Two years before, things had been different along this coast.
England
had been at war with
France
. Yet now all appeared quiet on the Channel. No storm-swept seas, no dark clouds, no French navy lurking off the opposite shore, nor the frequent sight of British blockade ships zigzagging through the water.

Until a month before he, like everyone else, had thought the war was over. Then Napoleon had escaped
Elba
. Most recent rumors had the Emperor marching through the French countryside on a campaign to gather support.

Richard stared out at the Channel until it dawned on him that he was behaving like some idiotic dreamer who fancied for one instant that he could see what was happening on the opposite shore.

He saw only black—an expanse of dark water and the night sky. It was that one time of the month when the moon turned coward and its back was all one could see. A smuggler’s moon.