Chapter Seven

He shouldn’t have brought Hamish.

The guilty knowledge throbbed at the back of Alexander’s mind, and he cursed himself and his friend in equal measure.

Why can’t be behave, if only for a few hours? Alexander thought unhappily. Beside him, Hamish pressed a hand over his mouth, barely smothering a belch.

“Excellent wine, this,” he said, in tones too loud for a genteel party. “Your brother’s cellar? Think he’d let us have a wander down there, pick out a few more bottles?”

Alexander imagined asking the butler for the keys to the cellar – or worse, asking William himself – and closed his eyes in mortification.

“No, Hamish, he wouldn’t. I think you’ve drunk too much, anyway.”

Hamish blinked, wobbling ever so slightly. He stretched out a hand and clapped it on Alexander’s shoulder, more to steady himself than anything else.

“You’re a real morose tonight,” Hamish commented. “What’s the matter?”

Alexander flushed, looking away. “I have a headache.”

A flimsy lie, but Hamish seemed to believe it. Across the room, William stood with a group of gentlemen, no doubt ready to time his next dance to the very second. Alexander had been watching him, and he chose his partners carefully. Very carefully. Single ladies, but not too eligible. Not too many dances, but not too few, either. No waltzes, for sure.

William’s eye kept drifting over to where Alexander stood with the increasingly drunk Hamish, and his gaze was hard.

Perhaps Alexander would feel less guilty if his wretched friend wasn’t drinking so much. Glancing over at him, he saw Hamish about to pour himself another glass of wine. It was too much.

Alexander reached over, whisking the glass from Hamish’s hand.

“Good lord, man, have you not had enough?” he snapped. “Have a little decorum.”

Hamish eyed him, hurt. “You invited me here. You stood up to your brother for me. I thought you wanted my company.”

Alexander bit his lip. “Yes, but I thought you’d behave. You know how strict these events can be.”

His friend narrowed his eyes, gaze slipping over Alexander’s shoulder to where William stood across the room. His jaw clenched.

“Do you know, Alexander, it’s rather exhausting being your friend. You cannot seem to decide whether you want to shock your brother or live up to his standards. Choose, for heaven’s sake, one way or another. I don’t particularly enjoy feeling as though I embarrass you one moment, only to be an entertaining diversion the next.”

Alexander bit his lip. “Don’t be unkind, Hamish.”

“Unkind? I’m your guest, and now it’s fairly clear you wish you had never invited me.”

He flushed. “I didn’t mean…”

“I’m stepping out onto the balcony,” Hamish said shortly, avoiding Alexander’s gaze. “I want a cigar. Are you coming, or would you rather stay here and mope?”

The answer was fairly straightforward. Of course Alexander would rather go out into the cool, fresh night air and get out of this crush, but if his mother looked for him and he wasn’t there… or worse, if William found out he’d slipped away.

You aren’t here to enjoy yourself, he reminded himself, and bit back a sigh.

“I can’t, Hamish. Truly, I would, but my family…”

“Yes, yes,” Hamish snapped unhappily. “The family you complain about so frequently requires your presence. No need to say more.”

Alexander opened his mouth, maybe to give another apology, but Hamish had already gone, stamping away towards the wide French windows. He watched him go, still unable to shake the feeling of guilt.

I am always doing less than I should and more than I would like, he thought unhappily, echoing a line he’d read in a book somewhere, although he could not recollect the book at all. Stuck between Hell and Heaven.

Perhaps a trifle too dramatic, but never mind.

Alexander abandoned his corner in favour of moving through the sweltering crowd. He was glad when William disappeared in the throng – it was good to be out from under his brother’s beady eyes. If Alexander ever made a mistake, it seemed that William was there to see it.

Their mother was holding court at the side of the room, nearest the dancing, surrounded by matrons, widows, and sycophants, grandly receiving greetings and well-wishes from all of her guests. She had not been able to greet the guests at the door, and therefore propriety dictated that all guests should in that case seek her out and make their bows. Mary seemed ecstatic. She caught Alexander’s eye across the room and beamed at him.

He beamed back, feeling a little better. He had done his duty, when you got down to it. He’d helped set up the ball, he was attending the ball, he was behaving . Yes, perhaps he ought not have invited Hamish, but it was too late to undo that, and at least Hamish had taken himself off.

I’ll apologise to Hamish later, Alexander decided. Once this is over.

He spotted Miss Atwater, standing with her aunt, talking with a group of people he did not recognize.

No, he recognized one.

Graham. Wretched idiot.

There was no doubt in Alexander’s mind that Graham had rushed to Miss Atwater’s side to put his, Alex’s, nose out of joint. Not that Alexander was pursuing Miss Atwater. He wouldn’t dare. Her aunt would never allow that.

As he watched, Graham said something to the two ladies, and then departed in the direction of the refreshment stand.

What a gentleman, always anticipating their needs. Fetching lemonade and punch, no doubt, so that they don’t have to stir a step.

