His Forbidden Debutante Page 3

  ‘Concerned I can’t support my wife?’ Penwick attempted to ease the mood with jocularity, though his mind spun with questions. Why did Allington press the subject? It never failed; whether drinking at the club or fencing in the ballroom, the subject of his investing in the Allington jewellery business always surfaced. ‘All jests aside, I’ll consider the notion.’ A change of subject was in order. ‘How is the mare you purchased from my stable faring? You haven’t mentioned her since the transaction.’ Horseflesh – a common enough topic for any gentleman and another on which he was considered an expert.

  ‘The animal needs a firm hand. I despair if all your livestock is as unmanageable.’ Allington followed the cut with a gruff chuckle and replaced his glass on the table.

  ‘The white Abaco Barb? It’s one of the calmest breeds imported to England and this mare in particular is my finest. I almost couldn’t sell her to you, wanting to keep the prize. She’s obedient, reliable and perceptive of her rider,’ Penwick responded with an austere shake of the head. No one could accuse the horse of unruly defiance. He’d named the mare Decorum because she combined dignity and regal presence whenever they rode.

  ‘Aha, now I have identified the truer problem, one bigger than the horse of which I complain. As a breeder you regard the horses as equals, when any fool is aware to command an animal’s respect one must prove to be the master.’ Allington clasped his hands together to punctuate his assertion.

  The critical remark was stated with outright arrogance and an uncomfortable silence smothered their otherwise brotherly palaver. There wasn’t more to say after that and, once Allington took his leave, Penwick bathed and changed his clothes. His schedule presented a busy day ahead and he hadn’t slept well the night before. Some unresolved sentiment lurked below his consciousness to cause him unrest.

  At least his appointments would end on a high note with his dance lesson at four o’clock. He’d already decided he would not choose Claire’s ring today. The subject of diamonds seemed overstated of late. He could always stop at the club on the way home, though. Two fingers of expensive brandy might be the exact prescription to assure a night of fitful rest.

  Chapter Three

  Isn’t it peculiar how our letters cross in the post only for us to discover, when they arrive, we’ve asked each other the same questions? Perhaps it indicates we are of like mind. In answer to your queries, I enjoy reading, although my sister’s love of poetry surpasses my interest in novels. I’d much rather attend a gathering than spend time within the pages of a book. I have a passion for flowers, yellow roses in particular, and favour candied orange peel above all sweets. The most embarrassing situation I’ve ever experienced occurred during my best friend Esme’s birthday celebration. We were chattering away until I developed a ridiculous case of the hiccups. Esme suggested I inhale ground pepper to restore my breathing pattern but the result produced a sneeze so large my spectacles landed in the ratafia bowl. To this day, whenever we recall the incident, we laugh until our sides ache. Thank heavens no one else noticed. I’ve never told another soul.

  Penwick folded the letter with care and replaced it within his breast pocket. How foolish to continue to live in the past and yearn for a woman who had disappeared without a trace or reason. Didn’t she owe an explanation to their friendship?

  Friendship.

  What a farce. Over time, he’d developed feelings, a deep emotional connection that, were he to allow it into the light of day, would consume his soul. The emotion hadn’t mellowed as time passed, but fermented in potency and grown in strength so that it barely fitted within the portion of him where he crowded his most precious memories.

  Preparing for his dance lesson had proven a weakness he now regretted. Filing through Lavinia’s letters to find this one, a favourite, where her voice spoke directly to his heart, and then, subsequently, choosing to carry it with him, had proved pure idiocy.

  He’d need to do better. He was to be married in less than a fortnight to a woman who cared for him and would soon vow to produce his children and provide an amiable home life.

  He crossed his hand over his chest, the letter beneath the thick wool of his coat, the words against his heart. What had happened to Lavinia? Why did she suddenly vanish? He had no answers. Worse, his world had upended soon after, the responsibilities of the earldom consuming all time and energy. When he had tried to find her and travelled to the address on the letters, he’d ended up leaving Shropshire with more questions than answers. Why had fate brought them together only to leave their relationship unfinished?

