Blood Marriage (2 page)

The rose garden was already awash with couples strolling in the moonlight. He avoided them, making his way to the terrace doors. He paused before he entered, steeling himself as Vlad had taught him against the assault all those heated bodies would have on his senses. It had taken years for him to learn to discipline his mind and his instincts, to move among crowds in this way. Move among them without
wanting
. 

The musicians were playing a lively country-dance as he entered the room. Dozens of young men and women jogged across the floor in a dazzling array of colorful silks and satins. Nicholas glanced over them once before dismissing them. The one he sought wouldn't be on the dance floor. She would be sitting against a wall, or perhaps at a table in the card room, or maybe tucked in the corner of one of the salons where the dowagers gossiped. And she wouldn't be dressed to attract attention, which was exactly why she would attract his.

Chapter Three

Elizabeth looked out over the sea of whirling dancers that filled Mrs. Huntington's ballroom and smiled. Harriet danced past on the arm of a young gentleman, treading on his toes quite intentionally unless Elizabeth missed her guess. What had the boy said to Countess Glenbury's daughter to earn such abuse? Nothing perhaps. Harriet didn't need a reason to be cruel to young gentlemen. The fact he'd asked Elizabeth, her mother's paid companion, to dance first would be reason enough for the fiery-haired debutante. 

Harriet and the unfortunate gentleman were separated by the pattern of the country-dance and Elizabeth swallowed back a laugh at the expression of relief on the man's face. 

It was a good night, despite the pain throbbing in her elbow and knees. The music was beautiful and for once her employer had chosen a seat away from the stifling heat of the interior walls. Though Elizabeth suspected the countess was more interested in watching the comings and goings through the French doors that led out to the garden terrace than she was in the cooling breeze. 

What new bit of gossip was the woman hoping to confirm by choosing to sit where the night air could ruffle their skirts and disturb her daughter's carefully coiffed hair? Elizabeth didn't know and didn't much care. She'd given up interest in the dowager's pursuit of scandalous tidbits weeks ago, almost from the day she'd entered her employ. Whatever the lady's reason for the current seating arrangements, Elizabeth was glad of them. 

She closed her eyes and pulled in a breath. The scent of roses was strong. Mrs. Huntington's rose gardens were famous in London and were, Elizabeth suspected, one of the reasons her balls were such a crush. Viewing the gardens was the perfect excuse for ladies, the perfect lure for gentlemen, who wished to steal away for a few moments alone.

Tonight, Elizabeth had watched couples of every description slip out those garden doors. Innocent young girls in their first season, dressed in demure white muslin gowns, were whisked outdoors by young bucks dressed in flashy waistcoats and small clothes so tight they left little to the imagination--and quickly fetched back in again by their hawk-eyed chaperons. Sophisticated matrons in pale Grecian-style silks with low cut bodices were escorted through the French doors by elegantly clad corinthians or sharp-eyed rakes, returning long minutes later with over-bright cheeks and secret smiles.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and tried to imagine what the rose gardens would look like, what it might feel like to be lured out into the night by a handsome gentleman, to be kissed in the moonlight.

She opened her eyes. Those were things she would never know. She was not a fool. The swelling in her joints was coming more frequently, healing in weeks instead of days. There were mornings now when getting out of bed was an act of will made possible only because she knew the consequences of not doing so. 

She was twenty. The same age her brother William had been when he'd died of bleeding in the brain. Four years older than her brother Robert when he'd slowly choked to death from a hemorrhage in his neck. Her time was short and she knew it. If a bump or a fall didn't take her, the bad blood would do so soon enough. 

"There they go." The glee in the countess's voice told Elizabeth the lady had seen what she'd been waiting for. Elizabeth didn't bother to look. She didn't care to be part of the woman's vulgar delight.

"Wait until I tell Lady Barton. She'll be so-- Oh! Look who's here!" Something different in the countess's tone made Elizabeth look this time. A shiver ran through her.

