Chapter 8 #2
He would stay away from her, the duke decided, for if he had learned one thing about her since his return to Willoughby, it was that she feared him and was repulsed by him.
And her feelings were understandable. Only he could expose her for what she had been on one brief occasion.
And her memories of that occasion and of the part he had played in it must be less than pleasant for her, to say the least.
He strolled to the tables to talk with Duncan Chamberlain during one break in the dancing. They had never been close friends as boys, as Chamberlain was almost ten years his senior. But they had become friends in later years, particularly since his own return from Belgium.
“We all feared that you would not return in time for the festivities,” his neighbor said, extending his right hand. “It would not have been the same without you here, Adam.”
“Have I ever missed one of my own balls?” the duke asked. “How are you, Duncan? Is Miss Chamberlain here? I have not seen her.”
“Oh, yes,” the other said. “And has danced every set.”
“I thought perhaps you had left her at home with your children,” the duke said. “Are they all well?”
“If tearing a nursery to ribbons and wearing a poor nurse to a shadow and murdering our ears every living moment of the day with whoops and shrieks is a sign that they are well,” Mr. Chamberlain said, “then I would have to say they are in the best of health, Adam.”
The duke grinned. “I remember last year,” he said, “that when your other sister took them for a month, you were like the proverbial fish out of water.”
His neighbor smiled sheepishly. “Yes, well,” he said, “I suppose our ancestors rather missed the Vikings, too, when their raids finally ceased. Where did you find your governess?”
The duke had a flashing image of Fleur standing quietly in the shadows outside the Drury Lane Theater.
“In London,” he said. “Houghton hired her. He is worth his weight in gold. I am pleased with her. I think she is good for Pamela.”
“I know it,” Mr. Chamberlain said. “She brought your daughter visiting when her grace was indisposed, and did not even blanch when I told her the dogs were probably jumping all over the children. Of course, at that moment she had not yet seen the dogs to know that they resemble young horses more than they do their peers.”
“She took Pamela?” the duke said. “I am glad.”
“And so am I.” Mr. Chamberlain grinned. “You can send her anytime, Adam. You don’t even have to send Lady Pamela along to chaperone unless you insist.”
“Ah,” the duke said. “It is like that, is it?”
“Emily says I need a new wife,” his neighbor said. “I am not at all sure she is right, and I am certainly not sure I could find any woman saintly enough or insane enough to take on my trio and me into the bargain. But I am considering the idea. It is an interesting one.”
“I would not take kindly to losing a good governess,” his grace said.
“Ah, but for friendship’s sake you would make the sacrifice,” his friend said. “Excuse me. The orchestra sounds as if it means business, and I have asked her to dance again.”
“For the third time, Duncan?” The duke raised his eyebrows.
“Counting, are you?” his neighbor asked. “This is no London ball, Adam. I think Miss Hamilton’s reputation will survive three dances with one partner. And this is to be a waltz.”
The duke stayed where he was and helped himself to some food. No lady was noticeably without a partner. He would take a rest.
Fleur Hamilton and Duncan Chamberlain. Duncan was handsome enough—slim still, his dark hair graying only at the temples.
They made a good-looking pair. He wondered how she felt about her partner.
But she had accepted a third dance with him.
And she was smiling up at him with that sparkle that looked so much more genuine than Sybil’s.
How would she receive a marriage proposal from Duncan? he wondered. Would she tell him the whole truth? Or find some other way to explain her loss of virginity?
The duke turned away. He regretted more than he could say the fact that he had not questioned her on that night before doing business with her.
He should have realized from her appearance and from the quiet way she had solicited—or not solicited—a customer that she was no experienced whore.
He certainly should have guessed the truth from the way she had stood in that room, not moving until he had told her what to do, and then removing her clothes quietly and neatly with no attempt to make his temperature rise as she did so.
He might have saved her before her character and future were in shreds.
But he did not stay turned away. He found himself watching them as they danced—no, watching her—and marveling that she could possibly be the same woman as the thin, lusterless whore whose services he had solicited and used only a little more than a month before.
God, he thought. If only he had realized. If only he had not been so thick-skulled. It was no wonder that she shrank from the mere sight of him and shuddered uncontrollably at his touch.
God! He turned away again, in search of a drink.
FLEUR WAS ENJOYING HERSELF IMMENSELY. There was something unutterably romantic about the outdoors at night, colored lanterns swaying in the trees and reflecting off dark water, beautifully dressed people talking and laughing gaily, music setting toes to tapping and hips to swaying.
She had decided earlier that she was going to enjoy the ball, and she was doing so.
Life had been such a nightmare for six weeks, and still and for always the threat would hang over her head that it could be so again, and even worse.
But for now she had been given this precious gift of peace—perhaps not forever, perhaps for only a week or a day.
But she would not think of forever. She would think only of this night.
She had hoped to dance—Mr. Chamberlain had, after all, more or less asked her in advance. But she had not expected to dance every set of the evening, and with a variety of partners. Even some of the visiting guests danced with her and learned that she was the governess of the house.
Mr. Chamberlain danced with her four times in all, and he talked to her whenever the figures of the dance did not separate them.
His conversation was light, amusing, as befitted the occasion.
He raised her hand to his lips after the fourth time, told her with a smile that he must restrain himself from dancing with her again and depriving all the other gentlemen of the loveliest lady of all—words spoken with a wink—and led her a little away from the dancing area to where the Duke of Ridgeway was standing and talking with an older lady.
Fleur wished he had taken her anywhere else.
The one blight on the evening, the one detail that had threatened all night to ruin her joy, was the constant presence of his grace.
She had not once looked at him, and yet she had found that at every moment she knew where he was and with whom he danced or talked.
