Courtship and Curses (36 page)

Sophie wished she had her fan to hide behind. Mr. Underwood was still flushed, but a calculating expression had come into his eyes.

Mrs. Barker saw it too, and nodded. She held out her arm and managed neatly to make it appear that he had offered his and she had taken it. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I really could do with a cup of tea right now. Or maybe something stronger.” Looking quite as if she was leaning on his arm, she led him toward the stairs, throwing a smile back at them over her shoulder.

Parthenope removed her handkerchief and gasped for breath. “Oh, my stars, I have never, in all my life, been so—so—”

“Vastly diverted?” Sophie wasn’t sure whether to collapse in laughter or tears. Or both, perhaps.

Peregrine wasn’t laughing. “Are you sure she understands what she’s doing? She seems a sensible woman, but—”

“Mrs. Barker is a
very
sensible woman and understands quite well what kind of a bargain she’s making,” Parthenope told him. “Don’t worry about her. She’ll lead him a merry dance, and call the tune too.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Now, speaking of which … will you excuse us a moment, Sophie?” She took Peregrine’s arm and propelled him a short distance away.

Sophie watched as she drew him over to the fern-fronted corner where the musicians were set up. What was this all about? The room was emptying fast, thanks to the duke’s pleasant but stern suggestion, and she suddenly realized just how tired she was. Couldn’t they go downstairs too, so that she could sit down and have some tea as well—or as Mrs. Barker had suggested, something stronger.

But even better would be to slip away to her room and think about what had happened tonight—and not just the comte being Napoléon’s man and her rescuing the duke. And then there was Peregrine. She could spend the whole evening thinking about him.

No—she didn’t want to think about
what
had happened, but
how
. She took a breath and held her hand out toward one of the small chairs at the edge of the room.
Appropinquā mihi
, she said to it.

It skittered obediently across the floor, scraping slightly, and stopped in front of her.

She sank into it, and once again that evening wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry. Was it truly back? Had rescuing the duke brought her magic back to her?

Or had it never left her—as the duke had suggested?

I won’t let it go again. I won’t forget
, she told herself fiercely. No matter what happened, no matter how Aunt Isabel or anyone spoke of her, she was who she was: a cripple … and a witch. Being who and what she was had saved the Duke of Wellington. No one could take that away from her by whispering and tittering behind a fan.

The last guests were halfway down the stairs when Parthenope finally finished talking to Peregrine. They came back to Sophie, and Parthenope looked at her. “Did you get that chair over here the way I think you did?”

“Yes.” And all at once Sophie knew that, given the choice between laughter and tears, she’d take laughter. “Shall we go down now? Sir, I hope you’ll stay at least for a bite to eat—”

“Oh, he’s staying all right.
Messieurs?
” Parthenope called, raising her voice and turning back to look at the musicians’ alcove.

Most of the musicians had gone down to the kitchen for their own refreshments, but a couple of them were still there, conversing in low voices. Sophie hoped they too would take the duke’s lecture to heart and not gossip about the evening’s events. But on Parthenope’s call, they stopped chatting. “
Oui, mademoiselle
,” one of them said, and picked up his violin.

“What is it? What are you doing?” Sophie asked. Parthenope had that particular gleam in her eye that she had come to mistrust.

“Just tying up all the loose ends. I’ll see you downstairs in a little while.” Parthenope almost skipped toward the stairs.

The musicians—two of the violinists and a flutist—had started to play softly as she fled—a waltz, but at a slower, gentler tempo. Sophie looked from Parthenope to the musicians, and a faint feeling of alarm pushed aside her weariness. It became much more than faint when Peregrine cleared his throat quietly.

“Lady Sophie, will you give me the honor of this dance?” he said, bowing to her.

No. Oh, no. Parthenope was going to
pay
for this. “But—I can’t. You know I can’t. Can’t we just—”

“Well, strictly speaking, I can’t either. I’m wearing boots, which makes dancing with any grace quite impossible. But I understand that you’re wearing shoes that might make up for that a bit, and there’s no one here to mind if we stumble and miss our steps.” He held his hand out to her. “Sophie, please?”