He stood just inside the French doors, surveying the ballroom with a slow, sweeping gaze. Everything about him was warm and smooth with darkness, as if, when he'd stepped into the room, he'd pulled the night in with him. Thick dark hair curled at the collar of his equally dark coat. The set of his jaw, the expression on his strong masculine face, the tall, solid build, the very manner in which he stood, all had the feel of angelic darkness. Elizabeth thought of her own approaching death. Would a creature such as this meet her in that final moment?

"Ooo." The countess sat forward on her chair. "
He's
here. And Miss Amanda Blakely has just stepped out into the garden with Mr. Fosse. This
will
be interesting."

A matron in a purple gown with white feathers in her hair scurried across the room and took the seat between Elizabeth and the countess. She leaned in close to the dowager's ear, but spoke loud enough Elizabeth could not help but overhear. 

"They say the duke has given him his orders. He's to be married this season. Where is that Blakely chit anyway?"

The superior look on the countess's face was almost comical. She straightened her back and nodded knowingly in the direction of the French doors. "In the garden...with Mr. Fosse. Lord Devlin must have missed them by mere seconds."

Lady Barton put a purple-gloved hand to her mouth as if to stifle a shocked gasp. Though it sounded more like a snort to Elizabeth. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the ridiculous antics of the two old women, Elizabeth watched Lord Devlin leave the French doors and make his way toward the card room. Why did the handsome ones never dance? Not that it made any difference to her. Even if she were not the paid companion of a wealthy lady and therefore destined to sit patiently at her employer's side all evening neither dancing nor conversing with anyone, the pain in her joints made simply walking a test of stamina and will. Dancing was out of the question.

"Lord Devlin's gone into the card room." Lady Barton gave up all pretense of whispering. She leaned back and fanned herself. "Why would he do that? Miss Blakely doesn't play cards."

The country-dance ended. Harriet's tormented partner returned her to her mother and bowed, his eyes lingering on Elizabeth. She lowered her own eyes. Harriet made an unladylike sound and flounced down in her seat. The young man mumbled something polite and limped away.

"You'd think he'd have the decency to fetch me a drink after dragging me about the floor in such a hideous manner." Harriet looked at Elizabeth out of the corners of her eyes. "Mama," she said. "Why don't you send her to get us something to drink? I swear I am dying of thirst."

"Yes, Elizabeth." The countess waved a dismissive hand. "Do take Harriet into the salon for a little refreshment."

"I don't wish to go
with
her, Mama. Let her be useful and bring me a glass of something cool. Otherwise, why have her with us at all?" 

Elizabeth had pondered that same question for weeks after the countess had first sent word to the rented apartments she'd shared with her mother. Why would a dowager, well known for attending every party of significance during the London season, need a companion? She certainly couldn't be lonely. Nor did she require an easily ignored escort. After all, this season she was launching her youngest daughter into society. Harriet was always by her side. Why had the countess appeared, as if out of nowhere, to offer her a desperately needed job? 

In the beginning, Elizabeth thought perhaps the woman had heard of her mother's illness and their desperate situation and was being charitable. Having come to know Countess Glenbury better over the last few weeks, she realized such kindness would be out of character. But in the end the dowager's reason for offering her employment didn't matter. Elizabeth was in no position to refuse.

"Well?" Harriet shuffled her feet with impatience. "Mama, I'm thirsty!"

Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. From the first day of her employment she'd been careful to keep her condition a secret, fearful her new employer might find it a reason to dismiss her. Harriet couldn't know what her constant demands cost Elizabeth, the pain she endured in order to do something as simple as weave her way through a crowd on a long walk to the room where Mrs. Huntington had laid out refreshments for her guests. 

"Mama!"

"Oh, very well, Harriet." Both the countess and Lady Barton had their attention focused once more on the entrance to the card room. "Fetch her something, Elizabeth. And bring something for Lady Barton and me as well."

Harriet gave Elizabeth a twisted smile. The countess's youngest child and only daughter was not an unattractive girl. At least not at first glance. Her features were delicate, her eyes a lovely shade of chocolate brown. If her red hair was a bit wild at times, its natural wiry texture took well to the curling iron, holding her coiffure in even the most heated of ballrooms long after the other ladies curls had begun to droop and frizz. No, the dowager's daughter had all the makings of a very attractive young woman, yet she was not. 

