Between a Rake and a Hard Place (23 page)

There was no undoing her meddling with Sgt. Leatherby.

If Jonah found out, he not only wouldn't love her, he'd never forgive her.

“Waltz—Waltz alone—both legs and arms demands,

Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands;

Hands which may freely range in public sight

Where ne'er before—but—pray ‘put out the light.'

Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier

Shines much too far—or I am much too near;

And true, though strange—Waltz whispers this remark,

‘My slippery steps are safest in the dark!'”

George Gordon, Lord Byron

If the morally ambiguous Byron had those scathing words to say about the waltz, need we, who are decidedly unambiguous, say more?

From
Le Dernier Mot,

The Final Word on News That
Everyone
Who Is Anyone Should Know

“Oh, milady, you're a lovely sight, you are. If only His Royal Highness, the duke, could see—”

Eleanor dropped the hairbrush she'd been wielding and slapped a hand over her mouth. The fact that the Duke of Kent had not deigned to make an appearance at the Wyndebourne ball to benefit the Orphans of Veterans of Foreign Wars was a sore spot to Serena's father. It was a source of worry for the servants who feared their preparations had been found wanting. And the apparent royal snub was too juicy a tidbit for the gossipy ton to refrain from sucking dry.

More carriages rolled up the long drive to Wyndebourne and deposited more glittering people into the great house. Every guest chamber was pressed into service to accommodate the wellborn visitors who would be staying since Wyndebourne was too remote for them to do otherwise.

The lack of a royal presence was topmost on everyone's mind. It seemed whenever Serena joined a group of her guests that afternoon, conversation ground to a sudden halt. She caught more than one look of pity directed her way.

Lysandra, however, was not silent and didn't hesitate in telling Serena where she went wrong.

“I knew removing yourself from Town was a bad idea. Since you weren't there to be seen out and about in Society, the tabloids have had to make up things about you.” She'd rolled her eyes and affected an injured sniff. “At least I hope to heaven they were made up and you haven't really been seen consorting with gypsies. However, I couldn't swear to it either way. You never tell me anything anymore.”

With
good
reason
. Serena had pled yet another headache and avoided Lysandra for the rest of the day. Now she met her maid's gaze in the mirror.

“It's all right, Eleanor.” She punctuated the statement with a curt nod, which set the gemstones threaded through her tresses sparkling in the candlelight. If she wasn't going to host royalty, at least she was making a good show of looking the part herself. “You've done a wonderful job with my hair. If the royal duke isn't here to see your handiwork, it's his royal loss.”

“Don't let the marquis hear you say such things.” Amelia draped the ruby pendant over Serena's head and fastened the clasp at her nape. “He won't be pleased.”

“I'm not entirely pleased myself about a number of things. For example, it's ridiculous of Father to exclude you from the ball,” Serena shot back. “You love to dance and you know it.”

“That's of no import,” Amelia said, looking a little bedraggled in her serviceable gray serge. She'd been as occupied as Eleanor with preparing Serena for the occasion and hadn't spared a moment for herself. “Besides, you know someone in my position is only welcome at this sort of occasion if there is an imbalance between male and female guests. Since Mr. Alcock arrived with his wife
and
a marriageable daughter in tow, we have more need of spare men than women.”

The name pricked Serena's ears. “Alcock? Who is he?”

“A Member of Parliament. I forget which borough he represents, but it's probably one of the little old ones with only a handful of voters,” Amelia explained as she smoothed down the drape of fabric attached to Serena's shoulders. It flowed down her back in a waterfall of silk that would have looked quite at home on a Roman goddess. “It makes Mr. Alcock almost impossible to unseat, which means he's likely been in Parliament forever and amassed his own network of cronies and allies. Because of that, unfortunately, the marquis has to give his ilk more attention than he would normally warrant.”

It surprised Serena that Amelia knew so much about the inner workings of Parliament. She must have been attending more closely than Serena did when her father began to wax political over the supper table.

