Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
“You did not need to do that,” Octavia said, as the music for the next set began and the couples stepped out onto the floor.
A few nerves jittered in Malcolm’s stomach, distracting him from his wife and her kind words.
His head was crammed to bursting with all of the dances he had studied and the steps that had to be remembered.
Rather more alarmingly, he had visions of Mr. Lincoln showing him what to do, the butler gliding and hopping around the Huntfield ballroom with surprising grace.
“Malcolm?”
The sound of his name, spoken for the second time that night, snapped his attention right back to her. He had never thought much of his name, but from her lips, it was a magical thing.
“Apologies,” he said with a smile, taking his position. “What did I nae need to do?”
They moved toward each other, her curtseying and him bowing to the lilt of the music.
“Thank Laurence like that,” she replied, as they raised their hands, palms touching. “I did not expect it.”
“Whyever nae?”
Together, they turned in a clockwise circle, before twisting around to come back in the opposite direction.
“Most gentlemen would be furious that their wife was ever involved in a scandal,” she explained quietly, shyly. “Or they would prefer to behave as if it never happened. I… assumed you were the latter, since we have not spoken of it again.”
“I assumed ye didn’t want to speak of it,” he said.
They drifted apart and turned toward their neighbor, performing the same bow and curtsey. A complicated sequence of hops and twirls followed, delaying the conversation for a moment.
“Why would you think that?” she asked when they came back together in a promenade, their arms crossed over each other.
“Ye were quiet during dinner. Clearly, the ordeal caused ye a great deal of strife; I thought I’d let ye be the one to talk of it more if ye wished to,” he explained, his hands warm against hers.
“But I’m nae furious with ye, and I’m nae indifferent.
I just didn’t want to press ye about something that brings ye pain. ”
He meant it. In truth, he felt somewhat stupid for not insisting on discussing it during the dinners they had shared, so he could put her mind at ease.
Clearly, she had assumed the worst about him, comparing him to all of the gentlemen that she feared and distrusted. Of course she had, after what she had suffered.
She frowned up at him. “I do not understand you. You are so… different to the ton’s gentlemen.”
He laughed softly as they broke apart, moving down the sides of the dance floor until they found one another again at the end of the line. Their palms touched again, turning in a slow circle.
“I’m a Scot, lass,” he told her with a fond smile. “English society’s rules mean nothing to me. Why would I be furious or upset with ye because of something ye had no control over? The only person I’m furious with is the man who tried to hurt ye. I’d kill him if I could.”
Laurence had not given a name, though Malcolm had asked. Why the wretch needed protecting, Malcolm did not know, but he did not want to distress Octavia further by pressing the matter. If she said it had been dealt with satisfactorily, then he would not seek his own retribution.
She laughed nervously. “I do not doubt that.”
“All I care about is yer safety,” he said, stepping a little closer than was appropriate. “I hate that ye were ever so scared, and in such danger, and I didn’t ken ye, so I couldn’t be there to protect ye.”
She gazed up at him, and, seeing the unexpected warmth in her eyes, he wished they were alone in the Huntfield ballroom, practicing the waltz again. He would not risk embroiling her in another scandal by holding her as he wanted to, but he could imagine it.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for being so… reasonable.”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far.” He leaned in slightly, humor in his voice as he added, “I am a little jealous that someone else has yer gratitude.”
“Then, I probably should not tell you that, once upon a time, I thought I was in love with Laurence,” she teased, amusement in her eyes.
Something twinged in his chest. “Ye did?”
She nodded. “It is embarrassing to admit now. I was young, and I was confused. I believe I had read too many novels about chivalry, and knights and damsels falling in love after a daring rescue.” She cast her gaze toward Joan and Laurence. “But it was always meant to be those two.”
“Are ye really trying to ignite my jealousy?” he asked, his fingers sliding between hers as they moved into a second promenade.
If she was, it was working.
She shook her head. “I am just trying to be honest.” She paused, her cheeks pink. “I never did love him, though. It was always just… gratitude. Back then, the distinction got all muddled.”
He took a breath to calm himself. It made sense that a young lady, rescued from danger, would think she was in love with her savior.
“So, ye don’t love him?”
She smiled. “I do not. Never have. He is entirely Joan’s, and I am…”
Her smile faded, and she quickly looked away.
“Ye are what?” he prompted, a flicker of hope flaring in his chest.
“I am… sworn off men entirely,” she replied flatly. “Just as I told you.”
The little flame dwindled down to nothing.
He did not know what he had expected her to say, but she had looked at him with such warmth that he had hoped things might be changing. Thawing.
