Page 35 of A Duchess of Mystery (The Mismatched Lovers #3)
Oh, how she longed to be kissed, passionately and without anything to prevent their love.
And how she longed to be married to Philip and leave Stourbridge and all its memories far behind.
But she couldn’t do that to him. She stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his for a fleeting moment.
That would have to do. Anything more and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop.
As ever, he didn’t try to take more than she offered. He knew her too well for that.
She cleared her throat, trying to shut out the longing on Philip’s face. “Can we perhaps go and find refreshment now? It’s so hot in here, and I have a raging thirst.”
Emerging from their hiding place was to prove a bad move.
Lady Dangerfield was lying in wait in the refreshment room, and as Dora and Philip headed to the tables of lemonade, she homed in on them like a hound upon its prey.
In a short moment she’d separated Dora from Philip, whom she plainly saw as insignificant, like a sheepdog cutting out the one sheep the farmer wants, and was whisking her away into one of the other rooms.
Dora, helpless as a fish in a net, and hampered by her own good manners, could do nothing to escape. Where was Bella when she needed her? Nowhere in sight.
Lady Dangerfield almost frog-marched her prey into one of the curtained alcoves and sat her down on the couch it held.
With only enough room for two, Dora found herself far too close for comfort to someone she both hated and feared.
A woman who, on her visits to Stourbridge with Marcus, had not held back from following her lover’s lead and been as scathing and unpleasant as he had been.
Her scent hung heavy in the air around them, thick and cloying and far too sweet.
Enough to make Dora have to fight not to gag.
“Now, Dora, my dear,” began Lady Dangerfield, a predatory look in her cold eyes, and oblivious to Dora’s need to cough. “I have a few pertinent questions for you.”
Dora swallowed. Never once in all the times she’d encountered Lady Dangerfield had that lady addressed her as “dear.” This did not bode well. She peered over Lady Dangerfield’s shoulder, hoping against hope that Isabella might appear. Or Diccon. But no one came.
“You need have no fear in answering me truthfully,” Lady Dangerfield went on, a steely glint now in her eyes. She looked as though she could be as determined as Isabella, which was in no way encouraging.
Dora clasped her hands in her lap to quell the tremble in them. “I never speak anything but the truth,” she managed, although it was a lie, and she knew it. The truth here would never do.
Lady Dangerfield bared her teeth in what might have been a smile, on the face of a wolf. “Good girl. That’s what I like to hear. Now, tell me everything that happened on the night Marcus died.”
Dora’s mouth went paper dry, her tongue adhering itself to its roof.
Everything she knew about that night flew out of her head, except the worst bits of course, and all she could do was gape at her interlocutor.
Only the knowledge that she must never, ever breathe a single word of what had happened to anyone kept her still sitting there, struggling to maintain a calm facade. And praying Bella would find her.
Lady Dangerfield patted her clasped hands. “Don’t be afraid to tell me. I can be your friend and confidante. Nothing you tell me will go any further.”
As if. Even Dora, ready to see the good in anyone, knew not to believe that. “M-Marcus shot himself,” she whispered, her words coming out as a throaty rasp.
Lady Dangerfield’s smile dissolved into an angry scowl.
“Come now, Dora my dear. We all know that’s not true, don’t we?
Have you not heard the rumors? Marcus most certainly did not die by his own hand.
We know who did it, don’t we? He enjoyed life far too much.
Just tell me. Say the words. Give Isabella up so she can face justice. ”
Fear edged around Dora, threatening to swallow her whole.
She must not give in to this. She must not.
“The truth is,” she said, her voice gaining strength, which surprised her, “that we none of us know if he did it on purpose or by mistake.” Her confidence grew, and she raised her eyes to stare Lady Dangerfield, her brother’s despicable mistress, in the face, her heart hammering so hard she couldn’t have counted the beats.
