The dower house overflowed with happy jabber and sighs of delight, as the women readied themselves for the false ball.
“You look magnificent, Nana.” It was the first time in Lizzy’s memory her grandmother had donned anything other than widow’s garb.
Lord Mulvern hadn’t sent a gown for Nana Rose, to which the grand dowager had snapped, “I don’t need his charity. I have a perfectly good wardrobe of my own.”
Indeed, her gown was a Georgian masterpiece, a full skirt with panniers of deep blue figured silk and a silver lace paneled front. With her white hair piled high, she looked like a queen from times past, albeit a queen without any jewelry.
Elizabeth was the last to ready herself. The candles on her dressing table fluttered as she slid the gold sarcenet gown over her head. She watched in the mirror as the soft golden fabric shimmered gracefully, falling with feather light caresses over her breasts and hips, draping the curves of her body in spider web thin silk. The slippery fabric teased at her flesh, flaring the hunger that had been steadily mounting since the day Trace had taken her to Claegburn Wood.
He had kept his distance since then. Wise choice. Always so disciplined, Trace. She, on the other hand, had been left to the mercy of her lurid imagination, an impish portion of her vile brain, relentless in its wicked desire to drive her mad with unattainable cravings.
For this one night, she would pretend she was an alluring princess, a woman free to follow her heart. A seductress. He would pay for making her want him again.
“Helen of Troy.” Blythe stood in the doorway. “You look like her.”
“That’s very kind of you to say.” Elizabeth smiled. “Would you help me with these ties, dearest?”
Thin ropes of gold crisscrossed Grecian-style over Lizzy’s breasts. Blythe deftly wound the cords over the fabric and tied them in back, murmuring as she worked. “Troy fell. Greeks plundered the city. Paris was slain and Hecabe howled in grief. All because of Helen of Troy.”
Perhaps it had not been a compliment, after all. “Are you worried about this evening, Blythe?”
“Grandmother has made pockets. Bertie’s reticule is too big. It’s a Trojan horse.”
What in heaven’s name did Blythe mean? Were these unfounded fears? Anxiety? Or could it be that Blythe was the only one in the house with any sense? Trace’s parting words echoed in Lizzy’s ears. He had guessed something, but what? He’d followed them to London, but why? Were they in danger of discovery? Perhaps, but not tonight.
“Blythe, darling, you’re right. There is a Trojan horse tonight. That’s what you must be sensing. My darling girl, you needn’t worry. The Trojan Horse will be outside. A coach, full of armed men, sent to flush out the highwaymen. They will be out on the roads, riding up and down, hoping to snare us. But we will be safe, seated at Lord Mulvern’s table having a lovely dinner and listening to music. Do you see?”
Blythe lowered her eyes. She didn’t look comforted.
Lizzy hugged her. “It will be as sweet and uneventful as a Sunday pudding. I promise.”
Twenty minutes later, Lord Mulvern’s coach arrived to collect the ladies of the dower house. It was impossible to squeeze all six of them into the carriage.
“Do try to scoot over a little farther, Rose.” Lavinnia wriggled herself onto the seat next to her mother-in-law. Nana Rose’s hoops bulged so high that Lavinnia was almost hidden behind them. “If you will, kindly pull the cord and bunch up your panniers.”
Their grandmother remained primly posed on the seat, her white pompadour wedged against the ceiling, bending her new ostrich feathers so far forward they almost tickled her nose. And yet she did not budge an inch. “The hinge is broken.”
“It won’t do.” Bertie stood outside the coach, her arms folded stubbornly. “Too cramped. Not to mention—I can’t breathe in there. There’s enough flower petal perfume to suffocate a beehive.”
Nana Rose scowled at her daughter. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t ride on the roof like a man.”
“Can and will.” Bertie pulled up the hood of her cape and turned to the footman. “Don’t stand there like a jackass. Help me up onto the box.”
Without displaying even the slightest inkling of astonishment, the very proper footman aided and abetted the recalcitrant Bertie, who was bound to be a great deal more comfortable on the driver’s seat beside a scandalized coachman than crammed into the coach with the rest of them. Fortunately, it was a short journey to Lord Mulvern’s home.
Elizabeth hadn’t been back to Claegburn Manor in many months. The house always brought back a flood of memories from when she and her parents had lived there, the days when her father had been Lord of Mulvern.
Each of the women, except the twins, remembered their sojourn in the house. Although it was better not to think of those days, how could they not? The very sound of their feet on the marble, the curve of the staircase, the quality of light glittering from the chandelier—every small detail evoked images from days long lost. Departed fathers, brothers, sons . . . these women also keenly recalled the Claegburn men, who had sojourned there with them.
