Chapter 13
Even before she spoke, Marcus knew.
The woman standing before him was Eleanor Bennet—the only woman he had ever loved, the woman with whom a part of him had died twenty years before.
Tears blurred his vision before he could stop them.
Eleanor was alive.
How could that be?
He stood motionless, scarcely able to breathe, half convinced that he was trapped in one of the dreams that had haunted him for years and fearful that, at any moment, he might awaken.
Then the musicians struck the opening notes of the first set, and the spell was broken as the guests began moving towards the dance floor.
Eleanor could scarcely believe what she was seeing.
Marcus was alive.
And judging by the look in his eyes, he was every bit as shaken as she was.
What had happened twenty years ago?
Had he regretted asking her to marry him? Had he invented his own death simply to escape the obligation of marrying her?
Or was there another explanation?
A hundred questions crowded her mind at once.
What if he had married? What if his wife was somewhere in the ballroom?
The room seemed to sway around her.
All she wanted was to leave, board the first ship bound for Canada, and bury the past once more.
"My dear Lady Campbell," Lord Westcliff said gently as he approached, "it is time for us to lead the first set."
Offering his arm, he escorted her towards the dance floor.
For the moment, Eleanor was grateful for the interruption. It spared her from having to face Marcus while every eye in the room was upon them.
Elizabeth and Mary had both noticed that something extraordinary had passed between the general and their aunt.
Elizabeth had even seen the tears glistening in his eyes.
As Lord Westcliff led Eleanor away, Marcus instinctively took a step after her before checking himself.
Recognising the painful awkwardness of the moment, Elizabeth spoke with studied lightness.
"I do not know anyone at this ball, Mary. I should have liked to dance the first set."
Marcus immediately understood what she was trying to do.
Looking at Elizabeth with quiet gratitude, he said, "Miss Elizabeth, would you do me the honour of standing up with me?"
"Thank you, General. The honour would be entirely mine."
He offered her his arm, and together they walked towards the dancers assembling for the first set.
Mr and Mrs Gardiner had witnessed the entire exchange and could not help feeling uneasy.
Neither of them knew the full story. They had always believed that Ella's betrothed had died and that General Sinclair was his brother.
"My dear," Mrs Gardiner said quietly to her husband, "why do you not dance the first set with Jane? I shall remain here with Mary in case Eleanor should need me."
Mr Gardiner smiled and bowed to his niece.
"Miss Bennet, would you do your old uncle the honour of standing up with him? I know I cannot compete with Mr Andrews de la Garza in youth or appearance, but I flatter myself that I may still dance a tolerable set."
Jane laughed softly. "I should be delighted, Uncle."
“Thank you, my dear,” replied Mr Gardiner, offering his arm to his niece.
"You know very well, my dear Uncle, that I always enjoy dancing with you," Jane replied with a smile. "I have never forgotten that you were the first person who taught me."
Taking his arm affectionately, she accompanied him to the dance floor.
Viscount Blackwood had arrived only a few minutes late.
Lady Westcliff had been anxiously awaiting his arrival, as he had promised to stand up with her for the first set.
Christian did not object to balls themselves; what he disliked was the company his mother so often gathered beneath her roof.
Ever since his sister had married a physician, Lady Westcliff had become more determined than ever that her son should marry within the highest circles of society.
As a viscount and heir to an earldom, he naturally attracted a great deal of female attention, but he found such attentions more tiresome than flattering.
He had long resolved that he would not repeat his father's mistake.
He wished to marry a woman whom he could genuinely admire.
Like Lord Westcliff, Christian possessed a quiet disposition and easy manners. Though not remarkably handsome, he was well liked and had no shortage of friends. Above all, he knew his own mind and had no intention of allowing anyone else to choose his future for him.
"Mother," he said as he approached, "I am here. Shall we?"
Lady Westcliff smiled with satisfaction.
"Yes, my dear. And do not forget—you promised your Aunt Eleanor the second set."
"I remember."
"I also think you should reserve the supper set for Lady Victoria. She looks particularly lovely this evening."
Christian merely inclined his head. Experience had taught him there was little point in arguing with his mother.
The first set began.
Those who were not dancing gathered around the edges of the ballroom, watching the couples with interest.
Caroline Bingley, however, was in no mood to admire anyone.
