Nearly a Lady (36 page)

Winnefred had thought the same thing, but she was glad Lilly had worked through the logic of it on her own.

“I agreed not to spurn the courtship. Winnefred . . .” Lilly shook her head. “I’d no idea . . . Gideon said his brother had feelings still, but . . . He traveled from Spain without rest. Because of
me
. He says . . . He says he is still very much in love with me.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t.” Lilly’s voice hitched, and her eyes filled with tears. “I made myself stop thinking of him so long ago. I
had
to. We were alone in Scotland with no funds and nowhere to turn. I was useless to you, heartbroken and grieving. You were thirteen years old, for pity’s sake. You weren’t supposed to be the strong one.”

“We were both strong.”

“I am glad you remember it that way,” Lilly replied on a small, watery laugh.

“You should as well.”

“Maybe. What I do remember . . . I remember that I loved him.” Lilly’s face crumpled. The tears streamed down her cheeks. “I loved him so much, Freddie.”

Hurting for both of them, Winnefred wrapped her arms around Lilly and held on.

A fine thing indeed, she thought, for the pair of them to have their hearts broken by a pair of Haverstons.

T
he only joy Winnefred found in the week before Lady Gwen’s ball was in watching Lord Engsly dance attendance upon Lilly. True to his word, the marquess began a courtship, and to the considerable delight of the ton, he carried that courtship out with abandonment. He brought flowers and books and boxes of candy. He waltzed with Lilly at every ball, took her for drives in Hyde Park every sunny afternoon, and monopolized her attentions at every dinner party.

He made it clear to Lilly, to his family, and to anyone else who cared to listen that he intended to make Miss Lilly Ilestone his marchioness. In private, Lilly made it clear to Winnefred that while she didn’t care about the elevation in status the attentions of a marquess afforded, she was not
wholly
opposed to the idea of making it permanent. Which Winnefred translated to mean she was falling in love all over again.

Even though a marriage to Engsly would put an end to the question of whether or not Lilly would return to Murdoch House, Winnefred was happy for her friend. She was not, however, happy in any general sense of the word.

Her friendship with Gideon had become distant and cold. It was as if a great wall had been thrown up between them and they were forced to deliver a volley of polite greetings and painfully formal exchanges over the barrier like a pair of armies firing over a battlement.

She wanted to place the blame for that squarely on his shoulders, but she couldn’t. The distance was his doing—he had taken to isolating himself in his chambers once again and going to his club for most meals. He fulfilled his duty of escorting them about town, but he didn’t seek her out in the parlor at dinner parties or engage her in conversation at Lady Hillspeak’s ball.

He was avoiding her, plain and simple.

But the coldness was her doing. Initially, Gideon had tried to make the few minutes they spent together each day not friendly, exactly, but easier. He’d smiled at her and made little comments that were designed to entice a laugh. She had responded with an affected lack of interest.

She knew he cared for her. He’d made that perfectly clear. But her father had cared for her too, in his own way. That way had left her orphaned and abandoned in Scotland. She didn’t want that sort of caring—the kind that was just enough to hint at, but never deliver on, the promise of more. Sometimes, hope could wound deeper than a rejection and damage more than just the heart.

Maybe if she tried harder . . .

Maybe if she put more effort into becoming a lady . . .

Maybe if she made herself into someone else, anyone else . . .

No. She wasn’t going to make herself into someone else. And she wasn’t going to sit about, waiting and hoping for Gideon to see she was perfect for him, just as she was, or chase after him, hoping for a kind word or sign of affection. She was done fighting, and waiting, and risking. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be torn apart like some sort of foolish, spineless twit who . . .

Winnefred shifted in her seat in the far corner of Lady Gwen’s crowded ballroom. She
was
sitting about, tearing herself apart like a twit, and she had been for the last hour. Ever since she had seen Gideon push his way through the crowd into the card room.

She turned her head to glower at the card room doors only to discover she could no longer see them through the mass of people. The ballroom, which had been fairly well crowded when she’d taken her seat, had grown absolutely packed while she’d sat, staring at the floor, lost in her thoughts.

For the first time, she noticed how hot she was and how close the other people were all around her. She was pressed up tight against the wall and staring at the backside of someone in a bright white gown. An elderly gentleman reeking of spirits was asleep next to her and slowly sliding off his chair in her direction. She put a hand out to slow his descent, stood carefully so as not to elbow the woman in front of her, and gently eased the old man’s head onto her chair.

She needed air.

“Excuse me.” She nudged her way past the women in front of her and moved forward into the room, determined to reach the terrace doors and the fresh air beyond. But it was slow going. The guests were packed in like cattle at market. People pressed into her from behind, jostled her from the side, and seemed oblivious to her need to move forward. They were laughing and shouting, calling to one another over the din. The air around her grew thick with sweet perfume and overheated flesh. She felt her nostrils flare and her stomach roll.

She looked back in the direction she’d come, wondering if she could return to her seat, where she’d been allotted at least a few inches of space in which to breathe, but the meager trail she had forged had been swallowed up by the crowd. And her chair had, no doubt, been taken by someone else by now.

She pushed forward again, into the noise and smell and great wall of people. She’d never seen so many people. She felt as if she were on the verge of being trampled.

Panic began to slither along her skin and creep into her lungs.

Out, she needed
out
. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see. She tried to keep her eyes on the top of a door to the terrace, but the room kept moving, and there were so many people—too many stepping in front of her, pushing her off course. She wanted to yell at them, but she couldn’t find the air.

