Lady Mary's May Day Mischief: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 2 Read online

  Mary’s mind ran with a thousand warring possibilities. Esme wanted Northington. Loved him. Had not been pushed by her mama to snare him. The opposite was true. Lady Courtland had wanted a more biddable man for her daughter. So what now of Northington’s affections? Had he any for Esme? Or was it her dowry, rich beyond those held by any other young woman in this room, that he coveted?

  “Oh, my.” Lady Courtland voiced Mary’s desperation. “Here he comes. Angry still. He’s had a row with my husband earlier. I hope not now with Esme. She’ll faint if he makes a scene.”

  “No she won’t.”

  Lady Courtland snapped around to examine Mary. “You’re sure?”

  She gave one nod. “Esme has more mettle than any of us warrants.”

  “I see,” said Esme’s mother. “Good to know.”

  Whatever Northington’s emotion, he greeted his future mother-in-law with polite if chilly words. She took his greeting and reminded him that if he and Esme were ready, she and her husband would soon take the floor. He agreed, then excused himself to make his way toward his intended.

  Paces behind him waited Blake. Hands behind his back, rising now and again on his toes, he looked impatient as a boy.

  When he stepped forward, Lady Courtland had a grin for him. “How did you enjoy the village frolic, Lord Bridges?”

  “Very much so, my lady. I am grateful for your acceptance of my intrusion to this party. I’ve not had many occasions in past years to laugh…or to dance.” His blue eyes sailed toward Mary’s.

  “I do hope you will take advantage of this opportunity, my lord, to do both.”

  “I will,” he answered her. “I sincerely hope one young lady is willing.”

  Mary rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

  “She but needs encouragement, dear sir. And if you will excuse me, I have much to do to see that you dance quite often.”

  “By all means,” He swept aside to allow her to pass. As he came back to face Mary, he spoke in that subdued tone rough as gravel. “You are stunning in that gown.”

  She let out a laugh. “Am I blushing?”

  “Burning, I would say.”

  She put one hand to her cheek. “You’re right. I don’t know what one does to stop it.”

  “One dances,” he crooned.

  “And laughs.”

  “And plays duets.”

  “And hopes for many more of the same.” She put a hand to her cheek. “Oh, I am forward.”

  “Be forward with me always.”

  The orchestra struck forth. A tune of simple but dramatic chords meant for the opening of a grand ball. The music lifted her from her ordinary self and buoyed her up on wings of hope and sweet desire for him.

  “I never thought I’d ever laugh with you again.” She couldn’t help herself. She cupped his cheek. “Let alone dance.”

  He covered her hand with his own. “Dance with me now.”

  In one sharp move, he put her from him. He stared at her, a new man, controlled but ardent. “Take my arm.” He jutted it out.

  “At the moment, I don’t think it wise to touch you.”

  He hooted in laughter and curled her arm in his, then steered her toward the center of the chalked floor. “Tonight we will do this.”

  “If I embarrass you, we stop.”

  “My darling girl, if one can scale walls one hundred feet high, if one can claim fortresses one hundred years old, or fell emperors upstart and new, then you can dance, and do it with me. One for the past. A second for tonight. And afterward, you will tell me if you will dance with me for all our tomorrows.”

  Chapter 9

  He’d not intended to declare himself so quickly to Mary. He was running ahead, thinking with his errant body not his head. All afternoon, he’d mulled his conversation with Millicent Weaver who blamed herself for the split between herself and his friend, Langdon. Millicent regretted she’d asked Mary to interfere. More importantly, she cared for Langdon. She’d tried to contact him, perhaps even to make amends, but he had refused her. If there was hope they might resume their relationship, he’d learn. He’d visit Langdon as soon as his business in London concluded and explore his friend’s feelings for the young woman.

