The long lines of carriages, coaches and cabriolets, disgorging expensively dressed ladies and gentlemen in front of the property on Rue de la Blanchisserie, almost made Rhys turn around and seek the oblivion of some nameless tavern. Unfortunate that Grant had planted the idea of cowardice in Rhys’s refusal to attend the ball. Now he’d feel a coward if he did not go in.
He nodded greetings to several people he did not know and took a place in line to enter, happening to be behind one of the four people he knew who would be attending.
David.
The young man seemed to be absorbing the whole scene. He turned finally and noticed Rhys. ‘Rhys! Here you are! Where are Helene and Captain Grantwell?’
‘They are coming separately,’ Rhys said.
David blew out a breath. ‘Whew! I am glad I am not caught in line with Helene. She has been plaguing me ever since she arrived in Brussels. She’d probably ring a peal over my head and not care who heard it.’
‘I am certain you would deserve it,’ Rhys said.
David made a face. ‘You always did take her side.’ His good humour quickly returned. ‘Anyway, with any luck I will avoid her. I intend to enjoy myself. William said he will introduce me to General Maitland and to the Prince of Orange, who will be here. And I hope to say hello to the Duke of Wellington, as well. Perhaps I might introduce you to the Duke. Would you like that?’
‘I would not wish to trouble him.’ Wellington would surely be annoyed, Rhys was certain.
They reached a hall where footmen gathered ladies’ cloaks and gentlemen’s hats and inched their way to the ballroom.
The butler stood at the entrance to the ballroom, taking names and loudly announcing them to the receiving line and the room as a whole.
First David.
The man just leaned forward a little to hear the name, then bellowed, ‘The Earl of Yarford.’
David lifted his head high as if everyone in the room would be watching him. No one seemed to notice.
Rhys was next. He gave his name.
‘Captain Landon of the East Essex Regiment,’ the butler called out.
He walked to the receiving line where the duchess and her three daughters greeted the guests. They, of course, knew David since he’d been a dinner guest and probably had spent as much time as he could in the family’s presence.
David, to his credit, introduced Rhys. ‘Duchess,’ David said. ‘May I present my friend, Captain Landon. Landon is from our village and I have known him my whole life.’
Rhys bowed. ‘Your Grace.’
The Duchess extended her hand to be shook. ‘A pleasure, I am sure, sir.’
The daughters, two of whom looked younger than David, greeted him with a little more warmth. The oldest daughter whisked David through quickly to make room for the long line of guests behind them.
Rhys followed.
David stood surveying the sumptuously decorated ball room. The room was not part of the main house, but somewhat separate, connected by an anteroom. Rhys could not guess its original purpose, but it was papered in a rose trellis design and transformed with red, black and gold drapery and fresh flowers into a garden-like setting. Nothing like the bare walls of the Assembly Rooms back at Yarford.
‘Is it not grand?’ David exclaimed.
‘Very,’ Rhys agreed.
David turned to him with a serious expression. ‘By the way, Rhys, if you need to speak of me here, please do not call me David in front of anybody. Call me Yarford.’
‘I am surprised you were not calling yourself Yarford before this.’ Not that Rhys had any fondness for what had been Helene’s father’s title.
‘Yes, well,’ David muttered, ‘I prefer to be called it here. It makes me important.’
Rhys suspected most people in this room would agree that a title made one important. And the reverse? If one did not have a title?
David’s attention shifted. ‘Oh, there is William. I must speak to him.’ Off he went.
David’s friend, the Duke of Richmond’s son, still wore an eyepatch. Would he be ready if the French were on the march? Rhys wondered.
Rhys made his way through the room. He did not fool himself. He was looking for Grant...and Helene, telling himself that was because they were the only two other guests he could possibly know enough to speak to.
The room was an impressive sight, he admitted. Elegantly dressed ladies in gowns adorned with ribbons and flounces, jewels glittering at their necks and ears. Men mostly in uniforms of bright reds and blues, a few in black and green, all with gold braids shining under the chandeliers lit with dozens of candles. The room had the ground floor and a first floor with a balcony where an orchestra was tuning its instruments. The musical sounds mixed with a cacophony of voices, enough to make Rhys long for the relative quiet of the Brussels streets.