The room and its occupants shimmered, tilted, and spun in a disorienting roll.

A large hand gripped her elbow. “Slow breaths, sweetheart. You’re nearly there.”

Gideon
. She wanted to laugh, weep, throw her arms around him, and punch him solidly in the nose.

Slow breaths? Was he mad?

“Breathe through your mouth.”

She did, and the dense smells of the ballroom receded.

She followed him blindly through the path he created in the crowd, grateful for the steadying grip on her arm. Her stomach was no longer threatening to revolt, but the dizzying panic remained. There were just too many people. There wasn’t enough air for all of them.

“Almost there,” Gideon said again. He pushed his way not through the terrace doors but into a small chamber off the ballroom where a handful of servants were milling about. He ushered her past them, delivering orders along the way.

“Fetch Miss Ilestone, a glass of brandy, and a cup of tea.”

He opened yet another door and pulled her into a sitting room. “You’re all right now. There’s no one else here.”

He led her to a chair and sat her down. But she still couldn’t catch her breath. She could hear herself struggling for air.

“Can’t breathe.”

“Yes, you can.”

Gideon knelt in front of her and took her hand. He placed the flat of it against his chest where she could feel his heart beating, steady and strong beneath her palm.

“There now, do you feel that? Match your breathing to mine, Winnefred. A deep breath in . . . now out. There’s a girl. Again . . . that’s it . . .”

He kept her hand in place and murmured reassurances. She concentrated on the sound of his voice and the steady rise and fall of his chest. And slowly, she felt the panic recede and the air return to her lungs.

“Better?” Gideon asked at length.

She managed a jerky nod and let her hand slide away from his. “I don’t know what happened. I only wanted to get to the terrace and then, suddenly, I couldn’t find my way out.” She gave a soft, unsteady laugh. “Perhaps I have a delicate constitution after all.”

“Or perhaps,” Gideon said darkly, rising from the floor, “my aunt invited too many people.”

“I’ve never seen so many,” she admitted. “I’ve never been so crowded.”

“A crush like that can be too much for even a seasoned member of the ton.” He spared a brief glance at the maid who arrived with the tea and brandy. The young woman set her burden on a side table and quietly slipped from the room again.

Gideon reached for the brandy and handed it to Winnefred. “A bit of this first.”

“I’ve not had spirits before.” She took a tentative sip and grimaced. “Oh, it tastes like . . . Like it would do a very thorough job of cleaning the floor.”

He tapped the bottom of the glass with his finger. “Take a drink. A proper one.”

She wrinkled her nose but complied. The liquid burned a path down her throat.

“Ugh. That’s hideous.” She frowned down at the remaining brandy in her glass as the burning turned into a pleasant warmth. “And strangely appealing. Should I drink the rest?”

He chuckled and took the glass from her. “That’s enough for now. Try the tea.”

She took the tea without looking at it. She realized suddenly how comfortable she was with him, and how like their former selves they were behaving. She wasn’t sure what hurt more, the longing to continue on in the same way or the idea that Gideon could.

He shouldn’t be able to, she thought. It shouldn’t be so bloody easy for him. It shouldn’t be easy for anyone to hurt the person he cared about.

She wanted to tell him that, but the arrival of a visibly agitated Lilly forced her to put the anger aside.

“Freddie? Freddie, what’s happened? Dear heavens, you’re pale as wax.” She rounded on Gideon. “What have you done to her?”

Winnefred rose to stand between them. If one of them was going to give Gideon a piece of her mind, it was going to be her. “Lilly, stop. I had a . . . a moment of discomfort in the crowd, that’s all. He only sought to help me.”

“Oh.” Lilly’s eyes darted from Gideon, to her, and back again. Finally, she sniffed and said, “Well. My apologies.”

If Gideon was offended by that less-than-convincing statement of regret, it didn’t show.

“Your concern for Miss Blythe is admirable,” he returned politely. “I shall leave her in your excellent care.”

His voice echoed in her head as her heart twisted in her chest. He’d taken to calling her that now and again, as if he was slowly easing them further and further apart.

She watched him leave and wished she could call him back. If only to tell him to go to the devil.

Lilly stepped into her line of sight, a welcome distraction. “Tell me what happened.”

“It was nothing.” She gave a small shake of her head. “I tried to make my way to the terrace for a bit of fresh air and became trapped in the crowd.”

“And?” Lilly prompted.

“And I grew overheated. And perhaps a bit dizzy. I might have become a little panicked.” Or a lot, but she wasn’t going to admit it.

“Oh, dear.”

“Gideon found me and brought me here.”

Lilly reached out to rub her arm. “I’m sorry I left you alone for so long,” she said softly. “I only went to get something to drink and speak with Lady Gwen. The room filled so quickly. I couldn’t find my way back to you.”

“There was no need for you to come back. I wasn’t doing anything of interest.”

“Nevertheless—”

“You shouldn’t be in here now, coddling me, instead of out there, enjoying yourself.” She remembered suddenly that she had pushed and stumbled her way past a great many people in her attempt to reach the terrace. And she could only imagine what Gideon had done to get them through the crowd. Perhaps Lilly couldn’t be out there, enjoying herself, now that her friend had behaved so poorly in front of two-thirds of society.

“Everyone saw,” she said on a groan. “Everyone saw me leave the ballroom.”

“Not everyone,” Lilly replied, not sounding nearly as concerned as Winnefred really felt she ought. “But I should think quite a few.”

“I’d been doing so well. Not a single misstep.” Winnefred felt her shoulders slump. “Now I’ve embarrassed you.”