The Earl’s Intended Wife Read online

  The orchestra was playing some light airs while the main press of guests arrived, giving Hebe time to look around her. Everywhere there were friends and acquaintances, and a good number of strangers, for Mrs Forrester had sent out invitations far and wide. But there was no sign of Alex.

  Hebe soon found herself scribbling in her card as gentleman after gentleman asked her for a dance, but she kept the first waltz, a country dance, and rebelliously, a cotillion, free. If Alex pressed her she would agree to a third dance with him, however fast that made her look. If he asked her…if he was here.

  She followed Sara to where a group of matrons were gesturing for their friend to join them. As she passed along she heard one lady say, ‘Who is that charming gel in the white Grecian gown? Goodness! Not that dab of a Carlton gel…’ She blushed slightly, but the sensation of being admired was too pleasant to object to.

  She sat with the group of ladies, quietly as befitted a débutante, and scanned the room as unobtrusively as she could. The waltz was the first dance: Mrs Forrester had stuck by her intention of being ‘dashing’. The orchestra had stopped playing their light airs and were adjusting music on their stands. Any moment now, they would begin. Hebe tried to keep the disappointment off her face. Alex Beresford was not here, he would not see her lovely gown, she would not discover what a second kiss might bring.

  ‘Mrs Carlton, ma’am. Miss Carlton, my dance I believe.’ Alex was there at her side, apparently appearing from nowhere. His scarlet dress-coat glittered with gold lace, his hair had been newly cut and showed pale skin at his temples and nape against his tan, his blue eyes looked at Hebe as though there was no other lady in the room.

  Mrs Carlton opened her mouth to express her doubts about her daughter participating in the first waltz, but it was too late, Hebe was out on the floor, her hand in Alex’s, the centre of attention as the onlookers craned to see who was going to be dashing enough to perform the outrageous new dance.

  Then other couples joined them and Sara Carlton sat back, fanning herself. Oh dear, if only no one thought dear Hebe fast!

  ‘Dear Hebe’ was trying not to quiver as Alex’s hand touched her at the waist. He made no attempt to grasp her, but the feel of his hand gave her the sensation of being controlled, mastered. It was surprisingly pleasant. She gathered up her skirts gracefully in her free hand and managed to meet his eyes as the first chord struck. Then they were sweeping through the other dancers, his hand guiding her, her body responsive to the slightest change of direction from his.

  Hebe managed a smile after the first few turns. ‘Oh, I was so nervous!’

  ‘Nervous?’ His eyes were darker than she had ever seen them against his tanned face. His voice sounded almost harsh and she realised he had hardly said a word.

  ‘I have never waltzed in public before,’ she confessed. ‘And never with a man.’

  He was so silent. She had expected him to ask her how she had learned, so she told him, knowing she was beginning to chatter.

  ‘Lizzie Hawkins got her dancing teacher to show us, and we all danced together. But Mama did not know I could do it; I hope she is not too shocked.’

  He was still silent, still guiding her through the other dancers with a skill that left her feeling there was no one else on the dance floor, that they could swoop and swirl here all night. ‘Alex?’

  ‘I am sorry. It is just that you look so… Circe, I never imagined… Dammit, I am stammering like a green boy!’

  ‘You think I look nice?’ she ventured. ‘I thought you might like this gown.’ She blushed, for it was not something one should discuss with a man. ‘I chose it because of you.’

  ‘Nice? No, you do not look nice, you look utterly ravishing.’ He seemed almost angry.

  Hebe looked up and caught the full power of his hawk-look. She gasped: she had never seen him look like this so close and it was as though all the breath had been sucked out of her.

  ‘I am sorry. It is just that you make me want to—’ He broke off abruptly.

  Hebe felt a tingling excitement flooding through her. Whatever it was he wanted, she wanted it too. ‘What is it you want?’ she pressed. They were both keeping their voices low and that seemed to heighten the intensity. She did not know that to those who were watching them it almost seemed as though they were quarrelling, so serious did they look, so locked were their eyes. Across the floor Sara Carlton waved her fan more rapidly and a small moan of anxiety escaped her lips.