He did not need to stay, did he? There was nothing to say he could not retrieve his shako and walk back to the hotel. Or stop for a drink of whisky. At the moment it did not feel like a lack of cowardice to stay, but rather foolishness.
Through the din he heard the butler call, ‘The Lady Helene Banes.’
He turned towards the door.
For a moment she was framed by the doorway, a vision sparkling in gold. Gold in her hair. Gold dress, shawl. Gold jewellery dangling from her ears and around her neck. He stared, feeling unable to breathe, unable to see anything but Helene. Rhys did not know what he’d expected to see when encountering Helene at the ball, but it was not this breath-robbing beauty. This breath-robbing expensive beauty who looked, not only as though she belonged here, but even more as though she deserved to own it all.
Grant was announced next and they made their way through the receiving line. Helene stood apart from Grant who was chatting with the Duchess’s daughters. Helene turned to survey the room.
Her gaze locked with Rhys’s.
He knew now what would decide if he stayed at the ball or left. If after so obviously seeing him here she turned away, he would consider her her father’s daughter and leave.
Rhys! Helene’s heart leapt with joy at the sight of him.
He stood out from the crowd of other soldiers, ladies and gentlemen dressed in their finery. He stood tall, handsome, with a dignity all his own and the power she’d sensed in him even when he was a boy.
He’d come to the ball after all!
As quickly as her heart had soared, it plummeted. She did not know why he decided to attend the ball. Not to see her, perhaps. He’d refused to come for dinner, after all, so maybe he still wanted nothing to do with her. Was it not the height of vanity to think he had come to this prestigious ball solely to be with her? She must content herself with the hope that he would greet her cordially, that this might mean they could meet here as very old friends.
Just as easily that deep anger towards her could still smoulder inside Rhys, so that even her presence here would be anathema to him. She could not tell by his unsmiling expression.
She took a breath and straightened her spine. Well, if he wished to avoid her, all he need do was turn away. Then she would know her mistakes of five years ago were irreparable. If he did turn away, she would not seek him out; she would accept that she had destroyed in him even their once happy memories.
He stood as still as a statue, his eyes still upon her. They seemed to pull her forward and, before she knew it, she’d taken one step towards him, heedless of anything or anyone else in the room.
As if that first step had broken a spell ensnaring them both, he crossed the room to her. Her heart raced at his approach.
‘Rhys,’ she managed to say when he reached her.
His eyes shone with admiration, but also with pain. ‘You look beautiful, Helene.’
She smiled. How happy it would make Mrs Jacobs and Louise to hear that her Captain had given her such a compliment! ‘I had a great deal of help.’
Grant left the receiving line and walked over. ‘Ah, Rhys. Good to see you.’ Grant spoke as if it was the most natural thing in the world to see Rhys at the ball, standing with her. ‘If you both will pardon me, there is someone I must speak to.’ He bowed.
And winked at Helene before he walked away. Her smile widened.
‘Do you believe him?’ Rhys asked.
She blinked. ‘That there was someone he must speak to? Why would he say it if it was not so?’
Rhys’s gaze followed Grant. ‘To leave us alone.’
‘Oh.’ Did Rhys mean he’d wanted his friend to stay?
Rhys scanned the room, looking everywhere except at her. ‘We may be standing in others’ way. Would you care to walk a little?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice made her sound out of breath.
He offered his arm and she accepted it.
‘I—I am glad you came, Rhys,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘I almost did not. I cannot say I enjoy all this.’ He gestured with his head. ‘Only you, Grant, David and his friend Lennox know who I am.’
‘Oh, David. I almost forgot about him.’ She craned her neck. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘I walked in with him,’ he responded. ‘Or perhaps I should say I walked in with the Earl of Yarford as he precisely wishes to be known here.’
‘He used his title?’ For the first time, she believed.
