Susanne Marie Knight (12 page)

By the time she reached the mirror, her head wanted to explode. She bent over…
ouch!
…then removed the thick pile of papers. Discarding the portfolio, she straightened, which caused the internal throbbing to intensify. She massaged her temples.

The Chippendale writing desk was stationed by the window, a distance of about seven feet. Each step towards it was excruciating. She glanced back at the looking glass to see her features — ashen, pale, and in pain.

Fie! She stumbled, but continued on until she reached the desktop. A yank on the cubbyhole’s trigger revealed more papers inside. Just as she was about to thrust the new pages of her manuscript into the waiting drawer, she heard knocking on the bedchamber door.

Now her heart pounded harder than her head. Dizziness flooded her body. Without a shadow of a doubt, she was going to swoon.

No! She couldn’t lose consciousness. Not yet.

Before her knees could buckle, she stuffed those papers inside, slammed shut the drawer, then pressed the secret knob to lock it.

Her mission accomplished, she fought her immediate collapse no more. She fell to the floor just as the door opened. The last thing she heard was her name. But it wasn’t Elsie who called out to her.

It was David.

“Bethany!” David dismissed his hesitancy in entering the privacy of her bedchamber, and hastened to her side.

He had glimpsed her in the act of falling, and now she was spread out on the carpeted floor. “Bethany, are you all right?” Kneeling, he slipped his hand around her back and partially lifted her off the floor.

Her dark lashes fluttered, then briefly opened. “Oh, David. I-I do apologize for…for worrying you so.”

“Never mind that, my dear. But tell me, what is so urgent that you left your bed?”

The blush of embarrassment diffused rapidly on her pale complexion. “I only wanted to…I mean, I felt the need of a little walk.”

She is hiding something. But what? And why?

David glanced over at the desk and noted one of the drawers was askew, but kept his observation to himself. “I will get you back to bed.” He picked her up, and relished the warm feel of her against him. For a moment, he stood tongue-tied. He cleared his throat. “Er, shall I call for the doctor’s return, Bethany?”

“No, there is no need.” She didn’t meet his gaze. “All I require is a bit of rest. I am certain I will be quite well by dinner.”

“I look forward to dinner, then.” He lay down his precious bundle, then tucked the bedcovers up under her chin. Ever so slightly, he grazed his fingertips against her skin. “And to ensure you do get your rest, I will stand guard.”

As improper as it was for him to be in her bedchamber, he stood fast. He could not chance her taking another stroll from her bed.

“No, I — ”

“It is done.” He sat in the white armchair near the bed with his arms crossed. His mind was set. He would not be swayed from his purpose.

She was uncomfortable — her rapid breathing as evinced by the undulation of the bedcovers told him so.

A gentle rapping at the door then revealed Elsie with a tea service.

He waved the maid away. Bethany had to sleep. She did not need any distractions. It did not take long for her to succumb to the welcoming arms of Morpheus. David waited a while longer, to make certain she did not awaken.

How very good she was. So uncomplicated, unlike the other two ladies in his life. His mother desperately needed to have the reins pulled in on her. To admit such a blackguard into her life — blast, into the Greyle family’s lives — was opening them all up to public ridicule.

How could he tear his mother away from that scoundrel Randolph Fenwick?

And Petunia? What the devil was he to do with her headstrong ways? Only a few moments ago, she had paid him a visit with unwelcome news. Weatherhaven intended to journey to Paris by himself, leaving his new bride in London.

David drummed his fingers on his nankeen-clad thigh. Petunia, left on her own, would most assuredly engage in rash behavior of some kind or other.

And Weatherhaven, alone and in Paris, well, it just did not bear thinking about.

Bethany shifted position in the bed, murmured something indistinguishable, then settled back into slumber. He could trust her implicitly.

But what about the writing desk?
His inner demons egged him on.
What is so important that she leaves her bed when she clearly is unwell?

He looked over at the desk. Yes, one drawer — a cubbyhole, actually — bulged out a bit, instead of being closed flush. David silently made his way over to the desk. He tugged on the drawer, but either it was stuck…or locked. He hesitated. Perhaps the drawer contained Bethany’s work with the Duke of Sussex. As she so aptly phrased it, she was not at liberty to divulge the duke’s confidences.

