Chapter 35

The difference between this ball and the servant ball was…

Well, it was difficult to articulate, Stacia decided.

Many of the same people had attended both. The Bellamy sisters and their spouses, as well as their houseguests, for example. But the magical feeling of having stepped out of time, not to mention the utter lack of social convention—a duke and a scullery maid performing a country dance together and a duchess partnering a stable lad for a Scottish Reel for pity's sake!—was sorely lacking.

Also lacking was Lord Shelton.

Again.

The one thing that wasn't lacking, in a completely different sense of the word, was her employer's attendance.

Nobody could have been more dismayed than Stacia that Lady Addiscombe had decided to attend the ball after all. Even her youngest daughter's entreaties, and Stacia had overheard Lady Kathryn's pleading and not-so-subtle insinuations about the putrid influenzas one could contract in a crowded ballroom, were not enough to convince the countess to remain in her chambers.

Stacia really could not comprehend the woman. All day long the various Bellamy children had celebrated intimate Christmas gatherings with their new families and then assembled in the great hall for one big celebration and Lady Addiscombe had not attended even one of those functions.

Instead, she had sent Stacia to deliver her gifts—the exact same thing for all five daughters and her son: a book of self-improving sermons that Stacia had collected from the bookbinders several weeks before.

She had briefly opened one of the books, read a few pages, and slammed it shut, disgusted that any person could earn money from the sale of such sanctimonious claptrap.

Stacia, who'd grown up yearning for siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles, could not comprehend the countess's determination to ignore—if not outright alienate—every single one of her children.

Stacia suspected that the only reason she had come to the ball tonight was to cast a pall over the festivities.

Without Shelton in attendance, the countess focused her ire on Needham and Lucy, and, to a lesser extent, Captain Walker.

Although Lucy had only turned fourteen today—a Christmas birthday—her father had allowed her to attend the ball. There was nothing shocking in Lucy attending a country dance under her own father's roof, but Lady Addiscombe had been glaring at Needham as if he had invited naked courtesans to debauch the guests.

And when Lord Bellamy had solicited Lucy's hand for country dances, not the scandalous waltz, Lady Addiscombe had sounded like a goose being sacrificed for Christmas dinner.

She had looked around frantically, as if looking for somebody she could order to intervene. But all the Bellamy sisters had been dancing themselves.

Temporarily thwarted, Lady Addiscombe had watched the dancers in brooding silence, her mood boding ill for the rest of the evening.

The set was drawing to a close and Stacia had just begun to hope the older woman might have swallowed her wrath when she turned to Stacia and said, "I suppose you had no inkling of this—this travesty , Martin?"

"Travesty?" she repeated, her hope of avoiding a public raking dwindling to dust when she met her employer's enraged blue eyes.

Lady Addiscombe's lips drew into a thin, bloodless slash and she hissed, "If you think I believe that you knew nothing of my son's budding friendship with that—that—"

Stacia interrupted the other woman before she could give life to that ugly word. "It is an innocent infatuation on her part, my lady. Your son is merely being courteous to the daughter of his host."

"How dare —"

Just then Lady Lowell and Sir Thomas—parents to the giggling Lowell twins—drifted over with their daughters and three nieces

"Sir Thomas, Lady Lowell," the countess said, her tone grudging and her expression hardening as she turned to the younger women. "And the Misses Lowell." She offered up an exaggerated pause. "Unless, that is, either of you have recently married?" She smiled, the expression that of a cat toying with two mice.

But Sir Thomas was not to be outdone. He chuckled heartily. "I have not found anyone I'd be willing to give them to, my lady. Unlike some other, more unfortunate girls, there is no pressing need for them to sacrifice themselves to a man they do not love."

Stacia was amused to see a malicious glint in his gaze. The countess really did bring the worst out of people. She had chatted with Sir Thomas a half dozen times over the past ten days and he had been nothing but charming.

Lady Addiscombe's smile curdled at Sir Thomas's not-so-subtle dig.

Lady Lowell, the peacemaker of the couple, changed the subject by asking how the countess liked Bath.

That left Stacia with the five young women.

The twins ignored her, but one of their cousins—the sweet natured beauty who made her fair cousins look insipid by comparison—asked Stacia, "Is it true that Lord Shelton has gone away, Miss Martin?"

