The Waltzing Widow Page 11

  William smiled at his grandmother. He was fond of her in a way, but nothing so strong as his sister's all-encompassing affection for the silly old woman, as he privately thought of her. “Perhaps I shall sometime,” he said. His eyes lighted up at sight of his grandfather, however. He held out his hand to the viscount. “Sir! It is a pleasure to see you here."

  Viscount Catlin took hold of his grandson's hand and returned the boy's smile. His cold eyes had lost a measure of their usual frost. “William. You do well by that uniform."

  Viscountess Catlin had at last come around to noticing her daughter. “Oh, Mary. That is quite a fetching cap. You must give me the name of your milliner, to be sure."

  Lady Mary smiled slightly. She was beginning to wonder whether Abigail had not been right in insisting that her caps were not quite the style for her. First the Comte l'Buc and now her mother! She held out her hand to the viscountess. “Good afternoon, my lady. We shall be taking tea in a few minutes. Will you and my father not join us?"

  The viscount heard her and turned around. “No, we shall not. We but stopped for a moment."

  "We are on our way to tea with Lady Charlotte Greville, actually. I only wished to see my dear Abigail, and I am very happy that William chances to be here as well. Abigail, I have brought a little trifle for you that I found whilst shopping today.” Viscountess Catlin pulled open her reticule and gave a small beribboned box into her granddaughter's hand.

  "Oh, Grandmama, you should not have,” Abigail said, throwing a quick glance at her mother's face, half-fearful that the viscountess's favoritism would anger her mother. But Lady Mary's expression was only one of mild interest, and, reassured, Abigail opened the jeweler's box. Her eyes rounded and she gasped. “Oh, oh, oh!"

  William bent forward. His brows shot up, and when he glanced at his grandmother, there was a curiously censuring light in his eyes. “Diamond studs, Grandmama? My sister is a bit young to wear something so extravagant, I think."

  Viscountess Catlin laughed a little and waved aside her grandson's quiet objection. “You are as conservative as your mother, dear William.'’ She did not sound as though she were conveying a compliment. “Try them on, Abigail, so that I might see how well they look on you."

  Abigail gently closed the box. She might chafe still at her mother's opinion, but she listened very closely to all that her brother ever said. “Thank you, Grandmama. They are truly beautiful, and so special that I shall save them for my marriage day,” she said quietly.

  Viscount Catlin smiled faintly. His eyes mocked his wife's startled expression."You have been rolled up, my dear wife,'’ he said softly.

  The viscountess trembled, scarcely able to contain the smarting of her pride. But she was not one to openly counter the convention of reserve with an outburst of emotion. She tinkled a little laugh. “Was that not the Comte l'Buc that I saw leaving when we arrived, Victor? It was a pleasant surprise to discover that he had come to call upon you, Abigail, to be sure.''

  "Oh, the comte did not come to call upon me, but on Mama.'’ Abigail saw at once by the slightest change in her mother's expression that she had said the wrong thing, but she did not understand why.

  Viscountess Catlin was rendered speechless. It was the viscount's sardonic laughter that freed her tongue. Two spots of angry color appeared in her cheeks. “Well, Mary! You have stooped rather low, have you not? I would not have suspected you capable of stealing your own daughter's beaux!"

  "Really, Mother,” Lady Mary said, her sangfroid shaken for once.

  "Why, it is no such thing, Grandmama!” Abigail exclaimed, astonished by such a ludicrous suggestion.

  William turned to the viscount. His countenance had grown surprisingly stem. “Sir, I must object. My grandmother is obviously laboring under some misguided notion of her own that leads her to an insult of my mother. I shall not stand by while she does so."

  Viscount Catlin regarded his grandson for several seconds. He respected strength above all else, and he was at once surprised and pleased to discover that his grandson should apparently possess it in full measure. The eager boy had grown into a man of determination, he thought. He bowed. “I agree that it is time for us to take our leave, William."

