Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Winston stepped from the maze, his mood uneven.
He had expected relief but instead felt dismayed by the sight before him.
Boards had been laid across the lawn, forming a makeshift floor upon which couples were already gathering.
A string quartet tuned their instruments on a raised dais, and the swirl of silk and the gleam of polished shoes spoke of only one thing… dancing.
Cordelia was at his side before he could turn away.
“Ah, Winston,” she said with infuriating brightness, “a quadrille is about to begin. If you have not already acquired a partner, perhaps you should ask Adeline. Let the young ladies see your footwork.”
“No.” His refusal was flat.
I will not be paraded like a prize bull before eyes that weigh and measure me. Certainly not with Adeline.
He could not trust himself near her, not after the maze. Not after that kiss. Another kiss.
I am not some wet-behind-the-ears boy! I should be capable of controlling myself and ridding my thoughts of that damned woman!
He strode to a table, clicking his fingers for a passing servant who carried a tray of wine glasses.
The young man hurried over, and Winston took one, seating himself heavily and fixing his gaze on bubbling, golden liquid rather than the gathering dancers.
Louisa sat next to him, with Adeline preparing to take a chair next to her.
Winston was aware of her presence, of the rustle of her skirts, of the faint floral scent she carried.
But before she could lower herself into the chair, a young man stepped forward, bowing with a flourish.
“May I have the honor, My Lady?” the gentleman asked, eyes shining with eagerness.
Adeline looked stricken. “I am merely a governess, sir. I am sure you do not want to dance with one such as me.”
“Merely?” The young man smiled warmly. “You cannot possibly be merely anything. I would be honored if you would allow me this dance.”
Winston’s grip tightened on his glass. Heat rose in him, irrational and unwanted. Jealousy. Again. He despised himself for it, and yet he could not look away as Adeline, blushing, allowed herself to be led onto the floor.
“What is his name?” he asked curtly of his mother.
Cordelia, who had taken a seat beside him, feigned a look of innocence. “Whose name?”
“You know very well,” Winston growled.
His mother’s lips curved. “I cannot recall.”
He did not believe her.
She is not exactly well-connected, living out at Briarwood. But something in her tone tells me she is toying with me.
He glowered at the dancing couple, resentment simmering.
He told himself he did not care and that what passed in the maze was folly.
Adeline was nothing to him. Yet the memory of her lips lingered, and the sight of her dancing with another man twisted like a knife.
Cordelia’s voice cut through his thoughts.
She spoke of eligible women, young ladies of good breeding, appropriate fortune, and docile temperament. Winston half-listened, his gaze fixed on Adeline’s flushed face as she moved gracefully through the figures of the dance.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered distractedly.
“Then it is agreed,” Cordelia said with satisfaction. “I shall speak to her father.”
“What?” Winston snapped, dragging his attention back.
But his mother was already on her feet, gliding away before he could challenge her.
Pride kept him rooted. He would not chase after her.
Instead, he returned to his glowering, only to find Adeline approaching, her cheeks still pink from exertion.
He pushed back his chair, intent on greeting her, perhaps even claiming her hand for the next set.
But before he could rise fully, another gentleman intercepted her with a bow.
“Your name is Miss Wilkinson? Will you grant me the pleasure?”
Adeline hesitated, her eyes flicking towards Winston, then dancing away.
She inclined her head and accepted. Winston’s jaw set.
She was giving him a chance to intervene, and he had refused.
Pride chained him to his seat. He resumed it stiffly, even as his chest ached with the refusal.
Cordelia returned presently, a young woman in tow.
She was plump-cheeked, with dark curls framing a pleasant face, her expression open and hopeful.
“Winston,” Cordelia declared, “may I present Lady Amelia de Burgh, daughter of the Earl of Denbury.”
Winston inclined his head. Across the floor, Adeline’s eyes lifted to him, and he saw the faintest tightening in her expression.
Jealousy? From her? This is too much!
Something illogical stirred in him. It was irrational, he knew it.
He had no right to jealousy if he refused to name his feelings to her.
If he refused to intervene and claim her.
Yet, he could not help it. It was too late to insist on her hand, but not too late to give her a taste of what he was tormented by.