Should David respect…?

He shook his head. Confidences or ramblings, it made no difference to him. He had to find out what Bethany took great care to hide. Removing his ivory-handled pen knife, he used the blade to force open the lock. As quietly as possible, he removed a roll of manuscript papers.

His gaze caught a particular paragraph.

Their father, on the other hand, was another matter. He was a man of mystery. Very tall with dark hair hanging down his forehead in windswept curls, Lord Innis seemed to hold her in contempt. His stormy, dark brown eyes silently disapproved of everything she did.

David froze. A novel? Bethany wrote…was writing a Gothic novel?

Just to make certain, he flipped through more pages and read:

She turned the knob and the door creaked open.

“Looking for something, Miss Hasbrouck?”

Goodness! She nearly jumped out of her skin. Swallowing her mortification, Miss Hasbrouck turned around to face the imposing figure of Lord Innis.

Another paper protruded from the cubbyhole. With trepidation, he removed it. Listed neatly on the page were the names of London book publishers.

Good God! David sank down on the edge of the writing desk as if he could no longer support his weight. One of his household — the woman he wanted to marry — was engaged in an activity beneath her station.

His head nearly spun with the implications. The infamy, the ostracism that awaited the Greyle family…

He glanced around the bedchamber at everything except Bethany. Just this past May, a travesty of a novel had been released —
Glenarvon,
by that scandalous Lady Caroline Lamb. Although the book had been published anonymously, everyone knew it was a thinly disguised account of the love affair between her and the equally improper Lord Byron.

Readers could not fail to recognize the many caricatures Caro Lamb had included of Beau Monde personalities. And because the inclusion of gossip ensured the book being widely read,
Glenarvon
was deemed a success by its publisher.

David eyed the crackling flames in the bedchamber’s fireplace. The slow, sensuous fire beckoned to him. He should burn this blasted manuscript.

He looked one more time at Bethany, still sleeping soundly. Then he glanced down at his hands, holding the papers.

What a devil of a coil.

He took a deep breath, then released it. No. He could not destroy her work. Instead, he jammed the manuscript roll back into the cubbyhole. It did not fit exactly and it was inelegantly stuffed, but at least he had not succumbed to his baser instinct to burn the papers to a crisp. He turned away, heading for the door. He had to get away. Away from London. Away from the women in his life who had turned out to be so unreliable.

He had to clear his head.

Stepping out into the corridor, David set a brisk pace for outside the city — any place he could find peace to collect his thoughts.

Bethany woke up refreshed. Her head’s throbbing had subsided to only a dull roar. Definitely manageable.

Yawning, she sat up in bed. A glance at the ormolu clock revealed the time to be almost six. It was past time to dress for dinner.

Someone knocked on the door. Lady Ingraham poked her ostrich feather-toqued head inside. “Oh my child, you must tell me how you feel. Are you still suffering the ill effects from the carriage accident? I rushed here as soon as I heard the news.”

“Lady Ingraham, it is so good to see you. I am fine. Truly.” Bethany swung her legs off the mattress, preparing to rise. Here was an excellent opportunity to bring up the plan to host a reconciliation ball for Petunia and Lord Weatherhaven.

“No, no, no.” The small woman fluttered to the bedside and prevented Bethany from getting up. “What do you think you are doing, Bethany?”

“I must dress for dinner.”

“Absolutely not. You must rest. I shall have your meal sent up to you.” Lady Ingraham’s blue feather twitched from the vehemence of its mistress’ words. “Now, won’t that be nice?”

Not hardly.

Why would Bethany wish to stay in bed when David specifically said he was looking forward to spending the mealtime with her?

He had been so tender, so considerate. Just thinking about him sent shivers of pleasure zigzagging up her spine.

Time to change the subject.

While Lady Ingraham settled her plump bottom on the chair, Bethany played with the lace edging the sleeve of her chemise. “Lady Ingraham, I have been thinking that it would be agreeable if you and Lord Ingraham could sponsor a ball.” She glanced at the Countess from under her lashes. “On this coming Saturday.”

“Saturday?” Lady Ingraham tapped her chin with her index finger. “Sounds like an excessively delightful idea, child, but why so soon a date?”

There was no help for it but to be blunt. “Lord Weatherhaven plans to leave on Monday for Paris without Petunia.”

