13. The Alcove
The Alcove
In the ballroom, guests lined the walls and dancing pairs swirled in the center of the room. As they paused on the dance floor threshold, Alex turned but before he could utter a word Lucinda whispered, “I have waited all evening for this dance—do not, I entreat you, ruin it for me.”
Struck by her innocent plea, he took her in his arms and swept her onto the dance floor.
“Then you shall have your dance, my dear.” He steered her with an effortless mastery through the opening measures of the waltz, his gaze drinking in the beauty of her profile, while hers remained steadfastly fixed over his shoulder.
Her hours of practice had not, it seemed, been in vain.
Together, they skimmed the floor with such lightness and precision that more than one envious glance followed their progress.
“This dance surpasses even my imaginings! Thank you for keeping me out of the arms of Lord Creswell. I could not have borne such a partner.”
“I recall hearing Creswell’s palms were perpetually damp—I doubt time has improved them.”
“I can assure you they haven’t,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the memory. “Wherever you have been, Lord Sinclair, you’ve acquired the first mode of style, polished address, and a most elegant lightness of foot. I had no memory of you as such a fine dancer.”
“I shudder to think what recollections you must hold of me, Miss Harrington. You deserve an apology for my treatment of you when last we parted.” His grip tightened on her hand and his next words were low and meant for her ears alone.
“By heaven, you are magnificent, my dear. I have lived with a vision of you that was bewitching and yet not half as mesmerizing as you are now.”
His words drew her fervent eyes to his, wherein she saw pain and regret. “Oh, Alex,” was all she could say, wishing to relieve him.
His jaw tightened. “Not here,” he murmured.
This was no place for such discourse—not before so many prying eyes.
Without breaking step, he shifted course, leading her toward the far side of the ballroom where Johan lazily looked on.
As they neared the edge, Alex twirled her into the seclusion of a curtained alcove.
Lucinda gasped. “Are you quite well, my lord?”
“Not these many years, my dear,” he said. “For two years I have owed you this apology—allow me to make it plain, if you will.”
Beyond the curtain, Johan van der Meer positioned himself, a silent sentry ensuring their privacy.
Lucinda expected an evening full of surprises at the charity ball, but never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined this.
Alex exhaled. “I behaved shamefully when last we met, for which you have my sincerest apologies. I never truly saw the wonderful person you are. Not the lovable ragamuffin that followed me across Kent, nor this goddess you’ve become.
” All this, he admitted it without hesitation.
“Alas, I indulged in every manner of folly, all of it shockingly self-serving. I told myself you would forget me.” His eyes remained on the floor.
Within her, Lucinda’s heart thumped with excitement at hearing these confessions. She neared him and tilted her head to catch his gaze. “When you left for Oxford, Alex, I gave you my edition of Persuasion . Did you ever read it?”
He shook his head. “One or two pages, not more.” It was yet another addition to the many ways he had let her down. He looked away.
“‘We certainly don’t forget you as soon as you forget us.’”
He reached for her hands. “But I never forgot you,” was his hoarse reply.
With a tone wholly lacking judgment, she smiled and asked, “What kept you from returning?”
“Did not you hate me for that horrid proposal, for—” he paused, wincing. “—for forcing myself on you?”
Above the strains of the dance music beyond the curtain, Alex could hear Johan’s accent cutting through the noise, sharp and rising. He was attempting to bar entrance to another gentleman who thought he was overstepping.
“Alex I-” Lucinda began before being cut short by an interruption.
“I shall not permit her to be compromised!” The curtain lifted to reveal Lord Edwin Creswell, and behind him, Johan looked annoyed.
“Miss Harrington, your pleasure on the dance floor was cut lamentably short. Allow me to lead you into the next set.” Creswell thought poorly of such clandestine behavior at balls and laid the blame on Lord Sinclair for leading her to this alcove.
He deemed it incumbent upon him to intervene—not for her sake, but his own.
He could not afford to have whispers of indiscretion follow her into their marriage, as that would devalue the very asset he was seeking: a wealthy, respectable bride.
“Thank you, sir. I no longer feel like dancing tonight.”
“Some refreshment, perhaps?” he persisted. “The supper service has begun.” His brows knit together, looking at her.
Drawing herself up, she mustered her resolve. “No, thank you, Lord Creswell.”
“Creswell, do take yourself off,” Alex said wearily.
Drawing himself up, Creswell felt his irritation near boiling over. There was a large, insistent hand of a Dutchman curling around his shoulder. He shrugged it off.
“Did she tell you yet?” Creswell asked peevishly, darting looks between them. “Time stands still for no man, Lord Sinclair. Things change.”
