Chapter Eight #3
‘Tonight is turning out just as we hoped it would.’ He said this softly to her and meant it.
‘Bearding the lion in its lair has its advantages, and the sooner you do so the less the rumours escalate.’ She looked directly at him.
‘Are you speaking from experience?’
‘I am. When I first arrived in London there were many tales that were not exactly favourable about me. But I learnt that hiding makes everything so much worse because imagination is limitless.’
‘I cannot imagine you hiding from anything, Wilhelmina.’
He felt her shock and saw the rush of questions.
She was breathless, here in the room full of others, here with him before her with his cut face and bruised eyes. Despite their differences she wanted to touch those wounds, to simply reach out and wipe away all of his hurt, to feel his warmth against her fingers, and to see him smile.
She could not believe the strength of such a want either, after his insults of the other day and their distance ever since.
‘Will you dance with me?’
She was unsure if she should, her body like a tuning fork vibrating to his words. Surely if he touched her he would feel it too? But she could not refuse without looking churlish.
She was thankful for her gloves as she laid her fingers against his arm and he led her to the floor, past those who watched them, past the gossip.
She knew she was not a young girl of the first water, her age and looks counting against her, but tonight she felt beautiful, in her deep blue dress and partnered by a man who was unmatched in all of London’s Society.
Her moment. Here and now. She would not diminish it and when the music began she faced him in the waltz.
He held her close, his movements small and careful, as if he were counting the steps so that he made no mistake.
‘I seldom came to balls,’ he confessed after a moment or so. ‘Gretel never liked them and I was such a poor dancer I was pleased that she didn’t.’
‘I think you are doing well.’
He smiled. ‘Now I know that you lie.’
‘Well, a competent dance partner was never at the top of any list of mine.’
‘What was at the top of your list?’
‘Kindness. Strength. Honesty. Delight.’
‘A varied menu?’
He brought her in, an action which chased away amusement. Had he meant to do that or was she imagining it?
But sometimes words were not needed at all.
Sometimes spaces and heartbeats and breaths were all that were required to pass through the world.
She imagined that she was standing at some sort of threshold in her life, a place of change should she choose it, a simple movement of consent, an invitation for more, a quiet, invisible sanction to all that might come after.
He’d said that he could not imagine her hiding from anything but she did hide her reaction towards him. She hid both disappointment and desire.
If she did not come straight to the point she knew she was lost. Her fingers tightened across his and he looked at her, a question burning in the blue.
‘I am going to be thirty-one this year, my lord. I would like to know “delight” before I get to the age of no return. I have no expectations of more.’
‘Delight?’
‘When you kissed me in the carriage the other day I did not think it was wrong.’
There, she had said it, here in a public room full of others under the light of the chandeliers, but she would not take it back.
‘Lord.’
The hardness of the word was also translated into his body, stiff against her own, and even through the material of his jacket she could feel his heartbeat pounding.
‘I do not expect you to change your mind, Lord Elmsworth. I am just giving you my point of view.’
He grimaced and it looked nothing like a happy gesture as he turned her in the dance, the music playing, the noise of talking, the turning colour wheel of dresses, the sounds of gaiety.
He could not believe she had just said that, here in this crowded ballroom. He wanted to take her hand and lead her away, out to his carriage, where they could talk properly and he could show her that he did not think that a kiss was wrong either.
But they were stuck here, glued to this charade, and he could not be seen leaving with her alone when every single eye was upon them. Surely she understood that?
‘I agree with your point of view. I did not think it was wrong either.’
He said the words without looking at her, keeping the tone of them even, willing his body not to react in the way that it was wanting to. It was as though they were dancing in the middle of nothing, borne on only feeling, their bodies cocooning them in, and shutting every other single thing out.
He’d never known this with Gretel, this lustfulness, this sizzling sensual tension that had nothing to do with being in love. He’d always been so measured, so restrained, so careful to keep his distance. It was the one certain thing he knew about himself.
‘Can you define what you mean by delight?’ His voice was husky.
‘I have never had sexual relations outside of a small bedroom in the darkness with my husband. I have always kept my nightclothes on and I have never enjoyed it.’
His eyes widened this time but she kept going.
‘Lionel thought the sins of the flesh were just that and once he knew I could not produce children he lost interest completely, which suited me, though three days after Lionel died I did have one short and foolish dalliance with a man I trusted. I think I was not of a sound mind and it was dreadful and never again repeated.’
