Fairchild (24 page)

“This is a waltz! I’m not allowed to waltz!” she hissed.
 

“Too late now,” Tom said, leading her into a spin. “You do know the steps, don’t you?” he asked, as she faltered, planting a foot squarely on his toe.
 

“Of course I do!”
 

“Well then. Who’s to know?”

 
No one will, she thought, talking herself into some measure of calm. No one will know. His hand at her back was warm and sure, reminding her how calmly he had set her shoulder. “How is your foot?” she asked.

“I shall recover,” he said. Masked and hooded, there was nothing that betrayed he was not born a gentleman. Perhaps that was his disguise, Sophy thought. Normally he did not take pains to conceal his background. Everyone was pretending tonight, she more than most. She would pretend like this forever, if she could.
 

The music was fast, the theatre a blur of color. She was nearly breathless. Waltzing was not like other dancing. No wonder some people said it shouldn’t be allowed. When he released her, would his hands leave a mark? She didn’t think her skin would ever feel the same.
 

“Can you meet me again?” he asked.
 

Sophy missed a step. “I wouldn’t know how,” she said, but her mind was already inventing possibilities. She had wagered everything just for this dance. She couldn’t be such a fool to risk all again. And for what? Nothing could ever come of such a meeting. Each time she saw him, the danger of him learning the truth grew. All for this floating, ridiculous feeling, so ephemeral yet impossible to resist.
 

“Tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be at Hookham’s library at one o’clock,” she said.
 

His smile thrilled and pierced her. She was certainly mad.
 

The music swelled in a rapid crescendo, moments away from the finale. “You must leave me after this dance,” she whispered.
 

“I can’t leave you alone here.”

“Of course you can. How can I possibly get into more trouble than I’ve agreed to already? You mustn’t be seen.”

He gave a reluctant mod. “Tomorrow, then. The library.” The orchestra stopped and a low rumble of conversation grew in its place. Tom didn’t speak. With a courtly grace she hadn’t expected, he bowed over her hand and departed into the crowd.
 

She was not unusual here, wandering without a chaperone. Before the orchestra had played three measures of the next song, a cavalier was soliciting her hand. Still astounded at her own audacity, she allowed him to lead her into the intricate figures of the quadrille. She understood perfectly why Lady Fairchild would never have permitted her here; anonymity bred all kinds of scandal. The cavalier’s banter was beyond what she ought to allow, but since he did not know her, what did it matter?
 

She stood out the next dance, enjoying watching the spectacle nearly as much as being part of it, then accepted a tall man in a swirling domino of midnight blue for another waltz. It was a mistake. His hand at her back was heavy, drawing her uncomfortably close. When he would have steered her out of the ballroom, she twisted her wrist sharply, pulling free and hurrying away. Spying a figure in pink silk, she nudged her way through the crowd, but was stopped by a firm hand laid on her shoulder.
 

“Sir! You presume—” Spinning round, her words died. This was Alistair, not the man in the blue domino.

“Do I?” he asked. She swallowed, unnerved by his languid voice, the cool eyes under his crimson mask..

“I thought you were someone else.”
 

“Enjoying yourself? I’ve hardly caught a glimpse of you, except when you’ve been dancing.”

“I like the dancing very much, except for my last partner.”
 

“Percy and I have been a little worried. Some men take license with their partners here. You must stay close by, so we can protect you from any indignity.”

Sophy arched her brows. “Oh?
You
will do that for me?”

He didn’t flinch at her barb, smoothly leading her past an Arabian sheik and into the corridor. “A masquerade starts as a lark, but the splendor wears off, I assure you. Once you have been to a few of these, the novelty is gone.” He set her hand on his arm. “Walk with me?” It was a question, but Sophy did not see how to refuse.
 

Walking down the corridor, Sophy spied Tom through the open draperies of his box. Mrs. Morris did not look pleased. Sophy averted her eyes, realizing Alistair was speaking.
 

