Gayle Buck (8 page)

Michele’s next partner claimed her then, and she forgot Sir Lionel in the pleasant business of dancing and amiable conversation. Some minutes later, when she chanced to meet her cousin during a lull in the dancing, she was amused by the high excitement in Lydia’s eyes. “Why, Lydia, one would think to look at you that you were thoroughly enjoying yourself,” Michele said teasingly.

Lydia giggled. “I am, so very much! I never knew how much I would enjoy a ball. Everyone has been vastly kind to me. And what do you think? I have danced twice with Bernard, and nary a word from Aunt Beatrice or Papa.”

“Have you also danced with Lord Randol?”

Lydia made a face. “Yes, I have executed my duty most conscientiously and given him two sets as well. I have also danced with a score of others, so that no one may point a finger at how I have
favored
any particular gentleman over another.’’

“That was well-thought-of,” Michele said, amused.

“I thought so too,” Lydia said, nodding. “I am not nearly so flighty as Papa and Aunt Beatrice like to think me. I shall have Bernard. And with you to support my spirits, I shall never lag for lack of confidence.’’

Michele laughed and shook her head. “You are such a positive soul, Lydia. I almost fear for your Captain Hughes. He will need the strength of a saint to see you safely through the hardships of life.”

“You need not fear for Bernard. I may always rely upon him.” Lydia had glanced about as she spoke, and suddenly she gripped Michele’s arm. “It is Lord Randol, coming toward us this moment. I have already danced with him twice. Another set, and everyone will think that we have come to an understanding. What am I to do?”

“Why do we not wait to see what his lordship wants before you become hysterical, cousin,” Michele suggested quietly.

Lord Randol bowed impartially to the ladies, but he reserved a flicker of a smile for Lydia alone. “Miss Davenport, I see that you do not dance. Perhaps you would honor me once more.”

Lydia identified the strains of music that were starting up. With relief she said, “I am sorry, my lord, but as it is my come-out, I am not permitted to waltz. However, my cousin is already out, and she waltzes divinely.”

Michele stared at Lydia, appalled. She swiftly glanced at Lord Randol, who had registered an expression similar to what she was feeling.

In an instant, however, his lordship’s face smoothed to polite indifference. He bowed with seeming alacrity. “Mademoiselle, I would be delighted.”

Michele curtsied before placing her hand in his. With an unreal feeling she allowed him to lead her onto the floor and to take her into his arms. His left hand formed a loose circle about her fingers and his other hand pressed lightly against her slender back. Michele could feel the warmth of his arm where it encircled her. She closed her eyes for the smallest second. It all rushed back to her with such force that she felt giddy.

“So you feel it too,” Lord Randol said. His harsh voice caused her to stiffen. She stared up at him, a questioning look in the depths of her deep blue eyes. “Pray do not go all wooden on me, mademoiselle. It is most difficult to guide a mannequin about the floor.”

Michele flushed and her lashes swept down to hide her vulnerability. “I apologize, Monsieur,” she said in a low voice.

Lord Randol smiled, a devilish light in his eyes. “Your tongue betrays you, mademoiselle. I have not forgotten that you had a habit of lapsing into French whenever you felt most burdened.” The observation appeared to give him satisfaction.

Michele looked up at that, a spark of anger in her eyes. “Is it any wonder that I should feel burdened, my lord? The circumstances that I find myself in are bizarre in the extreme,” she retorted.

“I am only too aware of how that might be, mademoiselle. I have appeared as a ghost from the past, and not a particularly welcome one at that.” As Lord Randol stared down into her face, his expression slowly altered.

Michele felt the instant that his hand tightened about her fingers and his arm drew her nearer to him. Quite suddenly and horribly she knew what he meant to do. And it would taint her most cherished memories. “No, do not!” she said urgently.

He glanced down at her. There was an implacable look about his mouth. “For a moment only we shall pretend the magic remains, mademoiselle,” he said softly.

The next instant he swept her into an unbroken series of turns. They circled the ballroom once, twice, their passage graceful and extravagant in style. The murmurs of several individuals quickly brought the swiftly gliding couple to the attention of others.