Before she could respond, one of the twins gave a tinkle of laughter that might have been pleasant if not for the spiteful sparkle in her blue eyes and said, "Poor Arabella! Are you hoping the third time will be the charm?"

Rather than look angry, Arabella cut Stacia a wry smile. "My cousins are referring to the fact that Lord Shelton forgot my name—"

" Twice!" one twin said gleefully.

Arabella cut her cousin an exasperated look. "Yes, that is true."

"And not just your name, he forgot that he'd even met you," the twin persisted, smirking. "While he most certainly remembered me. "

"He confused your names, Susannah," the elder of the Moore sisters pointed out.

Susannah scowled.

But before she could retort Miss Coraline, the youngest of the cousins, who had the smudged gloves and slightly disheveled look of a girl more comfortable on horseback than in a ballroom, fixed Susannah with a searing look and said, "Of course he remembered you . It would be difficult for anyone to forget such a silly pair of bookends."

Susannah's jaw dropped. "You—"

"Martin!" The countess bellowed loudly enough to silence the buzz of conversation around them.

Stacia turned. "Yes, my lady?"

The older woman's wide-eyed look of revulsion was fastened on something beyond Stacia's shoulder. "I need you to—"

"Good evening, ladies."

Stacia turned slowly and looked up almost a foot to meet Lord Shelton's warm gaze.

"Miss Martin," he murmured and then, as if it took effort, he turned to the countess. "Lady Addiscombe."

When the older woman merely stared in appalled silence, Shelton turned back to Stacia.

He held her gaze as if she were the only other person in the room. The delicate skin beneath his brilliant eyes was shadowed, as if from a lack of sleep, but he had never looked more beautiful to her. "I would be honored if you would partner me, if you are not otherwise engaged for this set." He gestured to the dance floor, which she saw was filling up for a quadrille.

"Martin!"

"Yes, my lady," Stacia said faintly, unable to turn away from Shelton.

"You put the wrong quizzing glass in my reticule. I want the silver chased one. You will have to fetch it from my room. Martin. Martin! "

Shelton's lips pulled into one of his truly wicked smiles and he raised an eyebrow as if to say well ?

Beside her, Arabella cleared her throat. "I am not committed for this set. I will be glad to fetch it for you, my lady."

Stacia gave the girl a startled look.

Arabella flashed her a conspiratorial smile and then—to her surprise—mouthed go.

"Miss Martin?" Andrew offered Stacia his arm.

And she took it.

***

Andrew felt the Countess of Addiscombe's flaming gaze scorch his back and shoulders as he led Stacia onto the dance floor. "Did I get you in trouble my dearest Stacia?"

"I was already in trouble."

He laughed at her dry answer.

"Shelton!"

He turned at the sound of Kathryn's voice.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, and then demanded rudely, "What do you want?"

Undaunted, she waved him over. "Come join us."

He glanced at Kathryn's partner—Captain Walker—and then down at Stacia. "What say you? Should we trust the vixen enough to form a square with her in it?"

Stacia laughed and the action did lovely things to her snug, uncharacteristically low-cut bodice. "What possible mischief can she get up to in the middle of a crowded ballroom?"

He gave her a look of only partially mock horror. "Lord, Stacia! Do not tempt fate in such a reckless manner. Ah, look—reinforcements," he said as Chatham, the duchess, Needham, and Lucy joined them. "Needham will keep her in line," he murmured as their host and his daughter took the head position in the square, Chatham and the duchess opposite them, leaving them across from Kathryn and Walker.

He leaned down and whispered. "You look utterly delicious. Your hair is delightful and suits you perfectly. It pleases me to see you wearing my gloves and you are so lovely you make those brilliants look dull. And that gown…" He growled and his eyes burned into hers. "You are exquisite."

Predictably, his prickly Miss Martin scowled at him. "I am sure I look even better now that I am as red as a tomato."

Andrew laughed. "I missed you. Did you miss me?"

She pursed her lips, but her eyes sparkled in a way that said his words pleased her. "Where did you take Terrence?"

"Terrence? Oh you mean, Scrapper? It wasn't a case of me taking him so much as him deciding that he would not be left behind." He cocked his head. "Was that your way of asking me where I went?"

"No." She took the opportunity of the music beginning to ignore him.

Andrew grinned, turned, and bowed to the corner.

