“Lady Detweiler,” he acknowledged, with a small bow. He was in no mood right now for thinly veiled sarcasm.
“Charming, as I said. Cecil will lead her right out the terrace doors and we’ll have no more trouble with pretty young governesses for the rest of the night.”
How dare she? Charles felt his fists clench, the blood roar through his veins.
“
Madame
,” he told her, “If you are impugning Miss Phillips’s honor, I must tell you that I take great exception.”
Amanda laughed. “Dear Charles! Even tempered to a fault as usual. But there’s no need for formality between us,” she added, “after I’ve done you such a favor.”
“A favor?”
“Yes. The first violinist is an old acquaintance, you see. I believe the next dance will be a waltz.”
* * * *
Helène relaxed against Lord Quentin’s strong arms and thought–so this is waltzing. They swept around the ballroom in easy, measured circles, and any worry she may have had about stumbling soon faded. It seemed almost impossible to make a misstep in
his
arms.
“You’ve had a fine dancing instructor,” said Lord Quentin. It was said without a trace of question, but Helène realized he must find this very odd.
“My father... ” Helène hesitated. “My father danced.” Lord Quentin raised one eyebrow, but had no reply, and she wondered if he thought she was spinning a tale. It was the truth, in fact, although she neglected to mention that Aunt Matilde had instructed them both. Perhaps her mother had enjoyed dancing as well–
Helène had a sudden, sad image of her mother and father in each other’s arms, waltzing alone through a silent house. Perhaps Matilde had played the pianoforte for them. Her aunt said there had been such an instrument in earlier, better days, together with money for gowns and parties, perhaps even enough to hire a few musicians. Helène was too young to remember any of it.
“But not your mother?’ He was smiling and Helène realized, with gratitude–or was it regret?–that Lady Pamela had been as good as her word. He must know nothing of her history.
“My mother has been dead these eighteen years. My father passed away last autumn.”
Silence. They whirled through another figure of the waltz, Lord Quentin regarding her with grave attention. “And you were left with nothing? No family at all?” His eyes flicked downward for a moment, and Helène realized he had seen the ring. How could she ever explain that? The truth, she decided. Or something close to it.
“ ’Tis a family heirloom, so I was told,” she said to Lord Quentin, “and the only thing of value that was never pawned.” That was plain speaking, and as much as it pleased her to say. The man thought Helène below his touch, and she would not rework her existence in London to win his favor.
“It is a fine piece,” commented Lord Quentin. “A sapphire, I assume?”
She nodded.
“And your father taught you Latin and French as well?”
Helène sighed, more aware than she wanted to be of Lord Quentin’s warm hand against her back, the strength of his forearm under her own hand. Her body had no questions about what felt right, but her mind... that was a different matter. Lord Quentin would never love her for herself, thought Helène. He might applaud the refinement of her French, her Latin conjugations, a costly ring–but not her, herself. And all this interest in her family, what could he possibly mean by it?
Her father was a tradesman and, at the end, with his illness, a drunk. Those particulars would never change.
Lord Quentin was still waiting for her answer. “No. My... aunt,” Helène told him. “Matilde.”
She dared say no more, and a part of her was cursing even this. Fool! All he needs do is ask her last name!
Would that be so awful?
“And your parents?” she heard herself asking. Lord Quentin looked down at her and something passed between them, the barest hint of sadness, unacknowledged regret–
She would have been perfect for him. If she had been a lady.
* * * *
Lady Sinclair watched Lord Quentin and Helène through narrowed eyes. As they glided through a turn she noticed the ring on Helène’s hand, its huge sapphire glittering in the candlelight.
Another hand-me-down from Jonathan’s sister, thought Celia, with a sour smile. Although, she reflected, with dear Lady Pamela’s inclination for expensive jewelry, you’d think I would have seen
that
piece before.
“The governess! Celia, I really can’t believe you are allowing–”
Beatrice Harkins, of course. The marchioness turned to greet her, donning a small, tight smile.
“The marquess’s instructions,” she told Lady Harkins. “Such a soft touch, you know.”
“It’s shocking! Putting herself forward, and the gown is positively indecent!”
This was dangerous territory to explore, considering Lady Sinclair’s own neckline. When all was considered, Beatrice Harkins was sometimes an ally, but no real friend of the marchioness. Celia said nothing.