‘The title made him important, he said.’
How mindless of David to say such a thing to Rhys. Rhys’s lack of a title was one of the arrows her father shot so cruelly at Rhys.
‘I hope I see David so I might throttle him,’ she said.
Rhys almost smiled. ‘I believe he means to avoid you.’
‘As he has tried to do ever since I arrived in Brussels.’ She had no wish to talk about David, even though she was glad they were conversing amicably. Perhaps this was the best she could hope for.
As they strolled around the room, a few people took notice of them. Some officers nodded to Rhys; a few ladies greeted Helene by name and sent admiring glances towards her escort.
‘You seem to belong in this company,’ he commented in a low voice.
‘I’ve had practice.’ Three Seasons in London to be specific.
The air between them turned sour again. There was something about this ball that was different than the ones she’d attended in London, as if the air was crackling with tension instead of frivolity. As they strolled through the room, snippets of conversations reached their ears. The French. The French, she kept hearing. Rhys’s muscles grew tense under her fingers. They passed a small group of officers. Rhys turned his head—at something he’d heard apparently—and he paused a moment before continuing.
‘What is it, Rhys?’ she asked.
‘I am not certain.’ He frowned. ‘Men are talking.’
Talking about the French.
The discordant notes of the band tuning their instruments transformed into actual music and the dancing was announced. As much as Helene loved dancing—dancing with Rhys, that was—she hoped he would not ask her. The dance would separate them more and she did not wish to let go of him. They stood and watched the couples take their positions. The conversations around them became louder as the music played louder and the dancers’ feet pounded the wooden floor.
‘Let us find a quiet place,’ Rhys said.
She brightened at the idea. ‘Oh, yes.’
They walked back to the entrance where the flow of guests had dwindled. The duchess and her daughters had left the receiving line and her daughters were among the dancers on the floor. Rhys and Helene slipped out and found a door leading to the garden behind the building. A few other couples could be seen here and there in the garden, seeking some privacy. She and Rhys did not move far from the door. He seemed far away, though, lost in thought.
Helene’s mind raced. Perhaps he did not wish her company after all. Had she misread his behaviour? Had Grant’s abrupt departure once again forced Rhys to be obliged to attend her?
She gazed out at the garden. ‘Rhys, do not feel you must be cemented to my side. I would not have you feel duty-bound to keep me company.’
He swivelled to her, his eyes flashing. ‘Do you wish me to leave you?’ he asked hotly. ‘If you do, believe me I take no further offence.’
No further offence? Why was he so determined to misunderstand her? Why could he not set aside the hurt she’d done him just for a few minutes? She wanted to snap back at him, but she held her tongue until it was under better control. Instead she would be truthful. Unlike her father had been to her.
She softened her voice. ‘No, I do not wish you to leave me. I value your company above all things. But I sense your discomfort and I accept that you might feel very differently about being with me.’
He glanced away again and it took him time to answer. ‘Not that. Not you. Something is afoot. Something—everyone is on edge. I can feel it and I hear it in their voices.’
This was a new worry. ‘Something about the French?’
‘Yes, but I do not know what it is. I do not think anyone else knows either.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Something...’ He turned back to her. ‘Forgive my distraction. Perhaps we should return to the ballroom. I can help you look for David, if you wish to speak to him.’
David, again. She did not want to think of David. ‘I believe I shall allow David to enjoy himself without my interference.’ Be truthful, she told herself. ‘Could we stay out here a little longer?’
‘You do not wish to dance?’ He made it sound like an accusation, but was he accusing her of not wanting to dance with him?
She was at sea. She did not know if he was pushing her away or daring her to come closer.
‘You are dressed for dancing,’ he added.
What a war raged inside Rhys. The soldier in him wanted to return to the ballroom to discover precisely what was causing the other military guests to be on edge. The wounded youth inside him wanted to still complain of how she and her father had deeply injured him. But he was also a man standing next to her, inhaling the allure of her perfume. That man merely desired to take her in his arms and again taste her lips as he had done so long ago. The lot of him was making a bungle of everything.