He smiled at Lady Amelia and gestured to the empty chair. “My Lady, pray join me.”
As Lady Amelia seated herself, Cordelia took Louisa by the hand and departed, promising iced cakes. Winston gave half an ear to Lady Amelia’s chatter, but his gaze strayed repeatedly to the dance floor, where Adeline now accepted yet another offer. A third.
This is a farce. I waste my time in conversation with a woman I feel nothing for, while Adeline dances with men she cares nothing for.
He told himself that she did not. Her straying eyes told him that she did not.
He leaned closer to Lady Amelia, letting his smile linger a little too warmly, speaking more smoothly than he felt, all the while aware of Adeline’s flushed cheeks as she turned gracefully in her partners’ arms. It was a comedy of pride.
I am merely doing my duty. This is no game, merely an unmarried Duke taking seriously the continuation of his name.
The lie was paper-thin, transparent even to himself. His thoughts were not with Lady Amelia. They were with Adeline. He saw only the curve of her neck, heard only the sound of her laughter, and dwelt on the fire in her eyes when she defied him.
Greystone had never felt so suffocating.
Adeline could not banish the image of Winston seated with that young woman, her dark curls tumbling as she leaned toward him.
The sight had unsettled her far more than she wished to admit.
She had accepted offers to dance out of spite, she knew it.
All because she had wanted Winston to ask her, and when she realized how badly she wanted it, she had sought to drown the ache in motion and laughter.
But the ache remained. Winston had barely acknowledged her once the dancing began, save for those moments when his gaze seared across the space, hot enough that she could feel it. He gave her no words, only that charged look, the same look he had worn in the maze before their lips met.
It is sheer nonsense. My heart beats faster when he is near. It is nothing but a troubling medical complaint. I should seek the services of a doctor.
When they returned to Greystone, Winston did not accompany them.
Cordelia retired early, as did Louisa, overstimulated by the day and asleep on her feet.
But Adeline lay restlessly in her bed. To her, sleep was a stranger.
At last, she rose, wrapped herself in her shawl, and slipped quietly to the kitchens.
A warm milk will be just the thing. Just like Mother used to make for me when I woke from a bad dream.
The recollection brought a stab of pain.
A door in her mind began to open on a scene that she had sworn to keep locked away.
She closed her eyes fighting to keep it at bay, not wanting to see that awful vista again.
When she could, she walked on. The house was silent except for its own language of stretching timber and cracking stone.
No human besides Adeline walked the corridors.
The great kitchen was dim, fire banked low, shadows pooling in the corners.
When she entered, she stopped short. Winston was already there.
He stood by the hearth, his broad frame lit by the faint glow of embers, a steel milk container in one hand.
He looked up as she entered, and for a long moment neither spoke.
Finally, he said quietly, “Sleep feels far away. This was my mother’s remedy.”
He indicated the milk which he had poured into a pot, to be hung over the fire to warm.
Adeline clutched her shawl tighter. “It was my mother’s as well.”
The heavy kitchen table stretched between them, a shield neither seemed willing to lower. The silence grew taut, humming with unspoken things. Winston broke it with a question that cut sharp. “Tell me about your mother. Lady Clifford-Edge?”
Adeline was taken aback by the question. Winston wore a long dressing robe, thick over bare feet and a furred, broad chest. Adeline felt faint at the thought that he might be naked underneath.
“Yes. She was…noble and…kind,” Adeline said, falteringly.
It was difficult to speak words relating to her mother. The trauma was too raw still. Her voice shook and she fought to keep tears from her eyes.
“And how did you come to be in my mother’s employ?” he asked.
“This is an odd time for an interview,” Adeline said, trying to recover her equilibrium.
“Talk of your mother seemed to distress you,” Winston said, “so I sought to change the subject.”
His astuteness touched her. There was simple honesty in his voice. He was trying to protect her feelings. She drew a steadying breath, delivering the story she had prepared.
“I lost my parents. Then…I was jilted at the altar. Lady Greystone was kind enough to take me into her household.”
Winston’s eyes darkened. “Jilted? I can scarce believe any man would behave so toward you.”
Heat flooded her cheeks at the words, her heart stumbling. To cover her fluster, she said quickly, “Shall I make you a cup as well?”