  Millicent’s acceptance did not absolve what Mary had done to drive them apart. Though Mary considered herself a reliable friend, one anyone could count on for help in any crisis, this kind of action had destroyed a relationship. As for Mary, he could not imagine she did not know the disastrous effect of her actions. Surely she no longer engaged in this kind of mischief. He’d known her to be creative, helpful, never deceitful.

  With hope in his heart for a resolution, he led her to the floor.

  * * *

  She knew the steps. She always had. Studied them at every ball she’d attended, envied all who ventured upon the boards and seemed to float in time, in place, in a grace she could not achieve. Oh, yes, she had danced at home in her bedroom or in her own parlor, usually alone or in front of her mother who nagged at her to “Try, my angel. Try.”

  She took Blake’s hand, vowing to try for him…and for herself. Why be coy about it, eh? She’d always wanted to be that young girl others praised for her style, her execution. Tonight, she thanked heaven above the piece that opened the ball was a simple one, a few repeated steps for four that then broke into a line of two partners who then peeled off and returned to the end of that line. She could hobble quickly behind everyone and take up her spot once more in front of Blake to bow and do a few pretties, then end the entire caper.

  He beamed at her with pride. “You see. You can do very well.”

  “You are very kind but I must sit now.” She would have stepped away.

  But he caught her elbow. “No. I mean to dance with you again.”

  Bluntness would do best here. “Twice? You know that is an invitation to gossip.”

  He drew near, his low bass voice an enticement and a warning. “You cannot desert me. Unless you wish to go.”

  “I don’t, but—”

  “I know what two dances means, Mary. I was not playing the friend when I said I wanted three.” His features were drawn tight in earnest appeal.

  If she refused him, she would not ever see him again. Let alone have the sublime opportunity to hope for more thrilling declarations, more kisses…and…how had he put it? All our tomorrows.

  “Another, then.” She put her hand in his and he led her back to the edge of the floor.

  This time, Esme and Northington were introduced and led the dance. More couples took to the center. This configuration required more rhythm and dexterity. Blake did it well. She followed, serving up what elegance she could.

  At tune’s end, he grinned. “You see. You do this well.”

  Grateful for his praise, she knew her limited capabilities. “Meanwhile, I stand in awe of you, sir. How do you know these intricate steps?”

  “At ‘The Shop’, every engineer learned how to draw maps, build dams or bomb a ten-foot wall. At the end of class each day, the dancing master arrived. We were required to be as agile there as in the field. We would, declared the commandant, be officers. We therefore must also be gentlemen.”

  “You achieved that quite well.”

  “So you will dance with me again?”

  She tipped her head to listen to the music and her heart. A waltz. If she dared that with him, what else could she aspire to in life, besides the bliss to live with him? “Oh, Blake, if I do—”

  “You’ll have to marry me.”

  Suddenly, he took her arm and marched her to the hall. There in a niche, he pressed her to the wall and brushed his warm lips on hers. “Will you?”

  Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Will you marry me?”

  The most delightful question she’d ever been asked and she could not blurt out the very answer she’d always known?

  He threw back his head to laugh, grabbed her hand and made for the orangery. There he flung wide the door and pulled her inside. The room was dar
k, lit only by moonlight through the expanse of glass garden doors. In the silence of the night, the fragrance of orange trees and roses mingled in a humid brew. He drew her into a secluded nook made of giant potted palms.

  And there he wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her against him. “I’ve little to give you in way of predictability.”

  Expecting words of love, this confused her. “What?”

  He whirled her around and pressed her to the wall, her body igniting like a flame in his embrace. “I do a poor job of this.”

  “I think you do very well!” She beamed at him. “I enjoy it. Continue, do!”

  He hugged her even closer. “I love you, my Mary. I love you.”

  “Oh, that’s much better.”

  “Imp!” He pressed her to the wall and there he bent low to place kisses on her cheek, her ear and all down her throat. “I’ve wanted to do this forever.”

  “Really?” She was enjoying this tremendously.

