Max took a seat in Lady Hopewell’s boat for the return to shore and allowed her to fuss over him. Dorothea was an old friend and her gentle nagging was almost soothing. She was quite correct—he had spent a long day, mainly on his feet, and it was only yesterday that he had been injured.
‘I cannot imagine why you are not flat on your face on the turf, Burnham,’ she scolded as he stepped ashore and handed her out of the rowing boat. ‘You must have the constitution of a horse and it is a miracle that you are not throwing a fever.’
‘It is only a flesh wound,’ he said as they walked up the long slope towards the house.
‘Well, I think you should change into something very comfortable and spend a peaceful evening in your room. I will have them send up the decanters—although doubtless the doctor would say that alcohol will only raise your temperature—and a good dinner. And a pile of all the latest books that have arrived from Hatchard’s.’
‘That sounds very tempting.’ It made him feel eighty to admit it, but everything ached now, including his brain.
‘I am sure you will feel much better for it. Certainly more rested than if you spend the evening with this collection of sad romps, dancing.’
‘Dancing?’ Just what he had hoped. Max’s vision of a cosy evening by the fireside being pampered began to sound less tempting.
‘Yes. I engaged the excellent little string band that plays at the local Assembly Rooms. But do not worry, you will not hear a thing from your bedchamber.’
And no doubt, if I ask, they will find me a gout stool, a nice rug for my knees and an ear trumpet.
‘Dancing? Oh, I think I can manage to sit and enjoy watching that,’ Max said. A good dose of the willow bark powder that the doctor had left would see him through the evening.
‘Well...if you are certain. I don’t know what Dr Williams would say.’
‘He would have said I could not manage today’s picnic, I imagine. Doctors make their money with doom-laden prognoses from which only their skill can rescue the sufferer. Don’t worry about me, Dorothea, I will go and rest now.’
And he would. A bath, an hour flat on his back on the bed, a mouth-puckering tumbler of medicine and he’d last the evening. There were two young ladies to keep an eye on. He told himself that he couldn’t trust Sophia not to lure West to the house if there was dancing and, as he had given Lucy the notion that dancing would cure her distress at listening to music, then he had a duty to make sure that really worked when she was in a ballroom with other men. Yes, definitely it was his duty.
‘This is a lovely gown, Miss Marsh.’ Amy spread out the skirts of the remaining evening dress that Verity had passed on to Lucy.
Amy was still not very skilled with hairdressing, but she was an excellent needlewoman. She had altered the gown to fit and changed the colour of the ribbons from dark brown to an amber that was almost gold, to bring out the tiny dots of gold that were sprinkled across the cream silk fabric. There were two flounces at the hem, puffed sleeves slashed to show a glimpse of gold lining, and a daring, very plain neckline that, when she was laced into the corset that was made to go with the gown, actually gave Lucy a hint of cleavage.
‘Do you think this is too...exposed?’ She tugged at it. ‘You could whip a length of lace around it in a moment.’
‘Absolutely not, miss. You’d ruin the elegance of the cut,’ Amy said, very much Pringle the lady’s maid. ‘It’s a pity you haven’t got a necklace to do it justice, though.’
‘I’ll put Grandmama’s gold locket on some of the narrow amber ribbon.’ Lucy rummaged in her small jewellery case. That might prove some distraction from what felt like an expanse of bare flesh. It hadn’t felt so bad when she had tried it on in Verity’s bedchamber...
She would brave the music, she had decided. Perhaps one of the gentlemen would ask her to dance and, if they left her a wallflower, then she would creep off to one of the antechambers and dance all by herself. It was different from being able to play, but the music would still run through her, lift her. She rather thought that Max had restored happiness to her.
It was a good thing he would not be there this evening, not after such a strenuous day of being active without any rest. She was coming to look for his presence, feel the need to be near him, and that was dangerous, even though he was still infuriatingly authoritarian, cold and conventional.
