Lady Pamela (8 page)

“Josiah,” said the duke, poking at another balustrade, “take a look around you. Take a look at me, for that matter. I’ve not sat table for a meal in weeks. I haven’t bathed–a decent bath, not cold water poured from the pump–since we left Wiltshire. Do you think I’m in any condition to make some blasted society debut?”

The valet shrugged. “Puddin’ up, a bath. Would ’a done it before, if you asked.”

The duke rolled his eyes. “
Nevertheless
,” he told Josiah. “I will not be attending any society functions in London. Not for a good while, at any rate. ”

“You said you would.”

“I said
what
?”

“I assumed you would wish to attend,” amended Josiah, lifting his chin and attempting, with marginal success, to imitate a genteel diction. “I took the liberty of making your reply.”

This bit of cheek was beyond the duke’s experience, even of Josiah.

“You took the liberty of
making my reply
?” He stood up and advanced toward his valet, towering over Josiah, who remained uncowed.

“Didn’t know you was so set agin’ it.” Josiah shrugged again and looked as if he was about to spit, then–hearing the housekeeper below–apparently thought better of it.

The duke closed his eyes for a moment, mentally consigning his valet to some special rank of hell. The rank reserved for pushy, impertinent servants.

“Don’t have no choice, now,” Josiah added. “The
toon
has them rules. If’n you said you’d go...”

Benjamin snorted in exasperation, sinking back against the balustrade. Could this be possible? Was he really trapped into attending a
ball
? And after all his attempts to remain anonymous!

He considered the situation, and what he knew of London society. If Benjamin Torrance had been–say–a young and unimportant baronet, spotty and without prospects, his absence might go unremarked at any of the larger affairs. Assuming such a baronet ever received such an invitation, of course.

But as a duke? As the Duke of Grentham, one of the richest landowners in England, a bachelor, and newly arrived in London?

And a duke, moreover, who had
agreed
to attend. Word might already have spread.

No. His absence would certainly be noticed. Even a relative neophyte could see that. Noticed and remarked upon. And ’twould only make matters worse, when, eventually, he did choose to make his debut in the amusements of the
haut
ton
.

Which he would wish to do, someday, would he not?

See her again, someday. Would he not?

And if word was already spreading, perhaps Lady Pamela knew, perhaps she would be at the Marthwaite’s ball, as well.

“Be a plonking great scandal, if you don’ go,” the valet informed him.

“
Josiah
. I will go.” The duke sighed, defeated. “But I’m going to want a hot bath, with decent soaps. And you are not to ask Bess or Mary to carry that water upstairs, hear?”

Josiah seemed content at this assignment.

CHAPTER FIVE

“May I have the honor of the next dance?”

Lady Pamela hid a smile behind her fan as Lord Burgess, his huge hand engulfing Amanda’s own, kissed Lady Detweiler’s wrist and requested the waltz.

“Oh–” began Amanda. Unaccountably, she flushed.

“Lady Detweiler would be delighted,” said Pamela, answering for her friend and waving them away with a flourish of the fan.
’Tis only turnabout
, she thought, smiling sweetly as Amanda, looking backwards at the first turn, sent daggers in her direction.
’Twas not I who insisted on attending the Marthwaite’s ball, nor on being dressed in this...this...

This glorious treasure of a gown, finished a small voice. A gown which needed none of the overblown decorations festooning the costumes of several of the noble ladies present to attract attention, which draped about her form as if born to it, the bodice glittering each time she took a breath. A gown which, in its dazzling, consummate elegance, had been the cause of stares and murmurs following Lady Pamela since she entered the Marthwaite’s ballroom.

“My dear Pamela, you are the loveliest of females, as always.”

“Incomparable, my lady, such a
gown
–”

Such a lot of fuss over a dress.

Madame Gaultier’s creation was indeed breathtaking, but Lady Pamela was mistaken if she thought it the sole cause of admiring glances sent her way, for she had long been an acknowledged beauty. Her hair was drawn up this night into a high knot and entwined with a rope of pearls. Heavy, white-gold ringlets cascaded around her neck and down her back, and a satin ribbon was tied at her neck, adorned with a simple diamond pin. Her eyelashes were dark and thick, and her wide eyes flashed clearest blue.