  And when she would have opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, he raised her chin and put his burning lips to hers. Melted in the assault, she enjoyed the fervid heat of his attention. And in her foggy reasoning, she knew this that he did was no blithe caress, no friendly peck, no careless accident.

  It was fire and might. Possession and bliss. Madness and brilliance that robbed her mind and seized her breath.

  “That,” she said when he broke off so they both could pant for air.

  “Is what?” he asked while he trailed little kisses down her temple across her cheek down to her lips. There, once more, he claimed her, his mouth hard against her, his tongue invading, giving and taking. Until he broke away and stared at the ceiling.

  “I have no words,” she murmured, stunned, when he began to chuckle.

  “A good thing, my lady. You have too many words far too often. Best to enjoy this, silently, eh?”

  At that, he cupped her jaw with one hand and ravished her mouth. The devastation was glorious, her whole body tingling with a rash new need to have him, his mouth, his arms, his everything again and again. “How many times I wanted to do this.”

  “Me, too,” she confessed.

  He squeezed her tightly. “But I had no right.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Everyone told me I was not your equal.”

  She shook her head. “But I never thought that.”

  “I knew it. That’s why we were friends.”

  She stared at him, wistful. “And now?”

  “Now there is this.” He ran his hands up her back and curled her near so that her breasts brushed his frock coat. He was delectably warm, his muscles rippling beneath her fingertips. “When I was nineteen and came home one summer, I knew I wanted you in a new and intriguing way. When I returned again one Christmas, I saw you as the lovely woman you were becoming,” he said and trailed little kisses up across her chin to hover over her lips. “I’ve loved you since we were children, I’d say. And you were a scamp. Precious to me.”

  “I learned courage from you. Always you urged me on.” Her declaration gave him pause, as if he marveled at her words. She laughed and brushed her lips on his. “Oh. Don’t stop. I’ve wanted a thousand kisses from you, and you’ve hundreds more to go.”

  He cupped her cheek, his gaze a smoldering black in the dim garden room. “I’d like to deliver them all as your husband. Tell me I can.”

  She wound her arms around him, never to let him go.

  The doors from the hall banged open against the walls. A woman marched in, scolding someone.

  Mary startled.

  Blake tensed.

  The woman’s shoes clacked on the tiles as she argued.

  Blake pressed Mary and himself further to the wall and the fronds of the palms closed around them.

  “I told you that’s not true.”

  Mary stared up at Blake. The woman who’d entered was Fifi and she was positively irate.

  “But I understand this is what you do,” declared an angry man. “Pretend to care for someone.”

  “I don’t. I haven’t,” Fifi fumed.

  “Six years ago in London, you didn’t pretend to care for me?”

  Mary’s mouth fell open. The man fighting with Fifi was Charlton.

  Blake frowned and cocked an ear.

  “Pretend? No! I thought you the most charming creature. But clearly,” Fifi ranted, “I was wrong.”

  “You promised to meet me in Green Park the next afternoon.”

  “I was there!”

  Charlton snorted. “I never saw you.”

  “Of course you didn’t!”

  “Now you make no sense, Fifi.”

  “Ohhh! You stubborn man! I thought you were another man.”

  “Who?” he demanded.

  “That does not matter!”

  But it had mattered a great deal, because Fifi always thought the man she sought was Northington.

  “It matters to me,” Charlton said.

  “Oh! You wore a mask that night. A rather large one! I remembered your hair and your mouth. But it was dark in that ballroom.”

  “And in the card room too where you won my two hundred pounds!”

  “Fairly!” she shouted. “I won that fairly. You are an incompetent card player.”

  “I know that!” He sounded loathe to confess that.

  “Oh, I must sit down,” she complained and clomped across the tiled floor. “Ahh. There.” She panted. “Better. Yes, that night I did not have a clear view of you.”

  “We sat across from each other. I kissed you!”

  “Yes! And I wear glasses for a reason, sir!”

  “Really?” He snorted. “When?”

  “Often!”

  “You’re blind?”