She had made every possible effort to encourage Mr Darcy to ask her to dance, yet he had ignored each hint as though it had never been given.
"Oh, I just adore dancing, Mr Darcy. It is so fun and yet, no one has asked me," said Caroline.
"You would do well to make that sentiment known to several of the other men assembled here tonight. I am sure that many of them should be delighted to share a dance with you, Miss Bingley."
"Oh, but none dance quite so well as you do, Mr Darcy."
"You flatter me excessively, Miss Bingley, but you must know I generally detest dancing, and I have no intention of dancing this evening."
"Well, perhaps later you will be in a more festive mood."
"I sincerely doubt that, Miss Bingley," said Mr Darcy as he continued, without even so much as a second glance at Caroline, and he returned to staring across the room, towards the dancers.
Caroline suspected that he was not looking at the dancers at all; he was simply watching that wretched Elizabeth Bennet as she danced.
His rapt attention to her presence in a room was nearly impossible for anyone to miss who understood the profound power of affection to etch itself upon a man's countenance.
Quietly fuming, Caroline turned away, her mind filled with thoughts of a need to sabotage the social standing of Elizabeth Bennet. That impertinent, low-class woman was ruining all of Caroline's carefully laid plans.
As though that were not enough, her brother had scarcely taken his eyes off Jane Bennet all evening.
"I see Miss Eliza is dancing with an officer," Caroline observed sweetly. "The Bennet ladies appear to have a decided preference for gentlemen in uniform."
Mr Darcy forced himself to betray no reaction. Yet Caroline's words struck nearer the truth than she could have ever guessed.
He had watched every moment since General Sinclair entered the ballroom. The general had gone directly to Elizabeth. Then he had secured the first dance.
What disturbed Mr Darcy most, however, was not the dance itself but the ease with which they conversed. General Sinclair seemed wholly absorbed in Elizabeth, and she appeared equally attentive to him.
"Bingley, Miss Bingley, if you will excuse me, I ought to speak with my uncle," said Darcy.
It was the first excuse that came to mind, but it served its purpose. Anything was preferable to remaining beside Caroline.
Eleanor answered Lord Westcliff's polite conversation as best she could, though she scarcely knew what she was saying.
She smiled when courtesy demanded it. She replied whenever he addressed her. But all the while she remained painfully aware of Marcus's presence.
She could feel his gaze without once looking in his direction. She had neither the courage nor the strength. She knew he was somewhere close by on the dance floor.
She did not know with whom he danced, and she dared not discover. He was even more handsome than memory had allowed.
A few strands of silver now touched his dark hair, and the youthful features she had once known had matured into those of a distinguished gentleman.
The years had altered him.
Her feelings had not.
The thought that he might have a wife... children... She could not bear it.
Nor could she bear the possibility that she occupied no more than the faintest corner of his memory.
For twenty years she had thought of Marcus—and of their little daughter—almost every night, no matter how often she told herself that the past belonged where it was.
"Eleanor, I must tell you that your three nieces look remarkably well this evening. Your two eldest, in particular, are among the loveliest young ladies in the ballroom. You had better prepare yourself; I suspect they will attract no shortage of admirers."
Lord Westcliff had been greatly impressed by both Jane and Elizabeth.
Eleanor welcomed the change of subject. Anything was preferable to dwelling upon the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her.
"My eldest niece is no longer at liberty, my Lord. Mr Andrews de la Garza has recently obtained permission to pay his addresses to Jane."
"A most fortunate gentleman," Lord Westcliff replied with a smile. "And a young man of excellent judgement, if I may say so."
Eleanor smiled politely and continued the conversation as naturally as she could.
Marcus could not take his eyes off her.
For twenty years he had carried in his memory the face of the young woman who had entrusted him with her heart—and with everything she possessed.
The lady before him was no longer that innocent girl.
She was elegant, composed, and every inch a woman of consequence.
Yet she was more beautiful than he remembered.
Every instinct urged him to cross the room, take her into his arms, and tell her that he had never forgotten her.
This time, however, he refused to surrender to impulse. Too many questions remained unanswered.
Apparently, Eleanor had married.
Had she loved her husband?
Had she been happy while he himself had lived burdened by grief and remorse?
Her husband had given her wealth, position, and security.