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9

Mary left the breakfast table with her mother, Kate and younger sisters. She had nibbled at the edge of one slice of fruitcake, her stomach in too much turmoil to eat. They retired to the drawing room. The boys walked upstairs to begin their lessons.

Mary sat on a sofa in the sunshine, beside her sisters, Helen and Jennifer. They had collected their embroidery samplers and Mary guided them on the stitches they were practising. Kate held her son on her lap, amusing him with a silver rattle. Her mother sat on the same sofa, with Mary’s youngest sister, Jemima, studying a picture book.

‘Excuse me, Your Grace.’ Mr Finch stood just inside the door, a small silver tray balanced on his fingers. ‘A letter for Miss Marlow was delivered to the door.’

‘Mary?’ her mother said in disbelief.

Heat flared in Mary’s cheeks. She received letters regularly from her friends and cousins, but they came with the general post.

Everyone watched her walk across the room and lift the letter from the tray.

The writing was unfamiliar. The strokes were long and bold. She broke the blank seal and looked at the bottom of the page.

D. F.

Drew Framlington.

Her heart pounded against her ribs as Mr Finch left the room.

‘Who is it from?’ her mother asked.

‘Lord Farquhar.’ Daniel was one of her friends. She’d met him at her first ball. Her mother knew him well.

She smiled warmly at Mary, before returning her attention to Jemima and the picture book.

Her mother had noticed her absence last night. Mary had said she’d gone to the retiring room. Even so, her father had admonished her for not telling her mother and Kate had cautioned her about rousing gossip, saying she’d experienced such things and would not wish them on Mary.

By the time she left the ball, Mary was thoroughly chastened and felt painfully guilty. She’d cried herself to sleep, then woken scarcely an hour later.

Mary longed to take the letter up to her room, but that would look odd. Instead, she sought seclusion on a window seat, slipping her feet from her shoes and lifting them on to the cushion before her.

My dear Miss Marlow,

Has any man told you what a treasure you truly are?

The rogue, he’d actually referred to her fortune in a pun. She smiled, more amused than angry.

What I would give to make you mine, you cannot imagine. I am yours, a hundred times over. I adore you. Your ebony hair and your alabaster skin. Your eyes, so pale they are like diamonds catching the sky. They make me shiver when you turn your gaze upon me. Turn it my way often and forever, Mary dear. Make me yours, make me love you. If love is what you want, bring me to your heel. I will come. I will beg for you if that is what you wish, only never turn your smile away from me, that is what I live for, to see your perfect smile.

And your lips, I have not yet spoken of those…

It was nonsense of course, all nonsense, and it went on and on, profoundly expressing her beauty and his adoration, while not once claiming to love, but pleading for her to give him the opportunity to fall in love. It begged her to tame him. It asked her to show him how to love her. Then he finished it all with a silly poem about love.

When she refolded the paper, a smile curved her lips.

He’d not been deterred by her dismissal yesterday. He was more serious about choosing her than she had thought. It would be easier for him to court someone else.

‘What did he say, Mary?’ her mother enquired.

‘He is gushing, Mama.’ It was becoming too easy to lie.

Her mother and her sister-in-law Kate smiled.

‘Are you interested in Lord Farquhar?’ her mother asked.

Mary laughed. ‘Heavens, no, but it is flattering.’ She rose from the window seat and slipped her shoes back on.

‘Let me see!’ ‘Let me read it!’ her sisters cried.

‘No.’ Mary clutched the letter to her breast as they rushed over.

‘Helen, Jenny, leave your sister alone. It’s personal,’ her mother admonished.

Fortunately, her parents were not in the habit of reading her post. They trusted her.

A sharp pain cut deeply into Mary’s chest. She did not deserve their trust any more. She would have lost her family’s respect forever if she had been found with Lord Framlington. She would have ruined herself and had to marry him, and they would be embarrassed by the gossip. Yet, he had always been discreet, that too was a mark in his favour. Even his letter did not contain anything which would force her hand.

Last night he could have had what he wished, her hand in marriage and her money, if he’d arranged for someone to discover them.

Surely, that he would not act without her consent meant he was honourable despite his reputation, and he must also – to some degree – truly care for her.

‘May I take this letter up to my room, Mama, and put it in my travelling desk?’ She wanted to lock it away so her sisters could not sneak in and read it.

‘Of course, sweetheart,’ her mother said warmly.

Mary fled the room with sinful notions spinning in her head. If she knew his address she would write back.

No! I have finished with this foolishness.

* * *

Fate played an odd game on Mary at the Fosters’ ball. As Mary stood talking with Miss Emily Smithfield, Daniel asked Mary to dance the first set.

She accepted with a shallow curtsy, smiling at him, then glanced back to give Emily, who invariably ended up the wallflower, an apologetic smile. Emily was shy, she had come out this season and was still finding her place in society.