How could she ignore the plea in his voice … and in his eyes? She gave him her hand and let him help her up. He put his hand on her waist, a little higher than usual, so that when she placed her hand on his shoulder, her right elbow was braced on his arm. He took her other hand in his and looked at her. “Ready?”

No. Never. She swallowed hard—how had her mouth gotten so dry?—and nodded. He began to move, very slowly at first and not to the music, in a simplified form of the slowest part of the German waltz. She gripped his hand hard and stared at his chin (dark with stubble—he had come straight from Ghent, hadn’t he?), trying to keep her balance, trying to remember the steps, trying not to die on the spot. She was doing what she thought she’d never do again—she was
dancing
. She was out of time to the music and clumsy and awkward … and it was the most wonderful feeling in the world.

He didn’t say a word for the first few minutes, apart from asking, “Are you tired?” after they’d made a couple of trips up and down the room.

“I … I’m not sure.”

“Tell me if you are.”

A moment later, when she could spare a particle of attention to something other than her feet and legs, she realized he was smiling. “What?” she whispered.

“Oh, nothing.… Well, not really nothing. I just realized I’ve won my wager with you.”

That yanked her out of her daze. “What wager?”

“Don’t you remember? It was at Mrs. Halliday’s ball. I said that I should dance with you within a year.”

“I—” For some reason, Sophie couldn’t say anything more. Her throat seemed disinclined to help produce speech just then.

“So I’ve won. We didn’t establish stakes, did we? Then I’ll name them now: that you’ll listen to me. I have a great deal to say to you.” He paused. “Or at least, I thought I did. I spent the boat ride to Ostend and the ride from Ghent composing a speech for you, but I’m afraid I can’t remember one word of it. Oh, Sophie.” His hand tightened on hers. “I was so worried about you here in Brussels with Mrs. Carswell—you don’t know how often I nearly said to the devil with everything and crossed the Channel to rescue you … until I found out about the comte. Lord Palmerston was gracious enough to take my word that it was vital to England’s security that I come over here—”

“To rescue me,” she said.

“No,” he said firmly. “Or maybe at first I planned to. But I discovered quickly enough what a misguided notion that was.”

She risked a glance up at his face. He was looking down at her, eyes filled with awe. “Your magic,” he said.

She looked away quickly, then lifted her chin and met his eyes once more. “Yes, my magic.”

“It’s … it’s—”

“It’s part of who I am. If it frightens you—if it’s too—”

“It doesn’t frighten me. Sophie, I can’t even imagine what you’re capable of—the wonders you can do.” He shook his head and tried to smile, but his voice was shaky too when he spoke. “It’s taken me a while, but I think I’ve finally come to understand that you’re the last person in the world I need to protect. Cherish and honor and love with all my heart? Absolutely. Rescue or protect? Never.”

Sophie felt a laugh tremble about her lips. “Parthenope always thought you were a fairly bright lad.”

He stopped dancing, suddenly, so that she had to cling to him to steady herself. He took advantage of her moment of imbalance to draw her closer to him. “Impudent chit,” he whispered, lips just brushing her ear. “Let’s see how much sauce you care to dish out when we’re married.”

She rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. All the tension and fear of the past hours drained away, leaving excitement and exultation in their wake … and something else.

“Quite a lot of sauce, I should think,” she whispered back. “It’s easy to be saucy when you’re so happy.”

Author’s Note

Sophie’s illness was polio. A small part of her is based on a lady I knew and loved as a child who’d had the same affliction, but who was not, as far as I know, a witch. She wore special shoes that helped her walk more normally, as did, by the way, Prince Talleyrand, the foreign minister to both Napoléon and Louis XVIII. Talleyrand was born with a clubfoot, but his lameness didn’t keep him from being one of the shakers and movers of the era. Not all people with handicaps were so lucky. Outward disabilities like Sophie’s were often assumed to be symptoms of inner defects, either mental or spiritual, or divine punishment for somehow being “bad.” As much as I love history, there are parts of it I am glad no longer hold true.

