The Lie and the Lady (36 page)

He'd told his mother weeks ago that he had no interest in Margaret Babcock. He hadn't shown anything other than polite interest in Margaret Babcock since he'd tucked a violet behind her ear (even though he'd promised Leticia that he would first do less, then do more). But somehow she was still alert to the nonexistent possibility of their union.

He liked the girl, but had no qualms about disappointing her.

He didn't even have much concern about disappointing Sir Barty—he needed him, yes, but if he knew the man, Sir Barty would avoid the topic of business during a party filled with revelry, wine, and presumably food.

But he couldn't disappoint Leticia.

Whether she wanted to see him or not, she would be disappointed if she didn't. And so he drove the knife deeper into his belly and came tonight.

And sought her out.

They'd locked eyes in the hallway, he standing with Rhys and she with Miss Babcock. But really, he couldn't see anyone else.

She'd looked beautiful, of course. She always looked beautiful, but tonight she was transcendent. He'd seen her gown before. She wore it at the ball last year when . . . when he'd first kissed her. It was a cream silk shot through with gold thread. She caught the light, and held it, glowing from within. It made her look both a paragon of elegance and ultimately touchable.

Why had she worn it? Was it in remembrance? To tempt him?

But as with everything Leticia, he had to temper his hopes. She wore her best ball gown because she had to and she could, as the gown retained its novelty and elegance since no one in this town had seen it before.

But it wasn't just the gown that made her transcendent. There was something in the sparkle of her eyes, the flush of her skin. And it made Turner realize two things.

First, that her mask was down. She was as alive as he'd ever seen her. Maybe he was the only one who could see it, but she was shedding worry in this oddly delicate situation and instead vibrating with determination.

And second, that she planned to do something stupid that night.

He knew he was right about the first instance. And he was about to be proved right in the second.

Because, in the short space of time that Miss Goodhue had come batting her eyelashes and swishing her ruffles, Turner lost sight of Leticia.

She'd been standing next to Sir Barty, holding court near the refreshments. Which, since they were surrounded by people wishing to congratulate them and shake hands, seemed like unnecessary torture for a man with a hunger for pork-based treats.

But now Sir Barty was sitting down, a plate of tarts in his hand and a cup of punch at his elbow, and Leticia was nowhere to be seen.

“Where did she go?”

“Who?” Rhys said as Turner reached his side.

“Who do you think? Leticia.”

Rhys blinked and looked around. “She was over with Sir Barty.”

“But obviously she isn't anymore,” he said, his brow coming down. “Dammit, I told you to keep an eye on her!”

Rhys's eyebrow went up. “Two weeks ago, yes. However, I did not realize that my subterfuge was meant to extend all the way to tonight.”

Turner sighed in frustration. “Did you happen to see which way she went?”

“No. Perhaps Margaret or your mother did, though.”

Rhys nodded toward where Sir Barty sat. Next to him was his mother, and next to her was Margaret, recently relieved from having to dance with Mr. Blackwell.

Where Mr. Blackwell had gone to was also a mystery.

A pit of dread began to pool in his stomach. If Leticia was off doing what he suspected she was, and Mr. Blackwell was also missing . . .

Oh hell.

“Let's go ask them, shall we?” Rhys said as he crossed the ballroom.

He was about to turn on his heel and set about tearing this house apart, but since he didn't know where to begin, he might as well see if his mother did. She'd been near or at Sir Barty and Leticia's sides since they arrived. And while Sir Barty had been proudly presenting his new bride to the local gentry of Frosham, Helmsley, and the Wolds, Turner found it very odd how often Sir Barty would lean over to Helen and say something that would make her snort with laughter.

“There's the man of the hour,” Rhys said upon arriving at the group by the refreshment table. “How's your foot? And what's that in your hand?”

“Just a little meat pie,” Sir Barty said, wheedling. “Come now, Doctor, it's a party—some celebration must be had.”

Rhys indulgently rolled his eyes, letting his patient off the hook for his transgressions, as he turned to greet Miss Babcock.

“Sir Barty,” Turner said, bowing, and forcing as much good humor on his face as he could. “Where has your lovely bride-to-be fled to?”

“Letty?” Sir Barty asked, and for a moment an all-encompassing, pulsing red blocked Turner's mind. He calls her Letty now? “She's just dashed off to the ladies' retiring room, attending to woman things, no doubt.”

Turner's brow went up. No doubt that was what Leticia told him, but since she had been in the retiring room not an hour ago, he highly doubted she had need of it again. No, he knew a vague and convenient excuse when he heard one.

“John, my boy, I have not seen you dancing yet,” his mother said. “Truly criminal while so many ladies want a partner.”

“I am not much of a dancer,” he said pointedly to his mother. “So I think for now I should—”

“There's a lovely girl right there, eager for a turn about the room,” Sir Barty said, waving his hand in Margaret's direction.

Margaret for her part was trying very hard to melt into her chair. But then she looked up at him. Her torture was as acute as his, but far more painful.

He had no idea where Leticia was. And he couldn't tear after her without causing a scandal in that moment, as well as deep embarrassment for his mother. So he did the only thing he could.

“As eager as I am, hopefully,” he said, turning to Margaret. “Miss Babcock, may I have the honor?”

She blushed readily as she took his hand, and he led her to the dance floor.