As Mary walked out to dance with Daniel, her parents watched from a few yards away. Her father’s eyes glistened in the candlelight. They thought she carried a torch for Daniel and he for her.

Daniel carried his torch for Bethany.

Nothing good ever came of lying. It was always found out. The only time she’d lied in her childhood was when she’d accidentally broken her mother’s perfume bottle. She’d hidden the broken bottle and claimed no knowledge of it. Her parents had known, however, because she was the only one who smelt of the perfume. She had been in more trouble for lying than for breaking the bottle. She had not lied again until the day of the Jerseys’ garden party.

Daniel’s eyes shone with good humour as he led her among the dancers. She liked her friends. She’d formed a good set last season along with Emily this season. All her friends were nice, happy, and generous in nature – there was no reason for her to want more from her life. But she longed for the company of a more complex mysterious man.

Her heart ached with a bittersweet sadness. Lord Framlington was exciting, she longed to discover everything about him.

Yet, she had not even asked for his given name.

The image of his eyes as he asked her to say his name became vivid in her memory.

He was… vital… dangerous… and… thrilling. Daniel, like every other man, was bland. How could she fall for someone like that when there was Lord Framlington, Drew, in comparison? She would rather never marry.

‘You do not look quite the thing this evening, Mary. You look distracted. Is anything wrong?’ Daniel asked as they passed each other in the country dance.

‘Nothing is wrong. I am merely tired, I have attended too many entertainments.’

‘You can never attend too many. Are your shoes pinching? You may have too much dancing if your shoes are pinching…’

Mary laughed at his attempt to cheer her, when in reality the weak joke sent her tumbling into the doldrums. If she never spoke to Lord Framlington again, she would have to endure an entirely dull life.

‘I should be honest. It was not I who noticed your mood. Bethany did. She sent me to cheer you up.’

Mary glanced at Bethany, who was now talking to Emily.

She smiled at Daniel. She must cease longing for Lord Framlington. This was enough. It had to be. Even if inside she spent the rest of her life screaming from boredom.

As the dance ended, Lord Framlington entered the ballroom with a group of men. They stopped still at the edge of the room and looked about the crowd. One man’s gaze passed over her, then jolted back. He turned to the others. Then they all looked at her at the same time Lord Framlington did.

‘Mary, may I have the next dance?’ Philip Smyth asked.

She turned her back on Drew and his friends. ‘Yes.’ She bobbed a curtsy. Drew must have said something about her to his friends; their eyes had devoured her. What would he have said?

Philip Smyth took her hand as the music began.

She began the dance one step behind everyone, so light-headed she felt as though she might collapse. But she did not give in to her weakness for the dark-haired, hazel-eyed fiend. She lifted her chin, caught up the step and continued, focusing on Philip and smiling as hard as she could.

When the music came to its crescendo, ending in a brisk flurry, relief and a desire to reach the safety of her mother swamped Mary. But before Philip could lead her back, a shadow fell over her. She turned. John’s cousin, on his father’s side, stood there, Lord Oliver Harding, and one of Lord Framlington’s friends.

‘Miss Marlow.’ Oliver bowed.

She curtsied. ‘Lord Harding.’

She had met Oliver several times but he’d never paid her any attention. He was older than John and not interested in John’s young half-siblings.

He turned to the man beside him.

Heat burned beneath Mary’s skin.

‘Mr Harper begged me for an introduction. Miss Marlow. Mr Harper, Miss Marlow, is my cousin’s half-sister.’

She bobbed a very shallow curtsy. Mary had no knowledge of Mr Harper. She’d never seen nor heard of him.

He raised a hand to take hers. ‘May I have this dance, Miss Marlow?’

If she refused it would be obvious to everyone around them; the sets had formed, Philip had gone and she would have to leave the floor alone.

She gave him her hand and faced piercing, assessing, blue eyes. Goosebumps ran up her arm as though a cold breeze had swept into the room.

His blonde hair gave him a look of innocence, but his eyes denied it entirely. He was a rake of the worst sort, the sort who did not even bother to court wealth. That was why she’d not seen him before, because he was not the type of man to attend sedate functions. Even the card room here, she was sure, would not play deep enough.

He was a man who usually danced with sin, not in ballrooms. And Drew’s chosen companion…

Her mouth dried. Why did he want to dance with her? What had Drew said?

‘You’re very beautiful, Miss Marlow. More so than I’d thought. I see why he is smitten.’

‘He?’ Her cheeks heated with a deeper blush as they took the first steps of the dance, moving closer then away from one another. He released her hand. She turned to make a ring of four with the couple to their left and faced Drew.

So, this was the game?

They completed a full circle, hands joined as a four and then the dance led her to change partner. Of course her new partner was Drew.

