Chapter Thirteen #2
"Circulating. Is that what you call it?" Lady Portsmith laughed, a tinkling sound that grated on Vanessa's nerves. "I call it hiding. But I've found you now, and I insist you dance the next set with me. I absolutely insist."
"I'm afraid I'm already engaged for the next."
"You always say that." Lady Portsmith pouted, her lower lip protruding in a way that was probably meant to be enticing. "One of these days I shall simply have to kidnap you and have you all to myself."
“I am quite overcome with apprehension at the very mention of it.”
His tone was dry, bordering on dismissive, but Lady Portsmith seemed not to notice. She laughed again and laid her hand on his arm with proprietary familiarity.
"Wicked man. You know I adore you."
"So you frequently remind me."
"Because it's true." She leaned closer, lowering her voice to an intimate murmur that was still perfectly audible to Vanessa. "Come to my box at the opera on Thursday. Just the two of us. We have so much to... discuss."
"I'm afraid I have a prior engagement on Thursday."
"Then Friday."
"Also engaged."
"Saturday?"
"Lady Portsmith." Martin's voice remained pleasant, but something in it had cooled. "I appreciate your invitations, but I must decline. I find my calendar rather full at present."
For a moment, Lady Portsmith's mask slipped. Something ugly flickered in her eyes…frustration, perhaps, or wounded pride. Then she recovered, her smile snapping back into place.
"Of course. How foolish of me." She patted his arm with forced lightness. "Another time, then."
She drifted away, her spine rigid with suppressed emotion. Martin watched her go with an expression of profound boredom.
"An admirer?" Vanessa asked, though she already knew the answer.
"A nuisance." He turned back to her, and the boredom vanished. In its place was something warm, something intent. "Shall I tell you a secret?"
"If you wish."
"Lady Portsmith has been pursuing me for three years. She is beautiful, wealthy, and entirely without scruple. She would make a perfectly acceptable mistress for any man who wanted such a thing."
Vanessa's cheeks heated. "This is hardly appropriate conversation."
"No. It isn't." He stepped closer, not enough to cause comment, but enough that she could smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating from his body.
"But I want you to understand something.
I have never been interested in Lady Portsmith.
I have never been tempted by her offers.
I have never wanted what she so persistently makes available. "
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want you to know." His voice dropped, meant only for her ears. "I want you to know that when I look at you, I am not comparing you to her. I am not weighing options. I am not considering alternatives."
Her heart was pounding so hard she was certain he could hear it. "Martin…"
"The supper waltz," he said, stepping back to a proper distance. "Don't forget."
He bowed and withdrew, immediately absorbed by another cluster of admirers who had been waiting for his attention. Vanessa watched him go, her mind reeling, her body humming with something that felt dangerously like hope.
Helena appeared at her elbow. "Well. That was interesting."
"Was it?"
"The way he looked at you versus the way he looked at Lady Portsmith? Utterly different species of expression." Helena fanned herself. "If Lord Deane had any sense, he'd withdraw his suit immediately."
"Lord Deane has plenty of sense."
"Then he's choosing not to use it." Helena's smile was knowing. "Because any simpleton can see that Montehood is utterly besotted. And if I'm not mistaken, you are too."
Vanessa did not deny it. There was no point. Helena knew her too well, and besides, she was tired of denying it. Tired of pretending. Tired of lying to herself about what she felt and what she wanted.
She wanted Martin. She had always wanted Martin.
And tonight, for the first time, she was beginning to believe he might want her too.
***
The hours crawled by with excruciating slowness.
Vanessa danced with a parade of partners, young men, old men, wedded men and the fortune hunters.
She wore the mask of enjoyment and spoke with easy elegance, though her spirit was evidently engaged in Martin.
She noted his movements throughout the room, wondering if he was thinking about her as much as she was of him.
He was…she was certain of it. Every time she glanced in his direction, she found him already looking at her. Their eyes would meet, hold for a charged moment, then separate, only to find each other again minutes later.
It was a dance more intimate than any they could perform on the ballroom floor.
She watched him charm a group of elderly matrons, making them laugh and blush like debutantes.