  The carriage rocked to a stop and he was forced from his disquieting reverie. All the better as he was not brave enough to consider the condition of his heart at the moment.

  The footman opened the door and extended the steps. Monarch Hall stood with stoic patience across the cobblestone street. People bustled along the walkway, brushing shoulders and exchanging conversation, their worlds filled with laughter. Businessmen and citizens went about their schedule with focus and determination. Day by day the world moved forward, as evidenced by the newsboy on the corner, a fresh daily waved high in the air.

  Yet here he stood, one foot in the past and the other stalled in the present. He forced himself off the curb and towards the brick-faced two-storey building. Elongated windows stretched towards the sky, the weather clear, an unlikely occurrence as late afternoon yawned its surrender to night.

  He’d commissioned Monsieur Bournon’s services as soon as he’d set his mind to marry. For all his fancy footwork while fencing, he’d never mastered the most popular waltzes, having been living in the country only a short time prior, unaware an earldom would command his attention post-haste. Still, the steps came easily and he soon realised the graceful agility needed for a successful raddoppio or passata-sotto while holding his blade could seamlessly transfer into a box-turn or glide while dancing.

  Sunlight mingled with candlelight through the large panes as he strode towards the door, not wishing to be late and at the same time anxious to begin. He kept his attendance at these lessons secret, most of his personal life as concealed as possible. With exacting attention, he focused on learning everything an earl needed to know and more.

  Twisting the knob, he came up short as he entered, a stranger waiting in the inner foyer where Monsieur Bournon usually greeted him. Penwick’s lessons were private and individual. He’d never seen this stout man before and would surely have remembered his distinguishing appearance. Dressed in casual clothing, loose-fitting pants and a plain linen shirt, it was the man’s outlandish moustache that caused a person to glance twice, the ends of it surpassing the corners of his mouth and turning upward as if begging one to smile.

  ‘Good afternoon, milord. I am Mr Moira. Monsieur Bournon has been called away on business and has asked me to conduct your lesson.’ The stranger stepped forward and extended his hand in greeting. ‘He apologises for any inconvenience, but I assure you I am adept at dance instruction and will continue your training with skill.’

  ‘I see.’ Taken aback by the change in circumstance, Penwick wondered how the instruction would be accomplished. Monsieur Bournon knew of his desire to keep his lessons confidential and therefore respected his wishes. The master supplied a different dance partner each session, so not only was Penwick guaranteed privacy, but the lady participant never grew to know him. It was a most convenient arrangement. ‘Has Monsieur informed you of the conditions?’

  ‘In entirety.’

  Moira stepped aside so Penwick could enter further and shed his greatcoat. He hung the garment on the rack, hesitating with a backward glance at his pocket before they walked towards the ballroom area where each lesson was held. Outside the door, Moira paused once again.

  ‘In order to accommodate everyone’s lesson within this unexpected time of absence, we’ve arranged for your partner to be another of Monsieur’s students.’

  Penwick jerked attention to the instructor. ‘Now see here, Moira. I pay Bournon an exorbitan
t sum each week for his professional instruction and now not only will I miss his expertise, but I’ll be partnered with someone who may not execute the correct steps.’ There was no reason for his outright annoyance concerning the unlikely change in circumstance and he shook his head to excuse the sharp reply, but with the wedding looming in the near future, every lesson seemed imperative.

  He should never have reread that old letter. Somehow, the amusing words had conjured all kinds of inconvenient feelings and awakened the restlessness and disappointment he worked hard to keep buried; his uncooperative outburst the result.