Amy found her shawl and draped it perfectly from elbow to elbow and Lucy went down to dinner. She was halfway down the final flight of the broad staircase when she stopped, struck by an unpleasant thought: any day now she would find herself back in London, rather better off financially, considerably healed in her mind, but restored to her new life of a music teacher, living in modest respectable lodgings. Her friends would ask her to dinner, to their parties, but she was going to miss this life of ease and elegance.
‘You look as though you have lost a guinea and found a groat, Miss Marsh.’ Mr Tredgold looked up at her from the foot of the stairs, chubby and beaming in his evening black and white. His victory in the rowing race appeared to have transformed him. ‘I hope nothing is amiss. I have to thank you for your support of me—I hear that you placed an early wager, which must have been an act of pure kindness over hope.’
Lucy laughed and came down the rest of the steps to his side. ‘I merely remembered something just now that had slipped my mind. And as for the rowing, why, I declare that you are a dark horse, Mr Tredgold, keeping the secret of your prowess like that.’
‘I used to be a very good rower when I was a boy,’ he confessed, offering her his arm. ‘Then I grew sadly stout—the fleshpots of Oxford, you know!—and recently I resolved on a course of exercise on the river at home. I have not my old form yet, and it was a good thing the course was no longer, but I think my style gave me an advantage. Or possibly,’ he added with a chuckle, ‘the sight of me in the lead so startled the others that they caught crabs and lost their rhythm.’
‘It was most impressive,’ Lucy assured him as they reached the doors into the drawing room.
‘Will you be dancing this evening, Miss Marsh? Might I hope you will partner me for a set?’
‘Why, yes, certainly, with pleasure. And I hope I will not reward you for my winnings of a whole crown by treading on your toes.’
They were both laughing as they walked in. The first person Lucy saw was Max looking at her with a coolness that had her chin coming up and which fixed the smile on her lips as though it had been glued.
‘Do excuse me a moment, Mr Tredgold.’ She swept across the floor. ‘Why are you here?’
‘As opposed to where? York?’
If he so much as twitches that eyebrow at me, I’ll...
‘Your bed. You should be resting, you stubborn man.’
‘I do not require a nursemaid, Lucy.’ There was something in his eyes as his gaze met hers that stirred all the unsettling feelings she had been striving to suppress.
‘I do not know what you require,’ she said tartly.
Max spoke so quietly that she hardly made out the words. ‘No, I do not suppose you do. I’m damned if I do either.’ Then, ‘But Algernon Tredgold is what you fancy?’
‘He is a very pleasant young man and he was the cause of my winning a whole crown this afternoon.’
‘Hardly a very prepossessing figure of a man.’
‘So what if he is not?’ she demanded inelegantly. ‘Men do not have to cut fine figures any more than ladies have to be beautiful to be worthwhile human beings. It is a pity you have not suffered some losses or setbacks in your gilded life, then you might be less superior and more sympathetic, my lord.’
The lovely gown made a highly satisfying swish as she swept round and stalked back to Mr Tredgold. ‘I am so sorry, I just recalled something I had to say to Lord Burnham.’
If Algernon noticed that colour was burning in her cheeks he was too tactful to say anything and at that moment the remainder of the guests came crowding into the room and they were swept up in the conversation.
Lucy received three more requests for a dance before dinner was announced and was feeling quite dizzy with anticipation, especially when Lady Hopewell let slip that she had instructed the musicians to play at least one waltz.
Lady Moss looked dubious. ‘Are you certain that the mothers of all these young ladies would approve? I know it is danced at Almack’s these days, but even so...’
‘I know just what you mean, my dear. But all the gentlemen are known to us and the party is too small to allow any romping to go unnoticed. If danced with discretion I find it a most elegant dance. I am sure your Clara would shine in it—she is so graceful.’