From what little she'd been able to glean from the cryptic conversation at the castle, the Member of Parliament seemed to have some sort of hold over Jonah and his friends which required them to do his bidding in a mysterious matter.

“And Father has doings with this Mr. Alcock?”

“Evidently,” Amelia shrugged, “or the man wouldn't be here.”

From a story down and a wing away, strains of the string quartet warming up wafted toward them. Someone repeatedly struck the A on the piano so the musicians could tune their instruments. Serena smiled. The pianist was sober enough for one note at a time, at least. She wondered if she'd ought to mention to Amelia that he shouldn't be served any punch that wasn't watered down, but then decided she had enough on her own plate without worrying about someone else's.

In another moment, a sprightly Purcell tune tickled Serena's ears.

“It's begun,” Amelia said. “The marquis will be waiting for you at the head of the staircase. He wants to walk you down. Now let me look at you one last time.”

Serena rose and gave a graceful twirl, feeling a bit like an overdressed marionette, minus the strings, but still ready for a play.

It
would
have
to
be
a
farce
, she decided. No royal duke was coming for her to make her father proud. Jonah had manipulated events to spend unchaperoned time with her but didn't seem to want to swoop in and snatch her away in any respectable manner. Her heart still beat regularly in her chest, but it ached all the same. For Amelia's sake, she pasted what she hoped was a bright smile on her face.

“Oh, you are beautiful, my dear,” Amelia said, her eyes shining. “Your mother would have been so proud.”

Would
she?
Her mother had always admonished her to be herself. After being powdered, pressed, and poked for hours, Serena felt like someone else entirely. She suspected Miranda Osbourne would have been more likely to advise her to do the unexpected and have a little adventure. No staid and respectable garden for her. Serena's mother reveled in vibrant chaos.

I
wish
I
could
ask
her
what
to
do.
Then maybe she'd have the courage to pull off her gem-encrusted slippers and spend the night dancing barefoot on the new spring grass under a star-spangled sky.

Or maybe her remembrances of her mother were tainted with wistfulness and yearning for more time with the parent who'd been snatched from her too soon. Her mother surely couldn't have been as unconventional as Serena remembered her or the staid marquis would never have chosen her.

Amelia gave her a quick hug. “Hurry, my dear. Your father will be waiting.”

Eleanor scuttled over to hold the door open and Serena floated through it, her gown's many diaphanous streamers fluttering in her wake. Her modiste had gone a little wild in her quest to recreate the glory of the classical age. But then, from the corner of her eye, Serena caught her reflection in the long looking glass at the end of the hallway.

When the gown was in motion, the effect was ethereal. She looked like a young Daphne fleeing from her lover. Just the sort of image that made a man want to pursue, she realized.

The new style had cost the earth, but it appeared she hadn't paid the modiste enough for the gown after all.

When she rounded the corner and met her father at the head of the grand staircase, the expression on his face cemented that thought in her mind. His eyes misty, his smile broad, he'd never looked more pleased with her.

Which was strange considering she'd failed to bring down the biggest trophy of the Season—a royal buck.

The marquis gave her a deep bow and pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles.

“How like your mother you look tonight,” he whispered. Then he offered her his arm and they began to descend.

“Father, I know you're disappointed. I'm sorry things did not work out the way you wanted with the Duke of Kent,” she said softly. If she didn't say it now, there'd never be a better time.

“Who says they haven't?” her father answered in hushed tones. “Not all is as it seems, my dear. You'll see. Now, don't worry a particle about anything. All I want you to do tonight is enjoy yourself. I know Society can be cruel during unsettled times, but take note of any who laugh at your expense. Trust me. You will have the last laugh.”

The marquis patted her hand and Serena basked in this unexpected moment of fatherly approval. Then he escorted her into the ballroom and partnered with her for the cotillion.