Hidden in the crowd, Alexander watched Miss Atwater turn eagerly to her aunt, a question on her face. Lady Caldecott smiled benignly down at her niece, saying something that Alex could not hear.

The beginning of a fine romance, I’m sure, Alexander thought, a cold feeling spreading through his chest. Come, now. Are you really going to mope like this in the middle of a ball? You’re meant to be happy, meant to be meeting new people, and…

The thought died in his head as a familiar face appeared in the crowd.

It was a woman, a perfect oval face framed by vivid blonde locks, skin pale as bone against black lace and jet beads. A widow, but a beautiful one, the sort of young, tragic figure that melted men’s hearts and drew them towards her like iron filings to a magnet.

Panic seized Alexander’s chest, catching him by the throat. He turned this way and that wildly, looking for somebody to save him.

Simply walking away through the crowd would never do. Not when he was being pursued by Lady Diana Lockwell, the Merry Widow herself.

Too late. She was on him.

The woman slipped sinuously through the crowd, dark eyes fixed on him. She reached out, placing one elegant white hand on his arm.

“Lord Alexander Willenshire, I do declare,” she said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

He winced. “Hardly. It’s my mother’s ball. And how…”

He bit his tongue, cutting off the end of the sentence. He had been about to ask how did you come to get an invitation? Aside from being horribly rude, the answer was simple. Mary invited everybody, and somebody from the famous Lockwell family – even only by marriage – could not be excluded.

Diana tilted her head like a bird, eyes glittering like she knew what he was going to ask anyway.

“I am glad to see you, Alex. May I still call you that, or is it too much of a liberty?”

Too much of a liberty, of course, Alex wanted to say, but it was rude to contradict a lady, so he only gave a sickly smile.

“I heard you’d retired to the country.”

Her pretty face soured into a pout. “My in-laws thought it best. I believe they disagreed with my grieving process.”

Alexander said nothing. According to the gossip, Lady Diana’s grieving process had involved lots of balls, fun, friends, and of course flirting. Even then, he imagined her cold and disdainful in-laws did not exactly disapprove of this, but only the gossip which followed.

“But I’m coming out of mourning soon,” Diana continued. “Really, I should be in half-mourning, but I find that I do look excellent in black. Don’t you think?”

She glanced coyly up at him, swishing her skirts around. The jet beads glittered. Heavy ropes of silver hung around her neck and wrists, replacing the usual creamy pearls that widows favoured.

She looked, frankly, beautiful. Alexander could admit that, even if he knew the danger that hovered behind that beauty.

“I’m not sure we should be talking, Diana,” he said, immediately cursing himself for his informality. Her eyes lit up, and he knew he’d made a mistake.

“Oh?”

“I… I mean our history?”

“History? My dear Lord Alexander, I do not know what you mean.”

Liar, he thought, with a rush of anger. Lies, lies, lies, that’s all I ever heard from you, do you remember?

He didn’t say that, of course. He also didn’t say that when they first met, Alexander’s mourning for his father was just as false as Diana’s mourning for her husband.

Of course, she hadn’t been married then. Engaged, but not married.

“I understand you’ve been left comfortable,” he said, more for the desire to say anything than from any real interest. It wasn’t a proper conversation to have at a ball like this, but Alexander had all but given up on what was proper or not.

Diana smiled demurely, smoothing her crisp skirts. “Yes, my poor, dear Lord Lockwell left me well provided for. It was his greatest wish that I should live free and happy, God rest his soul.”

Alexander conjured up a memory of Lord Lockwell – a sour-faced, angry little man, somewhere in his fifties, with a nasty streak of spite running through him. He didn’t seem like the self-sacrificing type, to be sure.

“Ahem. Well, I’m glad for it. If you’ll excuse me, Lady Lockwell, I see my mother…”

She surged forward again, hand tightening on his forearm. Alexander clenched his teeth.

At one time, the touch of those long, cool fingers would have sent shivery heat rushing along his skin. It would electrify his spine, forcing the breath from his lungs. He’d be hers, body and soul. He’d believe whatever lies she would choose to feed him.

A fine example of said lies was the promise that she would break off her engagement to the titled, wealthy, and influential Lord Lockwell, and marry an unimportant third son.

Alexander reminded himself firmly of those facts and disengaged his arm.

“Diana, stop this. You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have accepted the invitation.”

Twin spots of colour burned in her cheeks. “The dear Dowager Duchess has no idea of our history, Alex. I should never dream of telling her. If she were to find out, of course, it would be a different matter.”

Was that a threat? It might have been. Alexander didn’t dare probe too deeply. It was all games with Diana, and she always liked to win.

“If I was the scheming woman you think I am,” Diana continued, shuffling closer still, “I should introduce myself to the Duke of Dunleigh himself.”

Alexander clenched his jaw. “I do not think you’re scheming, and I’d thank you not to use words like that at my mother’s ball. As to William, you are entirely welcome to try with him, although I would not recommend it.”