  "I am not ready to leave, husband,” Viscountess Catlin's eyes glittered. “There are yet a few choice words I wish to say, and—"

  The viscount's hand fell upon her arm. The pressure of his fingers was unmistakable. “Tea awaits us, my dear.” The viscountess had no choice but to submit to her husband's wishes. She did so with a miffed air, tossing her head. Viscount Catlin gazed at Lady Mary for just a second before he escorted the viscountess from the drawing room.

  "Well! I have never, never heard Grandmama utter such nonsense in my life. As though you would—or, if it comes to that, could—steal my beaux,” Abigail said with quite unconscious vanity. She looked earnestly at her mother. “I do not in the least regard anything that Grandmama said, Mama.''

  "I am glad of it, Abby,'’ Lady Mary said. She was seething with anger, but little sign of it appeared in her expression. Only the slightest quiver in her voice betrayed her. Deliberately she changed the subject. “Shall I ring for tea?"

  "Do that, Mama. I should like to wash the taste of this entire afternoon out of my mouth,” William said. He twitched one of his sister's glossy curls. “By the by, I am glad that you do not mean to wear those earrings just yet, Abby. They belong on a married woman, not on a miss who has not yet cut all of her teeth."

  "William, you can be so disgustingly earthy,” Abigail complained, but she was smiling. She handed the jeweler's box to her mother. “I should like you to safeguard this for me, Mama. I might be tempted otherwise. They are such pretty earrings."

  Pulling on the bell rope for tea to be brought in, Lady Mary smiled at her daughter as she slipped the box into her pocket. “I shall be honored to do so, Abigail."

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  Chapter 13

  Lady Mary forgot the viscountess's accusation very quickly. The fact that Abigail had not seemed to be affected by the poisonous suggestion made it easy for her to do so.

  The whirl of social obligations contributed much to her sanguine attitude, centering as it did around the Earl of Kenmare. At whatever of the numerous functions that she chaperoned Abigail to, Lord Kenmare never failed to request her to dance with him, and often reserved her hand for supper. Lady Mary was always happy in his company and she never questioned the wisdom of being seen so much with him. After all, Lord Kenmare paid charming compliments to her daughter, and as far as anyone knew, he was interested in Abigail. That was a thought on which Lady Mary preferred not to dwell. Instead she accepted his lordship's most flattering attentions as part and parcel of the high gaiety of the Season.

  The prospect of war seemed to have been all but forgotten. Napoleon Bonaparte's astonishing welcome in France was still a topic of interest—that could not be denied. But everyone preferred to think of him as a bad dream that one vaguely recalls upon waking. Lady Mary herself had at some point stopped noticing the ubiquitous uniforms as anything more than a smart form of attire that admirably suited the young gentlemen.

  Lady Mary's enhanced enjoyment of the Season was high the evening that she attended a party at Lady Charlotte Greville's toward the end of April. She had just seen Abigail off on the arm of an admirer and had herself returned to her seat after a set and begun to fan her warm face when she overheard Mr. Creevey address the Duke of Wellington.

  "Your grace, what is your opinion of Napoleon Bonaparte's chances?” Mr. Creevey asked.

  Lady Mary was not the only one who turned an interested ear to hear the duke's reply. Those around immediately abandoned their own conversations to listen.

  "Why, Creevey, Bonaparte will not fight the allies. No, I believe a republic is about to be got up in Paris by Camot, Lucien Bonaparte, and the rest,” Wellington said.

  Lady Mary noted that Mr. Creevey's expression was one of greatest surprise. She slo
wly closed her fan, waiting for the gentleman to speak. Mr. Creevey chose to use a broad allusion to the theater. “If it is with the consent of Manager Bonaparte, then of what nature will the piece be?” he said.

  Wellington brayed his trademark horse's laugh. “No doubt it will be a tragedy by Bonaparte's standards. They will be at him by stiletto or otherwise in a very few weeks,” he said confidently.

  Mr. Creevey frowned. “I would have thought the odds to be in favor of the old performer against the new ones, your grace."

  "No such thing, Creevey, no such thing,” the duke answered. He passed on, and those standing about resumed their own conversations, which now inevitably included much repeating of Wellington's opinion.

