Every nerve in her body strained to the utmost as she listened for the sound that would free or doom her. And then through the darkness came the accents of a beloved voice. “Bernice?”
At that precise moment the clouds parted and Reginald was revealed to her. His garments were rent and his face bloody, but as he moved toward her he appeared to be otherwise unharmed. Then strong hands were lifting her to her feet, strong arms clasping her to a warm chest.
“Bernice, my love,” whispered Reginald. “The villain is dead. The demon was killed by his own pistol shot. And we are free. Free to love each other.”
“Yes, Reginald,” whispered Bernice, all her longing revealed in the eyes upturned to his. “Right has prevailed and we are free to love.”
And, as though sanctifying that love, the dark clouds fell away and the moon cast its serene light on the embracing pair.
Louisa put down the pen and blinked back the tears. She simply must stop being so sensitive about the whole thing. She simply must live in the world of reality where Viscounts did not marry the penniless plain daughters of dead barons, where heroes did not save maidens in distress, and where she would spend the rest of her life writing about what she could never possess - the love of a hero.
With a cry of anguish Louisa threw herself onto the old oak bed and let the tears flow. Flesh and blood could only endure so much, she told herself. And she had passed her limit.
For the picture of Reginald and Bernice, locked in an embrace that promised a life of love and happiness, served only to increase the longing that was consuming her. She did not care, she told herself, still sobbing, whether it was sensible or not. It was time for a good cry. And that, at least, would not be denied her.
Chapter Eight
As the day of her debut at Almack’s grew closer, Louisa’s nervousness increased. She did not want to face the ogling eyes of the
ton.
But Betsy’s future had to be considered.
Indeed, it was for Betsy’s future that the whole of her life was now designed. Her own hopes and dreams she knew to be futile. The workings of an overheated imagination, Aunt Julia would probably say. But Betsy’s future was still to come and her sister determined that she would not be cheated out of it.
Love in the Ruins
had been delivered to Mr. Grimstead and his round face had broken into a cheerful smile. “Good news for you, miss. Mr. Newman says, as you’re selling so well now, that we’re going to give you one hundred pounds for this one. And the next one, too.”
That news had considerably eased Louisa’s guilt. The new dress would not now be such an extravagance. She could enjoy it with a lighter heart.
But her heart did not stay light long. She had not danced for many years, since before Mama and Papa’s death, and then only in the privacy of the school-room. The prospect of dancing before all those unfriendly eyes was not a pleasant one. Not at all.
But then, she told herself severely, who had said she would be dancing at all? Her place would be to sit with the chaperones and watch the proceedings, not to participate in them.
As she stood before her Mama’s cheval glass surveying the result of Naomi’s hard labor while that worthy creature scurried off to attend to Aunt Caroline, Louisa wondered what Mama would have said at this vision in cream satin. Even to her own critical eyes Louisa looked good.
The chestnut curls that cascaded down over her bare shoulders had been arranged while Betsy watched eagerly and consulted the latest book of fashion. Mama’s garnets looked lovely against her throat and over the wrist of her fresh kid glove.
Louisa sighed. She was probably imagining that she looked good. Since the advent of Atherton into her life she had begun to doubt her perceptions of reality. If she had been wrong in one instance, she might be wrong in others.
She turned from the mirror, gathered up her shawl, and hurried toward the stairs. She had no desire to keep Lady Con-stance waiting.
Louisa was as yet unsure whether Atherton would accompany them. She had not seen the Viscount for almost a week, since the day of their ride in Hyde Park. And she had not dared to ask Lady Palmerton about him for fear her color would betray her.
She had worked exceedingly hard in the past week to make herself stop regarding Atherton in the rosy light of romance. She believed she had succeeded. At least, she hoped she had.
It was true that her new hero. Sir Percival Avonford, persisted in looking and behaving like a fifteenth-century Atherton. And her new heroine, Corrine, looked even more like Louisa herself than the sainted Bernice. It was also true that she did not seem able to direct her characters as she had before she met Atherton. But the book
was
started, though as yet it had no title, and there was still time to overcome whatever weakness still possessed her.