  ‘Please understand, milord. Monsieur Bournon feels terribly about this inconvenience and had he not been summoned by the Prince Regent would never have left you with short notice of this change in plans. Nevertheless, the lady is an accomplished student who is here to polish her skills more than interpret the steps. She will be the perfect match for your ability. I have every confidence.’ Moira appeared worried by the conversation, his mouth held in a firm line, his brow furrowed, though he continued with assertive insistence. ‘You must at least begin the lesson. Then, if you are displeased, you may leave and I will notify Monsieur Bournon that I have failed in mollifying your request and managing his intentions, but do bear in mind that, when summoned by the Crown, one does not hesitate.’

  A shadow of guilt for his initial overreaction diffused Penwick’s distemper. He was to be married and it would not suit to be waltzing with a lady of society for an hour of dance instruction, but there truly was nothing to be done about it. ‘Very well. I’m here now. Let us join the lady in the hall, but please remember not to address me by name. It’s important no one knows of my attendance here.’ He recovered all aplomb and waited for the instructor’s consent.

  ‘Excellent. You have my word.’ Moira’s anxiety transformed to jovial countenance in a blink, and with a twist of the brass door handle they entered, their boot heels echoing in the otherwise silent room.

  Across the floor, a tall, slender woman stood with her back turned. Perhaps she’d been lost in thought or restlessly passing the time while she waited, for their entrance startled her and her head whipped around so quickly her round, wire-framed spectacles slid down her nose with the motion.

  Suddenly it was hard to breathe.

  Somewhere in his chest, under his left arm just shy of his heart, the exact location where he’d been sliced by an epee while learning to fence, a tremendous ache swelled, forcing his lungs to constrict and his breathing to halt. He dragged in air with great effort.

  He watched as the lady turned to face them, righting her glasses with a fingertip before taking a stride, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders to fall in ribbons down her back. They matched eyes and the entire world stopped.

  He knew not how long they stared, unaware, caught in the moment, until the instructor cleared his throat and Penwick forced his mind to focus.

  How unusual to have thought about spectacles during the carriage ride. How fantastically strange and confusing.

  ‘Milady, your partner for today’s lesson has arrived,’ Moira informed the young miss. ‘May I introduce Lord W?’

  Penwick didn’t possess enough clarity to question the initial.

  ‘Waltz, milord.’ Mr Moira smiled, apparently pleased to share the discreet explanation.

  ‘Oh?’ Her one word whispered past him, but the lady didn’t say more.

  All at once, his eyes didn’t know where to settle, taking in her fashionable gown, a deep shade of crimson which complemented her porcelain skin and mahogany hair, then to the white gloves buttoned at each wrist. Her features were delicate, high cheekbones and soft, full lips, and her shy smile, when she finally became comfortable with the new circumstance, lit the room more than the plentitude of high-strung chandeliers spaced across the ceiling amidst the departing rays of the sun.

  He approached, his prior tension a fading memory.

  Livie watched as the gentleman strode across the dance floor, her heart pounding a ferocious beat. Without cause, her palms grew damp beneath her gloves, and she was grateful to have remembered them, as she’d have been mortified to present sweaty hands to this handsome stranger. He stood a head taller than any man she’d danced with before, though that number remained few. Monsieur Bournon practised with her ordinarily and he was of smaller stature. Her eyes rose and she found his expression one of dubious curiosity.

  What an unexpected twist to an otherwise troubling day. Who was this stranger? And how did he come to need dance instruction when his appearance presented as polished as any gentleman with whom she’d ever made acquaintance? Here stood a man who hadn’t gone soft like so many aristocrats, his physique broad and fit. His clothes were pristine and pressed, his dark brown hair combed precisely to fashion and, unless she was mistaken, she detected the warm, spicy scent of bergamot in his cologne. How she loved candied orange peel. The thought eased the moment.

  ‘May I?’

  His deep voice resonated, slid through her senses with a lasting beat as if he opened the door to her heart and whispered to her soul. Not the hollow echo that accompanied every sound in the vast ballroom. Instead, the two words vibrated within her and the reaction proved fascinating and unsettling. His striking appearance had already set her heart to beat triple-time; she needed no other observation to abrade her nerves. Aware she stood a motionless ninny, she forced a smile and they moved equidistant to close the space between them.