Diana’s expression soured, angry that her bluff had been called. The music dropped, as did her hand. There was a general shuffling on the dance floor behind them, as exhausted couples left the floor only to be replaced by new ones. The next set was beginning.

A mulish set came over Diana’s face. “We should dance, my lord. Come, it’s just beginning.”

No, Alexander thought, panicking. No, no, no.

The lie rose easily to his lips. “I already have a partner for this dance.”

She didn’t believe him, that much was plain to see. He had never been able to lie to Diana – she was too experienced at falsehoods herself to be easily taken in. She opened her mouth to speak, but Alexander saw with chagrin that if he didn’t make his escape quickly, Diana would have him on the dance floor and huddled away in the corner by the end of the night, enough gossip rising up around them to attract even his mother’s notice.

“Good evening, Lady Lockwell,” he gabbled, making a lopsided bow. “I really must go and fetch my partner.”

He turned on his heel, frantically scanning the crowd. Diana did not, of course, move to leave.

“Well, who is she, then?” she demanded, voice thin. “Do point her out to me, darling Alex.”

He swallowed hard. The dance was about to start, and that meant that the ladies standing in the crowd and sitting around the wall were all unengaged. But if Diana made it known that he’d lied about a partner to avoid dancing with her, he would find himself the subject of a great deal of censure. The gossip columns would pick up on it, people would talk about it, and his mother would be shamed.

Ungentlemanly behaviour , they would call it, heads shaking. And the brother of the Duke of Dunleigh, too! Shameful.

Alexander would not allow that to happen, so he had better choose a woman who would agree to dance with him at the last moment.

And then a miracle happened.

A familiar figure moved forward out of the crowd, just a step, half turned away from him to look at the dance floor.

“Miss Atwater,” he heard himself say.

Diana flinched. “What? Who? I haven’t heard of her.”

As if hearing her own name called – which she hadn’t, of course, Alexander knew that she could likely hear nothing above the din of the ballroom – Miss Atwater turned to face him. Their eyes met.

Now or never, he thought, and lifted a hand to greet her. She lifted her own, hesitantly, half glancing over her shoulder as if unsure whether he was waving to someone behind here. Alexander strode forward.

Graham was still ensnared in the crowd around the refreshment table.

Better move quick.

“Miss Atwater, are you not dancing?” Alexander managed, breathless. Diana had not, to his relief, followed him. She wasn’t quite foolish enough to shoulder her way into a conversation where she hadn’t been introduced to everybody.

“I… not this time,” the girl stammered, eyes large. “I do have a number of engagements to dance, though. Look.”

She lifted her wrist, dangling her dance card in front of his face.

“Abigail, what are you doing?”

At the sound of her aunt’s voice, Abigail snatched down her arm, red-faced.

Lady Caldecott materialized from the crowd behind her niece, fixing Alexander with a steely glare.

I thought we had an understanding, that look said. Why are you back here?

He glanced over his own shoulder, hoping that Lady Caldecott would see Diana and understand. The wretched woman had gone, though. There was no Diana to be seen.

It changed nothing, though. Alexander had told Diana that he was going to dance, and so he had to dance. Abigail was eyeing him curiously, standing entirely too close. No doubt it was just the crush of the crowd, but it did make him feel uncomfortable.

Not a bad sort of uncomfortable, to his horror, but a prickling sort of attraction, something that made him want to reach out and put his hand on the smooth, pale green satin of Abigail’s evening gloves.

Stop it!

Ignoring Lady Caldecott’s glare boring into his head, Alexander addressed himself to Abigail.

“Care to dance, Miss Atwater?”

Something crossed her face. Surprise, perhaps? Excitement? It wasn’t as if she could refuse him, not without giving up the opportunity to dance for the rest of the evening.

“Of course,” Abigail managed, a bit too late. She didn’t, he noticed, look at her aunt at all. “Here is my dance card, and…”

Alexander waved the thing away. “I thought we dance right now. For the set which is just starting.”

She blinked. “Right. Well, if you’ll just write your name…”

“No time,” he said abruptly, well aware that he was not acting like a proper gentleman but not able to summon up the energy to care. With poor Lady Caldecott’s eyes almost popping out of her head, Alexander snatched Miss Atwater’s silken glove and towed her away towards the dance floor.

Just in time. They’d only just taken up their places when the music began in earnest, and the dance began.

A waltz, Alexander realized with a sinking heart. He cleared his throat, glancing down at his partner.

Abigail was looking up at him with that curious, intent look on her face again.

“It’s a waltz,” he said.

“Yes, I know.”

“Do… do you have permission to dance the waltz?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I always thought it rather shocking that ladies couldn’t decide for themselves whether or not they wanted to dance a particular dance.”

“Does that refer to the waltz, or the fact I all but dragged you onto the floor?”

Her face relaxed into a smile. “I suppose you’ll have to guess. But to answer your question, yes, I do have permission to dance the waltz.”

“Good, good,” he mumbled, scanning the surrounding faces for Diana. He didn’t see her.

She was there, though. She was always there, and she missed nothing .