Perhaps it was the fact that the unhappiness within her radiated out at the world, sharpening her tongue and twisting her features into a perpetual scowl. Her pale yellow gown did nothing to improve her looks and the heavy perfume she doused herself in would have put off even the most determined of gentlemen.

"Do hurry, Lizzie dear." Harriet's tone made Elizabeth want to grind her teeth. Instead, she thought of her mother tucked into a comfortable bed at the dowager's townhouse, being tended by an excellent physician and waited on by the countess's servants. Why the dowager had offered to take her mother in when she hired Elizabeth was another mystery, but Elizabeth had no intention of doing anything that might cause the lady to reconsider her generosity.

So she smiled sweetly at Harriet and stood, covering the moment it took her to get her balance and let the initial wave of pain pass by inquiring if the ladies had any special preferences. When she could, she left the other women seated by the French doors and made her way slowly across the ballroom, careful to hide the pain with a pleasant facial expression, careful to keep her steps smooth and even.

She'd almost reached the door to the refreshment room when she caught the flash of a gap-toothed smirk.
Randall
. Elizabeth ducked behind a full-figured matron and prayed her employer's son had not seen her. On the other side of the matron a young girl with a strong country accent was gushing.

"Oh, Count Glenbury, truly? Trapped behind enemy lines, unable to get back, and forced to survive in the wilds of France for months? How positively frightful! It gives me goose bumps just to think of it."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. She knew what was coming. She'd heard this tale a dozen times since entering the widowed countess's employ. With each telling, Randall's story of his heroic survival for months behind enemy lines grew more fantastic. The version she'd had from Randall's less than adoring sister, Harriet, seemed more likely.

Randall had gone to war as a
gentleman observer
. He and his fellow enthusiasts had chased the troops from battle to battle, watching at a distance from the safety of their landaus, picnicking as the fighting raged and fleeing when it came too near. Afterward, Randall and his cronies would discuss the horrifying battles over fine food and wine in the comfort of an expensive inn, second-guessing the strategies of generals and thrilling at the desperate bravery of the common soldiers. Elizabeth's stomach turned. 

"Yes, I was gone so long word was sent to my mother here in London that I was missing and presumed dead. All of society believed I had perished," Randall said.

"Ooh, the countess must have been wretched with grief," the country girl cooed.

Behind the matron Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head. On the occasions the Countess Glenbury spoke of her son's disappearance and return, she seemed more wistful than aggrieved.

"She is still recovering from the shock of believing me lost, but is overjoyed at my safe return," Randall assured the girl. 

Hardly, Elizabeth thought. Perhaps the full-figured matron was thinking the same, because she cleared her throat.

"Come along, Persephone. I have seen someone I wish to speak with. Good evening, Count Glenbury," the woman said and lumbered off. To Elizabeth's relief, the matron headed straight for the refreshment room, allowing Elizabeth to skim along in her shadow, and elude detection by her employer's coxcomb son with gratifying ease.

Chapter Four

Apparently the night was yet too young for any significant number of ladies to leave the dancing. The card room had been a disappointment. Nicholas stood in the shadows of a ballroom alcove surveying the wall nearest the refreshment salon. A favorite seating choice of elderly matrons and their paid companions, the wall was lined with the heavily bejeweled crème of high society in their brightly colored turbans and elaborate coiffures. Nicholas ignored the ancient peacocks. It was their companions he studied; those voiceless, colorless creatures whose hair and clothing was as conspicuously plain as their faces. 

These were women educated to be members of the same class as their employers. They were the poor relations of the nobility, the widows and daughters of once wealthy families. Without the dowries or beauty needed to attract husbands, they were forced to accept the limbo-like position of companion; neither servant, nor friend, nor family. Their days were spent in their employer's shadow, perpetually ready to call a servant, pour tea, run for a shawl, or answer correspondence; in short, to do all the tasks the lady ought to perform for herself, but was too old, ill, or lazy.