She danced as if she had all the stars at her feet, as if she were supreme among them, as if they must surely pay her homage. She danced on air. It seemed as if her silk slippers scarcely touched the floor. And she danced to some inner vision that set her face glowing though she did not once smile.
She was a child with so much beauty, so much imagination, so much passion locked within that one could only guess at the full extent of them and marvel at the occasional glimpse into the treasure that was Rachel.
She looked a little bewildered for a moment when she was finished. But when everyone clapped, she dipped rather stiffly into the curtsy she had practiced. And suddenly she looked again simply the rather plain, grave little girl she usually was.
The earl turned his gaze on Christina. She was not clapping. She was holding Tess and looking as if she had been sculpted of marble. Her face was pale in the candlelight. But when Rachel went to her, she hugged her close with her free arm in such a way that he could no longer see her face.
He did not know if he had made a mistake, if he had taken an unpardonable liberty with her daughter. He tried to feel the old irritation. If she was such a killjoy that she could not bear to see Rachel dance when the child was so very gifted, then perhaps she deserved to be shaken up.
But he could not feel irritation. Only anxiety, Rachel was her daughter, and she was a good mother. They were essentially strangers to him. He knew almost nothing of their lives as they had been lived before his appearance a week and a half ago. How could he presume to know what was best for her child?
Suddenly he felt depressed. Suddenly he wished he had not leaped so impetuously into this plan of coming to Thornwood for Christmas. He should have stayed away. The memories were going to be very sweet, it was true.
They were also going to be unbearable.
The concert was over. Christina had hugged and kissed her children and sent them off to bed with their nurse. Her presence was needed in the drawing room, where everyone was to gather for tea and conversation. After a long and busy day, no one seemed eager to see it end.
But she could not bear to be with everyone else just yet. She felt pained, desolate, guilty, bewildered—she did not know quite what word to put to her feelings except that they were hard to bear and harder to hide.
She let herself quietly into the state dining room, which was in darkness now though she could see quite clearly— the night sky beyond the windows was bright with moonlight and starlight just as it had been the night before. She moved to the table and set her hand on the back of the chair at its head. Where he had sat tonight. Already it seemed like a dream. Already she felt the painful loneliness of the coming weeks and months—perhaps years.
When the door opened and someone stepped inside and closed the door behind him, she felt her heart leap for one moment. But it was not so very dark. She could see clearly enough that it was not he.
“The room is rarely used,” she said. “I enjoyed sitting in here tonight.”
“So did I,” Viscount Luttrell said, strolling toward her. “The candlelight was full on your face and your gown. It was difficult to keep my attention on my food. I understand, though, that it was appetizing fare.”
She smiled at him.
She could have moved away. She could have turned the moment. But she was feeling bruised and lonely and upset, and for a moment too long she thought that she might find comfort in human contact. She made no resistance when he took her in his arms, though there was no mistletoe as excuse this time, or when his mouth came down open on hers. She even relaxed almost gratefully against him. But she drew back when she felt his hand on her bosom.
“Yes,” he agreed softly against her lips. “Thatwasindiscreet. My bedchamber later? There is a lock on the door and even a key, I am delighted to say. I am sure you can contrive to get there and back without being seen.”
“No,” she said with a sigh she had not intended to be audible. “You have misunderstood, my lord.”
“Have I?” He still held her close. He looked deep into her eyes in the near-darkness. “Yes, by Jove, I have. You are no tease, are you? No with you means no. What a regrettable fact. You do not by any chance mean no tonight but perhaps yes tomorrow, do you?”
“No,” she said.
“No,” he repeated, “I did not think so. I do not often miscalculate.” He loosened his hold on her. “I beg your pardon if I have caused you distress.”
“You have not,” she said. “Perhaps under different circumstances—” But she stopped abruptly, bit her lip, and then laughed.
He chuckled too and released her. “One can only imagine what those circumstances might be and regret that they cannot be contrived,” he said. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room?” He bowed and offered his arm.
But she shook her head. “Later,” she said. “There is something I must do first.”
There was not, of course. She wandered about the room after he had left, wishing that she had a shawl with her for greater comfort. She wondered how possible it was going to be to start a new life. She had married at the age of eighteen and had been wed for nine years, nine of the formative years of her life. She was now eight-and-twenty, with no idea how to be happy except in brief moments, and no idea how to create happiness about her. She only knew how to retreat inward to avoid pain.
And she feared that Rachel had learned the lesson as effectively as she.
It was for Rachel that she grieved tonight. If it was too late for her to change the direction of her own life, so be it. But something had to be done for Rachel. She owed it to her daughter....
The door opened again and then closed behind the back of another man. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. There was no mistaking his identity even for a moment.
“I have brought you a shawl,” he said, coming toward her. “Luttrell told me you had come in here.”
It was a warm woolen shawl. He set it about her shoulders and she held it close.
