Chapter Eight
Awoman unescorted in a ballroom had to be careful to cultivate just the right amount of attention: enough to be noticed, but not enough to become too interesting, especially when it was that woman’s first ball in over a year. But not her first public appearance, Fleur reminded herself as she steadied her nerves, moving through the receiving line leading into the Harefield ballroom. There were other reminders she gave herself as well: being out alone was not new to her. She was used to being on her own in boardrooms and business offices, at the theatre. She was used to managing the precarious balancing act of attention. Tonight would be no different.
In the year since Adam’s death, Fleur had mastered the art of attraction. Her position as the head of the newspaper syndicate had left her no choice. She didn’t have the luxury of becoming invisible. She was expected to lead. The syndicate would never have survived if she hadn’t. And yet there were other expectations for her as well. Society expected her to mourn, to behave as a decorous, circumspect widow for the entirety of a year.
Business and society hadn’t stopped to wonder how those differing expectations might co-exist, how she might manage to straddle those obligations, or even unite them. Yet she’d found a way. Her theatre box had remained empty for a year, but not the chair at the head of the long table in the London Tribune’s conference room. When board members had questioned her decision, she’d reminded them that it was perfectly acceptable for the public head of a household—she did not dare use the term ‘man’ here—to discreetly carry on business affairs while in mourning. Her case was no different.
Fleur pressed a hand to her stomach in a quiet, steadying gesture. She had mastered boardrooms, but ballrooms were a different matter. Ballrooms held different memories—personal memories—and it was those memories that were with her now: intimate memories of dancing with Adam, of waltzing with him while he whispered interesting titbits about the guests in her ear that made her laugh and promises about later that made her burn, made her forgive whatever difficulties the day had held.
She reached the front of the reception line and offered her hand to her host. ‘Mrs Griffiths, it is a delight to see you this evening.’ Lord Harefield bowed over her gloved knuckles.
‘I thank you for the invitation. It is time I started circulating in society again. My husband would have wanted me to be abreast of all the political happenings first hand.’ She gave the little speech she’d rehearsed in front of her vanity mirror this evening. Two sentences were all she’d have time for with her host and she wanted those sentences to convey a strong message that she was firmly at the helm, carrying out business in a way Adam would approve of, and that she was personally involved in cultivating the high-quality news coverage people had come to associate with the London Tribune. She was fully back in circulation and it was business as usual.
‘I am working on a piece about dam infrastructure. I was hoping you could point me in the direction of a few members of Parliament who might be interested in commenting.’
‘Mr Elliott from Somerset.’ Lord Harefield nodded in the direction of a tall, blond-haired gentleman. ‘He’ll be eager. It’s his first term in Parliament,’ he explained in a low voice. ‘I’ll walk over with you and make the introduction.’
It was the beginning of a long evening. Fleur smiled, she chatted, she asked pertinent questions, she let the blond Viscount from Somerset lead her out on to the floor for a dance and then introduce her to a circle of his friends. More dances followed, more chances to make polite conversation. It helped to think of the evening as business. She was dancing as a means of building her support base, of establishing a network of those who might be called on to promote legislation regarding dam oversight. But all the reasoning in the world could not stop the hunger that was unfurling inside her.
These dances, these touches, meant nothing. They were empty and perfunctory, required for the activity of the dance and nothing else. It had never been that way with Adam and the absence of that heat only emphasised her loneliness all the more. There’d been heat with Umberton, came the reminder. Their kiss was proof that heat, that passion, with another was indeed possible for her.
It was something she’d wondered about after the disappointment of taking that first lover. She’d thought perhaps she was doomed to never feel such things again. But she’d felt something with Umberton, something wild and reckless and wonderful. But Umberton was not here. Maybe that was for the best. Adam’s empire was on tenuous ground. The last thing she needed to invest her time in was a personal affair. It was Adam’s empire that required her attentions. But quelling her need was easier said than done.