“And those pearls!” added Lady Harkins. Her enormous, laquer-red turban waggled as she stuck one stubby finger in Celia’s face, jabbing the air. “Wherever could she have gotten them? I shall making a thorough check of my own jewelry case tonight, I will tell you that!”
Celia pursed her lips. The ring might still be a mystery, but the string of pearls twined through Miss Phillips’s hair was not; it belonged to Lady Pam and she had seen both her sister-in-law and Amanda Detweiler wearing it on many occasions. Would Beatrice take offense if she pointed that out?
Probably so, thought Celia, with an inward sigh. And it wouldn’t do to offend Lady Harkins. The marchioness was aware that her own claim to
ton
respectability was somewhat tenuous; it depended in large part on the continued presence of people like Lady Harkins at Luton Court. Celia had been lucky that Beatrice was a notorious pinch-purse; the free food and drink extended by the marquess’s hospitality ensured her return year after year.
No, ’twas probably best to say nothing further about the pearls. But there were other ways–
“I understand your concern,” she told Lady Harkins. “Have you seen the ring the chit is wearing? I’d wager any amount ’twas stolen–”
“My dear marchioness,” said Beatrice, “what you put up with! It’s in their blood, you know–you can’t trust a single one of that class. Now when Henry was alive . . .”
The conversation moved to other topics, but Celia’s eyes continued to stray to the dance floor. As Lord Quentin and Miss Phillips circled the room, as she saw his arm tighten, just perceptibly, around the governess’s waist, as she sensed the fire that consumed him growing hotter–
As she saw all this her determination to strike back at the girl intensified, and her attention turned again to Helène’s ring.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
To Helène’s dismay, the waltz was coming to its end. She felt she could dance forever as long as it was Lord Quentin’s steps guiding her, Lord Quentin’s arm at her back.
She wasn’t being sensible. She knew it. A few minutes in this man’s company, and she had forgotten... everything.
Stupid to forget. He insulted you with
carte blanche
, called you a dirty little nobody! Helène reminded herself. And he is as good as Lady Sinclair’s lover. You’ll never be good enough for the likes of him.
She tossed her head, willing these thoughts to be gone.
“Miss Phillips?”
Lord Quentin seemed no happier than she. His arms pulled her closer, and Helène could sense his agitation increasing as they made a final circuit of the ballroom. How could I have thought him arrogant? she asked herself. Or pompous, or over-bearing, or–
The last notes of the waltz faded away. They stopped, silent, and Lord Quentin stepped back.
“Perhaps... perhaps a moment’s breath of air out on the terrace?” he asked. It was little more than a whisper.
Helène nodded, wanting this as much as she’d wanted anything in her life but worried all the same. She had seen Lady Celia’s eyes following them during the waltz. Fortunately the terrace doors were wide open by this point–even in cold weather any ballroom got stuffy–and other couples were wandering in and out. True privacy was impossible with so many people, but at least the end of the dance could no longer part them. She didn’t think she could stand that. Not yet. Not so soon.
“You will drive me mad,” said Lord Quentin. It was little more than a murmur, but Helène was startled into looking up, directly into his eyes. She saw a hunger that robbed her of her own breath. He must care for me, she told herself. He must.
He
wants
you
, the little voice pointed out.
Not the same thing at all.
But–
“I can’t endure being apart from you,” Lord Quentin said. His hand moved up her arm, trailing fire over her skin. Helène was silent, wondering–what do I say? What do I do? She was afraid that if she opened her mouth there would be no end to what she would admit to, what she would be willing to do to hold his attentions. Her own body was warm, shaking, traitorously weak.
“Lord Quentin, I don’t... ”
“Let me come to you tonight, I beg you.” His body shielded her, as she leaned against the balustrade, from the view of others on the terrace. His hand moved from her arm to the side of her bodice and his fingers traced the line of one breast.
