Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (39 page)

Adelaide's grunt might have been a
docked laugh, but her face didn't betray it. She pierced the fabric of her
needlepoint one last time, then set the hoop beside her. “What have you brought
to wear? Let us see it.”

Kate was momentarily at a loss.
Adelaide shifted from topic to topic, those of import and the inconsequential,
like oil over water. Wrestling with the damp canvas of her bag, she shook out the
narrow skirts of her brown silk gown. As she unfolded it, Adelaide's face
twisted as though she had produced a toad and not a dress.

“You cannot wear that. It would look
as though you are waiting for someone to die. Perhaps even hopefully. My word, look
at that hem! You could wrap it under your shoe for a doormat.”

Kate was not the least bit offended.
Adelaide was right, of course, and though she was blunt, she was also well
meaning.

She took the dress from Kate's limp
grasp and tossed it to the end of the sofa. “It's plain, and worse, it's out of
fashion.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Kate
tried to recall the last time she had been fitted for anything more elaborate
than an apron. “I don't think I've had anything new since my sister's wedding.
Four years, at least.”

“My mind cannot conceive of it. The
very idea.” Adelaide lifted a little from her seat, searching the table. “Where
is my bell?” Bending, she hooked herself awkwardly to peer beneath the settee.
Frustration knot lines into her proud forehead. Without warning she grabbed a
book off the side table and began whacking the mahogany, producing a terrible
raucous pounding. Moments later a fretful, wide-eyed maid appeared in the
doorway, tea tray jittering.

Adelaide slid the book onto the
table, as though nothing were amiss. “Bring down no less than five of the gowns
from the black leather trunk Mrs. Reynolds keeps in the upper rooms. No pink
and no silks.”

The little maid bobbed her curtsy,
flitting off with the tilted hurry of a frightened butterfly.

Kate stared at Adelaide with a
question on her face.

Adelaide rested a hand on her leg by
way of explanation. “One is ugly, and the other unpatriotic.” She lifted the
porcelain teapot with a steady, practiced hand, filing both their cups. “Put in
cream and sugar as you like. You're not a child, and are capable of serving
yourself.”
            Kate was never quite certain if the woman was showing her grudging
respect, or preparing to have her pilloried. “Do you leave service to all your
guests?”

“Of course not,” drawled Adelaide.
“When Lady Conyngham pays a call, I pour her tea.”

“Because she is a favorite at
court?” asked Kate.

“No. Because the tea is hot, and I
cannot trust she knows from which part of the pot it is dispensed.” Adelaide
snorted a little, a sound so surprising that Kate wanted to laugh but could
only stare for a moment. Collecting herself, she pinched the little silver
tongs. “Then I suppose I will take this as a compliment.” She dropped a lump of
sugar into her tea.

Adelaide brought her cup to the saucer
with a
clink
. “Miss Foster, if I had been presented with a letter
describing you, and asking if I believed you suitable for my son, I should have
said 'no' without the slightest hesitation. An American girl from a common
family, wading about the battlefields of Europe dressed like a man.” She
shuddered. “Absolutely not.”

The words could not help but sting a
little. She did not like to imagine any circumstances where Adelaide would wish
her and Matthew apart. “I understand that you would prefer your son not bring
me into the fold. Family is very important.”

“Family is
everything
.
Wealth, connection, pedigree. They determine who floats securely at the top of
society's ocean, and who sinks to the bottom, penniless and forgotten. Charles
did not marry me because he loved me, and I certainly did not remain in my
marriage because I loved him. Our names together were mutual assurance of our
sons' success in life.” She punctuated the last sentence by marrying cup and
saucer again.

Kate mulled over Adelaide's words,
taking a long draw of the hot liquid. It took some courage to point out the
fatal flaw in the woman's argument. “Respectfully ladyship, it seems rather the
opposite has happened. The family name and title spoiled your husband and your
oldest son. And your younger son...” Kate shrugged. “He has chiseled out his
own legacy.”

Creases deepened Adelaide's regal,
beautiful features. “I concede the point, Miss Foster.”

Kate hated costing the woman so much
pride. Even now, the past was obviously very painful for her to recall. After a
moment, Adelaide waved a slender hand, cutting the air. “That was not my
original point. I would have counted you the very sort of person whom my family
should not take into its legacy. But in truth...”

She studied Kate with such an
intensity that her own lap seemed the only safe place for her gaze. “Caroline
came from one of the best families. Even in ruin, their name was synonymous
with political power. Presented to me in the same fashion, I would have given
my instant approval to her.”

Kate looked up, confused. “But you
didn't. Matthew said you were openly
disapproving
.”