“What things?” asked Alex, his patience waning, but he was ignored.
“Miss Harrington, would your betrothed be pleased to see you so private with Lord Sinclair?”
Lucinda gasped, and her hands flew to her mouth. “You are without honor, sir! I bound you to secrecy!” she whispered fiercely.
All of Alex’s pain and despair returned. “Lucinda, are you—?”
“That’s right, sir,” said Creswell, looking down his nose at him.
Lucinda’s hands flew out to stop the man, but her fluttering gestures were no barrier to Creswell’s spitefulness.
Creswell had seen the spark of chemistry between them at the auction and had watched their progress around the dance floor with jealous eyes.
When Sinclair spun her into this alcove, he needed no further proof that mischief was afoot.
“Your brother and Miss Harrington are engaged!”
“What?”
Lucinda’s lips parted—then closed again without utterance.
Her gaze flickered toward the murmuring crowd beyond the drapes, as though some deliverance might yet be found amidst the crush of guests, but only the solid bulk of Johan loomed at the alcove’s periphery—and before her, immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar, stood her inquisitor.
Alex grasped her arm. “Lu, is this true?”
Although her every fiber longed to deny it, Lucinda couldn’t risk her unwanted suitor redoubling his efforts to win her if she denied it.
With a look both anguished and uncertain, she lifted her eyes to his.
“Well, uh…?” She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t confirm or deny.
All she could do was send him a pleading look that silently begged him not to believe it.
The lack of denial landed like a fist to the ribs. Alex recoiled a half-step, as though a distance might soften the blow against the unwelcome truth. His eyelids shuttered. “I see.”
Creswell’s self-righteous opinion was bolstered by the certainty that no comparison could be drawn between himself and the younger Sinclair.
He was eminently more suitable. But if Lord Sinclair—seven years his junior, with a title and continental polish—attempted to interfere, he might find himself outmatched.
He would drive a wedge between them now to forestall a future complication.
With a supercilious tone, he said, “Perhaps you ought to think better of this unseemly privacy.”
It was too much for Lucinda to bear. With an inarticulate cry of frustration, she cast Creswell a fulminating glance and pushed her way clear of the alcove.
Johan stood like a vigilant sentry, holding back the alcove curtain with his eyes fixed on the ballroom. When Lucinda darted out beneath his arm, he pursued her with swift, long strides, positioning himself in her path. Each time she attempted to slip past him, he deftly blocked her way.
“Excuse me, sir, I need to pass,” she said fretfully.
“I cry pardon, dear lady. But you must know that Lord Sinclair has carried a heart as loyal to you as any man who ever dared to love.”
“As has mine! Now, I pray you, let me pass!” she entreated, on the verge of tears.
With a graveness, Johan allowed her to pass.
Left alone with Alex, Creswell permitted himself a smirk of triumph. The younger man straightened from where he’d been leaning and fixed his adversary with a stern look.
His smirk faltered. “Do not glower at me, sir—the indecency is yours!”
“Indecency?” Alex stepped closer, his voice firm. “You’ve revealed your true character, Creswell, by betraying Lucinda’s trust.”
Creswell sneered, deflecting the accusation. “If the lady had truly wished to keep her secret, she should not have put me in such an untenable position.”
“The lady trusted you, sir?” Alex’s voice was low. “And as my sister-in-law-to-be,” he said icily, “your failure to keep her confidence is just as much an affront to her as it is to me.”
The Dutchman, who had returned to his post, gripped Creswell’s shoulder again. Under the din of conversation and music around them, he added: “To me also.”
At Johan’s words, a tremor ran through Creswell, but holding his composure he shrugged out of the foreigner’s hold and left the alcove.
Alone again in their curtained-off retreat, Alex leaned heavily against the paneling and gave a mirthless laugh. “She’s engaged to Miles.”
Johan arched a brow and then slumped down alongside his friend. “Women are a miracle of divine contradictions, Jules observed. How is any mere mortal expected to unravel them?”
“If you ever figure it out, Johan, let me know. So far as I can fathom it, kindness will get a man the furthest.”
“I shall compose a treatise On Love & Kindness ,” Johan declared, “and dedicate it to you, naturally.”
“Johan—” Alex began, forefinger and thumb to his temples.
“Alexander?”
“I’m glad you’re here, my friend.”
“But of course! Where else should I be, when a friend embarks upon so perilous a quest? Come,” he said straightening, “allow me to advise you—at the very least, let us preserve your coat from complete annihilation upon this paneling. A man should not face his destiny, even an unpleasant one, in disarray.”