By eleven o’clock she was feeling worn out from the effort of useful conversation and she was feeling keenly vulnerable in her craving for meaningful interaction, something, anything that would fill her. It wasn’t the first time since Adam’s death she realised how empty she felt. Until now, she’d attributed that emptiness to the isolation that came with her position at the paper and being in mourning. She’d assumed once she re-entered society social interactions would fill that emptiness. She’d been wrong. She could fill her days with work and her nights with entertainments, but quantity was no substitute for quality.
Fleur detached herself from the group she was currently with and made her way to the garden. The cool air felt good on her cheeks and helped to settle the riot of her thoughts. She found a quiet bench near a fountain and idly fanned herself. She missed Adam, imperfections and all. At least with Adam she’d never been lonely. If Adam were here...
‘Shouldn’t you be inside dancing?’ Pleasant, familiar tenor tones teased from behind her and she felt the tension in her shoulders ease.
She turned, taking in the welcome sight of a familiar face, her thoughts tripping over just how welcome Umberton was. How was it that he’d come to claim such a coveted spot in such a short time? Hadn’t they just been arguing over that exact thing today and here she was feeling as if she had a partner now, someone to face the evening with. ‘Umberton, this is a surprise.’
He came around the bench to take the spot beside her, looking well turned out in his dark evening clothes, not unlike the way he’d looked the night at the theatre. ‘A pleasant surprise, I hope?’ he asked with a smile that managed to communicate a little humility on his part, as if he wasn’t sure of what his reception might be after their afternoon developments. She liked a man who knew the limits of his arrogance.
‘Yes, a pleasant surprise,’ she assured him. She would have to explore later exactly why she found his presence so pleasant. ‘I didn’t expect you. Why have you come?’
‘Because we have unfinished business.’
Literally, figuratively. He’d not been able to stop thinking about her. Jasper let his gaze linger, taking in the loveliness of her as his mind continued the unspoken answer to her question.
Because you’re here. Because I didn’t want to wait to see you again. Because I may not have you to myself much longer due to our circumstances. Because I wanted one night with you before things got complicated.
That last was debatable. It was already complicated.
She gave a soft laugh in the darkness. ‘I realised after you left that we never got around to making any plans.’
‘Perhaps if you walk with me, we could make those plans now. The Harefield garden is quite pretty for a town garden.’ He’d love to show her the gardens at Rosefields in full summer bloom, to walk the gravel paths while trying to match the scent of her to one of the many flowers there. But that was a fantasy. In all likelihood she would not be speaking to him by then. He wasn’t supposed to care about that when his charade had begun. He was to care only for his brother’s reputation. But now he cared for both and wasn’t sure how to reconcile the two, or even if they could be reconciled.
He rose and held out his arm for her to take. ‘May I say you look lovely tonight? Green becomes you.’ The deep summer-green gown brought out the jade of her eyes, the auburn of her hair, the cream of her skin. She’d looked like a painting when he’d spied her in the garden. He’d stood back a few moments when he’d arrived to simply take her in: the curve of her jaw in profile, framed gently by the soft length of an auburn curl draped over her shoulder. He’d taken in more than her beauty. He’d noted a sense of resignation.
Something in the evening had saddened her. Was it that she was alone? Or was it that she wasn’t alone? Had being among people brought it all back? His mother had once told him after his father died that it had been difficult to go out and do the things she’d once done with his father. Those activities seemed empty without him.
The poignancy of Fleur Griffiths’s sadness mixed with her beauty had stolen his thought, his very breath. He’d needed the moment to gather himself, to remember why he was here. Reconnaissance. His brother was counting on him, the family’s reputation was counting on him and she was a threat to that. Although it was hard to believe it when he saw her as she was now, alone, sad, fragile. Perhaps because he didn’t want to believe it.
‘I appreciate the compliment.’ She smiled and took his arm. ‘I admit that I was out here feeling sorry for myself. It was harder than I thought to go to a ball alone.’