The duchess regarded him with a level look and dipped a curtsey so slight as to hardly qualify as one.

He turned back to Stacia, and they joined hands.

"I do not think your vaunted charm works on the Duchess of Chatham, my lord," Stacia taunted as they passed to the right of the Captain and Kathryn, the latter of whom simpered at Andrew.

The saucy, unrepentant minx.

"You don't think Hyacinth likes me?" he asked Stacia. "I had not noticed."

She laughed and moved into the ladies chain.

Kathryn said something to Stacia that made her blush and purse her lips.

"What did you say to her?" Andrew asked Kathryn when he took her hands.

She ignored his question. "Did you enjoy your Christmas gift, Shelton?"

Andrew raised an eyebrow.

"Haven't you guessed? I am your secret St. Nicholas."

Andrew shook his head at her. "If your gift is what I think it was, you are incorrigible and deserve to be beaten." He paused. "But it was also inspired."

She laughed triumphantly as she moved back to the center.

***

"She is a menace," Andrew said to Stacia when she returned to his side, and they joined hands.

Stacia didn't need to ask who he meant.

"Have I mentioned how delectable you look with that hair and gown?" he murmured as he took her hands, and they made the promenade.

Stacia pretended not to hear him but suspected that her face was too flushed to be explained by exertion.

He chuckled, eyeing her with such open, obvious affection that it was difficult to pay attention to the steps and engage in flirtation—an activity she had no experience with, unlike Andrew, whom she had watched charm beautiful women times beyond counting.

Beautiful. All of them. Except you…

The words lacked the power to crush and shame her, as they usually would.

Instead, they brought to mind something else entirely. For some inexplicable reason, Stacia's thoughts went to the scars on Shelton's body, the mute evidence of all the brutalization his body had endured.

But suddenly she thought about all the injuries that were not visible, especially the one that had frightened him the most.

He had called it having his bell rung. Stacia had no idea what one of the big guns sounded like, but she had read first-hand accounts of Waterloo and they had been horrifying.

Shelton had stood next to one of those weapons of destruction when it had fired. And it had taken his hearing.

True, it had returned, but had that been the only damage?

Random conversations from the past days came back to her in a rush.

Andrew had not recalled the names of Lord Bellamy's school friends—that was not so unusual as they were callow youths—nor had he seemed to remember Mr. Dixon.

But he had also forgotten Arabella Moore. Twice.

And she was beautiful.

Pieces of a puzzle that had niggled at her began to click into place, although many blank spots remained. Why did he remember some people, but not others?

"What are you thinking about?" Andrew asked when he next had an opportunity. "You have the oddest expression on your face."

"Nothing," she said, and forced a smile.

How often and how many people, places, and events did he forget?

She watched him laugh and smile and tease those around them—making even the duchess thaw—and her heart hurt to think of the pain and suffering his body and mind had endured.

Was Andrew even aware of the gaps in his memory? Had the damage really healed as he believed?

Or was he becoming worse?

"So serious," he teased as they engaged in the final chasse and ended up side-by-side. He smiled down at her and then tucked her arm under his, keeping her close, and headed not toward Lady Addiscombe, but in the opposite direction.

"Where are we going?"

"It is too cold to walk outside, but Needham has lighted the gallery for strolling."

She glanced anxiously in the countess's direction.

"Just a moment or two," he said. "Please, Stacia."

"Just for a moment." She suspected that the instant she returned to her employer's side she would be sent on another errand, one that would last the rest of the evening, if not the rest of the house party.

Couples strolled arm in arm up and down the magnificent gallery, whose marquetry flooring was as much a work of art of all those hanging on the walls.

Andrew did not speak until they were at the far end of the hall and then he paused in front of a life-sized portrait of a blond man with a neatly trimmed van dyke and an extravagant mustache. The long dead Bellamy was wearing a rather unfortunate frockcoat of mustard yellow with high red heels and a jeweled buckle the size of a teacup.

"He's quite the lad," Andrew said, laughing as he turned from the portrait to Stacia. He took her hands in both of his and her heart pounded at the warmth in his eyes. "You are very somber for a ball, Stacia. What thoughts are consuming you? Is it your employer and how I've landed you in hot—boiling, probably—water?" He clucked his tongue before she could answer. "You needn't suffer her ill humor, love. You know you have friends here—powerful ones like Chatham and Needham—and they will help you find a more pleasant mistress."

