Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

F rederick's heart raced as he led Miss Dowding to the dance floor. Sweaty palms. A slight shaking of his knees. Even his stomach felt knotted in ways that might suggest that he was nervous. An avid dancer, more than able on his feet, the prospect of dancing before the party's guests had nothing to do with this sudden onset of palpitations. That was the result of his dancing partner.

It was just a dance, he told himself. Done for the sake of his daughter, whom he could now see watching him with confusion as he and Miss Dowding took up their places beside the other couples. She would watch, and she would learn, and Frederick would go to bed tonight able to convince himself that what was done here was for her education and her education only.

Not the first time that Frederick had lied to himself today. And it certainly would not be the last.

"Are you familiar with the waltz?" Frederick asked as he stepped into Miss Dowding, running his hand down her back until it rested on her hip.

He felt her take a sharp breath, body turning stiff at his touch only to slowly relax as their hands met, his on top, taking the lead.

"I am," she said, her voice shaking. "I am better at the cotillion, of course. And the scotch reel is my favorite. But I do not mind a waltz."

"Some say that it is inappropriate," Frederick said, his voice low. "But I find it far more personal. All this changing of partners and the constant jumping about, far too boisterous."

"Yes, a little too much fun," she ginned wickedly.

"My meaning is I invited you to dance." He looked right at her, and she swallowed as his meaning became clear. "Not another."

"I…" She swallowed again. "I could not agree more."

Silence fell between them as they readied for the music. So close, his body pressed against Miss Dowding's, that he could feel her heart beating as if she had run a mile… or perhaps that was his own? Indeed, she was shaking in his grip, but she stayed close, like she was nearly wrapped around him, the thin linen of her dress providing little protection for her bare skin which he could feel .

And then the music started slowly as did their waltz. To and fro they moved, him leading, her following. They did not speak at first, almost purposefully, as if both had suddenly come to realize how terrible of an idea this dance was.

But was it such a bad idea?

His conversation with Miss Dowding just now had caught him by complete surprise. And not just because of how honest they had been with one another but in how easy it was too. The same bickering that they had become known for, but with a casual air to it, a comfort that he had rarely felt with anybody before.

Frederick had thought her to be rude and highly stubborn. He had assumed that she hated him and that he might dislike her just as much. An attraction brought about by fire and nothing more, it seemed, hardly worth pursuing. Only… now he wondered if he had been wrong.

And what was more, as they danced, and as he felt people watching them, not even caring that they were, Frederick began to consider what his grandmother had spoken about and been so eager to bring up whenever she could: that it was time he found himself a wife.

"I think you undersold yourself," he said as they danced, the tempo increasing. "Your dancing skills, I mean."

She looked at him flatly. "Are you mocking me, Your Grace?"

"For once, I am not."

"Oh…" She blushed and looked away. "Thank you. And you also, very adept."

He laughed. "Careful, pay me too many compliments, and it might just go to me head."

"And it is big enough already," she grinned.

"Easy…" he warned her jokingly. "I can only be so forgiving."

"Oh, Your Grace, you have seen nothing yet." Her eyes flashed suggestively, and he felt his pulse quicken.

He hadn't seen anything yet… Frederick could not help but think of the implication. What he had not seen and what he would very much like to. With Caroline's body pressed so closely, with that darn dress she had on, his eyes flicked south, mind now picturing how she might look out of that dress, on top of him, moaning and panting and?—

Frederick snapped himself out of it. This frame of thoughts was a bad idea with so many people watching, so Frederick concentrated again on the waltz. His grip was tight around her waist, and he held her close, leading her to the right. Her feet moved with his, their rhythm matched perfectly, and they were one and the same.

"So, tell me…" He cleared his throat, attempting to keep the conversation light. At least for now. "If you do not mind me asking, my daughter told me a little of your circumstances, and I was wondering if it was true? Or how much of it was."

A flash of worry behind her eyes, and Frederick thought for a moment that he had asked the wrong question. But she was quick to recover, shaking her head and scoffing. "Likely, it all is." A beat. "What did she say?"

"That you were set to be married, only to be left at the altar?"

She nodded her head solemnly. "Alas, your daughter speaks the truth. Frankly, I am just impressed she didn't make me out to be some sort of sob story, for I would prefer if it did not come across that way."

"And your father," His Grace continued, "was planning on sending you to a nunnery? To avoid the scandal?"

She clicked her tongue. "Another truth. Two for two."

"Which is why you ran away," he pressed, sensing that he was being given an opening to do such a thing, "finding yourself on my grandmother's doorstep."

"It seems that nothing has been left out," she chuckled. "Unless you wish for me to detail the last two years spent with your grandmother? I promise you there are some stories there that will make your hair curl."

"No, no, I prefer to imagine," he laughed. "Forgive me for saying, but you seem to be taking it all rather well. I know if such a thing was to happen to Isabella… well, I do not know what I would do. But if she ran away as you did…" He hesitated. "I think I would tear the world apart looking for her. With worry is my meaning."

To that, Caroline frowned… and for a moment he could see a look behind her eyes that spoke of worry, a suggestion that she was putting on this air of humor to cover for something. Likely, how right Frederick was.

