Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (21 page)

She remembered the role he had played for White—the boldness of
his gaze over her body, the lust so blatant in his eyes, the arrogance in his
voice. So very convincing, and she could guess why. Lord Holberton was bad
through and through, and heaven only knew how many times she had heard talk of
such men. But the little voice inside her head whispered that the play-act had
ironically saved not only her virtue but her life. Had it not been for Jack…And
she could not forget that she had looked into the dark depths of his eyes and
seen his pain and felt his torment. A single act of honour might save a man,
she had said. And hadn’t Jack Holberton done more than that already, with White
and the Buckleys and herself?

She should dissuade Mama from accepting the invitation. It would
be the right thing to do, given that she seemed to be in danger of developing
an unhealthy obsession with the man. Just thinking of him made Francesca’s skin
tingle, and that could most definitely not be construed as right for any young
lady. But the chance of a proper ball, with all that music and dancing and
merriment, would be such a treat for Mama and the girls…and, dared she admit
it, for herself? She could not deny them that, could she? Even if it meant
seeing Lord Holberton again? Surely she was not so silly and missish that she
could not conduct herself properly in his presence? Besides, there would be a
great crowd of guests present, and Lord Holberton in all probability would not
even notice her. The thought did not make Francesca feel any better.

Lord! She almost groaned aloud. What was happening to her? Her
mind was a tumble of thoughts. She sighed and, sitting up, slipped quietly from
the bed, collected her shawl and padded across the bedchamber to the window.
She peeped through the curtain, staring out at the clear night sky with the
thickened crescent of the moon and its smattering of stars. Directly in her
line of vision was one star that was larger and glittered more brightly than
the others. She drew back and touched a finger to the glass, as if she would
touch the star itself. And then she remembered that it was Christmas Eve, and
recalled all the Christmas Eves that had gone before. Francesca thought about
her dear dead papa. She thought about her poor mama, and Tom, and her sisters.
She thought about Jack Holberton. And she could not rid herself of the notion
that this Christmas would change everything.

‘Francesca?’ He mother whispered in a sleepy voice through the
darkness. ‘What is wrong?’

Francesca moved away from the window. ‘All’s well, Mama. Go back
to sleep.’ She heard her mother turning over and settling once again beneath
the covers. Francesca climbed into her place in the bed across the room, and at
last found sleep.

On the day after Boxing Day the carriage drew into a wide gravel
driveway, and Francesca and her family collectively sighed in wonder. The house
that lay before them was a fine mansion, built in Portland stone. Francesca
thought of the little cottage they had left behind, and realised anew how very
different Lord Holberton’s world was from their own.

There was little time to dwell on the thought, for the carriage
soon came to a halt and the Linden family alighted to stand before Holberton
House.

Sophy’s eyes were wide with wonder. She had never seen such a
place. ‘This is where Lord Holberton lives?’ she asked in disbelief.

‘This is the home of his father, the Marquess of Flete,’ said
Tom.

‘It’s quite beyond belief,’ said Lydia.

If the Lindens had thought the exterior of the house impressive,
they were left speechless by its interior. It was furnished in an elaborate
style, with gilt and mirrors and heavy gold brocade. The ceiling of the huge
hallway had been painted with a host of angels, so that it seemed as if one
could stand there and look directly up into heaven.

‘Come along, girls. Come along Tom.’ Francesca heard the slight
change in her mother’s voice. It seemed stronger somehow, more confident, as if
she was resuming a mantle from long ago. Francesca walked beside Tom at the
back of the little family group.

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ said Tom under his breath.

‘Tom!’ Francesca gave a scandalised whisper.

‘How the other half live.’

There was nothing she could say to that.

They were shown to their rooms. Mrs Linden had the lilac room,
all to herself. Lydia and Sophy were sharing the yellow guest chamber. Tom was
shown to a small room decorated in gentlemanly shades of brown. Francesca and
Anne’s room was the furthermost along the corridor of bedchambers. The door
swung open to reveal a chamber of cream and rose. The walls had been hung with
the most beautiful rolls of paper painted with pink roses. There were pink and
cream rugs scattered around the floor. The bed was a four-poster, carved in oak
and covered with an ivory-coloured counterpane and pillows embroidered with
small pink roses. Pale winter sunshine flooded though the large window,
highlighting the crystal sconces that were fixed upon the walls. The room was
warm from the fire that blazed on the hearth of the white marble fireplace. All
in all it was quite the most beautiful room that Francesca had ever seen.