She entered the drawing room to find Aunt Caroline, elegantly turned out by Naomi, nervously awaiting Lady Palmer-ton’s carriage. “It’s been such a long time,” said Aunt nervously, “since I’ve been anywhere public that I’ve no notion how to act.”
“There now, Aunt,” soothed Louisa, immediately forgetting her own fears. “Don’t get yourself in a pet. These are just people, you know. Be your own kind self and we shall succeed famously.”
“You are a sweet girl, Louisa,” said Aunt Caroline warmly. “It’s such a shame you never got to come out.”
“Indeed it is,” said a deep voice from the doorway and Louisa turned to find his lordship regarding her with narrowed eyes. He stared for so long that Louisa felt the color rising to her cheeks.
“You must get accustomed to be stared at,” observed the Viscount with a cynical smile, “if you expect to be one of the
ton.”
“It only seems rude to me,” replied Louisa, and then colored even more as she realized that she had inadvertently called his lordship rude.
Atherton, however, laughed heartily. “Another hit,” said he. “Though perhaps not suitable for most of the
ton.”
The eyes under the lazy lids surveyed her easily until finally Louisa found herself asking somewhat pertly, “And will I pass muster, do you think, milord?”
His thin mouth curved in a smile of lazy amusement. “I expect so, Miss Penhope. But I had thought that since we are family friends you would condescend to call me Philip. If you insist on milording me, I shall not be pleased.”
Louisa forced her eyes to meet his dark ones. “That is not very kind of you,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “To force me into such a manner of addressing you.”
His lordship smiled lazily. “But you forget, I am a hero. And heroes are permitted, at times, to break the rules.”
“So they are,” returned Louisa gaily, wondering how she had ever become this creature who could bandy words so easily while her heart was slowly breaking. “I expect then that I shall have to stop milording you - Philip.”
Her heart wrenched so as she pronounced his name that she feared her expression had betrayed her. But his eyes remained the same - amused and dancing.
“And Mrs. Pickering,” said he, turning to where Aunt Caroline waited. “You are looking excellently well.”
“Thank you, milord.” Aunt Caroline had not missed the exchange between Louisa and his lordship but she was not sure that it included her.
“I should like to call you Aunt Caro-line,” said the Viscount. “If you do not mind.”
Aunt Caroline was extremely pleased by this. “Of course I do not mind, milord.”
“Philip,” replied his lordship with a smile. “And now I had better get us into the carriage or we shall not reach Almack’s before the magic hour. My sister, in spite of her desire to be the last to enter any fashionable assembly, wisely puts aside that wish where Almack’s is concerned. The lady patronesses are quite strict about late arrivals.”
With this he shawled them both and escorted them out the door and to his closed carriage. Louisa was momentarily concerned about the enormous new turban that graced Aunt Caroline’s gray curls, but that worry was soon extinguished by Lady Palmerton’s exclamation of praise. “Caroline, my dear, the turban works famously. It is just the thing. And Louisa, your dress fits admirably. Caro-line was right, the garnets are most becoming.”
Having delivered herself of these comments. Lady Constance turned to Aunt Caroline and began to fill her in on who might be expected in attendance at Almack’s that night.
Louisa, turning toward Atherton, found his eyes on her hair. “I am glad you do not favor turbans,” said he, with that lazy smile. “I much prefer seeing a woman’s hair rather than some monstrous bundle of silk.”
“I fear I should be afraid to walk about under such weight,” said Louisa. “But Aunt seems to manage it quite well.”
“Yes, she does. So ... are you prepared to dance?”
Louisa shook her head. “I do not expect to be asked,” said she. “I am no longer a young girl and I have no marriage portion to attract a man.”
“You have other assets with which to attract a man,” said his lordship in a tone that made her color up again. “And tonight you look exceptionally lovely.”
“Thank you, sir. You are looking quite fine yourself. Very like a hero.” Louisa decided that her only recourse with the Viscount was to be as gay and flippant as he. Obviously his compliments had no great feeling behind them. He was just passing the time, practicing his arts of flirtation on her until some more suitable object happened along.