Lucy noticed that Miss Moss, out of sight of her mother, had just collapsed on the sofa in a fit of giggles at something Lord Overdene had said. Graceful? Well, perhaps. She did not believe she would be either, although she had felt so in Max’s arms the other evening. But this was only a private party, not Almack’s, and matchmaking mamas would not be observing the young ladies with hawk-like stares, ready to pounce on the slightest misstep in behaviour or deportment. Everyone could relax.
Dinner brought her Sir George and Lord Tobias as neighbours and, disconcertingly, Max seated opposite. Sir George, who seemed to have only just noticed her damaged hands, was so tactful in assisting her with everything from her linen napkin to placing the butter just so that she was hard-pressed to thank him civilly. Unless she overstretched her fingers or tried to do anything too fiddly, she was managing now to forget her injuries for hours at a time.
‘Thank you. No, I can manage perfectly, Sir George.’
‘What happened?’ Lord Tobias asked abruptly, ignoring the convention that he should be conversing with his right-hand neighbour during the first course.
‘Something heavy fell on them.’ Lucy remembered just in time not to say it was a keyboard lid.
‘Painful. Can you still write?’
‘Yes, although it is uncomfortable.’
‘Dreadful not to be able to write. I do not know what I would do if I could not.’
Sir George was cheerfully conversing across the table—it appeared that the casual picnic atmosphere was carrying through to the evening—so Lucy decided she could ignore convention, too.
‘You write poetry, I believe?’
Lord Tobias nodded, then had to toss back his hair.
It was very thick, black and glossy, Lucy thought, but it must be a dreadful nuisance. Lord Byron’s locks were wavy, she had heard, so they must have been easier to manage. ‘I must congratulate you on your punting. I believe it is a lot more difficult than it looks.’
‘I learnt on the river when I was at Cambridge. It is a knack more than anything,’ he said with surprising modesty.
‘Tell me about your poetry,’ she asked recklessly. Normally asking young men about their verse was risking mind-numbing boredom, but Lord Tobias shook his head.
‘I would if it was better, but I am not satisfied. I wish to write like Byron, but I know I am setting the bar too high. Yet I must attempt it.’
‘You have a theme in mind? Or a hero to write about?’ She had expected him to talk incessantly—this was like winkling cockles out of their shells.
‘You are truly interested?’ he asked and she saw he was younger than all his romantic posing had led her to believe. Perhaps it was a mask to shield his uncertainty about his talent.
‘If I gave you some to read, would you tell me honestly what you think?’ Yes, he was most certainly younger than the twenty-five or six she had first thought.
‘I am no poet, but, yes, I would tell you my honest opinion if you think it would be worth anything.’
‘You would understand, I think,’ he said seriously, looking at her. ‘You would feel it, know if the rhythms are not right. Like music.’ His smile took her by surprise and she smiled back. How interesting that two of the people she had almost dismissed on first sight—Mr Tredgold as awkward and uninteresting and Lord Tobias as affected and foolish—had proved her wrong.
‘Will you dance this evening?’ Lord Tobias asked as the footmen cleared the first course and she told herself she must make conversation with Sir George.
‘I will, although I am sadly out of practice.’
‘Then you will save at least one for me?’
‘I would like that very much,’ Lucy said, smiling as she turned to her other partner and found Max regarding her with what looked like frigid disapproval.
For what? Talking to the wrong partner? For smiling?
She turned the smile on him, very sweetly. So sweetly that he seemed at risk of choking on the wine he had just drunk.
Sir George also claimed a dance and, with so many partners already, Lucy felt an unexpected confidence when they all went through to the ballroom.
The small string band was good and Sir George, who claimed her for the first country dance, was a steady, if rather ponderous, partner. It was not as easy as dancing in hold had been and the effect of the music flowing through her was not as magically all-consuming. Or perhaps that was the effect of dancing with Max, a theory she preferred not to explore too deeply.