Out in the corridor she could hear the opening and closing of
doors, the scurry of footsteps and the excited lilt of Lydia and Sophy’s
voices. A knock sounded at the door and a footman delivered their two small
travelling bags, which seemed shabby and out of place amidst such surroundings.
Anne set about testing the bed, while Francesca sat down in a small pink chair
and began to unfasten the ribbons of her bonnet. Dinner and a night of dancing
lay ahead. Yet it was not the prospect of those two things that set a tingle
down Francesca’s spine.

At nine o’clock that evening Francesca stood in the ballroom of
Holberton House beside Tom. Mrs Linden sat nearby, with her three youngest
daughters. Apart from the Marquess, who had greeted them upon their initial
arrival, no one had spoken to them, and the closest the girls had come to
dancing was the speculative gazes from certain gentlemen that made Francesca
want to box their ears. Of Lord Holberton there was no sign. He had not come
down to dinner, nor could she see him anywhere in the ballroom now. She
supposed she should be glad of that, at least.

‘This could have been the manner of our living, Francesca, had
Papa not argued with Grandpapa.’ Tom watched the young gentlemen swanking about
before them.

‘Such speculation is ill advised. Our lives are what they are.
Papa always did his best to ensure our happiness.’

‘To sentence Mama and us to such poverty can hardly be construed
as doing his best.’

‘He is dead, Tom. How can you say such a thing?’

‘It’s nothing less than the truth,’ said Tom.

‘We know nothing of the details of Papa’s disagreement with his
family. I’m sure he would not have isolated himself from them lightly. It’s not
our place to judge.’

Tom did not look convinced, but he said nothing more on the
matter. They stood watching the dancers upon the floor, Francesca
surreptitiously scanning the crowd.

‘He’s not here,’ said her brother.

‘Who do you mean?’ Francesca stopped looking around and fixed her
gaze upon her brother.

‘Lord Holberton.’

‘I had not noticed.’

‘Don’t lie,’ said Tom. ‘You’ve been looking for him since we
arrived.’

‘I most certainly have not.’ Francesca flashed him an indignant
expression.

‘Be careful, Francesca. It is not marriage that he has in mind.
Men like Holberton do not marry into families like ours.’

Francesca stared at her brother. ‘What nonsense are you talking,
Tom?’

‘I’m not blind, Francesca. I see the way he looks at you. He
wants you in his bed.’

‘Tom!’ she exclaimed, feeling the heat rush into her cheeks.

‘Would you have me say nothing? Just stand by and let him ruin
you?’

Francesca’s mouth dropped open. Her nostrils flared; her eyes
widened. ‘I have no intention of having anything remotely to do with Lord
Holberton. What do you take me for? Some kind of simpleton?’ Her breaths were
short and shaky with suppressed emotion.

‘I’m just warning you, Francesca, what manner of man Lord
Holberton is when it comes to women.’

‘I appreciate your concern, Tom, but as I said, there is no need.
I have not the slightest—’ Francesca broke off what she was saying, suddenly
aware that the whispers of a small group of ladies standing close by had grown
louder and progressed to titters, and even finger-pointing in her and Tom’s
direction. ‘Perhaps we should finish this discussion later.’

Francesca knew very well what lay behind those unfriendly faces
with their arched eyebrows and curled upper lips. She knew that, despite her
mother’s best efforts, her own clothing and that of her family was worn and
outmoded, in stark contrast to the rest of Lord Flete’s guests.

‘Or somewhere else altogether,’ said Tom rather bitterly. ‘You see
the way they look at us? We don’t belong here. We never should have come.’

And in that moment Francesca was forced to agree.

