Chapter Eight
Dancing had always appealed to Halsey. When a boy, the idea of dancing with a girl made him curl his lip.
But as boy grew to man, he had learned that the movement of the boy to rhythm was very much like fencing or boxing—except with a woman, there was more to enjoy.
Dancing with a woman gave the extraordinary benefit to a bachelor, because taking a woman into his arms and moving with her to the charm of music gave him insights into a lady’s character.
Did she flow? Did she perceive the cadence? Did she surrender to the essence and let herself enjoy the pulse of it?
He could lead a woman to all that only so far. Then she came or she remained. Much like making love. A woman either gave all and demanded the same—or surrendered nothing and gained nothing.
Tonight, host that he was in honor of youngest sister Fee, he had taken it upon himself to do his duty.
He would dance with every lady in attendance.
Debutante, matron, married, widowed—the female guests abounded.
More than forty of them. But in the minutes between musical numbers, he took his time to observe Lady Ramsey and her husband of three years, Viscount Ramsey.
They had arrived early. The Ashleys had declined because Gus was nursing a cranky newborn at home.
The Ramseys had told him upon arrival that they were to have escorted the guest Halsey most wished to dance with this evening.
Sadly, that French lady had not appeared with them.
Disheartened, he looked away. His friend, William Pitt, the prime minister, had sent his regrets tonight. A shame that was, because the man worked too many long hours and worsened his already poor health. Rafe Durham had sent a note, saying he would appear later, but was in a meeting with Pitt.
Save me a cognac, my friend! was his last line.
Halsey looked toward those esteemed guests who had come.
Stunningly beautiful merchant Scarlett Hawthorne with her chief clerk, Todd Carlton, stood close as thieves, so near one would think they were lovers.
But no. Rumor said the gorgeous, dark-auburn-haired Scarlett did not engage in any intimacy.
Carlton—known for his devotion and his sharp efficiency—appeared to find her mesmerizing.
Halsey surmised that was what kept them together, sad though it was for Carlton, who touched her with a reverence reserved for passion.
Instead, both Carlton and Scarlett looked out upon the dancers as observers of all that occurred in the ton.
One of Scarlett’s network, Dirk, Lord Fournier, had brought his lovely German wife, Princess Elizabeth of Rittenburg.
That lady had once been a Parisian asset of his friend, Lord Carlisle.
Elizabeth had escaped Paris, Vaillancourt’s house, and fled to Baden, where she attempted to persuade the young heir to the Bourbon throne to leave that borderland.
When she failed, she ran to the only person who could help her escape the Continent.
She ran to Fournier—and, months later, they were married.
Tonight she was in deep conversation with Carlisle’s new bride, Giselle, and Halsey wondered when the two had become close friends.
Giselle and her husband Carlisle had asked him and his mother to excuse them, but they could not remain through the evening as the new marchioness was of a tender condition and tired easily.
Among them all, babies had sprung up in abundant numbers. Fee had overheard the Carlisles and elbowed him with her ever-persistent remark to devote himself to making his own babies. Sisters, he speculated, could be ignored only at one’s peril.
But with all who filled his ballroom tonight, he was disheartened.
Mademoiselle Bechard did not appear. He had saved himself anxiety for the past two hours and had filled his name into the dance cards of each one of Fee’s friends and each one of his mother’s.
Duty tore him from any brooding speculation about the absence of the woman he most desired.
For in truth, he was surprised at his failure to persuade her to attend this ball tonight.
Still, he had saved three dances. All for her and his mad hope she would come.
He growled.
“Unhappy, my boy?” His mother looked out upon her guests with a glowing smile.
“I say, my darling, you should be quite proud of this event. Fee is enjoying herself. Even our Jessica, who has had trouble enjoying a sunrise since her husband died, is dancing with as many men who ask.” She touched the tip of her fan to his arm. “What makes you pout, Evan?”