“Perhaps because I realized then
what I am telling you now. In my time, a woman stood by her husband –
figuratively and literally – sometimes at the opera with him the only partition
between herself and his mistress.” She felt the weight of experience in
Adelaide's example. “My place was to manage the household and the boys, and not
to complain if the dressmaker turned me away for unpaid accounts because Charles
had nearly gambled us onto the street.” Adelaide closed her eyes, letting a
moment pass. Kate watched the misery on her face peak and ebb behind closed
eyes, until she seemed collected once more. “The Webb name was once linked
inseparably with royal favor, but our blood has been diluted by folly and
idleness. And Major Pitt's
bastard
, if Caroline has her way.” Adelaide
chewed the words like tough meat. “I think you are a woman of a new era, Miss
Foster. Going on without a husband. Not on the stage or on your back.”

“To some people, what I do is no
different,” said Kate.

“Some people are not very bright,
and we cannot help that.”

“That means a great deal to me.”

Adelaide squeezed her hand. “I owe
you a great deal. And so does Matthew, in more ways than one. Perhaps you are
exactly what both of us need.”

She grasped Adelaide's fingers in
return. “I am so very grateful that you are well. For Matthew, and for myself.”

“There are moments of exhaustion,
but I improve a little every day.”

“Matthew does not want you going to
the ball,” warned Kate.

Adelaide's face clouded over
instantly. “Of course, I'm going to the ball! William Pearson will be there.”
It was obvious, by the way her eyes widened, that she had not meant to confess
her motives.

Kate raised a brow. “William
Pearson, hmm? Sounds as though you ought to save your strength for a dance.”

Shrugging off the question, Adelaide
slid her cup and saucer onto the table with a lot of excessive fuss. “It is not
his dancing which interests me.”

This time, in spite of her surprise,
Kate laughed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

After a day spent sitting in a
stuffy room accomplishing a great deal of nothing, it was satisfying to finally
stretch his legs. Matthew ate up the distance to Lady Richmond's at a brisk
pace, filling his lungs with wet, crisp night air. Despite the intermittent
showers that had soaked Brussels all day long, it was still preferable to
waiting most of an hour by carriage in the narrow, congested streets.

He pulled out his watch, checking it
under the lamplight. Half past eleven. The bright spot to his taking the long
way was that Kate and his mother had surely already arrived. He had been apart
from Kate for twelve hours, not the longest absence since they had met but
perhaps the most uncomfortable. The day had proved just how much he relied on
her. He was anxious to debrief and take comfort in her, but Kate would not be
happy with his news. Word had reached him at headquarters, a little after three
that afternoon, of fighting that had erupted south across the river. The
conflict he had anticipated for weeks had come at last, and she was miles away
from her patients. She was going to demand he let her go, to know when she
could move to the front, and he did not have an answer. At least, not one she
would want to hear.

The Richmond’s' house would have
been the last building on the street, except for a high, boxy workshop standing
shoulder-to-shoulder with the ground floor. There had been no grand residences
suitable for the family, nothing with proper space for entertaining on the
Richmond’s' grand scale, but being a clever and resourceful woman, the duchess
had spied the carriage maker's shop beside the mansion and instantly
appreciated the opportunity. He knew the extent of Lady Richmond's
architectural coup because his mother had devoted nearly a page to it in one of
her letters. A little anteroom had been built, joining the makeshift ballroom
with the entry hall. Looking at the structure now, particularly in the
forgiving glow of the street lamps and blazing windows, he would not have
guessed that the design was anything other than intentional.

He filed in with the crowd, nodding
and
hmm
ing his way through the door at the faceless crush around him. He
lifted his hat to Uxbridge who came in behind, seemingly to a collective sigh
of relief because he had come alone.

“General Lord Webb!” A hand pressed
to his elbow, and Matthew turned to find a voice in the crowd. The patriotic
spectacle of Lord Hay, handsomely ruddy-cheeked and panting, appeared beside
him. Hay wore his ensign's uniform with all the polish of a general's,
crisp-collared, silver buttons shining and not a strand of red wool out of
place. He leaned in close, whispering with muted enthusiasm. “I hear our allies
have had a day of it at Ligny.”

Matthew gave a sharp nod and
considered the gross understatement. Still, there was no need to spoil Hay's
excitement. “Let's hope it was not Napoleon's best performance. I prefer a
little sport for my trouble.”

“We'll beat them soundly, sir. No
question.” Hay struck the air with a fist. “Lady Sarah was just this evening
making light of all the empty fabric on my coat.” He ran a finger over his
breast. “But I explained it's being prepared for all my commendations. Soon
enough, it'll be full up.”

