5
The coach swayed as it raced across the uneven cobbles of London’s streets, bowling towards her brother’s town mansion. Its motion churned Mary’s stomach that was in turmoil.
‘It is unlike you to suffer with headaches, Mary, has something happened?’ her mother asked. Her parents were sitting on the opposite seat, observing her.
Mary shook her head, which only made the pain hammer against her skull.
‘You look pale,’ her father stated. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Just my head. I will be well after I have slept.’
Leaning forward, her mother gently placed a hand on Mary’s knee. ‘We will be home soon. Would you like me to sit with you while you sleep?’
‘No, thank you, Mama.’ Sometimes their kindness was cloying, and tonight she did not deserve it. She was a rotten daughter, or rather, she wanted to be. She wanted to be bad. Everything Lord Framlington had said was true. She wanted to meet him and kiss him. He tempted her. Her body throbbed from the memory of their sudden encounter in the dark.
When they reached home, Mr Finch, her brother’s butler, opened the door. John and Kate were at a private dinner. Her younger brothers and sisters were all in bed. Her mother climbed the stairs beside Mary, helped her undress, then walked to the bed and lifted the sheet while Mary slipped her nightgown over her head.
‘I will tuck you in.’
‘I am not a child, Mama.’
Her mother sighed. ‘I know you are nineteen but you will always be my daughter. May I fetch you something for the headache?’
‘No, thank you, I just need to sleep,’ she answered as she laid down.
‘Goodnight, sweetheart.’ Her mother pressed a kiss on Mary’s forehead, smothered the candle and left her.
Mary rolled to her side, her head throbbing with guilt, and wept.
She had done nothing wrong, not really, not yet, it had only been kisses that she had allowed. But she had a dreadful feeling she would do more. She could not quell her longing for this man she should not want to go anywhere near.
* * *
For the third night, Mary looked for him with no success. Her heart ached to see the rogue send her one of his knowing nods, or a charming smile.
He had asked her to seek him out then disappeared and made that impossible.
His kisses haunted her… She wished for wickedness. She wished for more kisses.
‘Miss Marlow. Damn it, you stood on my foot.’ Mr Makepeace was a wealthy landowner, double her age and as dull as a rainy day. He was also rude. She may have missed a step because she had been daydreaming but it was ungentlemanly to curse her for it.
‘Forgive me.’ A blush heated her cheeks as others looked at them.
She had been thinking about a dance she had shared with a man a year ago. She had barely heard the music then, her thoughts focused on the colour of his eyes. They were hazel; a light shade of cluttered brown. When candlelight caught his eyes, the colour turned to honey, a soft amber, or molten gold.
Most men she danced with were young and silly compared to Lord Framlington, or too old, or dull, or so busy portraying a fashionable ennui they had no personality at all.
The dance came to its conclusion.
Sweat glistening on his brow, his chest heaving with the depths of his noisy breaths, Mr Makepeace walked her back to her parents. She thanked him politely. He bowed and turned away.
Good riddance.
She looked for Lord Framlington. He was not here. Why? Where was he? She huffed out an unladylike breath. ‘Mama, I wish to go to the retiring room.’
‘I will come with you.’
‘That is not necessary. The hall is busy; I will not be alone.’
‘Very well.’
Mary forced a path through the crush of people, remembering the night he had stopped her. The rogue… I cannot come to you in a place like this, so, if you want what I can give you, you must come to me… But how could she go to him if he was nowhere to be found!
‘Miss Marlow,’ her mother’s maid acknowledged as Mary entered the withdrawing room that had been allocated for the women’s use. She ensured Mary did not soil her dress, then Mary sat while the maid reset a couple of the curls on her forehead.
She hated him. He was playing with her. Yet, no one she spoke to or danced with compared to him. He was handsome, clever, charming – and poor. A fortune hunter and a rake.
Her heart thumped as she walked back into the ballroom, looking for him. He was not there. She did not return to her mother, she sought her friends. Someone to talk to. Though, she had not spoken to them of Lord Framlington, they would think her mad. Anyone would think her mad. She could not even explain to herself why she liked him.
‘Mary!’ Miss Smithfield, one of Mary’s less confident friends, raised a hand and beckoned.
‘Emily.’ Mary had befriended her one evening when Emily had been sitting out a dance against the wall.
‘You poor soul.’ Lady Bethany Pope took hold of Mary’s hand and pulled her close. ‘I saw you dancing with Mr Makepeace.’ She kissed the air beside Mary’s cheek.
Mary lifted her fingers to her open mouth, mimicking making herself sick. Emily and Bethany laughed.
‘He has asked you to dance every night this week,’ Emily stated.
‘Yes, but hopefully never again. I stood on his foot.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘Perhaps.’ They laughed again.
Mary did not laugh. This life, dancing and presenting her best side to everyone who spoke to her, whether they were likeable or not, was driving her slowly insane. Her life was dull. She missed the sense of danger hovering across the ballroom when Lord Framlington watched her. He intrigued her. She was the only woman he watched and he never danced.
Though, he had talked to Lady Kilbride several times.
She sighed.
Had she lost him, by not conceding? Had he given up on her?
‘Miss Marlow.’ Mr Gerard Heathcote bowed before her. ‘May I have the honour of this dance?’
She wished to scream, no! She had danced with him ten dozen times, he was nice, polite – and so boring. And she was becoming wicked, cruel and horrible. She dropped a shallow curtsy then gave Gerard her hand. ‘Of course.’
As they joined a set, she glanced through the French doors, looking into the garden. It was dark and raindrops ran down the glass. Perhaps she should take a walk outside. A thorough soaking might bring her to her senses.
Nine nights later, after twelve nights of looking for an absent Lord Framlington, when she returned home with her parents, she stopped her mother from entering her bedchamber. ‘Please, Mama, a maid can help me undress. You cannot treat me as a child forever.’
‘But—’
‘Please, I wish to retire alone.’
As soon as she shut the door, the tears came. They had been hovering all night. She had looked for Lord Framlington almost constantly. When she had waltzed, her gaze had spun about the room searching every corner. Her dance partners must have thought her rude.
She had concluded that his interest had waned. He must have accepted her denials and given up on her. Common sense said she ought not care. She should be pleased.
A light knock tapped the door. A maid. She looked at Mary then looked away. ‘Mrs Marlow said you need help to undress.’
‘Yes, please.’ The pathways of tears were still damp stains on her cheeks.
The maid released the buttons at the back of Mary’s bodice, in silence. Normally Mary would have talked. She unlaced Mary’s short stays. Once the laces were loose and she could disrobe, Mary said, ‘That will be all, thank you.’
‘Are you certain, miss?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
The maid curtsied.
‘Please tell no one I have been upset,’ Mary added.
The woman, Tilly, nodded. ‘I shan’t say a word, miss.’
When she had gone, Mary did not bother to strip off her clothes or blow out the candles. She tumbled on to the bed and cried. Because she may not see him ever again… and because she was a ninny for even wanting to see him.
‘Idiot!’ she shouted into her pillow.