Lady Basinberry looked on the entrancing spectacle in astonishment. “My word! Michele and his lordship appear as though they have danced together scores of times!” she exclaimed. Beside her, Lydia jumped, then cast a swift glance at her aunt. But Lady Basinberry did not appear to notice her younger niece’s guilty start.

Michele was caught up in the exhilarating rush of air, the sense of weightlessness, the breathtaking intimacy of the waltz. But tonight it had all become twisted and ugly. She knew that she would never again recall those long-ago happy times without remembering also this last waltz, a waltz that had been forced upon her with spiteful spirit.

When the waltz at last came to an end, Michele tore herself free of Lord Randol’s slackening embrace. Her eyes sparkled through unshed tears. “You are cruel and unfeeling. I despise what you have become, my lord!” she said in a low voice.

“What I have become is solely owing to your gracious influence, mademoiselle. If you come to despise me even half as deeply as I hold you in contempt, then I shall be well content,” Lord Randol said harshly.

Michele turned from him and stumbled blindly away. Her control was very nearly shattered to pieces. It hurt to breathe as she forced back the uneven sobs that threatened to escape her. She blundered into someone and rocked from the impact.
“Pardon?"

Hands steadied her. “Mademoiselle du Bois! Are you quite all right?”

Michele focused on the concerned countenance before her. She made an attempt to smile. “Of a certainty, Captain Hughes. I ... I was overcome for a moment by the heat, I think.”

Captain Hughes shrewdly regarded her, then cast a glance after the retreating figure of the viscount. “What you are in need of is an ice, mademoiselle. Allow me to find you a chair, and I shall procure one for you.” Waving aside Michele’s incoherent protest, he firmly guided her to an empty chair at the edge of the dance floor. “I shall be back in a trice,” he said, leaving her with a smile of reassurance. He was as good as his word, and quickly returned, an ice in either hand. Michele accepted one in a rather subdued manner. Captain Hughes sat down on the chair beside her. He was apparently content simply to watch the whirling company on the dance floor without feeling it incumbent on him to converse.

Michele was grateful for the gentleman’s discreet handling of what could have disintegrated into an embarrassing scene. Within a few minutes she was able to collect herself, and she touched Captain Hughes on the sleeve. He turned an inquiring gaze on her. “Thank you, sir,” she said.

He nodded. “Happy to oblige. If you wish it, I will escort you over to Lady Basinberry.”

Michele shook her head. “I would much rather sit quietly with you a few moments longer, Captain,” she said.

“Of course. I am completely at your service, mademoiselle,” said Captain Hughes promptly. He settled himself in his chair with every evidence of ease. He made an inquiry about Brussels, and for the next ten minutes he and Michele enjoyed an easy conversation.

By the time Captain Hughes escorted her to Lady Basinberry’s side, Michele felt that she knew a good deal more about him. He had shown himself to be a kind, thoughtful gentleman of warmth and good sense. She thought that Lydia was fortunate indeed in her choice. Captain Hughes bowed and tactfully slipped away after exchanging a few words with Lady Basinberry and her friends.

Michele disengaged herself from the conversation to claim a nearby chair. Sir Lionel appeared almost instantly before her and he gestured toward the dance floor. “I believe it is the country set that I was promised, mademoiselle,” he said.

Michele’s heart sank. She really did not feel at all in the mood for another dance. And especially not with Sir Lionel, who had already proved himself so importunate. “As an old acquaintance, I know that you will not take it amiss when I confide that I prefer to sit out this set,” she said with a smile.

He shook his head. “Come, Michele. You must honor your promises, you know,” Sir Lionel said, his voice teasing. He waited, his hand out to her.

Michele shrugged gracefully and stood up, placing her hand in his outstretched palm. “Very well, sir. But I warn you that I am not very good company at the moment.’’

Sir Lionel piloted her into a forming set. When he replied, his voice had lost some of its warmth. “You have no need to explain. As everyone else, I saw that waltz with his lordship. But perhaps I alone was able to divine something of your feelings.” He went on with suppressed violence, “Ah, Michele, how I wish you had not met him again!”

Michele’s eyes flew to his face, but the beginning movement of the dance prohibited easy speech. When they came together, Sir Lionel said, “Forgive me. My only excuse must be my high regard for you. Lord Randol is—”

She said swiftly, “Sir Lionel, I have no wish to discuss his lordship with you or anyone else. I hope that is clear, sir.”