“Darling Pamela, I
must
have a waltz–”

She moved slowly through the crowd, murmuring her thanks for every compliment, smiling at friends and acquaintances in cheerful greeting. Her ease in company was complete, for she had been born into a family of high rank, and never had reason to doubt her place in society.

’Twas easy, Pam knew, to be accepted in the
ton
when your birth demanded it, when your brother was the Marquess of Luton, as your father before. Lady Pamela did not regret her station in life–how could one regret a roof over one’s head, or enough food on the table?–but she was aware, as many of her contemporaries seemed not to be, that it had all been a matter of luck.

Pure luck that she was a lady, and not Haymarket ware selling her favors along Byward Row.

The bitterness of her own thoughts brought Lady Pamela up short.
Stop this
, she told herself.
Stop this childish brooding and be happy again.
There were many in London without a ha’penny to call their own, and what would they say, if they could hear her thoughts?

It should have been easy. To be happy, when one had such beauty, such friends, such a life. Lady Pamela tilted her chin. She would not succumb to self-pity. Not a moment longer. The past half-year had been enough.

Couples swept around her in a kaleidoscope of satin and lace and velvet. Once, her feet would have tapped their impatience to join the dance; once, her heart would have sung the music as the orchestra played.

Her heart, Pam decided, would sing again.

A movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention; a young woman with shining, long brown hair was being led onto the dance floor by a much older gentleman. Lady Pamela’s eyes narrowed. The man was dressed in an abominable concoction that proclaimed no expense had been spared to make him look twenty, and thus ridiculous. Something furtive lurked in his eyes, and Pam did not like it. The young woman was unhappy, perhaps disinclined to be in present company–

“Lady Pamela?”

The Duke of Grentham’s voice, so unanticipated, was deeper than she remembered and sounded mere inches away from her side. If she turned in that direction, she would see him, standing directly in front of her.

It was not possible. Lady Pamela turned, nevertheless, her upbringing and years in society allowing no other transaction. She favored her visitor–whoever he was, surely not the duke–with a smile.

But it was him.

* * * *

She was more beautiful than he had remembered, even having seen her only a few days earlier at Marchers. She was more beautiful than any woman, and Benjamin felt the need once again, the need to touch her, to be with her.

A waltz was not enough. He heard himself asking for the dance, nevertheless.

She stared at him.

“I... I beg your pardon?”

He couldn’t blame her. Not after what had happened. The last waltz they had shared, and everything that transpired afterwards. No, he couldn’t blame her.

The music continued, and the dancers swirled past them, neither moving, standing like stones in a swift-running stream. Benjamin wondered what came next. In the world of the
haut ton
, what was the appropriate response when a lady refused one the honor...the honor of a dance?

Had he repeated his request? He must have done so, thought the duke, for Lady Pamela was nodding, gravely, and had reached out her hand, to place it upon his arm–

Her touch was fire, a wild river of fire rushing through his veins, to his heart.

* * * *

She had intended to say no. The words were on her lips, were they not?–when Lady Pamela found her hand on the arm of Lord Benjamin Torrance, and her feet following his into the throng of waltzing couples.

Surely, she had intended to say no. The duke was looking down at her with that expression–she knew it so well, from their last night at Luton–the expression which said
I only want to be with you. I only want to understand. Please, tell me. Explain this to me, so I can understand.

I cannot explain.

Do you suppose it would be easier, a small voice asked, if he was not so handsome? If his shoulders were not so broad, or his features less chiseled? Lady Pamela was fascinated by the sharp planes of the duke’s face, the well-shaped eyes, as blue as her own.

And the hair, thick and blond, that was always a bit tousled, never perfectly in place–

I cannot explain.

Somehow, without her awareness, the duke had swept her into his arms and had begun the steps of the waltz. He waltzed superbly, as she already knew. They moved effortlessly through the other dancers, their movements harmonious and sure.