“Do I pout?” He laughed, but it was all a show. His mama’s talent for drawing him out would not work on this matter. He had never told anyone if he had failed to lure a lady whom he fancied. It was not good for his image nor his morale. “I am not happy with the wine,” he told her.
“Others are quite pleased,” she said with a tip of her head toward two couples who were reaching for refills on a footman’s tray.
“But then”—she paused to fix her purple gaze upon the vision at the far door—“I do see that a few delightful products of the Loire River Valley come to us through the naval lines.”
He caught his breath. Inès Bechard stood at the far door, speaking with their butler. She was alone. Of course she was. Her host and hostess—the Ashleys—had not attended, and the Ramseys, seeing her standing there alone, wove through the crowd to greet her.
And so should he. His heart picked up a beat.
Why that should be, he attributed to the flow of her royal-purple gown.
The drape of the silk was daring, French, translucent and shimmering as it fell over her generous breasts, then tucked beneath to flare over her slim hips.
His body fired at the impression of her without that silk and all beneath it.
He rejoiced. She had come. Now he would employ his plan to talk with her and, perhaps, even dance.
If she came because he had helped her with her cello, he would learn easily enough.
She would either smile at him and dance, or rebuff him because she still rebelled at the stubborn way he had spoken to her at the Carlisles’ and the Chelmsfords’.
He should not care if she did refuse him. Other women wished for the chance to spend long nights with him. He did not have to rack his brain to find ways to seduce them. They simply came.
He’d bide his time. Let her enjoy the evening with her friends. Then, doing his duty, he’d approach her and offer his hand to lead her to the floor.
She could not refuse him as host.
But more? Would she refuse him more?
He scowled. Why did he care if she refused him more?
He should not. He had told himself that, hour upon hour, ever since that moment in his carriage when he’d taken her against him and almost lost his reason. It was wonderful to have helped her with the cello. But it had cost him his control, and that worried him.
He did not know her. He could not predict her. Yet, just once, he would taste her effervescence. He huffed—and prayed he did not lose himself in her spirit.
He would be brave. Bold.
Because you want her as you have wanted no one. No one. Ever.
#
Inès had a wonderful time dancing with every man who asked her.
She wasn’t enamored of the music or the steps—awkward, all of them.
Those country dances where people hopped and skipped to the orchestra did not appeal.
She liked soothing melodies, and it was those that she played most often on the fortepiano.
But for those on the floor, where was the grace? The romantic endeavor of any step?
“You did not care for this, did you?” Her current partner, Sir Raphael Durham, was a most observant man.
She appreciated his attentions. Not only was he an excellent dancer, full of rhythm and style despite his burly physique, but he had kept up their conversation when proximity allowed.
He had mentioned that he was an adviser to the British prime minister—and Inès, noting that new fact, tried to nourish their relationship.
“I like music for couples that is more fluid. And it is kind of you to notice, Sir Raphael.” She also liked his regard to place a hand at her waist to lead her back to Scarlett Hawthorne and Princess Elizabeth.
“Durham is better, mademoiselle. And I do I try to take good care of a young lady. Especially one who dances so well.”
“You have done admirably so, merci beaucoup, Durham.” She beamed as he bent like a chevalier and kissed her gloved fingertips in adieu.
“I look forward to many more dances with you. Might I ask if you have a partner for supper? They call that in a few minutes, and I would be delighted to have your company.”
“Merci, monsieur. I accept.”
Scarlett blessed Durham with a grin. “Mademoiselle Bechard takes to our customs very well.”
“Ladies,” he said, excusing himself. “Until later,” he said to Inès.
“He is quite dashing,” she said as she watched him weave his way through the throng.
“Sir Raphael Durham,” said Scarlett, “or simply Rafe or even Durham, as he prefers, is not the only man who uses his social dexterity to cleave his way toward his goals.”
Inès was pleased to hear what others had to say about him. “I read his description in Debrett’s. He is from an old family with record of service to the king. He tells me he is an advisor to Prime Minister Pitt.”