After that, Serena's dance card was fairly full, but she never had to consult it because as soon as one musical piece was done, another elegantly dressed fellow presented himself before her for the next dance. She snatched occasional glimpses of Jonah, looking dark and dashing in his simple but perfectly tailored ensemble. But it was always a fleeting glance between other dancers, and she never caught him gazing back at her. Finally, she begged off when Lord Nathaniel Colton arrived to claim her for a reel.

“Of course you'll be wanting a rest, milady,” he said smoothly as he offered her his arm to escort her from the dance floor. “It will afford me the opportunity to introduce you to my wife, Lady Georgette. I don't believe she's had the pleasure yet. But be forewarned. She's a bit of a crusader, and while she heartily approves of your generosity toward orphans, she's likely to try to recruit you to help with her work among the ‘soiled doves' of Covent Garden as well.”

Serena was charmed by Lady Georgette who, as Lord Nathaniel predicted, did try to enlist Serena's support for her academy for former prostitutes, and also introduced her to her friend Lady Olivia and her husband Lord Rhys Warrington.

“You dance beautifully,” Lady Olivia said to Serena. “I'm terribly jealous. My husband,” she gave Lord Rhys a playful swat on his lapel with the back of her hand, “keeps insisting that I should sit about like an old woman simply because I'm in…an interesting condition. Honestly, it's such early days no one would even know if he didn't trumpet the news about like a rooster who thinks he made the sun rise.”

The married ladies enjoyed a hearty chuckle at Lord Rhys's expense.

“I merely wish to make certain you don't tire yourself, my dear,” her husband explained stiffly.

“Oh, pish! If I get any more rest I'm likely to start hibernating,” Lady Olivia said, her eyes dancing and her feet tapping to the music. “Oh, Rhys, it's a waltz. Take me out onto the dance floor this minute or…”

“Or what?” he asked with a lift of a dark brow.

“Or I'll run off and dance with the gypsies.” Lady Olivia cast her husband an impish smile and Serena decided she liked the woman very much indeed. “I've heard Lord Wyndleton shelters a troop of them on his land hereabouts.”

“He does,” Serena confirmed. “Lord Rhys, I suggest you waltz with your wife. She'll be much safer here than traipsing around a campfire.”

The Warringtons took to the floor and began the intimate dance.

“Please, join your friends, if you like,” Serena said to Lord and Lady Colton. She pretended to consult her dance card, but she knew there was no name penciled in beside the waltz. Even though she wondered what it would be like to try the dance, she wouldn't dream of doing so with a man in public. It would be a surefire scandal.

“If you're sure—” Lady Georgette began, but her husband waltzed away with her before she could finish her thought. From the practiced way they moved together, sinuous and graceful, Serena gathered this was not their first waltz.

She watched the handful of couples brave enough to attempt the sweeping steps around the floor with barely concealed longing. There was something magical about the way the gentlemen gazed down at their ladies, something intimate and precious. It made her wish Jonah's name had appeared on her dance card for this tune.

“Serena, what on earth?” Lysandra came up to her and hissed into her ear. “You ought to give the dancing master the sack with no character.”

“It's not his fault.”

“Then who was daft enough to put a waltz on the dance program?”

“I was,” she confessed.

Lysandra's eyes went round as an owlet's. “But once word of this outrage gets back to the Duke of Kent—”

“The waltz will be over and it will be of no consequence.” Why couldn't Lysandra just enjoy the way the music washed over them, languid and yearning? Music was a vapor. A will-o'-the-wisp. Once the piece was done, there was nothing to prove it had ever existed except in the memory of the way the lush chords shivered over her skin. “Besides, it's not as if I'm—”

Suddenly Jonah was standing before her, bowing over her hand. He straightened and looked down at her, his manner so formal, she hardly recognized him. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

“Serena,” Lysandra whispered. “You mustn't.”

That settled it. She simply must. She squeezed Jonah's fingertips and sank into a low curtsey. “The honor is mine.”