She watched him navigate a conversation with a foreign ambassador, switching effortlessly from English to French to what sounded like Italian.
She watched him accept congratulations from a young man whose sister he had apparently helped secure a favorable match, the gratitude in the young man's voice unmistakable.
This was Martin in his element, the consummate aristocrat, the perfect duke.
He wore his power as easily as he wore his evening clothes, wielding it with a skill that seemed almost effortless.
People gravitated toward him not just because of his title, but because of something less tangible: a magnetism, a charisma, a quality of attention that made every person he spoke with feel like the most important person in the room.
And yet.
And yet, every few minutes, his gaze would seek hers across the crowded ballroom. And when their eyes met, the mask would slip just for an instant, revealing something raw and hungry beneath.
He was thinking of her. He was counting the minutes until they could be together again.
So was she.
Lord Deane claimed her for a quadrille, his manner was somewhat subdued. He had noticed the supper waltz, of course. He had seen Martin write his name on her card, had understood the significance of it. And now, his usual cheerful confidence had given way to something more uncertain.
"You and Lord Montehood are well acquainted," he observed as the dance brought them together.
"He is my brother's closest friend. We have known each other for many years."
"Yes. I had heard as much." Lord Deane's expression was troubled. "I confess, I had not realised quite how... close... your acquaintance was."
"I'm not certain I take your meaning."
"Only that he seems very... attentive. This evening." Lord Deane's voice was careful, measured. "More attentive than one might expect from a mere family friend."
Vanessa did not know what to say. She could deny it, but that would be a lie, and Lord Deane deserved better than lies.
She could confirm it, but that would be premature, nothing had been declared, nothing had been settled.
She was operating on hints and implications and the weight of Martin's gaze.
"Lord Montehood is attentive to many people," she said finally. "It is part of his nature."
"Perhaps." Lord Deane did not sound convinced. "But he does not look at other people the way he looks at you."
The dance separated them before she could respond. When they came together again, Lord Deane's expression had shifted, still troubled, but with a new resolve beneath it.
"I want you to know," he said quietly, "that whatever you decide, I will accept it. I have spoken to your father, yes. My intentions are sincere. But I would never wish you to feel... trapped."
"Lord Deane…"
“Please, allow me to finish,” He took a breath, and she saw the effort it cost him to maintain his composure.
"I have admired you for some time now. I believe we could be happy together,truly happy.
But happiness cannot be forced. If your heart lies elsewhere, I would rather know it now than discover it after we are bound together. "
The music swelled, the dance turned, and Vanessa found herself unexpectedly moved by his honesty. Lord Deane was not an exciting man. He was not a passionate man. But he was a decent one, and he deserved a wife who could return his feelings with equal measure.
She could not be that wife. She knew it now with absolute certainty.
"You are very kind," she said when the dance brought them together again.
"I am practical. There is a difference." He smiled a small, rueful expression that made him look suddenly older, more weary. "I am not blind, Lady Vanessa. I see what is happening here tonight. I simply wanted you to know that you have choices. Whatever those choices may be."
The dance ended. He bowed over her hand, pressed a brief kiss to her gloved fingers, and withdrew with quiet dignity.
Vanessa watched him go, guilt and relief warring in her chest. He was a good man. He would make someone an excellent husband.
But not her. Never her.
***
Finally, the orchestra struck up the opening notes of the supper waltz.
Vanessa's heart leaped into her throat. She turned and found Martin already there, appearing at her side as though conjured from thin air.
"My dance, I believe."
He offered his hand. She took it.
The floor was crowded with couples, but Vanessa was aware only of Martin…the pressure of his fingers around hers, the warmth of his palm at her waist, the intensity of his gaze as he looked down at her.
They began to move.
The waltz was a scandal when it first arrived from the Continent, with all the abundance of touching, and closeness, the impropriety of a gentleman placing his hand on a lady's waist. Society had accepted it eventually, but there was still something inherently intimate about the dance.
Something that set it apart from the country dances and quadrilles with their frequent exchanges of partners.
In the waltz, you belonged to one person alone.
"You've been observing me all evening," Martin said as he turned her through the first figure.
“As you have been to myself.”