  Alex swept Hebe into a turn, then again and again until she felt dizzy and clung more tightly to his hand. His fingers seemed to burn through her gown at her waist. She knew she was far too close to him for propriety, which decreed he should hold her almost at arm’s length. As they turned she felt her thighs brush his.

  Fiercely he said, ‘I want to take you out through those doors on to the terrace, down the steps, across the lawn and into the shadows and make love to you for the rest of the night.’

  Hebe gasped. ‘I told you that what you had was dangerous, did I not?’ he went on. ‘Enchantment, infinitely more dangerous than even beauty.’

  Hebe could hardly keep on her feet, only his hands supported her, only his will kept her eyes locked with his. Then the music came to a crescendo and the dancers swirled to a halt, clapping amid bows and curtsies.

  Hebe stood still, her hand still clasped in Alex’s. ‘I did not know, I had no idea you—’

  ‘No, neither did I. And I should have done.’ He was breathing as though he had run a race. ‘Come, let me take you back to your seat.’

  He escorted a shaking Hebe back in silence, bowed elegantly to Mrs Carlton and disappeared into the crowd. Sara looked at her stepdaughter in wide-eyed surmise. ‘What on earth? You looked as though you were quarrelling. Were you, Hebe?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she said slowly, sinking down on to the gilt chair. ‘I have no idea at all.’

  Chapter Seven

  The rest of the evening passed like a strange dream for Hebe. Alex appeared to have vanished, for although she scanned every red coat, every black head rising above shorter men, she could see no trace of him.

  Mrs Carlton was deeply concerned, convinced that Hebe had quarrelled irretrievably with the most eligible—the only eligible—man who had ever appeared to take an interest in her. Eventually Hebe’s apparent calm and the undoubted success she was having with the other young men present calmed her stepmother and she wrote the whole thing off as a lovers’ tiff. Perhaps the Major had been jealous of Hebe’s full dance card, in which case that was a very promising sign.

  Meanwhile Hebe danced every dance on the card, including the ones she had set aside for Alex, smiling and chatting and giving no sign to either the watchful matrons, her friends or her admiring partners that her mind was working furiously and her body seemed to vibrate like a plucked violin string.

  Her first surprise, as she smilingly joined a set for the cotillion, was that she did not feel upset at what had just passed between her and Alex and she set herself to work out why while her feet automatically went through the complex measures of the dance.

  There had been nothing to quarrel about, of course, whatever it might have looked like from outside. He was angry, certainly, and some of that anger was directed at her, although she could tell he was chiefly furious with himself.

  Yesterday, if someone had told her that Major Beresford was angry with her she would have been distressed and mortified. Tonight, she was not. Why not? That was the mystery. And she should have been shocked at his words: his shocking, thrilling, utterly outrageous words. But she was not.

  The cotillion ended and she found her hand claimed by Sir Richard for a country dance. If he had been her stepfather she might have confided in him, asked him why he thought Alex had reacted in that way, but she knew he would not think it proper to discuss such things with her while they could claim no relationship.

  She pushed the puzzle to the back of her mind as they whirled energetically through the dance, for he knew her too
well not to notice if she was abstracted, but she returned to it over a glass of lemonade with Jack Forrester and his sister and her partner. The others talked and laughed and Hebe joined in, but she was thinking furiously. Some instinct told her that she did not understand because she was innocent, and that very innocence was part of the problem. Some part of her, behind her disappointment that Alex had gone, behind her enjoyment of the ball and of her new gown, was quivering into life.

  Then, with a jolt that almost made her gasp out loud, she realised what it was, and what had happened with Alex. He desired her, he wanted her not as a friend, not as an embodiment of a Greek myth, not as a girl to flirt with. He wanted her physically: it was desire, and because she was innocent and unaware, he was angry with himself for feeling like that, and angry with her for arousing those feelings.