  As Mr. Creevey passed her, Lady Mary quietly hailed him. “Mr. Creevey, I could not but overhear your conversation with the duke. What do you think of his grace's words? Why, it sounded as though he did not think we are to go to war at all, as we have all heard before to be a certainty. How glad I would be if that were truly the case!"

  "You have asked my opinion, my lady, and I shall give it to you frankly.” Mr. Creevey was apparently in the throes of some disturbing emotion."I think that his grace must be drunk! Anyone of plain common sense must see that we are shaping up for a fight. Indeed, I believe it to be inevitable."

  After a very few words more, Lady Mary allowed Mr. Creevey to depart. With a tiny frown between her brows, she thought over what he had told her. She knew him to be a truthful gentleman of impeccable intelligence, being himself a barrister and a member of the Whig party in Parliament. Mr. Creevey was known by everyone and was acknowledged by even the highest-placed personages. It was extremely doubtful that Mr. Creevey should ever be misled by false information.

  In light of all that she knew about Mr. Creevey, the Duke of Wellington's assertion to the contrary just a few moments before seemed extremely odd, especially coming as it did from a military man of some genius.

  Lady Mary began to have an inkling of suspicion that the duke was playing a very deep game indeed. As she thought over the past month since Wellington's arrival in Brussels, she recalled that his grace had always brushed aside the gloomier predictions and had maintained an imperturbable joviality, whether he was in attendance at someone else's function or while entertaining at his own residence. The duke's demeanor had served to spread calm over the sense of panic that had begun to grip the entire populace of Brussels. Indeed, if he had shown the least degree of worry in the face of the rumors, Lady Mary had not a single doubt that the social Season would be far less enjoyable.

  Lady Mary thought the conclusion inescapable. The Duke of Wellington was deliberately maintaining a façade of unconcern in order to keep panic among the populace at bay. Therefore, war was indeed hovering on the horizon.

  It was not a comforting thought, and did much to destroy the ambience that had recently fallen upon her during the past few weeks.

  Lady Mary glanced about her, and suddenly to her eyes the laughing people and the gay music and the dancing seemed but a caricature of reality. She began to feel stifled. She abruptly rose from her chair and began to walk across the room towards the doors leading out to the garden and the cool of the night air.

  The Comte l'Buc watched Lady Mary slip out of the ballroom in the direction of the gardens. He stroked his mustache, his teeth white beneath it. The opportunity to discover the lady alone in the gardens was one that should not be lightly dismissed. It was true that Lady Mary had not seemed particularly receptive to his offerings of nosegays and candies since he had called upon her. But his black eyes gleamed at the thought of a tryst in the garden. He flattered himself that there were few his equal at initiating lovemaking by moonlight. The comte sauntered after Lady Mary, glancing once behind him at the oblivious crowd before he exited.

  The garden was lovely, drenched with plays of shadow and silver moonlight. Lady Mary walked leisurely between the hedges and rosebeds, stopping now and again to bend to the fragrance of a bloom. Already her nerves had steadied. She wondered at herself, but supposed that it was simply the shattering of the fantasy that they all lived in that had so unsettled her. She would do better now that she was prepared for the worst, she thought, rather than have it come upon her with no other warning than the call to arms. She shuddered, knowing that she would never become resigned to the thought of her son going off to war. But at least William was safer than many others. His division had been given the task of garrisoning the town, and so she imagined that the Fifth Division would probably be the last ordered up.

  Discovering herself to be standing beside a stone bench, Lady Mary sat down. She was not quite ready to return to the fantasy world of laughter and amusements. She contemplated the blooming roses, allowing the cool breeze sighing among the hedges to complete the job of soothing her nerves.

  Lady Mary had no inkling that she was stalked until a heavy arm slipped over her shoulders. She gasped, startling away, but found that she was lightly pinned against a broad expanse of waistcoat. The man's wide hand had come lightly down over her eyes. His breath was unpleasantly close on her neck.

  "I give you three guesses, my lady,” he breathed in her ear.

  "Whoever you are, release me this instant,” Lady Mary exclaimed furiously. She was too angry to be afraid. The house with its windows shining elongated panes of blazing light was but a few steps distant. She could distinctly hear the laughter and the indistinguishable commotion of conversation. It was absurd to be frightened, yet her heart beat wildly in her breast.