"My father is not like you," she said simply… a little vaguely, her mind clearly elsewhere. "Hopefully, he does not care where I have gone."

"That is not…" Frederick leaned back. "That cannot be true. Surely, he must be worried."

"Worried?" she laughed bitterly. "Angry, more like. Tearing the world apart for a different reason."

"But—"

"No, no," she cut him off, raising both eyebrows at him in warning. "You asked your question, so now, I get to ask mine."

He knew what was coming, and his stomach twisted as was to be expected. "Which is…?"

"I have not asked Isabella because I did not think it was something that she wished to speak of. But she has mentioned her mother a few times in passing, never actually saying what happened to her. Where she is or why she left. Forgive me, but I was hoping you might…" She bit into her lip. "I would very much like to know. If that is all right?"

If she had asked him this just an hour ago, he would have denied her. A few days ago, and he might have snapped at her, for that was what usually happened when Frederick's wife was mentioned. Followed, of course, by pain and misery and regret.

But this wasn't an hour ago. It wasn't a few days ago. It was here and now, and for that reason, Frederick felt comfortable enough to tell Miss Dowding the truth, knowing that for once it might not break him.

"You know that I was married," he began with a sigh, making sure to keep his rhythm as they danced. The tempo was still fast paced, contrasting greatly with the sorrowful story he was about to tell. "And that Isabella was the product of this marriage."

"I had guessed," she tittered.

"Sadly, Isabella was the only good to come from that marriage…" He tried to keep his voice from turning bitter. "I thank God every day that she came into my life, and nothing will change that. Only, deep down, a small part of me wishes that when I think of Isabella, I did not have to pair it with what may have been the worse years of my life."

Miss Dowding's brow creased. "It was that bad?"

"My wife hated me," he sighed, looking away. "Despised me, more like. And she was not shy in letting me know it. In fact, I suspect the only reason that she stayed around as long as she did was so that she could give birth, hoping most likely that Isabella was a boy and her duty to me would be done."

"Stayed around?" she asked, her voice hesitant. "What does that…" She trailed off when she saw the look in Frederick's eye. "Oh no."

"Isabella believes that her mother died due to sickness," he said, voice cracking. "It is easier on her, so please do not begrudge me. The truth is…" He swallowed the lump in his throat. "She killed herself. She killed herself because of the hate she bore me. So much loathing that even the birth of her daughter was not reason enough to stay her hand."

"Your Grace…" Her chin wobbled, and he could see the pain in her eyes. "I am so?—"

"Do not say you are sorry," he cut her off. "I have heard that enough from people who are most decidedly not sorry. I am sad for what happened, but as awful as that marriage was, it brought me Isabella. So, for that, I am grateful." He hated speaking of his ex-wife. Partly it was anger for what had happened and partly it was guilt, for he could not escape the feeling that he was to blame, even if he did not want it.

"And that is why…" She hesitated at the question, a look on her face that suggested she was about to go too far.

"Speak your question," he commanded of her, making sure to smirk so that she might see he was not angry.

"Isabella," Miss Dowding started carefully, refusing to look up and meet his eyes. "That is why you are so harsh with her?"

"Am I?" he asked. "Harsh?"

She scoffed. "I was being kind in my wording, Your Grace. Some might say that you are rather, how best to put this? Strict. And then some. It just seems a tad overzealous is my thinking." And then she added quickly, "Forgive me for saying."

Frederick nodded his understanding, not at all upset at the question, for he was feeling far more comfortable with Miss Dowding than he could have possibly imagined. "You are right, strict is perhaps the term I would use. But it is not meant to be malicious."

"I did not say it was."

"I want what is best for her," he said rightly. "That is all I wish for. You were fortunate not to meet my father…" A bitter chuckle. "A cold man if there ever was one. The way he raised me would make the way I treat Isabella look lax, even uncaring. I want her to be happy, Miss Dowding, I do. But I also wish for what is best, and I suppose that something…" He could not help but smile at the admittance. "… sometimes, I may go a tad too far."

"Only a tad?" she grinned.

"Careful," he warned jokingly. "I did just tell you a heartfelt story about my deceased wife, remember? Surely, I am owed some sympathy."

Miss Dowding did not speak for a few moments after that. Brow furrowed. Face pained. She studied Frederick in a way that suggested she was seeing him for the first time. He tried to appear brave, as if the story did not crush him, but he could only do so much.

Why had Frederick not wished to marry since the death of his wife? Driving a woman to suicide, knowing you were to blame, was as good a reason as any.

"Let us not dwell on that," Miss Dowding said eventually. "It is too nice a day for such stories."

"I could not agree more," he chuckled just as the music began to slow. Still holding her tight, they matched pace as they came to a gentle stop. And once they did, Frederick did not let Miss Dowding go, and she did not step away. They stayed close, holding the other, alone in the world it seemed for the way they stared…

"Say," he began, if for no other reason than to break the tension, "would you care for another drink?"

"I thought you would never ask," she said with a smile.

He stepped back, keeping a hold of her hand, and led her back into the garden party. As he did, he caught sight of his grandmother watching him, a knowing smile on her lips, but Frederick did not care. If anything, he relished it.