He looked somewhat different from all the other gentlemen, dressed in black evening clothes and snowy white linen that sparkled in the lantern light. And of course his height and his coloring emphasized the darkness that was him.
He looked quite splendid, Fleur supposed, if one saw only the right side of his face and not the terrifying scar of the left side.
Though why a scar acquired in battle when fighting for one’s country should terrify her, she did not know.
Perhaps even with the disfigurement he would look splendid to someone who had not watched him walk into the shadows of the Drury Lane Theater, tall and dark and menacing in his evening cloak and hat, to ask if she was looking for a night’s employment.
She tried not to cling too tightly to Mr. Chamberlain’s arm. She tried to keep her smile intact.
“Mrs. Kendall,” Mr. Chamberlain said, “have you met Miss Hamilton, Adam’s governess? Or Lady Pamela’s governess, I suppose I should say.”
Fleur smiled at Mrs. Kendall as the introductions were made.
“A splendid evening, Adam,” Mr. Chamberlain said. “I don’t know when one of the Willoughby balls has been better. Ah, a waltz. Ma’am?” He bowed and held out a hand for Mrs. Kendall’s.
They were gone almost before Fleur’s mind could register dismay.
“Miss Hamilton?” The duke’s dark eyes were glittering down into hers, she saw when she looked up at him. “Would you care to waltz?”
She stared at him, at his hand outstretched for hers, long-fingered, beautiful. And the nightmare was back. Not even this night was to be hers.
She watched as his hand closed upon itself.
“Let’s take a stroll instead,” he said quietly, and he clasped his hands at his back, turned onto the path that followed the shore of the lake, and waited for her to fall into step beside him.
“You have been enjoying the evening?” he asked. He was following the south shore, the one less frequented, more heavily wooded than the other, though a string of lanterns extended its entire length.
“Yes, thank you, your grace,” she said.
“Willoughby has always been famous for its grand entertainments,” he said. “And I have always been proud of that reputation. When one has been granted the privilege of inheriting all this, it seems only right to share it with others to some small degree, does it not?”
No one else was walking on this particular path.
The wider paths and more open lawns on the north and west sides were crowded with guests.
Fleur felt far more terrified than she had felt when walking beside him away from the Drury Lane Theater.
Then she had not been terrified at all, only resigned to what must be.
“You dance well,” he said. “I have watched you a few times. You have had practice?”
“A little, your grace,” she said.
“But you have never been to London for a Season, have you?” he said. “I have never seen you there.”
Only on one occasion, Fleur thought, when she had very obviously not been a part of the social whirl of the Season.
“No, your grace,” she said.
She was aware of his eyes on her as they walked, and she had to concentrate every effort of will on setting one foot before the other. If she was forced to scream, would she be heard? The sounds of merriment coming from the dancing area and the refreshment tables were loud across the water.
“Where did you learn to dance?” he asked.
“At school,” she said. “We had a French dancing master. The girls used to laugh at him because he liked to wave his arms about, a handkerchief always in one hand. And he was more dainty on his feet than any of us.” She smiled at the memories.
“But he could dance! I have always loved to dance. I have always loved to express music, whether with my fingers on a keyboard or with my feet on a dance floor.”
“You do both well,” he said.
“Sometimes …” She was looking across the water to the back of the pavilion and to the shimmering reflections of hundreds of lanterns. “Sometimes I think that without music, life would have no sweetness or beauty at all.”
The waltz music coming from the pavilion was part of the night and the beauty and the hope. She had forgotten her fear, forgotten her companion for the moment.
“Let’s dance here,” he said quietly, and she was brought jolting back to reality as she spun to face him. He had stopped walking. His left hand was extended to take hers. His face was in darkness, the row of lanterns behind him.
Her right arm felt like a leaden weight as she lifted it and placed her hand in his.
She swallowed as she watched and felt his fingers close about it and she felt her heart thump painfully against her ribs and her eardrums. He set his other hand behind her waist, firm and warm.
She lifted her left hand to his shoulder, broad and firmly muscled as she remembered it.
She closed her eyes as they danced, slowly at first. And she felt the rhythm of the music and gave herself up to it.
The man she danced with led well. He was one with the music and took her into the flow of it and whirled her about, his hand firm at her waist so that at one moment the tips of her breasts brushed against his coat.
She would not remember until it was over with whom she danced, who had become a part of the music with her.
But they had walked for several minutes before dancing. There was not a great deal of the music left. It ended finally and far too soon.
“You have music in your very soul, I believe, Fleur Hamilton,” a deep and quiet voice said.
And she was aware again of the hand clasping her own and the other spread at her back. She was aware again of the broad shoulder beneath her other hand and of the warmth and smell of him. She opened her eyes and took a step backward, dropping her arms to her sides.
“It is quicker to go back than to walk all about the lake,” he said. “Shall we return? Are you hungry?”
“No,” she said. “Thank you, your grace.”
“I understand that you took Pamela to visit the Chamberlains,” he said. “That was kind of you. She sees so little of other children.”
“I believe she enjoyed the outing, your grace,” she said.
“I’m sure she did,” he said. “You have danced with Chamberlain a number of times tonight. I believe he is taken with you.”
Fleur turned icy cold. But he did not need to warn her. She was quite capable of doing that for herself.
“He has been kind,” she said, “as have several other gentlemen, your grace.”
“Kind,” he said. “Yes. Miss Chamberlain is at the punch bowl, I see. Would you care to join her?”
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”
A minute later, when she stood beside Emily Chamberlain and the duke had wandered away, she found herself forced to smile at the footman behind the punch bowl and assure him that she was not thirsty, though indeed she was. Her hands, she feared, were shaking too badly to reach out for a glass.
“Is it not a glorious evening, Miss Hamilton?” her companion said. “I am so glad that the weather has held for the occasion.”