  Fifi grumbled. “Not entirely. But…yes!”

  “How can you play cards if you can’t see?”

  “Oh! I can count cards, calculate who has what and estimate my odds without donning my ugly spectacles!”

  “Oh, Fifi. Sweetheart. I am so sorry.”

  “I am, too, you terrible man.”

  The sounds of Charlton’s steps across the floor were followed by a gasp by Fifi. “Charlton…”

  “Darling,” he crooned.

  And Mary buried her face in Blake’s chest to chuckle as the other couple rustled about.

  “Fee, I love you.”

  “Oh, Charlton. I’m so sorry. Say that again, would you?”

  “You’re deaf as well as blind?” he asked on a laugh.

  “No. I just need you to say it again.” Little sounds of kisses followed.

  “I love you, Fee. I do. I was so afraid you had played me for a fool.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I spoke with Millicent Weaver earlier today. She told me that Lady Mary helped her fool a friend on mine into thinking she did not care for him.”

  In horror, Mary lifted her head.

  “That’s true. But Mary regrets it.”

  “She should. Does she do that often?”

  “No, no.”

  “What’s the matter?” he asked her.

  “I just worry.”

  “About what?”

  “That she’s pretending to care for Lord Bridges.”

  Beneath Mary’s hands, every muscle in Blake’s body went hard as rock.

  “Why would she do that?” Charlton asked, incredulity in every word.

  “Because she and I made a pact to do that here.”

  “What? Why?”

  “A long story.”

  Fear told Mary not look up at Blake. But the sooner, the better.

  Oh, no. No. He glared at her, then blinked away any confusion.

  She shook her head, clutched at his lapels, but he backed away.

  Turned and parted the palms with a crisp rustle of the foliage.

  “Pardon me,” she heard him say to the others. He strode away, the clack of his heels on the tiles a death knell to her hope.

  She stepped out
of the shadows to face her startled friend and Charlton. Without a word to excuse herself, she fled.

  Grief followed like a ghost.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning, Mary hobbled down the hall as the clock struck seven bells. In the wee hours, she’d packed. Surprising Welles when the maid appeared after six, Mary had explained that she would return home as soon as possible but that Welles should stay to serve Fifi.

  “My lady, you cannot travel by yourself.”

  “I’ve no fears of it, Welles. The journey is short to Bath. And Lord Courtland will, I hope, allow me to go into Chippenham in the pony cart. They won’t use that this morning for the wedding.”

  “Oh, ma’am, stay! This is your friend who marries. You’ll regret it if you go. You love a wedding so!”

  “I do.” I did.

  “Miss Esme will miss you.”

  “I’ve written a note to her. Please take it to her this afternoon, will you?”

  “Your regrets?”

  “They are. I have…many.” So very many. “Tell me. Do you know where Millicent Weaver’s rooms are?”

  Mary gathered her courage as she stood before the third door in the ladies’ wing. Knocking once, she prayed that Millicent would allow her in. Millicent had never been vindictive about what Mary had done. In fact, she’d accepted full blame for the prank, a responsibility that Mary had demanded she claim herself. Her argument with her friend had fallen on deaf ears.

  Mary raised her hand to knock again when the door swung open. Millicent’s little maid stared at her with disbelieving eyes. “Ma’am?”

  “Is your lady up? I apologize for the hour but I must speak with her. Please.”

  The young girl blinked, doubt lining her pretty face. “Come in.” She scurried through the sitting room into the bedroom. A conversation of low tones and surprise flowed out to Mary.

  “Miss Weaver will see you in a minute.” The girl indicated one of the chairs. “There, if you like.”

  Mary nodded her thanks.

  Within minutes, Millicent walked out to meet her. Her hair, flowing over her shoulder in a long golden hair in a waterfall to her waist, her oval face scrubbed and pink, she held her muslin wrapper close to her throat and padded toward her in bare feet. “Mary? What’s amiss?”