Stacia felt strangely disappointed in his words.

Why? Because you wanted him to offer marriage so you could reject him yet again? You will need to wait a year to hear the words you now want. If you are fortunate, that is.

"There is another alternative, of course," he said, his eyelids lowering slightly, his gloved fingers tightening around hers. "You could marry me and let me sweep you away to a life of moderate comfort in a ramshackle Yorkshire manor." His mouth twitched into a self-mocking smile. "I wish I could fib and say that I will one day make you a duchess, but that is a position I have never wanted. Not just because Chatham would first need to die, and I would dislike that terribly, but because I would make a dreadful duke." He raised a hand to her cheek, lightly skimming her jaw. "If you marry me, you will likely have to satisfy yourself with living out your days as plain Mrs. Andrew Derrick." He cocked his head. "What say you, Miss Martin? Will you throw in your lot with a man who will never be screamingly wealthy, whose ridiculous definitions will always ensure you win at Dictionary, and…" his smile grew wicked, "who will always agree to don a blindfold and perform naked whenever you desire."

Nobody was close enough to hear his naughty words, although she could tell by the way several of the couples were stealing glances and smirking that at least a few people suspected Andrew might be proposing.

"If you say no today, I will come ask again in a year, Stacia," he said, his serious tone bringing her gaze back to his. "But if you tell me to leave you alone forever—that you do not want me—then I will not trouble you again."

The stab of fear she felt at his words told her—even if she had not already decided—what she had to say. "I do not care about titles or ramshackle manors or stylish frocks. But I cannot marry a man who does not believe in fidelity."

His expression turned almost terrifyingly stern. "Is this a condition to you saying yes, Miss Martin?"

Stacia quailed slightly beneath his intimidating gaze. This was it—the moment that could change her life forever. The men of their class kept mistresses—or at least patronized brothels. Even her father, least aristocratic aristocrat she had ever known, had kept a mistress.

If you stand your ground on this matter, you might lose him. Not just for a year, but forever.

That might be true.

But if I do not remain firm…

No, it was too unbearable to contemplate a future in which he not only did not love her but gave himself to other women.

"Yes, my lord. That is precisely what I am saying."

He nodded slowly, his expression, for once, difficult to read. "My immediate reaction was to be offended by your question," he said. "But then I realize that I have earned it with my reckless, caddish behavior over the years. I believe in marital fidelity, Stacia—not just for men, but also for women." His nostrils flared slightly. "I will not share you. Ever."

She caught her hysterical laugh before it broke free. As if that was even a remote danger!

But she didn't say that. Instead, she reveled in the raw dominance—and yes, affection and desire, too—that blazed in his eyes. It was not love, but it was more than she had ever expected from the unobtainable Marquess of Shelton.

Was it enough?

That was a difficult question to answer. And she wasn't sure it was a fair question, either. Could people ever know what might be enough ten, twenty years hence?

One thing Stacia knew for a certainty was that she did not want to envision a future without Andrew in it.

And that, she decided, was answer enough.

"I will marry you, my lord."

A slow smile spread over his face, and he took her chin between his fingers, his eyes boring into hers. "You have made me a very, very, very happy man, Stacia. And a proud man. I vow that I will always put your comfort and needs before my own." He kissed her upturned lips.

Stacia told herself that what he offered—companionship and hopefully children—was far better than what he must have had in his youth with the love of his life. Passion burned out, after all.

Did it not?

Yes, this was better.

She was still trying to convince herself of that as they walked back toward the ballroom. Before they were even half-way there, the countess—trailed closely by the Duke and Duchess of Chatham—entered the hall.

"A word in the drawing room, Martin!" The countess didn't wait for an answer before storming toward a door and flinging it open before a hovering footman could sprint over to open it. "Leave us," she snapped—although it was unclear who the words were directed at: the servant, Shelton, or the duke and duchess.

Andrew turned to her. "You don't need to face her, Stacia. I will speak—"

"I need to do this."

He stared into her eyes for a moment and then nodded. "I know you feel as if you owe her service until she can find a replacement companion, but you do not. I will see there is somebody to accompany her back to Bath. Even if I must do it myself."

Stacia nodded, her head in a whirl.

He pressed her hand and then released her.

She took a deep breath and followed her employer.