Lady Ingraham blinked her surprise. “I had no idea matters had come to such an impasse between my daughter and Weatherhaven.”

Poor Lady Ingraham. She had been so dazzled by her affection for Randolph Fenwick, she failed to notice what was right under her nose.

“My idea is that Lord Weatherhaven will be constrained to attend. Society expects it of him.” Bethany glanced at the time again. She had no intention of eating in her room. “It is my hope that perhaps we can affect a reconciliation between the two of them.”

The Countess nodded, sending the bright blue feather down into her eyes. With a sweep of the hand, she pushed the feather back over her toque. “Yes, I do see the merits of a ball to bring those two silly widgeons together. Will my son approve of the ball, however? That is the question.”

“Why would he not? I shall get dressed for dinner, then we both can ask him.” Bethany got out of bed and steadied herself on her bare feet, then walked over to the mahogany wardrobe.

“No need to get dressed, my child. David is not here, and I dine with dear Fenwick. He is such an amiable gentleman.”

Unease now zigzagged down Bethany’s spine. “Lord Ingraham is not here?”

Lady Ingraham walked to the cheval mirror. She straightened her toque, smiled at her image and turned back to Bethany. “Why yes, David left some time ago. Some business must have required his attention. Important business, of course. He had the look of the devil about him.”

Her unease now blossomed into fear. Had David found her manuscript?

When Lady Ingraham gave her a hug, the ostrich feather tickled Bethany’s nose.

“I will have your dinner sent up,” the Countess said with authority. “Do be a good girl and eat everything to build up your strength. Have a good night.”

Bethany waited until she was alone, then, with her heart beating in her mouth, approached the writing desk. Her heart sank to her feet.

The drawer on the cubbyhole protruded from the desk. White papers jutted out from the inside. Clearly, someone had gained access to her manuscript.

She pulled on the drawer. It opened, although it should have been locked.

Tears welled up in her eyes. David knew. David despised her. David would never want to see her again.

When Elsie brought the dinner tray into the bedchamber, Bethany sent the maid away. She couldn’t eat — not now, not ever. She had angered the kindest, noblest man she had ever known.

There was nothing like a sumptuous ball to lift one’s spirits. That was the general opinion, at any rate. For Bethany, however, the reverse was true.

On either side of her, dancers smiled as they participated in the lively cotillion. Brushing aside her melancholy, Bethany concentrated on the complicated steps. Henry Penning was her partner for this set, although with the cotillion, a person changed partners as often as a musician changed instrumental chords.

“Bless me, Miss Branford! I had my doubts, to be sure, about throwing a society event on such short notice,” Henry puffed as he stepped up to meet her in the center of the line.

After they circled each other, he stepped back with the men.

Three musical beats later, he joined her again. “But you and the Countess have certainly pulled it off.”

“I am glad you are enjoying yourself, sir,” she managed to say before it was her turn to advance down the line to spin around with another partner.

Inwardly, she agreed that the ball was a success. At least it was for most of the party dwellers. The purpose of the festivities was not to benefit society at large, however. Two people, much closer to home, were the target of this gala gathering.

So then how were Petunia and her estranged husband Lord Weatherhaven faring?

Bethany cast her gaze about the ballroom. One end of the narrow room featured musicians while the doors were at the other end. Lining the lofty walls were purple velvet chairs, filled with dowagers, debutantes and old roués alike.

Petunia’s blonde curls were nowhere to be found against the high backs of the chairs. Nor were Lord Weatherhaven’s dark locks.

A quick glance down the cotillion line did not reveal the married couple, either. Bethany frowned. Where were they hiding?

“I say, how the deuce can you frown, Miss Branford, amidst all this gaiety?” Henry Penning now returned to her side. The music’s final chords signaled the end of the dance.

She curtseyed. He bowed. Then he took the liberty of extending his arm for her to link with. For a second, she debated on whether to join him for a stroll about the crowded floor. With the musicians taking a break, people rushed about as if someone had yelled out “Fire.”

But curiosity about David edged her in Henry’s favor. Perhaps he had news of Lord Ingraham.

She took Henry’s arm, heading for the ballroom’s double doors. “Let us go out into the next room for a breath of fresh air.”