‘You’re missing him?’ he said quietly, digesting her confession and what it meant. ‘It’s your first ball?’ He should have realised based on what she’d shared about her outing to the theatre. For all the external toughness Fleur Griffiths displayed with her sharp wit and quick temper, there was a softness, a vulnerability beneath that she kept well hidden. Did he dare believe he was the only one allowed to see it? Best not to be taken in by it, though. Empathy was an emotional response.
She gave a sigh. ‘Yes, to both questions.’ They stopped beside one of the small fountains in the garden and she trailed a hand in the basin. ‘As long as I think about tonight as work, it’s not so bad. I have made some connections. We will make more tomorrow night. I thought we could attend the Langston rout. It attracts the political crowd.’
‘You should go.’ He headed the suggestion in a different direction. The sooner she was disabused of the idea that they would go places together, the better. He could sustain his ruse a while longer. ‘I’ll go to Lady Elmore’s.’
‘Divide and conquer?’ She slid him a considering look, but he heard a hint of disappointment in her voice. He liked to think she would miss his company. He would miss hers.
‘I think it’s our best hope of moving quickly and of avoiding any speculation that we might be conflating business and pleasure. I would hate for legislation to suffer because someone misunderstands our association.’
She arched a slim auburn brow. ‘Or perhaps you’re worried about your reputation suffering? Perhaps you’ve realised that you should not be too closely linked with me. I am hardly of your set and, as you say, people will talk, especially when unattached men and women are together no matter what the reason.’
It sounded awful when she put it that way. ‘You make me out to be a snob.’ It also sounded like something his mother would say. That Fleur Griffith was wealthy because her husband had worked for his money. ‘I am not embarrassed to be seen with you, if that’s what you mean,’ he replied. If she knew who he was, it would be she who would be embarrassed to be seen with him.
‘It’s just a fact. It’s how the world is. I know it first-hand.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘I was raised by my aunt and uncle. My uncle is an earl’s second son and they had no children of their own. They had aspirations for me, primarily that I marry a title of my own. Brixton, in fact, was their grand hope. If not Brixton, then the young heir to the Taunton viscountcy. Taunton hadn’t any money, but he had a title and that was all that mattered.’
She sighed and gave a shake of her head. ‘But I fell in love with Adam and I refused to be swayed. My aunt and uncle were all the family I had, but they couldn’t get past their disappointment in me. I’d failed them by choosing my heart. They didn’t come to the wedding and I haven’t seen or heard from them since.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Jasper reached for her hand in an offer of comfort. The confession had saddened her. He’d not intended for that. He was sorry. Sorry that her family had disowned her, sorry that she still felt she’d failed them because she’d made her own choices instead of following theirs. ‘Do you have regrets?’ he asked softly. Had losing her family for what amounted to eight years of marriage been worth it? Had Adam Griffiths, kisser extraordinaire, been worth it?
‘Regret not marrying Brixton or Taunton?’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Brixton never looked my way and I hear Taunton is trying to put funds together for a risky venture to import alpacas.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I would have suited either of them.’
Thank goodness, Jasper thought, because she suited him quite well. ‘You gave up more than your family, though. You gave up a lifestyle. You could have been a duchess or a viscountess.’ Marrying Adam Griffiths had taken her out of the peerage, out of the life she’d been raised in: the Season in spring, grouse-hunting in the autumn, Christmas at country houses and back to town when the roads cleared to do it all over again. Adam Griffiths was a businessman, a man who worked every day on Fleet Street, who was wealthier than many, but still carried ink stains on his fingers.
‘It might surprise you to know that all I ever wanted was to be a storyteller. In a way, I got to be that with Adam. I wrote features for the papers. After the flood, I collected stories from the survivors and had them printed. I never aspired to a title.’ She gave him a strong look. ‘I like to decide for myself who a person is. Titles are not people and people are not titles.’
Jasper hoped she’d believe that once she knew who he was. Inside, a waltz began, its strains drifting out to the garden through the open doors. He held out his hand in an uncharacteristic burst of spontaneity. ‘Dance with me.’