Helène’s eyes closed against her will, her head tipped back just slightly, the long curve of her neck vulnerable and pale in reflected moonlight. Lord Quentin’s breath was harsh, his lips close against her hair, she could feel his hands touching her in places that, in truth, they did not. Not here, not almost within sight of the Luton Court ballroom–
Time slowed. For a few, untold moments no one else shared their corner of the terrace, and Lord Quentin crushed her to him, his mouth hard on hers. They swayed together, and he moaned her name over and over, his voice hoarse. She heard him telling her that he would care for her forever, they could be in London within the sennight, in her own beautiful townhome, her own bedroom, with him, with him, with him–
A dirty little nobody.
Helène’s breath caught in her throat. I don’t care, she told herself. Why should I? I’ll never be more than a glorified servant to these people and I’ve no home anywhere else. Why should I care what
anyone
thinks? She had forgotten, for a moment, the many kindnesses of Lady Pamela, and Lady Detweiler, and even Viscount Dreybridge and Sir Alexander. The hurts of a lifetime gathered like storm clouds, and tears threatened, snuck under her closed eyelids, trickled down her cheeks. She didn’t know they glistened like white fire in the moonlight, didn’t know that Lord Quentin could see them and guess their cause–
She didn’t know that his own guilt–unbidden, unwanted–threatened to overwhelm him. And that he very much did not wish to feel guilty, or acknowledge himself to be little better than any pompous lobcock of the
ton
, smug and sure and overly concerned with his own consequence. People he had always affected to disdain.
People like him?
* * * *
Passion had robbed Charles of reason. He had been on fire since the first steps of the waltz. And then, feeling Helène’s resistance weaken as they embraced, his mind had raced ahead to the nights to come. He had seen the delicious Miss Phillips unclothed, underneath him– It had all lasted far too long for Lord Quentin’s self-control. And now, to see the girl in tears.
What about the disrespect of offering carte blanche to an innocent of not yet twenty years?
He heard Lady Pamela’s voice yet again, for what seemed the hundredth time, and inwardly cursed all the interfering, busybodies of the world. Would they keep her from him? Would they have her spend a lifetime alone? Fury rose inside him, an anger commensurate with desire. He stepped back from Helène and heard a harsh voice, speaking almost in his ear–
“Don’t be a fool. How much can you possibly think your low-class virginity is worth?”
Only when her eyes snapped open and focused in stunned outrage on his face did Lord
Quentin realize the voice was his own.
Miss Phillips’s hand flew up and she slapped him, hard, across the cheek; then she pushed past him and ran.
“Helène! No!” Charles ran after her. “Miss Phillips! Helène!”
What had he said? He
couldn’t
have said that–
She stopped, turned to face him.
“I do apologize,” began Charles. He extended his hand.
“Leave me alone!” hissed the governess. She ran.
* * * *
Lady Detweiler was the first to notice that Helène was absent from the ballroom. Another quadrille had begun and, to Amanda’s disgust, Lady Pam had consented to partner the ox-footed Jeremy Burgess. This was taking one’s duties as the host’s sister entirely too far, in Lady Detweiler’s opinion. The man could hardly perform a
tour de main
without falling on his face, most likely taking his partner with him. Recalling the last time she had danced with Lord Burgess, Amanda felt the toes of her right foot curl under in protest.
Well, it was just too bad. If Lady Pamela would insist on partnering every ham-fisted chucklehead in the room there was nothing she could do about the matter. Amanda turned her attention to the other guests, watchful for likely sources of gossip. She noticed a group of the younger local bucks passing around a silver flask, and wondered which of them would be the first caught relieving himself in a potted palm. It was astonishing how much mischief people could manage to get into... . And in Bedfordshire, of all places.
A high-pitched giggle floated across the ballroom, and Amanda identified Lady Sinclair as its source.
There’s a cat drinking cream
, she thought, watching the marchioness flirting shamelessly with Lucinda Blankenship’s brother. But, of course, Celia did love her champagne. She was clearly half-sprung, and Miss Blankenship’s brother–Rodney?–was wearing an almost comical look of alarm, as if he had just realized that the Marchioness of Luton might be visiting his bedroom at some time during the night.
Good luck getting rid of her, Amanda silently wished him. Just then something seemed to catch Lady Sinclair’s attention, and she looked up, a brief, predatory smile crossing her face. Young Blankenship was forgotten as Charles Quentin, his countenance grim, his neckcloth slightly rumpled, crossed the dance floor. He was headed, perhaps unwittingly, in Celia’s direction.