  Soft laughter brushed her ears. “Naughty, naughty. One must play the game or pay a forfeit.” The arm over her shoulders shifted. The hand blinding her left her eyes only to capture her chin. There was a blur of motion, then heavy lips came down on hers. The kiss was expert and forceful.

  Lady Mary struggled. The man's arm pressed into her back like steel and he held her with apparent ease, arched and captive against his wide torso. Lady Mary twisted her head, wrenching her mouth momentarily free. Soft bristles slid over her cheek. “No..."

  He recaptured her mouth, cutting her off in mid-cry. Her lips were still parted. The comte took instant advantage, pushing past her resistance like a knife through butter, pillaging her mouth. Lady Mary felt wavering on a swoon with that greedy and yet not entirely unpleasant stroking. Triggered memories of turbulent emotions, long-buried passions, stirred, and she was abruptly acquiescent under the deepened and prolonged kiss.

  The hand was no longer imprisoning her chin. Instead her breast was warmly encompassed.

  The shocking touch tore Lady Mary out of the seductive trance to which she had unwittingly fallen prey. She twisted and fought like a wild thing, and suddenly she was free. The warmth of the man was replaced by a cold slap of night air. She heard a muffled curse, the crack of bone on bone.

  Dazed, she sat up. As she did so she realized that she had been lying prone on the stone bench, that her gown was disarranged. She pulled up her gown, which had been pulled off one shoulder, and stood up to shake the creases out of her skirt. It was then that she saw a figure staggering off through the hedges. “But who...?"

  "It was the Comte l'Buc."

  Lady Mary whirled on a gasp.

  The Earl of Kenmare stood behind the bench. There was a grim set to his expression that was made starker by the moonlight. In his hand dangled a lace cap. Lady Mary's hands flew to her head, but her questing fingers discovered her hair bare of adornment. “I believe that cap to be mine,” she said inanely.

  He came around the stone bench to give it to her.

  Her hands were shaking so that she could not take hold of the cap, she discovered. “I ... I am sorry, my lord. But I seem quite incapable of helping myself,” Lady Mary said, holding out her hands in attestment. “Could ... could you possibly put it on for me?"

  Without a word, Lord Kenmare stepped closer and reached up to settle the lace cap on her soft hair. The faintest scent of sandalwood surrounded her. Lady Mary was watching his face, w
hen he suddenly glanced down and met her gaze. The pulse fluttered in her throat at what she saw in his eyes. She wanted desperately to look elsewhere, but she could not.

  The earl slowly dropped his hands to her shoulders. Slowly, gently, he shook his head. “Foolish, idiotic woman, coming into the gardens without escort,” he murmured.

  "How did you know?” she whispered.

  The corner of Lord Kenmare's mouth quirked upward. “I, too, had designs on your virtue, my lady,” he said quietly. “But the comte was before me. I was never more enraged in my life to be so upstaged."

  "And so you hit him,'’ Lady Mary said, recalling that peculiar sound of cracked bone. She gave a faint smile. “I thank you for your chivalric instincts, my lord.” He laughed and his hands tightened momentarily on her shoulders.

  The beginning strains of a waltz came distinctly across the hedges and rosebeds. Lord Kenmare lifted his head to listen a few seconds, then glanced down at the lady with him. He stepped back from her so that he could make a low bow. “Pray, will the lady honor me?” he asked.

  Lady Mary was enchanted by the suggestion. The roses drenched with moonlight, the handsome gentleman awaiting her answer, appealed to her sensitive and heightened emotions. She curtsied, and without a word went into his arms.

  They danced in elegant splendor, alone in the moonlit garden. As they turned again and again, Lady Mary's gown stood out, brushing against the blooming roses until the delicate heady perfume filled the night air. The cool breeze of their movement brushed their faces, stirred their hair.

  Lady Mary felt the warmth of his hand on hers, the strength of the arm that held her so near to him. Her eyes never strayed from his, nor did his gaze waver from her face. She had not a thought in her head, having given her soul away to the melody of the waltz that had entered her very blood.