‘Miss Marlow.’ He acknowledged her with perfect formality.

The next move was a closer turn, shoulder to shoulder. He pressed close. Heat scorched down her arm, and burned inside her, her heart thumping hard. She opened her mouth to breathe, but there was no air.

‘Did you receive my letter?’ he whispered to her ear.

‘Yes.’

‘Will you write to me?’

There was no time to answer. They were parted by the figures of the dance.

She faced his friend, her heart pounding as she attempted to watch Drew from the corner of her eye.

The rest of the dance seemed endless. There were no other opportunities to speak with him as the complicated patterns moved Drew further and further away.

* * *

During supper, Drew stood apart from everyone, hands in pockets, as he watched others eating. Miss Marlow was in the bosom of her family, surrounded, laughing and happy. Happy? Now there was another word like love . Had he ever known what it was to be happy? How the hell did he know who was happy?

He laughed last night, though, laughed and got very drunk. He’d tracked his friends down in a gambling den not far from St James and dragged them from their game, and Peter and Harry from the whores who had draped themselves across the men’s laps. They spent the rest of the night at his bachelor residence. He had explained his plight and asked them how he was going to convince the girl to love him. How did a man use romance and not sex to court a woman?

Harry had laughed heartily.

Drew could see the humour in the situation: the renowned seducer smote by a lack of love.

His friends then spent the following three hours in drunken amusement, advising him on the subtleties of love, and its difference from desire.

The letter was Peter’s idea. He’d leaned back in his chair, lifting his glass of brandy and grinning. ‘What you need, my friend, is a bloody good poet. Prose is your key. All women fall for it. They like to be told their eyes are like this, their lips like that, they love to have their beauty praised.’

Between them then, and between bouts of laughter, they’d constructed the basics of the letter. The prose had been mostly Peter’s. This morning Drew rewrote it with a sober hand and sent if off.

Having played a part in his courtship, his friends had insisted on attending the next ball. They were eager to help. They’d considered it brilliant luck that Mark knew the Harding twins, Pembroke’s cousins, and then another plot had been spun, to gain Drew access to Mary in the ballroom.

The Hardings were not as high in the instep as the Pembrokes. Lord Oliver had not even lifted an eyebrow at Mark’s request.

The plan was, once Mark had the introduction, he would introduce the others and then they’d all dance with her, and if Drew merely passed her during the country dances, her family would not suspect any intent. But the reality proved frustrating. There was not enough time to speak to her.

She had said she received the letter and when he asked if she would write, there was no chance for her to answer. Beyond that he’d resorted to brushing her shoulder with his fingertips once. It was hardly enough to win him a wife. He was not going to be able to convince her to marry him like this.

He turned on his heel and walked from the supper room. He needed to think, he needed to settle his mind. Then he realised, suddenly, in a blinding thought, he had asked her to write, but she did not know his address. He could not write his address in a letter her parents might see.

Changing direction, he searched out a footman in the hall. ‘May I have a quill, ink and paper brought to the gentlemen’s smoking room.’

After the supper, he let her dance with her friends for the first and second dances, then asked Peter to lead her out.

The dance was a pattern of four. Drew picked a quiet little wallflower of a woman to partner him.

Two movements into the dance he and Peter swapped partners. It was not a requirement of the dance. He’d agreed the move with Peter to gain longer access to Mary.

Of course, Mary realised instantly what they were doing and her jaw dropped on the verge of exclamation, but he caught her fingers in his as part of a turn and squeezed them hard. It effectively silenced her. The little wallflower seemed to think they’d made a mistake. She smiled at Peter as though she thought him foolish, but then knowing Peter, he was probably charming the girl and making her think he was the one who had planned the swap.

‘Why are you playing this game?’ Mary whispered harshly.

He bent his head and although he felt like being harsh in return, he softened his voice to honey. Some aspects of seduction may still be useful when making a girl fall in love… he needed to convince her he might suffer the same condition. ‘My dear, it is no game. I told you, I want you for my wife. I am not backing down. Steadfastness is surely evidence of a heart’s devotion.’

* * *

Drew was arrogant tonight. He did not like losing. She had enough brothers and male relations to know how stubborn men could be in competitions.

‘It is not a statement of love to want to win at any cost. I do not like being manipulated by you and your friends. You are determined, I give you that. But devoted…’ She made a scoffing sound. ‘I am sure you are devoted to my dowry.’

‘You are on your guard, Mary, darling. It is you I am devoted to, and how many times must I say I will not hurt you?’

‘Anything between us will hurt me, because it will hurt my family.’

‘But what if it hurts us more to be kept apart?’

‘There is no us, Lord Framlington.’

His eyes shone with condescending humour. ‘Must I be set back so far? Please call me Drew.’

