India caught a deep breath and shoved her pain deep, where it wouldn’t show. When she turned, her eyes were cool and her chin was high. She had her Delamere pride at least. She would hold tight to that for strength.
“I don’t know who he was or what he did to you,” the duchess said fiercely, “but it’s time you put the man behind you.” Her fragile fingers closed over India’s. “If he had
any
sort of decency, he’d have come back for you. Waterloo is finished and gone!”
India sighed.
Her grandmother was right. Waterloo must be her past.
She would not let the world see her bleed. She was a Delamere after all. She had too much pride to wear her heart on her sleeve!
“Your brothers are waiting by the foot of the stairs. They’ll squire you through the crowd. Those two friends of yours, Monkton and Pendleworth, are also wishing to see you, as is Connor MacKinnon, Luc’s friend. Let’s not keep them waiting any longer, shall we?”
“You’re so good to me, Grandmama,” India said softly. “Luc, Ian, Silver — all of you. Far too good.”
“Nonsense. I’m only doing what those two restless parents of yours would wish. You would think they had had enough adventuring around the world in search of antiquities by now.” The old woman shook her head. “Just you remember we all love you and wish only to see you happy.”
If only I could be happy,
India thought.
But she raised her head and gave her titian hair a final careless glance, adjusting one satin sleeve to a rakish slant. “Very well, Grandmama, I believe I am ready. Let us go and find a few male hearts to break, shall we?”
Arm in arm, the two women descended the broad stairway to the glittering ballroom. Candlelight gleamed on the duchess’s pearls and shimmered over the camellias pinned artlessly in India’s upswept hair.
At the sight of Lady India Delamere’s flawless face and smoky blue eyes, four score male hearts shattered in their brawny owners’ chests.
The night was young. The brash Corsican was defeated and the world was free of his tyranny at last. Tonight all of the guests were determined to celebrate.
And India Delamere, dying quietly inside, feigned smile after gay smile as she became the toast of glittering London society.
~ ~ ~
Somehow the evening passed.
Viscount Monkton was charming and vapid as usual, while his friend Pendleworth worked very hard at making India laugh. But they could not know that their mere presence was a wound to her heart, for she knew both had been friends of Thorne.
India had managed a steady flow of laughter, hoping that she had fooled her friends. In their wake had come Lord Longborough, resplendent in crimson and green damask, pressing her to retire outside to the gallery where he would bring her a glass of iced punch.
And a proposal, too, India suspected.
She had prudently declined, unable to face a matrimonial offer from Longborough or anyone else. In quick order she had danced a waltz with each of her handsome brothers, then a third with Luc’s exotic friend Connor MacKinnon. After that she had refused all other offers.
Beside her two officers argued over who would have the honor of fetching punch and crab cakes for her. India tried not to smile at their foolishness and impudence. She was feeling strangely reckless after three glasses of champagne. There was too much laughter, too many jewels. The ballroom was hot, and at every turn she was crushed by eager guests.
Suddenly a wave of dizziness swept over her. She caught herself with a hand on the dashing lieutenant’s arm. He gave her a delighted smile, while his brother officer looked on with an expression of furious jealousy.
India could only stare at the pair of them as if they were schoolboys. She felt painfully old standing next to them, while laughter and gossip and perfume drifted past her in waves.
So very old…
And yet she was barely twenty.
She had seen too much in the days of anguish following Waterloo. Perhaps the lingering memory of the sickness and suffering after the great battle had changed her forever.
Sighing, India hid her unsteadiness and released her adoring lieutenant’s arm. She looked about for her brothers, desperate to make good her escape. Nearby the newly widowed Lady Marchmont tittered sharply, regaling a group of admirers with a blithe account of how she had lost five hundred pounds in a single hour of play the week before. One man suggested a way she could recover her losses — in his arms.
India turned away, her head throbbing. The air was too close, the laughter too loud. She
had
to escape.
As if in answer to her prayer, the crowd parted. Light from the gleaming chandelier slanted down on a crimson regimental coat looped with gold braid. Dancing candles played over a pair of broad shoulders and eyes of iron-gray.
Thorne.
India felt her knees sway.
It was impossible! The Earl of Thornwood was dead, cut down in the first fierce charge at Waterloo. Three of his fellow officers had seen his horse fall in a field overlooking the crossroads. Then had come the savage death blow from a French cavalry saber.
Dead.
She had read the reports herself.
Yet here he stood, light wreathing him in gold, softening the harsh planes of his brooding face. He looked older, harder. Sadness clung to him.
“—far too pale, my lady—”
“—must let me find you something to drink—”
Dimly, so dimly India heard the anxious queries. But her heart, her very soul, stayed locked upon the light-wreathed figure staring at her in taut silence across the crowded dance floor.
Abruptly, she felt her grandmother’s fingers circle her arm. “India, what’s wrong? You’re sheet white.”
India trembled. “He’s come back, Grandmama,” she said softly.
“Who’s
come back?”
“The man I told you about. He’s
here.”
India spun back to the crowded floor, feeling reckless and giddy, joy burning in her unusual, uptilted eyes.
But the figure in the regimental coat was gone. Two matrons now stood chatting amiably beneath the dancing candles.
India caught back a cry, feeling her heart shatter.
She was reaching out to empty air when the polished floor rushed up to meet her.
And one pair of eyes darkened, watching from the shadows as she slid into her grandmother’s arms.
