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 slowly 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, when 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.
When at last the waltz ended, Lord Kenmare did not immediately release her. There was something spellbinding in her wide eyes, perhaps the hint of a question, that held him. She swayed toward him and his arms of themselves gathered her closer. He reached up to touch her face. For several seconds they stayed thus, caught in a poignant, intimate moment that teetered on the brink of passion.
He ached to kiss her, to crush her to him and possess her. Lord Kenmare took a shuddering breath and gently set her from him. Lady Mary stared up at him, wondering at the earl's distracted air.
He looked distantly at the pretty cap that graced her soft hair. “Why the devil do you wear the silly things at all?” he said. Without another word, afraid of what he might betray to her, he walked off.
Lady Mary stood abandoned in the middle of the walkway. A fiery blush suffused her face. She pressed her palms against her hot cheeks.