“By all means.” He expertly guided her through the throng of revelers. Once outside, they walked through the corridor to an alcove situated under the main staircase. Henry waited until she sat on the upholstered bench, then took his place beside her. “Tell me, Miss Branford, why are you in poor spirits?”

She smoothed the fine material on her ball gown and collected her thoughts. How could she speak when her heart was so near to breaking?

“I was wondering if you have any knowledge of Lord Ingraham, sir. He left here five days ago and we have heard naught since.”

“Ingraham?” Henry scratched at his wiry hair. “Stap me! Is he not here? Come to think on it, I haven’t heard hide nor hair from the man, either. Not to worry. I daresay Lord Castlereagh has been apprised of Ingraham’s whereabouts. Those two are as thick as thieves, don’t you know? I shall go back inside that hothouse of a ballroom, ferret out the Foreign Secretary and ask him about Ingra — ”

“No need to bother, Penning.” David’s voice, then his magnificently tailored form rounded the corner.

“Lord Ingraham!” Bethany swiftly moved her hand from under Henry’s.

David’s sharp eyes spotted her action. “I do hope I am not interrupting anything.”

Bethany bit her lip. Without meaning to, somehow she had angered David again.

David leaned against the alcove wall with his arms crossed against his chest, tightly stretching the wool material of his black tailcoat. He tapped the toe of his leather pumps against the polished wood floor. Within his veins drummed not the melody so recently played by the musicians, but the deep, inner turbulence of unfulfilled emotion.

He raked a lazy gaze over Bethany, the woman who disturbed his very soul. The gentle flush on her cheeks, her clear hazel eyes, the slight protrusion of her lower lip all tugged on his heartstrings. Truth be told, her delicate beauty stirred his blood.

On the other hand, also in truth, what did he know about her? What did he know about her character? Was she honest — staunch and forthright?

No, how could she be forthright? Hadn’t she perpetrated a falsehood? Visiting the Duke of Sussex in order to record the man’s recollections? No. That had not been the reason for her visits as evidenced by her clandestine manuscript. For five nights, he had wrestled with his conflicting feelings for the woman. At the resort town of Brighton, he had stared out at wind-roughened seas. His solitary contemplation had yielded no comfort. To gain the answers he sought, he had to confront Bethany.

“Miss Branford, Penning.” David inclined his head in greeting. “Am I to understand my presence here in London has been missed?”

Penning, bless him, was a simple man. Not an insincere bone in his body. He jumped to his feet and stood in a combat-ready position.

“Lud, man! You gave us a fright. Where the deuce have you been keeping yourself these past few days? What with the Countess mooning over that rattle-headed Fenwick and your sister wearing the face of tragedy, ’twould have been better if you had been in town rather than out of pocket.”

“Things are well in hand, Penning. Or soon will be. You needn’t concern yourself with my family’s business.” David glanced down and straightened a mother of pearl button on his coat. “If I may have a moment with Miss Branford?”

Penning must have received a flash of enlightenment for he nodded abruptly. “Of course, old fellow. Take your time. Take your time. I shall plant my feet inside the ballroom, hey?”

Penning was as good as his word.

Taking the spot his friend had just vacated, David looked over at Bethany. She did not meet his gaze. Instead, she wrapped around her finger one of the wine-colored satin ribbons decorating her low-cut bodice.

He wet his lips. She might be concentrating on the ribbon, but he preferred to view the bounty above it.

She finished mangling the ribbon. “Your presence was indeed missed, sir.” For some reason, she still refused to look up at him.

“David,” he insisted.

He sought to disturb her equilibrium further by lifting the mutilated satin trimming, toying with it. His hand hovered deliciously close to the exposed skin of her most intoxicating bosom. He got his wish. Her deepened breathing denoted her discomfort. And yet she did not move away.

“David,” she uttered softly, like a gentle breeze. “David, I am in your debt. I have not had a chance to thank you, and I must tell you — ”

“There is no need for thanks.” His words came out harsher than he intended. First, because he knew instinctively that she intended to speak about her deception.

And second, because her sweet fragrance of jasmine added fuel to the fire raging within him.

He stood, then held out his hand to her. “Come. I have arranged for a waltz to be played whence the musicians strike up their instruments again.”

She rose to her feet. “A waltz?”