  Hebe took a long sip of lemonade and smiled at the tale Jack was telling them. Power, that was what she was feeling, growing inside her. Power over a man, power to make him feel so strongly that he had to walk out of a ball.

  It was wonderful: exciting, dangerous and…the smile slowly vanished from her lips. Frightening. She did not know what she was doing, she did not know how to control this power and she had no idea how to behave with Alex if he ever came back. Would he come back? Or would he avoid her out of a gentlemanly concern not to alarm her innocence or put her in a compromising position of any sort?

  Back home at two in the morning, Sara Carlton was relieved to see that Hebe appeared perfectly composed, if tired. If she was not cast down by Alex Beresford’s mysterious desertion, then Sara could not find it in herself to be too worried. She thought of mentioning it, then decided against it. ‘Good night, dearest, sleep well.’

  Hebe let Maria help her out of her clothes and into a wrapper but she sent the yawning maid away to her bed after that. She was tired, but far too tense to sleep. The night was hot and Hebe wandered restlessly about the room, gazing out of first one window, then another. Her room was on the corner of the house with windows on to the square, but at the side, many years ago, another house had stood. Over time it had fallen into decay and had been demolished, leaving only its ornate façade with empty windows opening on to what had become a somewhat neglected side extension of Mrs Carlton’s garden.

  Hebe’s second window with its wide balcony overlooked this nightingale-haunted tangle of shrubs and climbers; now she drew the draperies across the front window, but threw open the side one where she could stand and look out without being seen.

  She leaned against the door frame for a long while, twisting the ringlets that lay on her shoulder round and round her finger and trying hard not to think of anything at all. The nightingales were almost silent now, but every now and again a few throaty, bubbling notes came from the deep foliage, heartbreakingly lovely in the moonlight.

  With a sigh, Hebe drifted back to her dressing table and reached to pull out the pins that held her hair up in its tight knot. There was a sharp noise at the window and something rattled on the polished boards. Barefoot, Hebe padded across and picked it up. A piece of gravel. There was another impact as another missile hit the glass.

  Someone was in the garden below, throwing stones at her window. It was the only explanation, although it was surely something that only happened in novels. Drawing her wrapper tightly around her, Hebe tiptoed out on to the balcony and peered cautiously over. Alex Beresford was standing there, his head tipped to look up, his arm back ready to throw again. As he saw her he lowered his hand.

  “‘Lo, what light from yonder window shines,’” he quoted.

  ‘Shh!’ Hebe leaned out and looked to the side, but none of the windows were open, and Sara’s, thankfully, faced the back garden. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she hissed.

  ‘Come to see you.’ Alex started to unbutton his coat. ‘Is that climber well attached?’ He made no great effort to lower his voice and Hebe had a sudden suspicion he had been drinking.

  ‘I have no idea!’ He threw his coat over a bush and took hold of the thick stem, giving it an experimental shake. ‘Go away!’ The moonlight was patchy in the garden and odd splashes of stronger light came from the square through the empty windows on the old wall. Alex was hidden now in the darkness at the foot of the wall. Hebe leaned out and touched the tangle of bougainvillea and wisteria stems that were interlaced along the wrought iron of the balcony. Under her hand she felt a tremor. He had begun to climb.

  She hung over the edge, trying to see where he was. Goodness knows how strong the climber was, or how tenacious its grasp on the old walls. And if he had been drinking, he was even more likely to fall. There was a sudden explosion of noise, of spitting and yowling, and a violent curse from Alex. A large grey tomcat shot up the climber, on to the balcony, swore at Hebe and vanished up on to the roof.

  ‘Alex!’ Her heart was thudding with fright and reaction, but even leaning right out she could see no sprawled shape on the ground beneath.

  His head emerged from the darkness, level with the bottom of the balcony. There was a bleeding scratch down his cheek and several twigs in his hair. ‘Bloody…sorry, dratted cat.’ He gave a convulsive heave, got a leg on to a particularly thick horizontal branch and stood up facing her, his hands gripping the top edge of the wrought iron. Hebe found herself looking at the strong muscles defined under the thin linen shirt and forced her eyes away.