“You’ve been avoiding me. I did not mean to offend you.”

“How could your behavior be anything but an insult?” Sophy snapped. “You would never have dared to trifle with Henrietta.”

“I never wanted to. Why do you assume I am trifling?”

Exasperated, Sophy sighed. “You are more than two and twenty. Must I explain?” Turning her face to the wall, she muttered, only half to herself, “I don’t even know how old you are.”

“Eight and twenty. What else would you like to know?”
 

She looked at him, searching his face again. It was a futile attempt. She could not read him. “I don’t know. I don’t know you at all.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “It’s true. You saw me once when I was ten and we’ve ridden in the park and danced a few times together. I don’t know about your career, except that you are in the Life Guards, I don’t know what you like to eat, whether you are Whig or Tory, or if you like your brothers. Isn’t there one of them I haven’t even met?”
 

Did she know Tom? She had seen no more of him than of Alistair. Yet between them, a sympathy had sprung almost immediately. She knew that he loved his mother, worked hard, had little use for society and a friend who was a surgeon. He liked his breakfast eggs runny, preferred a wild landscape to a cultivated one, and disliked his country house. And he liked her better than Mrs. Morris.
 

A slow smile grew on Alistair’s face. “Little Sophy. You’ll see I am not so very frightening.” They had stopped walking; he lifted her hand to his lips, holding it there for lengthy heartbeats. She could feel his lips through her glove.
 

“People are staring,” she said.
 

He shrugged, tucking her hand back into the crook of her elbow. “We could go somewhere more private, if you prefer.”

“Not likely,” Sophy sniffed, and Alistair had to choke back his mirth. Maybe she had gained some ground since the previous evening’s ball, but she still felt off-balance with him, like she was fencing with a shorter blade and hard-pressed.
 

“Beefsteaks. Buttered peas.” Seeing her look of incomprehension, he added, “I like to eat them, though after a day in the saddle I’ll eat nearly anything. I could tell you the rest, but it would bore you. Now, will you sit with me in the box, or shall we dance?”

“Whatever you wish. I am yours to command,” she said. He ignored or else did not hear the echo of bitterness in her voice.

“Dancing it is,” he said.
 

When Sophy arrived at the library, Tom was waiting for her upstairs. He held an open book, like he was skimming the first pages to see if it was worth reading. With a nonchalance she was far from feeling, she moved to survey the shelves. He stalked her as she pulled out titles, replacing them without reading the covers. As he drew nearer, she prayed her wits would not desert her; all night she’d been worrying about what they would say.
 

He was at the same shelf now, moving past her. When he was directly behind her, he leaned over. “Give up, fair one. There’s no escape.”

Laughter leaped from her throat, concealing the delicious shivers of his whisper sliding around her neck. She glanced quickly to see if anyone was watching.
 

“I thought today I might get to play the villain,” he explained.
 

“Who am I then? Cassandra?”

He considered her from bonnet to boot toes. “I’m afraid not. Can’t see you in that role. You’ll have to try for something else.”

She had fretted for nothing. This was all easy smiles. “Should I be offended you can’t see me as the heroine?”
 

“Would you want to be the heroine of that story?”
 

She liked how he asked questions with his eyebrows. “Probably not,” she said.
 

They were between two shelves, tucked away in the corner. He glanced over her shoulder, making sure they were not being watched. “How long do we have?” he asked.

“Maybe twenty minutes. Then my maid will be back.” It hadn’t been hard to get rid of Betty; Sophy had dispatched her to purchase Lady Fairchild’s bottle of Olympian Dew.
 

His next smile was not so easy. “I don’t know if I should be glad you brought her with you or not. What if she sees us?”

Sophy let out a disgusted hmph. “They’d never let me out of the house without her.”

Tom took a book from the shelf. Without looking at her, he asked, “Have you thought how risky this is? Why are we doing it?”

She swallowed. She had no answer, not even for herself. “I don’t know. I’m not going to think about it, it only ruins everything.”