To his surprise, she smiled at him. ‘Shall I tell you the story of my dress?’
‘Your dress has a story?’ He had no idea where she was leading him.
‘Oh, yes.’ She gave him a sideways glance. ‘Did you think I packed a ball gown to bring with me to Brussels when I intended to be here only two days at the most?’
‘I thought nothing.’ He still did not know where this was leading.
‘Men,’ she scoffed, but her tone was light. ‘You think gowns simply appear out of the mist.’
He was in no mood to be teased. ‘So how did you come by the gown?’
She smiled again. ‘Louise Desmet arranged for me to borrow it.’
‘Madame Desmet owned such a gown?’ Why would a woman, who lived as simply as Madame Desmet lived, have need of a ball gown?
‘No, but, in a way, it is hers.’ She smiled again as if ready to tell the answer to a riddle. ‘She made the gown. She has been a seamstress for the theatre for many years. She took me there and we searched through their costumes until we found this dress. She altered it to fit me.’
‘The dress is a theatre costume?’ He would never have guessed such a thing.
Helene touched the earrings dangling from her ears. ‘She borrowed these from the theatre, as well. They are paste.’
It seemed a great deal of effort to expend merely to attend this ball. Was it that important to her? As it was for David? And would have been for her father?
To his surprise, her eyes turned to mischief like they’d so often done when they were children. She leaned closer to him. ‘Think of what these ladies would say if they knew I am wearing a dress, jewellery and shoes last worn by an actress!’
Unexpectedly his heart warmed to her. She seemed less like the Earl’s daughter and more like the girl he’d once loved, amused by absurdities. ‘How could they say anything but that you outshine them all?’
‘Do I, Rhys?’ Her gaze met his and he suddenly could not think of her as a girl.
It unsettled him. He lifted the edge of her gold shawl. ‘And this came from the theatre, as well?’
She ran her hands over the intricately knotted lace. ‘This? This lovely shawl, I fear, I purchased for myself, because I could not resist it.’
‘You chose well,’ he said and meant it. Even under the light from the lamp at the doorway, she sparkled.
Her eyes glittered with pleasure at his words.
He glanced away for a moment, unprepared for the emotions inside him. ‘But you must have worn many beautiful gowns and shawls at the many balls you attended in London.’ When he looked back, the pleasure in her eyes had faded.
She solemnly returned his gaze. ‘I wore many fashionable dresses during my London Seasons, all made at the direction of my mother and never of my own choosing.’ Her arms swept down her dress. ‘I chose this actress’s costume, this borrowed, second-hand dress, and I like it better than any the ones made by the ton’s most sought-after modiste.’
He let his eyes sweep over the full length of her. She had chosen very well.
She went on. ‘And Mrs Jacobs and Louise Desmet were by far my favourite lady’s maids. I have never before so enjoyed the preparation for a ball.’
Rhys could not help but smile. ‘I’ll wager Mrs Jacobs gave many instructions.’
She laughed and something like joy burst inside him. ‘She did indeed.’
From inside the ballroom, Rhys faintly heard the next dance announced. ‘They are announcing a waltz. Will you come back inside and dance with me?’
Her smile widened. ‘Yes. Yes. I will dance the waltz with you, Rhys.’
He gave her his hand and they walked back to the ballroom in time to take their places on the dance floor. Rhys noticed Grant escorting the eldest of the duke’s daughters on to the floor, as well.
The music started.
Rhys and Helene stood side by side, they clasped their left hands in front of them and their right hands behind, as they performed the four march steps. They then turned so that they faced each other, raising their left arms in an arc above their heads and holding each other’s backs with the other hand. Then the waltz steps had them twirling with each other around the dance floor. The other couples faded from Rhys’s view. He had eyes only for Helene, the most beautiful woman in the room. The music filled his ears and it seemed as if time suspended them in this dance. There was no anger and pain from the past; no thought of battle in the future. Only Helene in his arms, her face flushed, her lips parted, her eyes meeting his.