Anyway, Lucy told herself as they all clapped and then took their positions for the next dance of the set, she was enjoying this, it felt soothing and invigorating both at the same time and it proved that the magic she had felt when Max had waltzed with her on the terrace had not been a product of the moonlight.
He was not dancing, of course. It was foolish of him to be here at all, when he should be resting. If he threw a fever tomorrow, it would be entirely his own fault. In fact, his arm was probably hurting him, which was why he was looking so severe at dinner.
Algernon Tredgold claimed her for the next set, but he was not as accomplished a dancer as Sir George and trod on her toes three times. Magic was decidedly lacking, but he was cheerfully apologetic and the set passed without too many small mishaps.
There was a short interval while the musicians sorted their music, consulted together and the viola player retuned his instrument. The ladies sat and fanned themselves and the windows were opened on to the garden, bringing in fresh air and the perfume of night-scented stocks.
Lucy saw Max rise and walk over to the little stage, murmur in the ear of the lead violinist who nodded. The musicians settled themselves and the gentlemen began to fan out around the room, seeking their next partner.
‘Miss Marsh?’ Lord Tobias was at her side.
‘My dance, I believe.’ She turned to see Max looking, not at her, but at the younger man.
‘I had promised Lord Tobias—’
‘But not the waltz, I think,’ Max said, his eyes still holding Lord Tobias’s gaze.
‘No, not the waltz. I hope for one of the later dances, Miss Marsh.’ Lord Tobias made a small bow and strolled away to Miss Thomas.
‘I had not promised you a dance and, anyway, you should be in your bed, not exerting yourself at this hour,’ she said crossly. Lord Tobias had not even protested.
She should not have mentioned beds. There was not the slightest flicker of either amusement, let alone anything like desire, on Max’s face, but somehow she was convinced that he was thinking of those crowded moments under that bed, of the kiss.
‘I assure you, Lucy, I have rested upon my bed, taken a headache powder and generally behaved in the most sensible of manners,’ he said, leading her out on to the dance floor.
And now I cannot turn tail and walk off or it will look to everyone as though we are quarrelling.
‘Sensible? Of course, my lord, you are always sensible.’
The musicians struck a chord, partners took their places and Max gathered her neatly into hold without even a wince.
‘I try to be,’ he said very seriously as they began to dance. ‘I really do—it makes life so much simpler. But recently I find myself wanting to behave in the most irrational manner.’
Oh, there it is, that wonderful feeling, the music flooding through me. So much better than the others, like a cloudy day when the sun comes out.
What had Max just said? She must learn to dance and to think at the same time. ‘Irrational? I suppose Lady Sophia’s behaviour, however understandable in a woman in love, is enough to make a strict brother, one who has no concept of the emotion, wish to respond irrationally.’
What did he just murmur under his breath? It was hard to tell because they were close to the orchestra now. Sophia is hardly the problem? No, it must have been, Sophia is quite the problem.
Lucy closed her eyes and found it was not simply the music that was taking over her senses. She was very conscious of Max’s hands—light where he held her own, firm where he touched her waist—of the faint scent of starch and soap and the whisper of something citrus and sharp. And the music seemed to fade and the scent became greener and there was the tinkle of water and she opened her eyes.
‘We are in the conservatory.’
‘It is cooler in here. I was becoming quite dizzy.’ He danced on, sweeping her around palms and pots and a statue of a mournful-looking Greek female clutching at her slipping robe in an attempt at modesty.
He was dizzy? She certainly was and Max appeared to have no trouble keeping in step and maintaining his balance.
‘Max.’
‘Yes?’ They came to a halt in front of a bench next to the little fountain.
‘You are not dizzy.’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ He seemed amused rather than outraged.
‘Yes.’
‘I want to kiss you, Lucy—heaven knows why, given that you would probably impale me on your prickles—but I do. Which tells me I am dizzy and probably suffering from the blow to my head.’ Max lifted his hand away from her waist as though freeing her to run from him.