What could one say to such a request? No, she supposed, if one disliked the gentleman. She did not dislike Mr. Chamberlain.
“I see that my audacity has silenced you,” he said. “And I suppose it is difficult to say a polite ‘Yes, sir,’ to such a question. I hope it would not be so hard to say ‘No, sir,’ if that is what you wish to say.”
She saw him smile in the darkness before setting one armabout her shoulders, lifting her chin with his free hand, and lowering his mouth to hers.
It was warm, firm, pleasant. He did not prolong the embrace.
“I wait meekly for a stinging slap on the cheek,” he said, withdrawing his arm and hand and sitting upright again. “None? I hope I have not offended you. Have I?”
“No,” she said.
“I shall look forward to seeing you in a few days’ time,” he said. “Perhaps we will even be able to exchange a few words above the shrieking of the children. Birthdays always cause more noise than any two other occasions combined. Have you noticed?”
He waited for his coachman to put down the steps before descending to the wet terrace in order to hand her out. He escorted her up the steps to the main doors, rapped on them, and bowed over her hand, raising it to his lips, before turning to leave.
“Thank you for your company, Miss Hamilton,” he said. “I have enjoyed the evening more than I can say.”
“So have I,” she said. “Good night, sir.”
She looked about her as the door closed, half-expecting Matthew or the duke to step out of the shadows. But there was no one except the lone footman who had opened the door.
She ran up the stairs and along to her room. She undressed quickly and climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up about her ears.
She would think only of the evening. At least for one night she would go to sleep happy. She thought about Mr. Chamberlain and his friendly humor. And about his kiss. And she wished that life could have started a little less than a month ago. She wished that there were no Matthew and no Hobson’s body lying under the ground somewhere close to Heron House. She wished there had been no London, no necessity ofremaining alive there. No Duke of Ridgeway. She even wished in some strange way that there had been no Daniel.
She wished there had been only Willoughby Hall and Mr. Chamberlain.
She thought again of his kiss, which she must not allow to be repeated. And of his attentions, which she must not encourage.
And she remembered warm strong arms tight about her, and a strong-muscled chest against her cheek, and a strongly beating heart against her ear. And she thought of waltzing with a partner who twirled her about with a firm hand at her waist and whose cologne had been a part of the beauty of the night.
She burrowed her head farther beneath the blankets.
THE FOLLOWING DAY CONTINUED WET. The duke rode out in the afternoon with two of his more hardy guests to call upon some of his tenants. When they returned, too late for tea, it was to discover that the entertainment for the evening had been arranged already. Everyone was tired of charades, Lady Underwood informed him, meeting him in the great hall. They were going to dance in the drawing room.
“Indeed?” he said. “And who is to play for us? Miss Dobbin?”
“She is quite willing to do so,” Lady Underwood said, “but Walter insists that she be free to dance at least some of the time. Have you noticed that he is quite smitten with her, Adam? And have you noticed that I am less than smitten with Philip but have to make do with him in order to avoid dreadful boredom, you annoying man?”
“Well,” he said with a smile, “you will have dancing to entertain you for this evening, it seems. Who is to play when Miss Dobbin is dancing?”
“Oh, the governess,” she said. “It is all arranged.”
“Is it?” he said. “At whose suggestion, pray?”
“Matthew’s, of course,” she said. “He claims to have a slight acquaintance with her. I believe it is considerably more than slight, but only time will prove me right or wrong on that. Anyway, she is to play. Do tell me you will waltz every waltz with me, Adam. You do it so divinely.”
“I will be honored to dance the first with you,” he said. “Pardon me, ma’am, I must change out of these wet clothes.”
Did Fleur know how her evening had been organized? he wondered. Had she been consulted? Had she been told or asked? And did she think him responsible again for making use of her talents? He winced at the possibility. She was employed as Pamela’s governess, not as entertainer for his guests.
He wondered if anyone had thought of such details as having the furniture moved back in the drawing room and the carpet rolled up and music brought from the music room. He would wager no one had.
FLEUR HAD BEEN LOOKING FORWARDto a quiet evening with her embroidery in Mrs. Laycock’s sitting room. But just after lessons had finished in the afternoon she had been handed a hastily scrawled note from her grace, summoning her to play the pianoforte for a dance in the evening.
She was not unduly upset. She had been half-expecting some summons from Matthew, and while this might well be it, at least she would be in the drawing room in company with all the guests. She would not be alone with him.
A line of footmen was still busy rolling the carpet when she arrived in the drawing room. She walked back to the hall to wait until the room was ready for her. And she looked about her at the magnificence of it all.
