Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Most of the party gathered again at Lady Bessington’s that evening.
Henrietta allowed Duprix to dress her in her most daring gown yet, a style that a few fashionable ladies were wearing in France.
It was modeled after the robes of Greek statuary and consisted of a small bodice, with a few drapes and tucks to resemble a tunic, and skirts that fell in straight, graceful lines to the floor.
The style suited Henrietta’s shape exactly.
“You will start a new rage, ma’mselle,” Duprix murmured, studding Henrietta’s unpowdered hair with pearls. “The dashing young countess. Everyone will notice.” She paused. “You will require a proper lady’s maid, of course.”
If she married the son and heir of a marquess, she would have the power to shape public opinion, Henrietta knew.
She could set fashions and insist on standards, like a certain respect accorded to women and support for their education.
Her opinion would be sought and her voice heeded.
She need only bow to those who outranked her, and they would be few.
His rank was dead last on the list of reasons she wanted to marry Darien.
Dancing was in progress at Lady Bess’s, but Henrietta went to Aunt Davinia, who had settled into a rout chair on one side of the elegant ballroom.
“Thank you for coming all this way for me. I am very glad you’re here.”
“Oh, my Hetty.” Davinia put her spectacles to use. “You’re your mother returned to us. She would have cheered at the way you stood up to Pitt.”
Henrietta swallowed back a great lump in her throat. “Would she?”
The frosted gray curls of her wig never moved as Davinia shook her head. “I don’t agree with your methods, of course. You don’t make a fuss about it, gel. You look as they want you to, follow their rules, win their admiration, and then”—she snapped her fingers—“you do as you wish.”
“Miss Wollstonecraft deplores that strategy,” Henrietta replied. “It might benefit individual women, but it does not change the law to benefit all.”
Davinia chuckled. “La, I’ve missed you.” She watched as Henrietta’s eyes drifted across the room. “You chose a good match, you know.”
“Darien?” Henrietta startled. “I did not exactly choose him.”
Her aunt snorted. “What does that matter? He’s a head on his shoulders. Won’t let you lead him about by the nose.” Her eyes gleamed as they followed Darien’s well-knit form dancing a galop with Forsythia Pennyroyal. “But knows his way around the bedroom, I’ll wager.”
“I have not made that a consideration,” Henrietta said, reddening.
“Well, you should. Cumberland was a bull ’twixt the sheets, for all that they called him the Butcher.
” Her aunt’s mouth softened in a fond reminisce.
“Still, Daring’s not a dirty dish. His mother’s boy underneath it all.
Always supposed he needed a proper woman to manage him, and I was right. As usual.”
“Darien only offered for me to salvage my reputation.”
Aunt Davinia’s spectacles enlarged her eyes to surprised green orbs. “Hetty, have you feathers in your head? That man would swim to the moon if you asked him. He’s calf-sick with love.”
Henrietta watched Miss Pennyroyal blush and giggle as Darien spoke. Of course any woman would melt in his arms. Most women, and some men, would always respond to him thus. That would not change.
He met Henrietta’s gaze and smiled. It was an eloquent smile, full of promise, the kind of communication a man exchanged with the woman to whom he belonged.
She did not require him to change. He was perfect as he was.
Davinia waved her cane in summons. Darien bowed to Forsythia and gave her hand to Charley. Charley, dancing? Henrietta stared, an odd lump rising to her throat.
Charley did not need her, not really. He would manage on his own. So would Lady Mama and Jasper and the girls. They would miss her—and she them—but they would carry on. Perhaps she had needed to look after them more than they needed her.
Then Darien was before her, his gaze sweeping her attire and lingering with appreciation on her throat.
“Dance with your lady,” Davinia ordered. “And make her a declaration, you half-wit. She thinks you offered for her out of duty.”
“My aunt is accustomed to having her way,” Henrietta apologized as Davinia called to the musicians to strike up an allemande. Darien swept her into an indecently close hold, and her heart smiled and hummed at his nearness.
“Your aunt would be a royal duchess if George had acknowledged the union,” Darien said. “It’s fair to say she outranks my marquess by leagues. I don’t know why you don’t trot her out everywhere.”
He held up her arm as she turned about. To keep her balance, she had to step toward him, and his thigh brushed hers through the thin gown. Her insides melted like chocolate.
“It appears, however, that I might in time make you a marchioness.”
“You have settled things with your father?” She searched his face. “The King gave you little choice.”