And yet she had nothing to say to him, no possible conversation. She should never have agreed to the waltz, it could only make them even more uncomfortable with each other.

So convinced was Pam by these thoughts that her own voice, soft and composed, was a surprise.

“’Tis a lovely room, I think,” she said. “Lord Marthwaite had it entirely rebuilt, you know, not two years past.”

“Mmm.” The duke’s mind seemed to be elsewhere; he was gazing at her intently, but as if the words did not register.

“Lady Marthwaite has been fortunate in her choice of colours. The Roman influence, I suppose, but done with taste.”

“Ah. Yes.”

What did he want? Why would he not respond? The duke’s hand burned on her back, and she seemed to sense every movement of his body. She remembered too well the feel of the wide muscles of his back under her fingertips, the strong corded sinews of his thighs....

His thighs?
Goodness
. Lady Pamela’s eyelids had drifted half-closed; they shot open now, and she found herself again caught in Lord Torrance’s gaze.
Why is he staring at me?
She caught a deep breath–fought to slow her racing heart–forced herself to make another attempt at conversation.

“I was...surprised to see you, your grace,” she said. “I was unaware that you had arrived in town.” Lady Pamela wondered if the words, coolly formal, sounded as awkward to Lord Torrance as they did to herself. Unaware? Perhaps...She had considered the possibility, had she not, during that past sennight? Wondered if he was in London, as she had strolled, uninvited, through his house?

The duke had flinched at ‘your grace,’ and she remembered that he hated that title.

“I... it was time,” he answered, “to see to Marchers. The house is in poor shape, as you...”–he hesitated–“as you may know.”

’Twas Lady Pamela’s turn to flinch, as they glided through another turn. Had he seen her and Maggie, then? Pam blushed hotly. If he had seen her, ’twould be better to confess it before she found herself forced into the admission, or into a lie.

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said brightly, as if mentioning some trifle that had, until that moment, slipped her mind. “I happened by Marchers just the other day–”

His eyebrows rose.

“–the door was ajar. ’Twas most unaccountable, you know, and my maid could not rest easy until we had assured ourselves all was well.”

Of all the fustian nonsense, to drag poor Maggie into this. And–was Lord Torrance
laughing
at her? The duke’s expression remained bland, but his eyes twinkled in a way that unnerved Lady Pamela. As if he knew. As if he had seen her, most days these past few months, walking past his home.

Like a love-sick schoolgirl
, Pamela added, to herself. How utterly mortifying. She was furious with her own weakness, furious with the wayward strain in her own heart that had led her to Marchers, led her to open that door.

Perhaps it was the mortification that brought her next words; mortification, or that dreadful need, which Lady Pamela had never felt with another man, to attack before one was attacked in turn.

“But I can’t imagine that my affairs would be of any interest to
you
, your grace,” she said. Pam continued to smile, but the sudden bitterness was poorly concealed, and the duke’s eyes told her that he had sensed the emotion behind these words.

“I assure you–” began Lord Torrance, but the blood was pounding in her ears and she saw that he spoke but heard nothing more.

Why are you behaving like this?
Her social poise, honed by years among the
haut ton
, disciplined by the thousand minor vexations inherent in knowing a single other human being, had never failed her. And yet now, after only minutes in the company of the Duke of Grentham, her heart raced and her breath came as ragged as if she was participating in a...a boxing match.

This is ridiculous, Lady Pamela told herself. He is an acquaintance, only, like a hundred other of London’s gentlemen. We are not brawling. We are
dancing
.

“Pamela,” the duke whispered.

Silence, for a long moment.

“Pamela. I never meant to hurt you.”

She would not answer him.

“Talk to me.” He was still whispering, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin. Pam trembled against him; he felt it, and his hands tightened against her back, gripped her hand.

“Please.”

I never meant to hurt you.
But you did, you did. And such an injury, as deep as it is, does not heal, your grace. If you had come to London earlier, I could have told you so. I would have told you so. And now–

Pamela remembered words, suddenly, that the Earl of Ketrick had spoken, years past.