With an understanding glance, Sir Lionel nodded. He commented on the weather, giving reassurance to Michele that he would abide by her wishes and making it possible for her to relax and enjoy the lively country set.

Lord Randol left the Davenport ball immediately after his unsatisfactory waltz with Mademoiselle du Bois. He had expected to derive a certain pleasure from the mademoiselle’s distress. Instead, the manner in which she had turned from him, and the glimpse he had had of tears beginning to fall, had left him unaccountably disturbed. He was infuriated by his weakness, and on the instant had sought out Lady Basinberry to take his leave.

He had intended to drop in at another engagement, but his restlessness of spirit led him instead to his club. He was not displeased by his unconscious choice, and he called for a bottle of brandy. Ensconcing himself at a solitary table at the farthest end of the game room, Lord Randol settled himself for a serious bout of drinking. More than one acquaintance, upon recognizing his lordship, had started toward him, only to hesitate at his black expression and then quietly withdraw without bringing himself to the viscount’s attention.

Hours later the waiters who stood unobtrusively at the far end of the room gazed over at the lone gentleman who sprawled carelessly in his chair. A bottle stood at his elbow and a glass was held firmly in his left hand. As his audience watched, Lord Randol tossed back the contents of the glass. He reached again for the bottle.

“How is his lordship?” a waiter asked one of his fellows.

The other shook his head. “I just took over a fresh bottle to him. I’ve never known his lordship so black, nor so determined to drink himself senseless.”

“Likely we’ll end by helping his lordship to a cab,” observed the first, and his companion agreed.

Unaware that he was the topic of such concern, Lord Randol broodingly regarded the gaming room of White’s. Even at that late hour there were several gentlemen at the green baize tables, flushed and the worse for wine. Their cravats were loosened and their careful pomades disturbed. Their eyes glittered feverishly or appeared bored, according to their degree of desperation or their dispositions, as they concentrated on the turn of the cards or the clicking roll of the dice.

But Lord Randol’s thoughts were not on the gamesters. He fumbled in his pocket for his timepiece and focused on it with difficulty. “Three in the morning, by God,” he said aloud. He had been drinking steadily for three hours in an effort to expunge from his thoughts a certain lady’s midnight-blue eyes and lovely face. He had not been successful.

Instead, he was haunted by snatches of memory. Brussels in the sweet-scented spring and early summer. A moon-washed kiss. The sweeping magic of a waltz with the lady he loved held close in his arms.

Lord Randol gave a short bark of laughter and lifted his glass in a sardonic toast to those lost moments. The battle of Waterloo had crushed everything worth living for, but still he survived.

The waltz earlier that evening had been much like those others. The woman he had loved was still breathtaking to his senses. But he had learned a most painful lesson, one that he would never forget. His lady’s beauty cloaked a nature that was shallow, cruel, and weak.

Mademoiselle Michele du Bois had abandoned him when he most needed her. Her professed love had been the mournings of a selfish creature, a creature who could not bring herself to comfort one who suffered the agonies of terrible wounds.

He had lain for weeks between life and death, hoping that she would come, despairing that she did not. His fevered dreams had been fretted by visions of her laughing eyes and her incredible throaty chuckle. He had even believed that he could feel her warm pliant lips on his.

But she had not come. She had not visited the bedside of the man who had pledged his heart and his very soul to her. She had denied the love of the man whose body was scarred and made too ugly for her to bear.

Lord Randol set down his glass with violence. Dear God, how he loathed her. He hated her for what she had done. But most of all he despised himself for being drawn to her still. Her glance, her every gesture, was a siren song to him.

He had never been able to forget her. His sole comfort had been that he was not tortured by the sight of her. But now she was in London. And he was incapable of ignoring her existence. He wanted to hurt and humiliate her. He wanted to punish her for her betrayal. The fumes of the brandy parted in his mind to reveal a startling vision of himself making passionate love to a beautiful woman whose face was Michele’s.

Lord Randol abruptly stood up. He swayed slightly. With stiff and careful steps he walked toward the club entrance. One of the waiters offered to hail a hackney, but his lordship indicated tersely that he intended to walk home.