Elizabeth could still see her mother smiling at her from the drawing room, her father standing by his study door at the end of the hallway. Trace running down the stairs, his mother reprimanding him for his haste. Ghosts, all. Save one.
Would he be here tonight? Or, was Trace out riding with the ruse coach, waiting to ambush and capture the Frenchman and his band of rogues? She hoped not. She had an ambush of her own planned, schemes and traps, a dozen little torments she intended to practice on him. Let him discover the anguish of wanting something, someone, beyond his reach.
Bonnie, who had no weighty memories dragging at her feet, pattered gaily up the stairs, close behind the butler, leading the way up to the dining room. Elizabeth quietly reminded her cousin that Nana Rose must enter first.
“The Dowager Lady Mulvern,” the butler announced with a flourish.
Nana Rose paraded into the ballroom with her head erect. A bittersweet mask hid the turmoil Lizzy knew her grandmother felt at being announced as a guest in what had been her own home.
Bonnie leaned forward and peeked around the doorjamb, giggling at her grandmother’s stately entrance. Lizzy pulled the pink minx back where she belonged and sent her a silent scold. The girl must learn to watch her manners before they took her to London for a season.
The butler announced Lavinnia, who strode amiably into the room. Shorter than Trace’s mother had been, Lavinnia had cleverly altered the green silk gown, giving it an elegant train.
Lizzy would like to have seen Lord Mulvern’s face when he saw Lavinnia. From the hallway, they heard his gruff voice ring out satisfyingly. “Lavinnia! ’Pon my word, you look quite handsome.”
Bonnie hid her mirth behind her hand, her golden curls jounced in adorable perfection. She would do well in London, even without much of a dowry. Bonnie, at least, would not spend her life a spinster, as Elizabeth and Bertie must do. Neither would Blythe, if Lizzy had anything to do with it.
Blythe looked like a fairy princess captured from Claegburn Wood and dragged into the light against her will. Beautiful, but desirous of escape.
“You needn’t worry,” Lizzy whispered, trying to reassure her.
“Lady Bertilde Claegburn,” the butler called. Bertie squared her shoulders and marched into the room like a general come to inspect the troops.
Lizzy’s turn next.
She floated into the ballroom, ready to snare her conquest. Candles blazed along the walls. Musicians played sedately at the far end of the room. Lord Mulvern waited, Aunt Lavinnia at his side, and another gentleman, but not Trace.
Lizzy couldn’t help it. She looked desperately around the room. Empty chairs. Familiar faces in paintings on the wall. The one face she wanted to see was missing. No Trace. Of course not, and why would he be here? To see her? Ha! The wretch. He was out in the woods, hunting his beloved Frenchman. She was a silly mooncalf for thinking it would have been otherwise. She struggled to school her features.
Elizabeth curtsied. “Thank you for inviting us, Uncle Adrian.”
“Pleasure, Lizzy.” Lord Mulvern took her hand and bowed over it graciously. “I’ve a surprise for you, young ladies. A dancing master.” He pointed to the gentleman at his left elbow. “From London. After I hired the musicians, I thought to myself—waste of money if the gels don’t know how to dance. Mr. Bledsoe, here, will show us all the latest dances, eh?”
The dancing master bowed with a flourish.
She knew how to dance. Although, it was probably not the ideal time to tell Lord Mulvern that she and his stepson had practiced dancing under a midnight moon in Claegburn Wood. No, decidedly not. “That will be lovely. Most thoughtful. Thank you.”
“Yes, indeed. Most generous.” Lavinnia smiled. “Just as I’ve always said.”
“Tut tut, nothing to it. Shall we dine now and enjoy dancing after?”
Bonnie smiled eagerly. “By all means.”
The footman threw open the doors. The magnificent dining room sparkled with silver and glass. Lord Mulvern’s servants brought forth a sumptuous feast, surpassing even Bonnie’s expectations. Or so the young lady declared with unbridled enthusiasm. “Beef! Oh, Uncle Adrian. It is even more delicious than I remembered.”
Elizabeth toyed with the coveted roast beef, rearranging it on her plate. Disappointment filled her stomach, leaving little room for this evening’s delicacies, no matter how long awaited. She glanced across the table and caught Bertie in the act of secreting a large slice of beef into her lap. No doubt the beef was destined for deposit in the ‘too big’ reticule Blythe had mentioned. Egad! Judging by the satisfied gleam on Bertie’s countenance, the beef was not the first item to make a furtive passage into the depths of her bag.