“As you are well aware, he was accustomed to practice shooting in the library of an evening. We were all used to the loud reports his pistols made. I will allow that it is more than likely that he died by accident, rather than intentionally.” She could almost believe what she’d said herself. Isabella would be proud of her.
Seizing the momentum and suddenly feeling as though Isabella were standing beside her and making her brave as a lion, she rose to her feet, snatching her hands back from Lady Dangerfield’s grasp.
“We have nothing more to say to one another, so I must wish you good evening, my lady.” And channeling Isabella for all she was worth, she swept out of the alcove and headed for the ballroom, heart still hammering so fast she feared it might come leaping out of her mouth at any moment.
She would find Philip again and he would help her hide.
Richard had sought solace in the shadows.
Supper, in the company of a rather vapid young lady with little or no conversation, was over and done with, midnight was long past, and dancing was continuing in the brightly lit ballroom apace.
None of the guests showed any signs of flagging, despite the lateness of the hour, and the heat in the room was oppressive, redolent with the sweat of many over-exerted bodies.
Right now, Richard was relieved to have been able to snatch some peace and quiet from the attentions of all those ambitious mamas.
Who would have thought so many existed within striking range of Stourbridge Park, and that Isabella would have insisted on inviting them all?
He was engaged in watching her as she danced with a handsome young buck who seemed quite awestruck by her beauty.
Not that Richard could blame him. She had been at her vivacious best all night, tripping through the dance steps with elegance, laughing up at every one of her partners as though each was the most important person in the world to her, and chattering away to them to the annoyance of their womenfolk in between each dance.
If anyone could have been said to be the belle of this ball, it was her.
No matter how much any of the other ladies present might have liked to shine, she eclipsed them all.
If he could find a girl like her, somewhere, then maybe he might find marriage not quite so tedious as he anticipated.
The heat was making him uncomfortable. His shirt was sticking to his back and he would have liked to have been able to remove the expertly tailored coat that was now feeling far too restrictive and tight.
Maybe if he went outside into the cool night air he could do just that.
But how to evade the eyes of this ever-watchful pack of slavering mamas?
At that moment, one of the footmen emerged from a door camouflaged in the wall behind him, carrying a tray.
Before he had time to regret the idea, Richard retreated back further into the shadows and let himself out of the ballroom.
He found himself in a narrow corridor that led into the service areas of the house.
Immediately, he was aware of a welcome coolness in the air.
With relief, he wriggled out of his coat and slung it over his shoulder.
A few quick right-hand turns and he was emerging from yet another service door into the chill night air.
Oil lamps had been lit in the brackets along the side of the house and on stands at the edge of the balustraded terrace, but they threw only small pools of golden light across the ancient flagstones.
Nobody was out here in the darkness that he could see.
Thank goodness. He didn’t want to run into any young ladies who might be eager to claim he’d compromised them so he could be forced into marriage.
Isabella had warned him about that hazard, and that probably a few mamas had come with just that in mind.
One girl in particular had seemed overly keen to get him to show her the library, which could have been from a desire to see the scene of Marcus’s death, or could just as easily have been at prompting from her mama to get herself alone with him.
He strolled across the flagstones to the wide stone steps down into the ornamental gardens.
Long hedges ran away to left and right, as well as flower beds, trees, and a network of paths.
He smiled. There might well be a few liaisons already going on within the shadowy recesses of this garden.
The scent of late roses wafted through the cool air.
Maybe a walk along the paths he’d played on as a boy might soothe his admittedly frazzled nerves.
No one had told him hosting a ball would be such a stressful undertaking, or he might have said no to it.
The thought of ever having to host another, or even attend one at someone else’s house, horrified him.
Returning to his regiment had never looked so alluring a prospect.
He descended the steps and glanced to right and left. Nothing and no one. He went right, wandering aimlessly along path after path, breathing in the scents of the garden that threatened to transport him back in time to his childhood. Such different scents to those in distant Portugal.