Writing this book was like eating a
huge
box of candy, at least to this history geek. The second decade of the nineteenth century was an amazing time in London, in particular the years 1814 to 1815, which saw the two defeats of Napoléon (and the accompanying celebrations). These were the golden years for that London social institution Almack’s, where a group of aristocratic ladies, including the fascinating Lady Jersey, decreed who was “in” and who wasn’t. (I dream of writing a book about Lady Jersey and the Patronesses of Almack’s someday!) Most of the places mentioned in this book were real, including Rotten Row and Carlton House, London home of the Prince Regent. The party at Carlton House, where Sophie and Peregrine quarreled, was based on an actual one, just as smaller details like Sophie’s clothes and the customs of riding at five
P.M.
in Hyde Park and wearing black gloves when in mourning were part of life at the time. To prevent confusion, I have changed or blurred a few details as a compromise between historical correctness and ease of understanding for today’s readers.

Brussels really was the party capital of Europe in spring 1815, as I have depicted it. English aristocrats swarmed over the Channel after Napoléon’s first defeat in 1814, having been deprived of European travel (and shopping!) for so many years. Between them and the masses of officers sent over to engage in redefeating Napoléon (which they eventually did, at the Battle of Waterloo in June), life in Brussels was a constant succession of balls, concerts, dinners, picnics, breakfasts, routs, and card parties. Even on the eve of the first engagements of the Battle of Waterloo, Brussels partied, and many British officers fought and died still in their evening clothes. If you’re interested in learning more about this time and place, I highly recommend Georgette Heyer’s
An Infamous Army
(her account of the battle was studied by officers in training at Sandhurst, Britain’s West Point) and Nick Foulkes’s nonfictional but delightfully engaging
Dancing into Battle: A Social History of the Battle of Waterloo.

*   *   *

Particular thanks are due, as always, to my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, for her unflagging cheer and support, to senior editor Kate Farrell at Henry Holt for her unerring and fabulous editing (thank you so much, Kate, for helping me get out of my own way), as well as to Sarah Dotts Barley and Rebecca Hahn. Profound thanks and my love to Elisabeth Lorin for correcting my execrable French (any infelicities or errors that remain are solely mine), for her gracious hospitality on visits to New York, and for being her warm, wonderful self. For community, camaraderie, fellowship, and information on parakeets I am indebted to the members of Verla Kay’s Blueboards, where I spend far too much online time … but it’s always time well spent. Thank you also to my dear friend, fellow history geek, and source of writerly support, Regina Scott, who has cohosted our teen history blog, Nineteenteen, since 2007 … and thank you to our readers for their continued interest, questions, and suggestions for book titles. And most of all, thank you to my beloved family for enduring my being such a bore about 1815 and for often even joining in my history geekiness.

Marissa Doyle

Henry Holt and Company, LLC

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Copyright © 2012 by Marissa Doyle

All rights reserved.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Doyle, Marissa.

Courtship and curses / Marissa Doyle.—1st ed.

p.          cm.

Summary: In 1815, Lady Sophie Rosier’s first London season is marred not only by her physical and emotional scars, but also by magical attacks on her father and other members of the British War Cabinet, and while Sophie’s magical powers are unreliable, she and her new best friend Parthenope decide to investigate—despite the distraction of Parthenope’s handsome cousin.

ISBN 978-0-8050-9187-8 (hc)

[1.  Witches—Fiction.   2.  Magic—Fiction.   3.  People with disabilities—Fiction.   4.  Self-acceptance—Fiction.   5.  Aristocracy (Social class)—Fiction.   6.  Great Britain—History—1800–1837—Fiction.   7.  Brussels (Belgium)—History—Fiction.   8.  Belgium—History—1814–1830—Fiction.] I.  Title.

PZ7.D7758Cou 2012

[Fic]—dc23

2011031999

eISBN 978-0-8050-9632-3

First Edition—2012