Lizzy grimaced as more meat continued to disappear. She fervently hoped the servants were too busy to notice. During dinner, several slices of ham, a loaf of cheese, three apples, four dried spiced pears, and a half-dozen sculptured sugar confections found their way to Bertie’s portable pantry under the table.
When, at last, dinner ended and they filed out of the dining room, Elizabeth fell in step beside Bertie. “I’m surprised you can carry your bag without assistance.”
Bertie grinned, unashamed.
Lizzy inhaled her chagrin and whispered. “Good gracious. Are you not afraid it will drip?”
Bertie hefted the enormous purse. “I lined it with oil cloth. She’s as watertight as a ship’s hull.”
Another odd-shaped ship, Nana Rose, sailed ahead of them, floating across the ballroom floor like a petite blue galleon. Nana glided directly out of the gaily-lit room to ports unknown. She’s up to something. Lizzy started to follow her mischievous grandmother, but Bonnie waylaid her. “Lizzy, you must come and make up our set. You and Bertie will make six. Blythe won’t dance. She insists on watching the musicians.”
At the far end of the room, Blythe had positioned a chair beside the trio of musicians, where she would, undoubtedly, sit and study every movement. Elizabeth dearly wished she might sit beside her young cousin and do nothing, think nothing, and feel nothing. If she had her way, she would sit and simply allow the music to transport her to a soothing place filled with carefree fantasies.
Bonnie tugged her hand, pulling her into the middle of the room, where the dancing instructor led them in the steps of a Danse Ecossoise. It was so remarkably similar to a country-dance, Lizzy would have sworn he was making up the steps as they went along. After the vigorous romp, their instructor suggested they learn the more sedate, if rather more scandalous, steps of the waltz.
Lord Mulvern cleared his throat. “Now see here, young man, that’s not quite the thing for genteel young ladies.”
The very elegant instructor took no affront. His hand revolved gracefully as he made each of his points, and explained that even the esteemed patronesses of Almack’s had sanctioned the waltz. “All the most elegant and fashionable balls in London boast of a waltz or even two. It is essential for the young ladies to know the steps, lest they appear provincial.”
Lord Mulvern sputtered. “Very well. Mustn’t be backward.” He tried to disguise his bruised dignity and lined up beside Lavinnia. “Show us this infamous waltz.”
The dancing master took a position next to Elizabeth and lifted her hand in his. At his nod, the musicians began to play in three-four time. “It is a simple square pattern, like so.”
It took Elizabeth a few minutes to adapt to the correct steps. Once she did, it was a comfortable easy rhythm.
Blythe rose from her chair and stood in front of the musicians shaking her head, her hands to her ears. There was a disturbance as the fellow with the violin lost his place and stopped playing, obviously exasperated with his critic. After a whispered argument, Blythe took the instrument he thrust at her and fell in beside the other musicians.
Lizzy almost stumbled as her cousin put bow to the strings. The first strains were awkward and squawky, but in a trifling, the most beautiful sounds she had ever heard flowed from the violin. Long, deep, reverberating arpeggios arced up like a rainbow to meet quick high staccato chords. The waltz took on a new character, full of passion, almost mystical in its power to control Lizzy’s own heartstrings. “Remarkable,” she murmured.
As the dancing master led Elizabeth in a turn, completing the square pattern, she nearly lost her breath. A gentleman stood in the doorway. His gaze fixed on her. Trace!
He strode into the room, halted Lord Mulvern’s waltz with Lavinnia, and whispered in his stepfather’s ear. Lord Mulvern nodded gravely and turned back to find his step with Lavinnia.
Music echoed around the nearly empty ballroom. Yet, she heard each of Trace’s footfalls report on the wood floor, marked each footstep coming closer, growing louder, until at last, he stopped at her side. He tapped the dancing master’s shoulder. “If I may?”
The dancing master bowed without a word and handed Lizzy into Trace’s arms.
She smiled, pleased beyond her ability to hide it. “I’m afraid you will have to be patient with me. I’m not very adept at the waltz yet.”
His face remained grave. Implacable. “I’m sure you will catch on quickly enough.”
She felt self-conscious under his stern scrutiny. Where was the flattery she had expected? The yearning in his eyes? He spun her deftly around the room.
She tried to draw him out. “I see you’ve waltzed before.”
“Visiting dignitaries. Military balls. Would you have expected anything less?”
Lizzy’s ancestors’ faces were a blur as she whirled dizzily past the paintings on the wall. Trace took long confident steps, waltzing her at far too vigorous a pace around the room. His chest expanded and contracted heavily, although, she guessed, it had little to do with the exertion of the dance.
As they approached the open doors to the balcony, without missing a step, he whisked her out into the darkness.