Her tone indicated not only surprise, but also contained a hint of unease. Was that because waltzing, even in this advanced year of our Lord 1816, was still subject to censure by certain disapproving society matrons?

He hooked arms with her, heading for the ballroom. “Yes, a waltz. It is part of my plan.”

“What plan is that, David?” She sounded a bit breathless, as if alarmed at some hidden agenda.

“You tasked me with mending the estrangement between Petunia and Weatherhaven, do you not remember?” He waited for her nod, then continued, “My sister is in the Gold Drawing Room, being amused by the Duchess of Margrove. I solicited the upcoming dance with Petunia, which will be a waltz. I have also asked Weatherhaven to request your hand for the next dance. Once we are all gliding about the floor, we shall meet in the middle. At that time, I will suggest we switch partners.”

Bethany rewarded him with a smile. “That is a brilliant plan, David.”

He shrugged. “Although conversation while dancing is hardly
de rigueur,
I am assured Petunia is incapable of keeping her thoughts to herself. Somehow she will master her fit of pique against her husband and talk Weatherhaven’s ear off. Who knows? Perhaps the two of them can repair this tear in their marriage.”

“It is my fervent hope. They make such a fine couple. I can hardly bear to see Petunia unhappy.”

David watched the gentle sway of her grey satin skirts. His heart beat faster.
His
fervent hope had nothing to do with his sister and her husband. He wished to discover Bethany’s true nature, to find out if his initial appraisal of her was correct or if her natural character leaned toward deceit, as her most recent behavior indicated.

Spotting Petunia huddled by the fireplace along with the considerable bulk of the Duchess of Margrove, he led Bethany toward the seated figure of Lord Weatherhaven. Only time would tell what would happen next.

Lord Weatherhaven dutifully asked for the next dance. Bethany agreed with only a momentary pause. When he loosely placed his hand on her waist to begin the waltz, she flinched. To have another woman’s husband so close to her, and actually touching her, well, that was disturbing in the extreme.

“Miss Branford.” He cleared his throat, the sound of which rumbled clear down into his chest. “If I may speak. You appear to be a sensible miss. I need, well, that is to say, I am at a loss to understand my little wife.”

As they swung around the dance floor, Bethany gnawed on her lower lip. She didn’t know how much time she had with Lord Weatherhaven before the planned switch of partners. What could she relay to him that would help?

She spoke in as low a voice as could be audible over the waltz’s energetic music. “Petunia did confide to me that there was an estrangement between you two. What seems to be the problem, sir?”

He executed a turn somewhat heavy-handedly, which caused him to bump into another couple. After he excused himself, he turned his attention back to her. “What is
not
the problem, Miss Branford? That blasted woman harps on the most insignificant of details, then bursts into tears at the drop of a hat. I fear I married a two-year-old.” His nostrils flared with the force of his words. “I tell you, I am beyond my endurance kowtowing around Petunia’s most peculiar moods.”

That proverbial thunderbolt of understanding suddenly struck Bethany. “Goodness, perhaps Petunia is…”

Oh dear. How does a gently bred person broach such an intimate topic?

In the throes of another turn about the floor, she lifted up onto her toes to whisper, “Perhaps your wife is in a delicate condition?”

“How can that be possible?” He must have realized how odd his words sounded, for he immediately amended, “If that were so, then why has she not informed me?”

Bethany bit her lip. She shouldn’t have mentioned that possibility. Meddling in Petunia’s affairs like this might worsen relations between husband and wife.

She frantically looked for David. When his handsome face and Petunia’s blonde curls came into view, Bethany relaxed. She had no idea if Petunia really was in the family way, but if so, then perhaps she wasn’t aware of the fact either.

“In truth, Lord Weatherhaven, Petunia might not, I mean, it might be too soon to know.”

As her partner considered this information, Bethany said a silent prayer. First, that her words would not end up as a wedge, driving the Weatherhavens further apart. And second, that David would soon come to claim her for this dance as he promised he would.

An eternity later, David and Petunia glided next to them. In a very charming and gallant tone, David professed a desire to see the newlyweds dance together. He handed his sister over to Lord Weatherhaven, then took Bethany by the hand.

When David firmly placed his hand on her waist, she felt another flush of heat tingle on her cheeks.