~ ~ ~
Thanks to her brother’s swift response, India’s lapse was noticed by only a few. When Ian carried her into the study, her name had barely begun to be whispered. By then a new item of gossip had swept throughout the room.
The name of a soldier thought long dead.
“Is it really him?” two matrons whispered avidly, head to head.
“It
can’t
be.”
“But it is. There is no mistaking that cool smile. And it is very like Thornwood to come striding in, all arrogant charm, not a seam out of place. A perfect Carlisle, every wretched inch of him. As coldhearted as that gamester father of his. The worse sort of rakehell, so I hear.”
Fans waved, brows furrowed. One name ran from mouth to mouth as the tall, broad-shouldered officer in scarlet regimentals moved silently through the ballroom. Devlyn Carlisle seemed to have emerged from the grave into the height of the London season, none the worse for wear beyond a small silver scar at his jaw.
He showed no interest at all in the stir he was causing.
Only Monkton and Pendleworth, crowding close to offer their shocked welcome, noted Thornwood’s stiffness and a grimness they had never before seen in his face.
“Dash it, Thorne, is it really you?” Monkton was the first to reach the slate-eyed officer. “But how — when — that is, stap me, man, we heard you were
dead!”
The gray eyes narrowed. “Obviously not. But forgive me, have we met?”
“Of course we’ve met! It’s me, Monkton. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten who I am. It’s the outside of enough, by Jove!”
There was a faint tightening in the full lips. “As it happens, that is exactly what I am saying. I have forgotten — Monkton, is it?”
“Forgotten? By Gad—”
Pendleworth’s fingers cut off his friend’s angry protest. “This is not the time or place for such a discussion, Monk.” He studied the officer’s hard, bronzed face. “At White’s, shall we say?”
Devlyn Carlisle’s brow rose. “Unfortunately, I must excuse myself. I have pressing duties tonight.”
“
Tonight
? But—”
Again Pendleworth interrupted his friend. “Quite understandable. Sometime soon, then.”
But Monkton continued to stare after those broad, retreating shoulders, pale as if he’d seen a ghost. “He didn’t even know me, Penn. And he’s changed. The same, yet somehow not the same at all.”
“I think that is part of what he was trying to tell us, Monk.”
“But what are we to do? Can’t let the man act a total stranger. It’s — it’s infamous!”
Pendleworth’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps we have no choice.”
Hundreds of others also noted Devlyn’s progress through the crowded room. Men shook their heads in grudging admiration, and bejeweled women preened and tittered, hoping to summon a look of heated memory from that hard, tanned face.
But there was no recognition for any of them.
The Earl of Thornwood moved through the crowd like a shark through a school of minnows. One by one, the others began to notice the changes in him. He was harder now and leaner. His eyes looked twenty years older, full of shadows and regret. The few smiles he gave never seemed to reach those shadows in his slate-gray eyes.
Helena Marchmont, in particular, watched in silent fascination as Carlisle strode past. Her fan waved and her lips curved in a slight pout, both of which went unnoticed.
Nearby, the Duke of Wellington blinked once before picking up the threads of his conversation.
And the Duchess of Cranford, just emerged from the study, frowned as Wellington turned and made his way toward her.
“A lovely party, Amelia. I am delighted I could fit it in, since I will be staying in England for only a few days before returning to the Continent. But I trust that your granddaughter is not ill.”
The duchess summoned up a false smile. “India? The girl’s healthy as a horse. I expect it’s just the heat and crush. She’s unaccustomed to balls or to town life.”
“She was in Brussels, I think? I seem to remember her from Lady Richmond’s ball.”
The duchess was amazed that the duke could recall such a detail in a night that must have been sheer chaos on the eve of Waterloo. “So she was. She stayed on afterward. I’m afraid the war left its mark on her.”
“As it did on all of us,” Wellington said grimly. “Our victory was hard won. Still, she’ll forget. If gossip runs true, Lord Longborough as well as a score of junior officers would be only too happy to teach her how.”
The duchess frowned at the door of the study where India now lay resting. Longborough was a spineless fool and the junior officers were not much better. What India needed was a man of courage and honor, a man with an adventurous spirit to match hers. The duchess remembered how the girl’s joy had slid into shattering pain when she had looked across the crowded room that evening.
Who had she seen?
“You are certain there is nothing I can do to help?”
“Nothing. You are more than kind, but my granddaughter will be fine. Just enjoy yourself. Of course, if you should happen to hear Lady Jersey spreading cattish tales about my granddaughter falling into a decline, I would be most grateful if you would cut them off promptly, Your Grace.”
“I would be delighted. Ah, there’s an old friend up from Sussex. I really should—” The duke stopped suddenly, his body rigid.
“Your Grace, is something wrong? You look disturbed.”
Wellington straightened his sleeve, eyes on the thronged ballroom. “It is … nothing. For a moment I thought I saw the face of someone I knew. Forgive me.”
The duchess frowned, turning back to the study. She had sent a servant to fetch the family physician from Montagu Street. He was old, but thorough. He had tended India since her birth, though the girl had been sick only twice that the duchess could recall.
The duchess heard the ring of Lady Jersey’s high-pitched laughter followed by Helena Marchmont’s irritating titter. Shrews, both of them, the duchess thought. She only prayed that Wellington would do his part to scotch any gossip about India’s condition.
But let a single soul try to say a word to
her,
the duchess vowed. Every inch of her tiny frame went stiff at the thought. Family had always come first in her life, and anyone attacking India would soon be cut into tiny ribbons.