Princess Elizabeth tsked. “Sir Rafe works too much. He, Carlisle, and Halsey all keep our prime minister well informed. He enjoys his work too much to—how do you say?—become leg-shackled.”
Inès froze. Halsey, too, advised the leader of the government? That was news. Good news. Terrible news.
Scarlett considered Durham’s form as he took the hand of another lady and led her to the floor. “But at thirty-seven, he must consider his lineage soon.”
“Durham is a unique man with unique knowledge of parliamentary rules. That is his specialty, or so he tells me,” the princess boldly told the lady beside her.
Scarlett, who ran the largest network of espionage agents in Europe and North America, shook her head and smiled as if she were any ordinary lady of Society.
“Interest? Yes, of course. Rafe has studied law. He knows it so well that it seems he has been at the business of governing since he was in leading strings, I do believe. His whole life has been shaped by what we do. We were childhood friends, our fathers in each other’s pockets.
Each year I think he will declare he is fed to the gills with the intricacies of it. But no.”
“He did wonders for me, Scarlett,” Princess Elizabeth said in a low tone. “He and Carlisle together. I would not have survived Vaillancourt’s household without their connections to get me out of there.”
Inès was shocked that Elizabeth ventured to say these things in public.
She had overheard a hint of rumor that Elizabeth had worked in Vaillancourt’s Parisian kitchen as a maid.
Elizabeth evidently got into a tangle in Vaillancourt’s kitchen, and was discovered relaying information about the deputy’s latest arrest to her contact in Paris.
Vaillancourt chased her personally and she escaped the house.
Elizabeth fled to Lord Ashley’s former majordom, a Florentine, Magnus Corsini.
That news had come to Inès piece by piece days ago from Gus, who’d immediately realized her error and told Inès to forget what she’d said.
But the news stuck in Inès’s head—and now it meant more.
Years ago in Paris, Elizabeth had been working for Lord Carlisle, for the government advisory group that Inès now knew included Carlisle, Durham, and Halsey.
Inès knew of Corsini. It was that man still running Ashley’s Continental ring, who had most likely shepherded Elizabeth out of Paris, onward to the east and Baden.
But also, it was her own runner who’d told Inès that Corsini had arranged for her secret passage out of Boulogne all the way to England.
If Elizabeth still worked for Carlisle and her husband still worked for Scarlett, Inès had no knowledge. She would not ask. No one would tell her. She was out of the business of working for them.
She was alone in the world now.
In a new country, she had only herself to rely upon.
She had done enough reading in Debrett’s to fortify her. Now she needed to gain actual experience with a man who could further her ambitions. The man who was now very much her best choice.
Her gaze drifted to dashing, enigmatic Lord Halsey. But she did not want her future to be with him. He was too bold, too insightful, too dangerous to her heart. She would not ruin him. Mon Dieu, non. She wished to savor him. C’est impossible, ma petite.
Did he suspect how she cared for him? He did not glance her way.
Minutes after she arrived, he had welcomed her and left her with Amber and her husband, Ramsey.
Since then, she’d felt the lack of his gaze upon her.
Was he no longer interested in her? Did he not wish to renew his challenge that he had posed a week ago at the Carlisles’ home in Richmond?
She would never reveal the full of that which he had so uncannily deduced about her. But she now had reason to give in, even a little, to her desire to befriend him. He could tell her facts without even knowing he revealed them. She was perceptive, after all.
She stilled. He was as perceptive…and she must not underrate him.
He had shown his true colors yesterday when he helped to carry to her new home the old violincello.
Now the dangerous part reared its head. Could she make him her friend? Keep him at arm’s length? Never allow her actions to tarnish him? And yet accomplish her goal?
She must tread carefully.
Halsey was the host here tonight. She’d allowed herself to catch glimpses of him as he danced, it seemed, with every woman here. Still, he did not come toward her.
That left her only one move.
She must go to him.