Atherton laughed softly. “I did not realize that heroes appeared in white stockings, knee breeches, and chapeau bras. I am at a loss, however, considering your opinion of heroes, as to whether I should take your words as a compliment or not.”
Louisa forced herself to laugh. “If you
are
a hero, Philip, then you need not be told it. For heroes know everything.”
His lordship’s eyes sparkled as he leaned toward her. “Have a care, Louisa,” said he dramatically. “Remember, heroes are in the habit of taking what they want.”
Something in his dark eyes made her heart thump strangely, but Louisa, recalling Aunt Julia’s words of warning, managed to reply, somewhat pertly, “I believe that happens only in books and with the heroine’s permission.”
“Touché!”
said his lordship, not at all disconcerted.
The journey through the crowded streets took some time. Louisa could hardly believe the press of carriages, all headed for Almack’s, that surrounded them.
“It will grow even worse later,” remarked Atherton. “As the fashionable scurry to get past the dreaded Willis.”
Louisa smiled at the idea of certain lazy fashionables scurrying.
Finally the carriage arrived at its destination. The ladies were helped out and escorted up the stairs to the ball-room.
Louisa, looking around her, did not find anything at all outstanding about the rooms. However, she did not have long to look around. Lady Palmerton took her firmly by the arm and marched her toward an affable looking matron in yellow silk. “This is she, Lady Sefton. This is the daughter of our dear friend, Baroness Penhope.”
Louisa found this introduction rather startling, especially since Mama had not been a baroness until long after she and Lady Constance had been bosom-bows, but she had no time to study this rather peculiar development because Lady Sefton was smiling at her warmly.
“I once knew your Mama, too,” said that lady kindly. “A lovely woman she was, though not much given to society in her later years. Rather a recluse, in fact. We are pleased to have you with us tonight and glad to have a chance to do some-thing for dear Anne’s daughter.”
Louisa, looking into Lady Sefton’s kind warm eyes, could no longer doubt that Mama had been known to both these ladies. It was strange to hear them talk of Mama so intimately - and a Mama she had never known - young, and beautiful, and gay.
Louisa could not help sighing. If only Mama were here to help her over this crucial evening.
How she wished she were back in the little sitting room, pen in hand, getting on with the adventures of Percival and Corrine. That world was one she knew. Improbable as the rules were, she knew them and how to function there.
But this world, this real world of ogling lords and staring ladies, she did not know how to face. It was actually more unreal to her than the fantasy world which her heroes and heroines inhabited.
“Come,” said Lady Constance. “I see Alvanley over there. I must make you acquainted with him.”
Louisa had no recourse but to follow. This whole evening, she had decided, she would follow where Lady Constance led. Then, her duty done, perhaps she might be left in peace, to work on her new romance. She reviewed the titles in her mind:
The Specter of the Night, The Restless Spirit, The Hand of the Unknown.
She was still groping for a title that seemed to be just eluding her, when Lady Constance stopped in front of a tall, dark man. He was not nearly as handsome as Atherton, but his looks were well enough, thought Louisa, as his brown eyes met hers.
So this was the man who had challenged Atherton to discover Lady Incognita. Well, she was not so concerned over that now. Not if the
ton
was looking for a lady.
“Alvanley,” said Lady Palmerton. “This is Baron Penhope’s daughter, Miss Louisa Penhope.”
Alvanley bowed low over her hand. “I am honored to meet you,” he said, lisping slightly.
Louisa was not startled by the lisp. She knew enough to realize that it was one of the characteristics affected by the beaux. Men who could - and did - fight bare-knuckled with rowdies in the streets, spoke in the lisping accents of school-girls.
Louisa swallowed a smile. So much for eccentricity, she thought, recalling Atherton’s comments.
“Perhaps you will have the next quadrille with me,” said Alvanley eagerly. “If you are not otherwise engaged.”
Louisa shook her head. “I am not engaged,” said she. “But fear I should make a sad partner. I have not previously been in society and I do not know the steps.”
“Capital,” said Alvanley beaming. “Then I shall be the one to teach you.”
“But here?” protested Louisa. “Before all these people?”