He seemed less inclined to dismiss the question, so she hastened on. “What happened with Mrs. Morris?”

“Nothing good. My mother is very disappointed. We won’t be invited to the Fulham’s again for some time.”
 

If only she could draw. Then she could catch and keep his perfect rueful smile. “But otherwise, your mother is well?”

He nodded. “So, do you follow your masquerade with an evening at the Peerless Pool?”

No lady would attempt that, and he knew it. “The masquerade is all I will dare. Lady Fairchild does not know of it. She and I go to the Theatre Royal this evening. Will you be there?”
 

“Why?”
 

Again, she shied from the impossible question, arranging her face into a coaxing smile. “To see Mrs. Siddons come out of retirement, of course. And to argue about the merits of the play with me.”

“How would we accomplish that? You aren’t willing to introduce me to your family,” he said dryly.

“We can talk without being nearby. If I touch my fan to my lips, that means I have never seen anything so marvelous,” she said.
 

“And how will I tell you if I don’t like it?” he asked.

“You’ll look at me through your quizzing glass, letting me know you think the actors ought to be imprisoned and transported.”
 

His smile widened, revealing teeth. “Haven’t got one.”

She huffed. “I should have known. My brother would have something to say about the careless way you dress, you know.”

“I might have something to say in return,” he said, a glitter in his eye.
 

Sophy retreated into silence.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll play your game.”
 

And he did. He was in the pit that evening, handling a new quizzing glass like it was a dead rat, signaling her that he hated the play above all things. Three days later, she saw him walking in the park. She could not speak to him from Lady Fairchild’s barouche, but they exchanged winks. Her yellow sunshade was code telling him she was in dire peril, but capable of handling matters herself. The pink in his buttonhole told her that he was in love—with the leather bound book he carried. He carried it conspicuously as he passed, but she could not make out the title. They met every week at the library, more often if Sophy managed to rid herself of Betty when executing commissions for Lady Fairchild. She wheedled Jenkins into sending her letters to Tom and passing along his replies. She told Tom to address them to Betty.
 

He sent her one appalling poem, dripping with melodrama that made her laugh aloud. His other letters were frank, summarizing his activities and sharing his thoughts. The honesty in them was sometimes more than she could bear. She wrote as much truth as she dared, telling him about her father and his horses, with a page devoted to Hirondelle, who was her very own. She shared her worries over Jasper’s mannerly quarrels with their father and Lady Fairchild, which lately seemed to have a keener edge. She wrote about her triumphant evening at the Castleford’s ball and he was good humored enough to joke with her about her success. When Tom sent her a book of travels in the Canadian colonies, she pored over it page by page, imagining him in the middle of each engraved picture. She kept the book under her mattress and had kissed the leather cover more than once.
 

Alistair was less attentive after the masquerade, much to Lady Fairchild’s chagrin. “He added mightily to your consequence,” she lamented. He still paid dutiful visits to his aunt and danced with Sophy at every ball, though never more than once. She watched him flirting with a series of worldly ladies, feeling only relief.
 

The round of entertainments seemed endless. Lord Fairchild refused two gentleman permission to address Sophy and Lady Fairchild predicted that success could not be far off. Sophy scarcely heard, caught up in her own secrets. Her moments of unalloyed happiness with Tom were dwindling; it was harder to meet him and keep her secrets. When they met, the future oppressed him. Perhaps he hoped she would overcome her reluctance to defy her parents. He did not know a real relationship was impossible. He believed in a lie, in a girl who didn’t exist.
 

She always deflected any serious talk, knowing he would soon lose patience with her and their meetings would cease. Until then, she waited, hoping to postpone the day as long as she could.
 

*****

But Tom was not the one who finished things. It was her father, quite unwittingly, on one of their morning rides.
 

“You know my wife is grown fond of you, Sophy,” he said, as they rode at a strict trot down the green roofed alley of Rotten Row. “It would please us both if we could keep you close.”