Matthew chuckled, shaking his head.
He glanced Hay over while handing his invitation to the footman, amused and bit
jealous of an energy which had long ago been tempered for him. “Who is your
commander now? Picton?”

“Maitland, sir, as his
aide-de-camp.” Hay snapped to attention, chest puffed to strain his waistcoat.

Matthew bit into a grin, fixing a
straight face. “How old are you now, Hay? Twenty?”

“Eighteen sir,” he preened, “Just
last month.”

“That explains it. We'll break you
of this enthusiasm by nineteen.” He winked and took Hay's hand, receiving a
squeeze and a pump so vigorous that Matthew feared he might not get his arm
back.

“Yes, sir.” Hay grinned, already
being pulled away by rowdy masculine voices calling to him from across the
crowd. “Thank you, sir.”

Matthew swept a hand, shooing him
away and fighting to remain stern until the boy was out of sight. He bypassed
the cloak room, realizing he had forgotten his evening shoes in his hurry to
leave the house.
In his hurry to see Kate
. If blisters were his only
penance for a few more minutes in her company, he was satisfied.

The ballroom was a marvel of
redecorating. Trellised paper with hand-painted roses covered the wood-beam
walls. Yards of silk draped in swaths of patriotic red and gold between the
trusses overhead. The radiant glow of at least three hundred candles was
already beading regret at his temples, making Matthew question his poor choice
of wool over linen.

“Webb.”

He turned to find Lord Ethan
Grayfield trailing behind him. They had hardly seen one another since serving
together in Portugal. Now he had seen his old companion twice in as many days.
Not surprising, since Grayfield had given up the army in favor of a position at
the Whitehall war office. He would have been more enthusiastic about the encounter
were he not so eager to find Kate. Matthew extended his hand. “Grayfield. Good
to see you again.”

While they shook hands, Ethan
searched the room around them. “Any chance of finding Major Burrell here this
evening? I have a question for him and am rather eager for an answer.”

“To the disappointment of more than
one lady, he has chosen to remain at the garrison. If there is something I can
pass along –”

Ethan's hand shot up. “No, no. I
won't trouble you. An idle matter.” He pointed towards the ballroom's wide
entrance. “I'm glad to see your mother looking well. She's making the rounds
like a queen, as always. Very fetching guest she's brought along...”

High praise, considering that
Grayfield's own wife was quite the beauty. Ethan raised a brow, letting the
statement hang between them.

“Fetching guest, you say?” Matthew
pretended to try and see past Ethan's shoulder. “Sounds as though I had better
see for myself.”

“Webb.” Ethan bowed, tossing him a
knowing smile. “It would be rude of me to keep you.”

“Grayfield.” Matthew returned the
gesture, leaving Ethan with a last quick handshake and making his way into the
ballroom.

A highland reel cut the floor nearly
in two, raucous laughter passing down the line with the swap of each partner.
Feet stomped, drumming to a singing fiddle and clapping hands which split the
air. He searched each dancer, each observer, waiting for one to catch his eye.

When his gaze found Kate's familiar
shape in the peacock crowd, the room could have been empty. Music, voices and
people all drifted into a far-away murmur. For a moment they were the only two
people who existed. He struggled to fill lungs that had become tight with
anticipation. Matthew imposed a sweet sort of torture, denying himself the
pleasure of her against an ache in his gut. He stalked her unnoticed while she
faced Lord Pearson, flanked by his mother on the left.

Closing the distance to Kate, he was
aware of nods and salutes from the islands of revelers he passed, but he
returned none of them.

She
deserved
jewels and fine
silk gowns, but Kate needed no such ornaments. He traced the seductive caress
of tissue-thin white muslin hugging womanly curves. The simple fabric set her
apart from every woman in the room, her dress a breath of fresh air among the
gold thread and dazzling sequins. Its only true decoration was sprigged
wildflowers embroidered at the sleeves and neckline. It could not have been
more perfect had it been made for her. His ribbon around her neck was his
undoing, and Matthew's heart stuttered.

For all his protests that her hair
should be down, whoever had styled it deserved a great deal of credit. Curls
full of more fire than he remembered revealed a nape and bare shoulders that
caught the attention of at least three other men passing her in just the time
it had taken for him to cross half the room. Matthew exhaled against a jealous
impulse, feeling no desire to fill his calendar with dawn appointments. There
would be talk enough already without the scandal of a duel. Everyone present
knew very well that he was married. Once he reached Kate on the other side of
the ballroom, there could no longer be any doubt in their minds of it being a
transitory state. There was no scenario in which he was not going to touch her,
and they could all be damned.