It was a quadrille, something moderately paced and with easy steps, thankfully. Margaret seemed glad of it too, until she turned the wrong direction and banged smack into Turner's chest.

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled, turning red.

“It's quite all right.”

“I'm not much of a dancer either,” Margaret said quietly when they came together again.

“You're doing fine,” he replied. “I promise, much better than I did at my first ball.”

“At least you've had some practice,” she commented, giving a shy smile.

He hadn't been to a ball since a year ago, when he'd stood up with Leticia and then kissed her in the middle of the dance floor. But he could keep time to music, he could count out steps. But he'd always lacked grace. She never made him feel clumsy, though. She made him feel strong.

Dancing with Leticia was the only time he'd ever wished he'd taken lessons. He'd wanted her to see that he could be the gentleman she desired.

He'd given up that notion. And yet . . . the way she'd kissed him back in his little office in his mill told him she didn't care.

But then her answer in the churchyard told him she very much did.

“Oh—I'm sorry!” Margaret said, stepping on his foot and snapping him out of his reverie.

“It's all right,” he said, wincing. “You're doing well.”

“I wish I could have practiced, but . . . how does one practice without music?”

“I don't know. I imagine you count the beats, and there are books that tell the steps.”

“I see,” she said, then grew silent again. “And do you like . . . books about dancing?” Margaret said when they stepped close once more.

“I can't say I've read any,” Turner replied, his eyes scanning the room, hoping for a glimpse of cream silk and gold thread. Hoping even for a whiff of Blackwell's hair grease. Either would set him at great ease. “Why do you ask?”

“I'm trying to think of things to say to you that you might like.”

That brought his head around.

She was biting her lip. Something about her was trying very hard to fit into a new form—the dress, the dance, even her hair was not in its usual long braid down her back. She looked utterly ill at ease, and completely vulnerable.

It made him feel like the worst kind of heel, to be thinking of another woman when he was dancing with her.

But that other woman was on both of their minds.

“Leticia says that one should find common interests with their . . . dance partner. If people have common interests and goals, it gives them something to build toward.”

“And you have taken her advice to heart,” Turner said.

“It seemed like good advice.” Margaret shrugged. “But some of her advice puzzles me.”

“How so?”

“That I should show interest in one person to attract someone else entirely. That I should look for signs of interest in unstated ways. It seems like there is always some kind of game being played, and I don't know the rules. When it would be so much simpler to simply say that you like someone out loud.”

“Yes, it would be far simpler,” Turner agreed. But then, memories of his last meeting with Leticia flooded him. “But also, far more painful if rejected. That's the risk.”

“I see.” Margaret nodded, her eyes becoming clearer. “So . . .”

“So . . .” he replied.

She took a deep breath. Hoping for him to say something? Hoping for the courage to say something herself? “So . . . do you like delphiniums?”

“I don't know what delphiniums are,” he answered honestly.

“Oh.” Margaret's face fell.

“I don't think common interests and goals are nearly as important as being invested in each other. As wanting to see the other person happy, regardless of if you both know the name of a flower, or . . . if you come from different places.”

“Leticia said that too.”

“She did?”

“Yes. I figure it must be like with flowers,” Margaret replied.

His eyebrow went up. “How so?”

“A blossom cannot pollinate itself. It needs pollen from a different flower to bear fruit. In fact, plants that are cross-pollinated from other plants very far away tend to thrive best.”

“True,” he said, thinking over what she'd said. It was like him and Leticia. Their origins were similar but far afield from each other—she'd lived a life quite different from his. But together . . . they just made sense. Pieces fit into place. Even though on the surface she would not fit into his world and he would not fit into hers, when the two of them were alone together, everything found its place.

“She said that as well. That . . . perhaps one needs to look farther afield for . . .”

“For pollination?” Turner supplied, and hoped that she did not understand the unintentional entendre.

“Yes, but I've recently thought that I would find it here. At home,” she replied, eyeing him.

He paused. Unsure of what she was asking, he found it impossible to answer. Instead the silence filled the air between them, and her expression fell from probing to quiet.

“Was there any other advice Leticia gave you that you wish to employ?” he asked. “Perhaps I can do better than delphiniums.”

“Only if you know something about architecture,” Margaret replied.

“You're interested in architecture?”

“Not particularly, but I learned a great deal this past market day.” His expression was enough of an inquiry for her to continue. “Leticia and I met with an architect who was known to Miss Goodhue somehow, and he told us all about how he builds houses. This house, in fact.”

That put every inch of Turner's body on full alert.

“I daresay Leticia had many questions.”

“Oh yes, she wanted to know about the structure, where various rooms were, like the library and the study . . .”

“And where were they? The library and the study.”

Margaret blinked twice at him. “I believe the library is in the northwest corner on the second floor, and the study is along the east side of the third.”

“Thank you, Miss Babcock,” Turner said, stopping abruptly and giving a short bow. “For the dance. For everything.”

“But the dance isn't over—” Margaret said, but Turner could not hear her. He was already across the floor, ducking and weaving through the crowd to find his way to the staircase.

If Leticia was anywhere, she was rummaging through either Blackwell's study or his library. And he had to find her.

Hopefully before Blackwell did.

MARGARET STOOD IN
the middle of the dance floor while the music continued to play, and ladies and gentlemen continued to swirl around her.

Actually, said ladies and gentlemen made a concerted effort to stay out of her way. As if abandonment was something they could catch.