Jack saw Francesca almost the moment that he entered the
ballroom, standing over in the corner beside her brother. She was wearing a
pale green dress with matching gloves that emphasised her clear complexion and
the warm honeyed blonde of her hair. Her hair had been styled in the classical
fashion, its curls gathered and pinned up high on the back of her head, with a
few stray tendrils dangling on either side of her face. The sight of her
stirred a feeling of excitement in Jack. He was glad his journey was done. It
had been a long two days, trailing to Salisbury and back, but the trip had been
worthwhile, yielding more than he had expected.

He kept Francesca in sight as he threaded his way around the
outside of the crowd, uttering replies to the greetings he received and
avoiding those he knew would delay him in conversation. It was Francesca to
whom he wished to speak.

He saw the expression on her face change, saw the anger and
indignation before it was masked. He moved steadily closer towards the couple.
It seemed that whatever was being said held both brother and sister’s attention
completely, for neither noticed his approach. Then she stopped suddenly and
glanced towards the women standing not so distant from them. His gaze followed
hers, and he saw the disdain on the faces, heard the pretentious little laughs
and the whispered remarks.

Something flared inside Jack so that his anger was cold and
incisive and determined. He moved quickly away, found those he sought, and
spoke a few emphatic words in their ears before returning to Tom and Francesca
Linden.

‘Ah, Linden,’ he said loudly, knowing that his voice would be
heard by those around. ‘Glad to see you again.’ He walked right up to a rather
startled-looking Tom, and shook the lad’s hand before delivering Francesca a
bow. ‘Your servant, Miss Linden. Forgive me my absence, I was meeting an old
friend in Salisbury last night and am not long returned.’

He caught Sebastian Chortlewate’s eye across the room, and
signalled to him to come over. Chortlewate first reassured himself that there
was no one else behind him at whom Lord Holberton could possibly have been
looking, before making his way through the crowd as quickly as a fashionable
gentleman could. Jack might have been society’s bad boy, but he was held
somewhat in awe by many young gentlemen—including Sebastian Chortlewate. So
Chortlewate came trotting, just as Jack had known that he would.

Jack smiled in a semblance of friendliness at Chortlewate.

Chortlewate returned the smile, trying, and failing, to hide his
eagerness.

‘May I introduce you to Tom Linden?’

Tom showed a slightly startled rabbit expression before pulling
himself together.

‘Mr Linden is a very good friend of mine.’ Jack looked at
Chortlewate.

Chortlewate paled. ‘Beg your pardon, Holberton, I didn’t know.’
Then he shook Tom’s hand. ‘How do you do, Mr Linden.’

‘Take Tom and introduce him to a few people,’ said Jack.

And Chortlewate did.

Jack turned to Francesca. She had not moved. She just stood there
with her head held high, her eyes following her brother’s departure across the
room. And then her gaze turned to him.

‘Miss Linden,’ he said, aware that the small gaggle of women were
positively staring.

‘Lord Holberton,’ she said smoothly.

The reel that was being danced came to its finish. ‘Shall we
dance?’

There was a hesitation in which he thought she might refuse him,
but then she smiled politely and allowed Jack to lead her out on to the dance
floor.

The music began.

Francesca’s fingers felt warm within Jack’s.

He smiled at her.

‘Thank you for that,’ she said.

‘For what?’

‘Introducing Tom.’

‘It is what people do at balls—introduce one another and dance.
So I introduced, and now I’m dancing. I’m not the only one.’ He gestured with
his eyes across the dance floor.

Francesca followed his gesture and saw all three of her sisters
dancing—even young Sophy. When she looked to where her mother sat, Mrs Linden
appeared to be engaged in conversation with none other than Lady Flete. And she
knew that Lord Holberton was responsible. The ladies were no longer tittering
or chattering. They stood silent, their startled expressions narrowing to
jealousy as they looked from her to Lord Holberton.

Francesca could not help herself: she smiled. Lord Holberton was
smiling too. They looked into each other’s eyes and shared the success of the
moment.

The evening passed too quickly, and after a hearty breakfast the
next morning, and a delightful walk through the winter gardens in Holberton
House, the Lindens departed for home in Lord Holberton’s carriage. All the way
back Francesca looked out across the bleak winter landscape and felt a strange
sense of excitement. One night of dancing. One morning’s walk in a garden.
Nothing to do with Lord Holberton, she thought. But she smiled all the same.