  He smiled at her and suddenly Hebe could smell the brandy. ‘You’re drunk,’ she accused.

  ‘I know.’ Alex swayed gently where he stood. There was an ominous creaking. ‘Give me a hand.’

  ‘No, I will not! What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Came to see you.’

  ‘Well, now you have seen me. Go back down at once.’ He swayed again, rather more wildly and Hebe reached out instinctively. He grasped her hands, swung a leg over the rail and was on the balcony next to her. Hebe freed her hands and regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Just how drunk are you, Alex? Or did you sway like that to make me let you on to the balcony?’

  ‘Not drunk, just well to go.’ He leaned against the door jamb, as she had a while before, and watched her.

  ‘Oh, look at you,’ she exclaimed, half-angry, half-laughing. ‘Your face is bleeding with cat scratches, your hair looks like a bird’s nest, you have torn your shirt and your cravat’s under one ear.’

  Alex reached up and tugged the cravat loose, using it to dab at his cheek. He grinned ruefully at her and Hebe’s insides seemed to contract. ‘I know: half-cut, scruffy as Hades and almost routed by a cat. Hardly the image of the perfect young lover.’

  ‘Is that what you imagine you are?’ she retorted tartly, fighting the urge to run her hands through his disordered hair and make him sit down while she bathed his cheek.

  ‘No.’ He suddenly sounded sober. With a jerk he stood upright and turned abruptly to step into her room. ‘It’s all right,’ he added as she began to protest. ‘I’ll be gone in a moment. No, what I am is a damned fool who has come to apologise.’

  ‘Could you not do that in the morning?’ Hebe asked, entering the room beside him.

  ‘That would be the sensible thing, would it not?’ He sounded bitter. ‘It is what I would have done if I had not started drinking in order to forget for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Forget? Forget this evening?’

  Alex shook his head sharply. ‘No…something else. Never mind that.’ He took a step away from her and paused by her dressing table, running his hands through the bowl of shells. ‘You kept them, then?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I looked forward to them arriving, and I felt less anxious about you when each one came.’

  He turned and looked at her, his eyes bright in the candlelight. ‘You worried about me? Why, Hebe?’

  ‘Because I thought you were probably in some danger and I worry about my friends.’ She came further into the room, trying to read his face.

  ‘Is that what I am, Circe? A friend?’ He tossed down the handful of shells, and the
crumpled cravat with its traces of blood fell on the floor.

  Hebe kept her voice as steady as she could. ‘I do not know what you are to me, Alex. You are a mystery. And sometimes I am afraid of you.’

  That brought him round sharply, a look of distress on his face. ‘I make you afraid? Hebe, I am sorry, I would never hurt you! You mean this evening, at the ball? I did not intend to frighten you.’

  ‘No,’ she said with a shake of her head. ‘Not that. When you have that fierce look, when you are like this and I do not know what you want.’

  ‘Only to see you, only to talk to you.’ He held up his hands in the fencer’s gesture of surrender and relaxed a little as she smiled at him. ‘Why did I not frighten you when we were dancing? You knew what was the matter, why I was angry. You know what I wanted, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, you told me,’ Hebe said, still managing to keep her voice steady. She wanted to go to him, hold him, wipe the trickle of blood from his cheek and that dark, tortured look out of his eyes. ‘If you hadn’t, I might not have guessed. I am not very experienced with men, you know.’

  ‘You do not have to tell me that! Why do you think I was so angry with myself?’

  ‘And with me.’

  ‘I deserve that reminder.’ He stood, looking down at the evidence of her undressing that night: the pearl earrings and necklace discarded on the dressing table, a scatter of orange blossom on the boards, one silk stocking that Maria had dropped on her way out. He stooped and picked it up, letting it hang from his fingers. ‘If you weren’t so sheltered, so innocent.’

  ‘I might be sheltered and inexperienced,’ Hebe observed tartly, ‘but I am hardly innocent. I understand exactly what the matter is: my inexperience means that I do not know what to do about it.’