He stopped just shy of acquainting
their bodies and laid fingertips against her wrist. He took an odd pleasure in
the mingling of their body heat through two pairs of gloves, knowing exactly
how it would feel to caress her without any barrier. She stiffened at the pressure
of his hand, shivering at the rush of his breath over her neck.

“I have been half of my self today,
until this moment,” he murmured for her ears alone.

“Strange. I have felt you with me
all along,” said Kate, leaning into the space between them, making him whole.

He rested his forehead against her
silky curls and inhaled. Not a scent or any one thing he could name, but
something that fed his soul. His eyes closed, and he simply existed in that
moment.

His mother's fan jabbing him in the
ribs broke the spell. “Your lady has been waiting patiently for a dance, Webb.”

She snapped him back into the
moment, and for the first time Matthew truly looked at someone other than Kate.

Pearson, tall, thin and silvery like
an old tree cut his usual elegant if stooped figure. But his mother...what was
she wearing? Even being of a certain age Adelaide still managed to turn heads.
When he was in London, men at parliament or the Exchange begged him to send an
obnoxious wealth of 'regards' to the lady. Tonight her neckline was at an
unprecedented low, high enough to be perfectly modest, but revealing for a
widow in her fifties. Her sleeves were short. Matthew shook his head at all the
bare arm. Could they even be called sleeves? Suddenly uncomfortable, he focused
his attention on Pearson, who was standing unaccountably close to Adelaide.

“Two beautiful ladies waiting for a
dance. Pearson, have you been neglecting your duties?” he chastised.

Puffing up with a smile, Pearson
cupped his mouth. “Gout.”

“But we've had such an agreeable
conversation,” protested Kate. “There was no rush to dance.”

“So we have, my dear! So we have.”
Pearson patted Kate's shoulder. “Now you must do your duty. Go make a spectacle
of yourself with the other young people.”

“Lady Richmond promised a waltz on
your arrival, Matthew,” his mother offered, grasping Kate's arm. “You
do
waltz, Miss Foster...”

Kate's head cocked impishly as she
studied him. “I do.” She bit her lip, reaching out her hand.

He tried committing her to memory in
that moment, to remember her always just the way she looked now. A woman's
figure belied by her girlish face, glowing with a light deep in her eyes,
passion which seemed to well up from her soul.
She belonged to him.
Someday he would be able to grasp that.

Matthew took her arm and pulled her
to his side, guiding them to the floor where the other dancers were already
weaving between one another.

*          *          *

Matthew had not embellished his
skill as a dancer. Even in hard soled boots he was agile, and to her even
greater delight, Kate discovered he enjoyed dancing just as much as she.

He led her into a quick turn for
perhaps the fifth time and nodded his approval. “I believe you have mastered
the waltz, Miss Foster.”

“I had a very skilled teacher,
General Webb.”

He was an absolute rake, mouth
cocked up at one side. Her breath quickened at his eyes, resting at her lips,
the subtle pressure of fingers against her back. He waited to speak until they
had angled away from a curious pair beside them. “I'm not entirely certain who
has been instructing whom of late.”

“Shocking.”

“I'm sure.” His wink was too much.

She dropped her eyes to his cravat,
biting her cheek in vain. His hand at her waist clutched tighter, his leading
steps demanding in their pace. Kate formed a quip on her tongue, working up the
courage to tease that his dancing was no different than his lovemaking. But
when she found Matthew's face again, his eyes were no longer on her. “Is
something the matter?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but
there was no sign he had heard her question, or that he was aware she was still
in his arms.

“Matthew?” she prompted.

“Hmm?” He acknowledged her with a
single word only, his glare burning over her shoulder. The light trip of
Matthew's feet became an angry stomp, and he pulled her closer, more intimately
than any other pair of dancers. Embarrassed heat flushed her from throat to
forehead. They were attracting craned necks and whispers from those around
them. When he led her through the next turn, she understood why.

Smirking, presiding over a small
court of guests at the foot of the dance floor, was Caroline, hunting them with
slitted eyes. Why had it not occurred that she might be here, sewing discord?
She was accessorized with a fawning Major Pitt. Kate wanted to sink into the
marble, disappear. Caroline's sensual magnetism left her feeling pale and
plain. Matthew's blatant stare was not helping. Kate swallowed her jealousy.
“Should we leave the floor?” she whispered, trying not to sound as eager as she
felt.

“Mm.” His eyes still did not meet hers.
They took wider strides, practically bouncing each step.             He was
putting on a show, she realized. Bitterness surged inside, and Kate pulled a
few deep breaths, fighting it back. “Matthew, can you listen to me for just a
moment?” She hissed the words, hating the resentful bite.