‘Why? What has brought this on?’ She laughed, something flashing in her eyes that alerted him to danger. He needed to tread carefully. She was vulnerable tonight and he was intoxicated by her, by her stories, the glimpse into her life. He already knew how want and need could flare between them, how it tasted, how it begged for more.
He flashed a smile as she gave him her hand. ‘I want to prove to you I don’t mind being seen with you.’ He was playing with fire as he swung her into position, his hand at her waist, her hand at his shoulder. ‘We’re as proper as Almack’s. See, nothing to worry about.’ An absolute lie although he wanted to believe it. There was everything to worry about. This woman was magic. He could have listened to her stories all night, asked a thousand questions, so immersed had he been sitting beside her at the fountain. Had Adam Griffiths known what a wife he’d had? Had he guessed the depths of all she’d given up for him? He’d like to think he wasn’t envious of a dead man, but he wasn’t sure he wasn’t.
Fleur looked up at him with a bit of mischief in her eye. ‘I’m not sure a waltz in the garden proves that. We’re virtually alone out here. There’s little chance of us being noticed.’
He gave a low chuckle as he turned them about the fountain. ‘It’s all the more scandalous then, isn’t it? If someone notices, it’s a much bigger deal than if everyone is watching in the ballroom.’ Never mind that he couldn’t afford either type of notice at present. ‘This proves I am willing to take the risk.’ He was getting caught up in the moment, the heat of the afternoon’s kiss flaring within him. She was worth the risk. This moment was worth the risk. Perhaps it was worth it to her, too. Perhaps, while the music lasted, they could both find what they were looking for.
She was easy in his arms as if she was made for them, her movements fluid as they glided over the stone pavers of the garden, their steps as light and sure as if they danced across a polished floor. The Harefield fountains burbled against the strains of the music as he turned her at the top of the garden, taking the opportunity to hold her closer than he might have otherwise in a ballroom full of watchful eyes. It gave him an excuse to breathe in the exquisite scent of her. ‘What is it that you wear for perfume? I smell jasmine and vanilla, but there’s something else, too.’
She laughed up at him, giving a toss of her hair. Some of the sadness she’d admitted to had dissipated as they’d danced and that pleased him. ‘Ylang-ylang. It’s a flower grown in the South Pacific.’ Provided no doubt by Popplewell and Allardyce Enterprises, her connection to the South Pacific, he thought, recalling her friend Antonia, and then marvelling that he could make such a connection, that he could have such an understanding of her in such a short time.
‘It suits you.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Dancing suits you.’
‘Dancing with you suits me,’ she amended, a daring wickedness flaring in her eyes. His own body surged in response to it, forgetting this was to be only a dance. He’d had a taste of that wickedness this afternoon for better or worse and his body was hungry for more despite the contentious words they’d exchanged at the end. They were waltzing in shadow now, far from the shafts of light coming from the ballroom, the music barely audible.
They did not need the music. Their bodies were as close as clothes allowed. If anyone saw them, it would be a scandal, her hips against his, the fullness of her skirts flattened where they met his trousers, her breasts pressed to his chest so that every inch of him could not help but be aware of her. Her arms had moved to his shoulders, his neck, so that both of his hands rested at her waist, their dancing nothing more than a slow swaying in the shadows, away from moonlight and prying eyes.
Her gaze was green-flame-hot as it looked up at him, her tongue flicking over her lips. ‘Do you know what else would suit me? This.’ Her last word feathered over his lips a fleeting moment before her mouth took his in a slow, lingering kiss that struck him like a match to a length of fuse, his body left roused in its wake. Her hand dropped to the front of his trousers, hidden between his coat and her skirt, moving over the length of him, moulding him to her touch until he groaned.
‘What do you want?’ he whispered. He knew what he wanted—he wanted to wash away her sadness, wanted to bring her to life, bring her to happiness. He wanted to wash away the hardship of her year. Whatever she wanted, he would give her. He was already dancing her backwards to the garden wall, some part of him aware that their bodies had reached an answer to what their minds had yet to decide.
‘You. I want you,’ she whispered into his mouth. ‘I want obliteration.’