“You were right. The estate must be taken in hand.” He shrugged, as if evading a cold touch of superstition. “And Horatia must be removed from that house. I could strangle my cousin Rathbone for the muddle he made of things.”
“We could take her to Italy to see her mother,” Henrietta suggested.
“You know, Henry, it is very bad ton to induce a man to marry you by taking his wards hostage.” She moved the wrong way in the figure, and he pulled her close, guiding her into the correct steps.
“Fortunately, my reputation will be upheld by how toothsome you look tonight. I never supposed, when I set out to reform you, that you would turn into such a striking beauty.”
“Pish,” Henrietta said.
“I mean it. No man here can take his eyes off you.”
“Because of the gossip. Everyone is wondering why I wasn’t thrown in Old Bailey.”
“Everyone is wondering,” he said, guiding her through another turn, “why I should be so lucky, having done nothing at all to deserve you.”
His hands clasping hers were warm and full of delicious promise. “I expect you would be receiving condolences,” she said. “Lord Daring, who walked away from the most beautiful maids in the kingdom, and he finally kissed the wrong woman.”
“No,” Darien said, watching her with that violet glow in his eyes, “I finally kissed the right woman.”
Lost in his gaze, she floated across the floor. “Celestina?”
“Will take my name and be a lovely big sister to our own babes.”
“And Horatia?”
He nodded, looking pained. “Need never see Ratty and that viperous wife of his again. Though I am not entirely persuaded,” he added, “that this bluestocking school of yours is the place for a Bales. We are a conservative lineage, High Tories from the cradle, and you, my dear”—he leaned in to sniff her neck—“have a rather radical odor about you.”
“Miss Gregoire does not indoctrinate in politics or anything else. She encourages girls to think for themselves.” He used their crossed arms to pull her toward him again, and she conceded, squeezing his fingers. They moved about the floor in perfect harmony.
“I will not put aside my ideals for your Tory friends,” she warned. “I won’t give up my hospitals or causes. I want to run my farm, and my mills, and put some of my improving ideas into practice. And I am afraid…”
She trailed off, dreading what she needed to say. Darien twirled her again, his hand rising to grip her waist.
“When we are married,” she forced herself to say, “I beg you will be discreet about your affaires. I am sure your friends will ever be laughing behind my back. I ask only that you not give them reason to laugh in my face.”
His eyes tightened at the corners, but he kissed her fingers. “If I make you a promise to forsake all others, Henry, then I will. And it will be no loss.”
She shook her head. “Please be honest with me. I am aware of your history, and the way things are. I only ask not to know if you—when you—”
He scowled. “You plan to be faithful to me, do you not?”
“Of course!” she said, scandalized.
“Then if you expect to be faithful to me, why should you not expect fidelity as well?” He continued, overriding her protest. “You plan to honor your other vows, do you not—to love, honor, and obey?”
“Yes, but—”
His eyebrows rose. “Obey? Truly?”
“To the best of my ability,” she said indignantly.
“To honor?” he pressed on.
“Of course.”
“To love?”
She looked into his eyes and saw the doubt, the vulnerability. She stopped in her turn, struck by realization. Lord Daring, the town’s most notorious rake, had been linked with dozens of women, but none had cherished him. Loved him completely, unstintingly, simply for who he was.
He doubted, with all his guilt and self-recrimination, that anyone could. He didn’t fully believe her yet.
“Oh, Darien,” she whispered.
He dropped to one knee, bringing her hands to his heart. She felt the bandage beneath his coat, a reminder of the scars he bore.
“Henrietta, you magnificent goose. I am mad about you. I adore you entirely. You are my Beatrice. Yes, I know you dislike her, but you are the light that steadies my course. I knew when I found you cursing outside St. James Palace that you were put there for me. Marry me, you reckless, willful, wonderful girl. You’ve ruined me for anyone else. ”
He brought her clasped hands to his lips, feathering her gloved knuckles with kisses. The dancers about them stared. Neither cared.
“St. James?” she said, her voice wavering. “Even then?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
She sniffled. “All right, then.”
“Truly?” His voice caught.
She nodded, letting the tears well. “Yes. I will love you always. For our whole lives.” She laughed at the look of relief, astonishment, and lingering doubt in his eyes. “Forever,” she said firmly. “I will prove it.”
He rose and gave her a resounding kiss, one that made the rest of the room swirl away. She surfaced to a circle of applause.