‘You have not been set back at all. There is simply no going forward. Our?—’

‘Affair…’ He’d leaned forward as he’d whispered the word. His voice vibrated through her nerves.

She shook her head. ‘Hardly that, but whatever it is. Was. It is over – and was always folly. I cannot hurt my family.’

‘Folly? I have heard it said that we all have a soulmate. If I am yours – if we are each other’s – would you throw that away because your family did not like the man of your heart and hurt me? Oughtn’t I be higher in your heart – your future husband. Families rear us, then they are meant to become second in our lives.’

His words struck her like a slap. If I am yours – if we are each other’s – would you throw that away because your family did not like the man of your heart and hurt me?

* * *

That was bloody poetic of him. Where the hell had those words come from? Drew would be spouting this drivel as second nature soon. But he would do anything to win her, including prattling, idiotic, poetic words.

The dance separated them for several movements. But his gaze clung to her. She was intoxicatingly beautiful. Whenever he looked at her a jolt sparked in his chest as well as his groin. His thoughts were forever transfixed by this woman, whether he was in her proximity or not. He had to win her. He refused to accept her rejection of him.

He’d chosen her last season. Nearly a whole year had already passed, and he would not wait another year. He had no intention of letting her slip through his fingers.

He needed her and not simply for her money.

Aware his gaze had hardened to glaring, when the dance returned her to him, he whispered coarsely, ‘Am I not good enough for you?’ That was the gut punch. Apart from his friends, no one in this room considered him their equal. It sickened him to believe she might think the same.

Her lips parted. They drew his gaze for a moment. If they were alone, he would take her into his arms, kiss her and never let her go. She was his. She just did not know it yet. ‘You are meant for me. Why can you not see it?’ Forget the drivel about souls and fate and love, this much was true. She was the only woman he would be happy with.

Her lips pursed.

‘I tried to tell you how I felt in that letter?—’

Her fingertip grazed his lips as she passed him in a turn, saying, be silent .

Good God! Did she not know he would give anything to have her? The problem was, he only had himself to give.

‘I read your letter, I know what it said.’

Drew’s heart missed a beat. The look in her eyes spoke of sympathy. Did it mean there was hope?

‘Write to me,’ he urged. ‘I will speak to you when I can, but in the meantime write.’ The orchestra slowed, the dance coming to an end.

‘I do not have your address,’ she said as the dancers around them bowed and curtsied in parting.

He bowed and captured her fingers, lifted her hand to kiss her glove, and as he did so, he slid the small, folded piece of paper he’d written his address on into the wrist of her glove.

‘Now you do,’ he said as he straightened and let her hand fall. Then he walked away.

* * *

Mary remained in the middle of the ballroom, her heartbeat ringing in her ears, as Lord Framlington, Drew, returned to his friends.

‘Miss Marlow.’ The man who had led her into the dance, Lord Brooke, offered his arm. ‘Shall I return you to your family?’

Her hand felt numb as she rested it on his coat sleeve.

Drew and his friends had manipulated her through nearly every dance.

‘There are a dozen other heiresses he could court,’ she said as they walked.

‘But none as beautiful.’

‘So, it is my wealth and beauty he seeks?’

They passed through people forming sets for the next dance.

‘Is it not his looks which draw your eyes to him?’ The accusing depth of his baritone voice made her skin prickle.

He stopped a few feet from her parents, lifted her fingers from his arm, and bowed over them. ‘It has been a pleasure, Miss Marlow.’ Then he also walked away.

Mary’s gaze followed him to Drew. When he joined them, Drew and his friends left the ballroom, without looking back.

‘Who were you with?’ her mother asked.

Mary faced her. ‘Lord Brooke, Mama. Oliver introduced his friend to me and his friend introduced Lord Brooke.’

‘And his friend was?’

‘Mr Harper.’ The slip of paper tucked within Mary’s glove itched. Had the whole endeavour been to slip her his address?

‘Mr Harper… I think his father’s money came from sugar plantations.’ Her father had moved beside her. ‘A dreadful business by all accounts.’

She shrugged. ‘I have no idea, Papa. We danced, we did not share life histories.’

He smiled. ‘No, I suppose not, but if it was that Mr Harper, avoid him, he has an appalling reputation, and Lord Brooke too. Avoid them both in the future.’

‘Yes, Papa.’

She had been right; Drew consorted with men whose reputations matched his – and the rogue had left his address in her glove. She would be silly to communicate with him.

Her father tapped her chin as he used to when she was young. ‘Cheer up, sweetheart, there are plenty of decent men about, and here is one. I believe Lord Farquhar wishes a second dance.’

Daniel was indeed approaching with a broad smile.

Why could Cupid not aim a steady arrow at her heart, one which led to a trustworthy man, rather than a predatory rake?