She’s been hurt before. It won’t be so easy to win her trust, he told himself, as they came back to their starting positions and the music began to slow to its conclusion.
He bowed to her, and she curtseyed, and when the music ended, he took her hand and wove it through his arm. After all, he was a Scotsman, and Scotsmen did not give up easily.
“Well, he is not at all what I expected,” Frances said, with a nod toward Malcolm.
He had wandered off with Dominic and Laurence to seek refreshments for the ladies, but they had been apprehended by a group of older, talkative gentlemen on the way back.
“I remember Dominic returning from the wedding,” Frances continued, “and he was not at all complimentary about the man. Said he was cold and seemed utterly dismissive of the entire thing, which, coming from him, is saying something.”
Octavia rested a hand upon her stomach, her chest tight for reasons she could not explain. She had not been able to take a proper breath since the end of the dance.
Why do I keep telling him things? What on earth possessed me to tell him that I once thought I was in love with Laurence? She could have smacked herself for that. It had, perhaps, been an attempt to tease him, but why did she want to tease him?
She was not supposed to be engaging much with him at all, beyond the boundaries of parenthood.
“I confess, I am surprised too,” Joan said. “He is very charming, and he seems exceptionally fond of you, Octavia.”
“I would not say that,” Octavia protested, her throat tight.
“But he is, Octavia,” Frances urged. “It is clear as day that he is fond of you. No one looks at their wife the way he looks at you unless they are quite besotted.”
Joan nodded. “Which rather begs the question of why he has been living apart from you for so long. Did he not say that he is where he wants to be now?”
All hopes of making it out of the ball without anyone finding out about Malcolm’s affliction were dwindling fast. Her friends were suspicious; she could sense it in their curious glances and probing tone of voice.
“He is… quite changed, I will admit,” she said cautiously. “It will not last. He will be called away to Scotland again, and I will go back to attending these events on my own.”
“Why has he changed, though?” Frances pressed. “Dominic is usually a good judge of character, and even he is surprised by the change. He said before that he hardly recognizes your husband as the one who was standing at the altar at your wedding.”
Octavia shifted awkwardly. “It is a long story. I shall tell you about it another time.”
It was not that she did not trust Joan and Frances—she did—but there were too many people standing nearby, and she could not risk news spreading that the Duke of Highcastle was suffering from amnesia.
He was well-known in the realm of business; his fortune earned just as much as it had been inherited.
People might take advantage if they learned he had forgotten the past decade of his life.
He would not know if people were lying about knowing him or not, and she would not be able to help, for she did not know either.
“Is all well?” Concern colored Frances’ voice.
Octavia put on a smile. “Oh yes, quite well.”
“Are you happy about the change in him?” Joan said, with a knowing smile. “He really does seem to adore you.”
“I am just glad that Simon is happy,” Octavia said firmly. “The rest is unimportant.”
The rest is not real.
“Octavia, are you sure everything is well?” Frances said.
Flustered, sweat prickling the back of her neck, Octavia nodded effusively. “I am sure. Now, if you will excuse me.”
She hurried off before either of them could stop her, retracing her steps along the wide hallway to the entrance hall. A cool breeze drifted in through the open front doors, and she rushed toward it, sucking in a deep breath as she stumbled out onto the porch.
Not wanting anyone to see her, she slipped down the side of the house until she came to a stone bench. There, she sat, her head in her hands, wondering why she had accepted the invitation to this ball. She had known there would be an interrogation.
And the two people I wanted to see are not here.
Evelyn and Hugo were, apparently, busy tonight.
“Octavia?”
She flinched at the sound of Malcolm’s voice and turned slowly.
He walked toward her and sat down on the bench. “Is everything all right? Was I taking so long with yer drink that ye decided to storm off?”
Soft laughter rumbled from his throat. A sweet sound that, right now, she was in no fit state to hear.
“I would like to go home,” she said with a sigh. “There are too many obstacles to navigate tonight.”
Malcolm searched her face. “Ye can tell them, if ye want? I don’t mind.”
“Not here,” she insisted. “Please, can we just leave?”
“Ye don’t want to say farewell to yer friends?”
She shook her head. “They will forgive me.”
“Very well.” He got to his feet and offered his hand.
She was tempted to refuse, to prove that she did not need his help in any capacity and did not want his closeness, but, in the end, she put her hand in his and allowed him to help her up.
They walked in silence to the waiting carriage, a silence that continued as they began the journey homeward. But it was not the awkward quiet of earlier; it was a more comfortable quiet, which she felt no need to break with idle conversation.
Instead, under his watchful guard, she rested her head against the interior wall and closed her eyes.
As it turned out, trying to live a fantasy was rather exhausting.