  ‘Of course.’ She replied and he reached for her, one hand settling in her gloved palm while the other gently clasped her waist. They touched and her gaze shot to his in kind with an expression of equal surprise.

  A woman could get lost in such large brown eyes, the colour of his irises a mixture of coffee and honey, framed by lush dark lashes, long and curled at the very tips. She swallowed, hoping he couldn’t hear the sound.

  And still they stood motionless.

  She’d danced with partners who’d held her in identical frame, but somehow this moment was different. Defining. His touch warmed her from the inside out, filled her with an unidentifiable sensation that assured and at the same time pitched her pulse to high riot. She must control her nerves and accomplish her very best dancing. For some reason, it seemed all the more important today.

  From the corner of her eye she noticed Mr Moira retreating to the far wall where he raised a violin. The first stroke of the bow startled yet again and she jumped, Lord W’s hand tightening on her waist as if he wished to hold her safe and prevent her from falling. They hadn’t taken one step, but it pleased all the same, the protective measure he showed without the slightest provocation.

  With a subtle nudge he swayed into the music, leading with the firm insistence of his hand at her waist, the measured exhale of his breath against her temple. They danced in silence, the graceful, disconsolate melody fraught with unexpected sentiment. It filled her with gentle longing and loss, as if myriad tender emotions, fragile and evanescent, milled within, unable to find their correct tempo and position.

  Lord W appeared equally affected though she hadn’t shifted her eyes, content studying the elaborate folds in his cravat, the rugged shape of his jaw, how his Adam’s apple moved when he swallowed unspoken words. His mouth possessed a deep cleft at the peak of his upper lip like the crease of a heart. How would it feel against her mouth? Her pulse tripped at the wayward thought, and she knew without looking he possessed a tentative unrest, just as she did. They’d scheduled the lesson to learn the proper footwork, yet their steps were completed without hesitation, their bodies consumed with some unexplainable force far more important than timing or inclination to the turn. They danced a grand circle around the ballroom, her heart counting the rhythm more than her mind, the sensation bewildering, but pleasant, a lick of fiery desire anxious to become a conflagrant fire.

  What was this? What strange passion affected him? Unsettled him? He’d danced with numerous partners through every lesson, never the same woman twice, all experien
ce at social functions mirroring a similar routine, yet now, in this moment, he’d never felt more scattered and collected, the opposing qualities at war with his composure. He focused on the far wall, each step in time, every pace completed perfectly, yet blood pounded in his veins, the disconnect of sensibility and emotion too loud to comprehend. Why was this happening when he’d worked so hard to organise his life and compartmentalise each aspect of his future? Now that he’d chosen Claire for his wife, he had no use for inconvenient feelings. Whatever they may be. His brain floundered for a logical explanation and found nothing.

  He dared a glance at the lady within his arms, her flowing hair arranged in a lovely manner that allowed the length to cascade down her back. The loose ends glossed amber light from the shimmering candles and caught in the air as they spun through a turn. Her eyes remained steadfast, fixed on his neckcloth and seemingly unaware his body reacted to her presence with ardent intensity.

  It was wrong. An ignominious betrayal. Yet he couldn’t look away and refused to debate his respectability. He would observe every aspect of her appearance before their dance ended and he forced himself to forget.

  Abandoning inhibition and reason, he noted the bow of lashes upon her delicate cheek, the creamy skin flushed soft as a new-born rose, and her endearing spectacles, which reflected light and shadows with their rotation through every turn. Pretty seemed an inadequate descriptor. His brain discarded beautiful next. Exquisite and rare came to mind and took immutable hold. Her features were fine-boned and delicate, her mouth poised as if she worked hard to keep words contained, and when she tilted her head ever so slightly and slanted a fleeting glance, her eyes darting to his and back again, the unintentional flirtation sent blood to his groin in a hot rush of desire.