‘So there was no “delight?”’
‘No.’
‘But you would like it?’
‘I think with you I would.’
The music was coming to an end now and he carefully guided her over to one side of the room where they were sheltered by a pillar draped in tangled greenery.
Reaching over for two glasses of wine carried on a silver tray by a passing servant, he handed her one.
‘What of the repercussions of this choice? Things like ruin or scandal?’
‘I told you I don’t want marriage ever again, but if we were careful in our relations, who would truly need to know?’ She took a long sip of wine and then another one. ‘As for scandal, well, I don’t want to walk into old age unfulfilled even more than I don’t want to be ruined.’
At this logic he laughed because right then and there he saw the utter magic in Wilhelmina St Claire.
She was so unlike anyone else he had ever met, and though he had always seen hints of it, tonight the alchemy was fully present.
She was not afraid of life or choice or passion and she had let him know it.
He felt his own character questioned under her onslaught of bravery, the shame of his words in the carriage the other day in such opposition to her boldness. It intrigued him, such a trait. A woman who could take on all the world and win.
Less brave women had always defined his life. Both Gretel and his mother had been melancholic women and they had dragged him down with them even if they had not meant to. He was turning thirty-three next birthday, and he was unfulfilled. In that way Willa and he were very alike.
He also knew that he had made a mistake on the trip back to London the other day with his words and so now he was much more careful.
‘I am not Lionel, Wilhelmina. I can at least promise you that. I am also not looking for a quick dalliance that means nothing.’
He could not touch her, not here, he could not feel the racing pulse at her throat or trace the outline of her lips. He could not kiss her but he could make a promise and he could keep it.
‘Thank you.’ Her simple words spoke volumes.
Bringing his glass up, he clinked it against her own, but as he drank he adjusted the fit of his trousers by moving slightly, because if his words were measured his body’s reaction was not.
He felt eighteen again and in the first flush of sexual desire when everything was possible and nothing was out of the question.
And yet everything was. Marriage. Love. A future.
When the music stopped Miss Arabella Montague came over to them.
‘Next week I shall be departing for France, Lord Elmsworth, for a sojourn to the south coast. As I am away for a few months I hope I may even venture into the north of Italy. Have you been there?’
‘I went to Paris once a long time ago.’ Phillip noticed how she ignored Wilhelmina. ‘But in fact, my travels around Europe have been very minimal.’
‘Florence is a city I have seen a great many drawings of and to simply walk through the arches of the Piazza Della Signoria or across the Arno to the Palazzo Vecchio seems like a dream. But I suppose you felt that way, too, about some of the American cities with their architecture and landscapes.’
‘I did.’
He kept his answer concise because he could see Willa getting ready to walk away and, short of reaching out to keep her beside him, he could do nothing to stop her departure. When Arabella laid her hand across his arm he knew escape was going to be difficult.
‘I am sorry for your troubles the other night, my lord. I have heard it all over the ballroom that it was footpads who waylaid you outside White’s and it makes me wonder what on earth is happening. Is nowhere truly safe?’
‘It seems not, Miss Montague, so I would advise even more care in the streets of foreign cities.’
She frowned at those words and Phillip hoped that might mean she would move away. Instead she leaned forward. ‘Would it be too forward of me to ask you for the next dance, Lord Elmsworth?’
Her smile was genuine and she looked very young, and besides, Wilhelmina had already gone, swallowed up by the sea of other guests.
‘Of course, Miss Montague.’ There was nothing else he could do without causing question.
Phillip Moreland was leading Miss Arabella Montague out onto the floor and the quick anger that arose in her was very soon replaced by another thought.
Any gossip about his injuries was only one side of this evening.
People may have noticed her and the Earl dancing together at the various balls over the past weeks and it was important to allay any lingering public question about their relationship if she wanted the privacy she hoped for.
She was a free agent and so was he. They had no demands from outside sources or prior agreements but she did not wish for the extra attention that Society pressure might bring.
She had been honest and he had been, too. Much more honest than any other person in her life had ever been. There was strength to be had in that and also pleasure. She would not be ashamed but she was also exhausted from the whole evening.
She wanted to be home, away from prying eyes and measured words. Away from truly beautiful young women as well with their unblemished pasts and dazzling futures. This was Phillip Moreland’s world and she had no claim on anything more than the shared delight they had spoken of.
She went to find her hosts to say goodnight, the small, fragrant bunch of gardenias tightly clutched in her hand.