Stages of Desire (2 page)

“Of course.”

She'd made him feel bad. Wooing and being wooed was much harder than it appeared. Marianne's effortless success in securing an earl took on a new light under these circumstances.

As soon as the music ended, Mr. Hopplehill dropped her hand and wiped his brow. “Do you mind if we step outside for a moment? I don't feel well.”

They followed several other guests out onto the balcony, all seeking respite from the heat. Mr. Hopplehill and Harriet stood at a slight remove from the others as he gathered himself together. Below, a small fountain gurgled next to a rose garden filled with white blooms that glowed in the moonlight. A romantic spot, if ever there was one.

Mr. Hopplehill stared out across the darkened vista. He took several asthmatic breaths before turning back to her, and she hoped he wouldn't pass out and fall into the fountain. In the dim light, his eyes seemed watery.

“I'm sorry, my dear. I'm out of my element. I was going on and on about my horses. I'm sure that's not important to you. I'm not certain how to proceed.”

Her heart went out to the man. Although he came across as shallow, he was more than likely under the same sort of pressure she was.

“Please, Mr. Hopplehill, I do appreciate your kindness in asking me to dance. I'm afraid I don't know what to talk about either. This is quite new to me.”

“You seem like a nice young lady. I'm sure we'll get along fine, don't you think? My mother insists I find a wife, as she says I'm becoming something of a bore to her at home. I'm aware I have a tendency to prattle on, and I'm trying to find outside interests like my brothers have. In fact, Mother's quite generous. She says she doesn't mind whom I marry as long as I do so within the year.”

Harriet's chest constricted. She'd always known her life would be different from Marianne's in many ways, but she'd hoped to marry someone with a quick wit and a sense of humor. Perhaps that was too much to ask for. Yet Mr. Hopplehill was surprisingly self-aware and kind. She had no right to question the match.

She pictured herself in ten years, listening as he chewed on a piece of toast across the breakfast table, or watching as he trimmed his toenails before getting into bed, and was filled with a sense of dread.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Instead, she turned and fled.

* * * *

Overwhelmed by the sheer mass of people crushed into his London residence, William Richard Talbot, Earl of Abingdon, had taken refuge in his study soon after the musicians struck up their first tune. Unfortunately, the tinny noise of the ball rose through floorboards, much to his chagrin.

If possible, he would have wandered the streets for several hours, returning home only after the last of the revelers had poured themselves out of his door, but such an idea was an impossibility. Lady Marianne would be upset if he didn't fulfill his obligation to dance with her, and he preferred to avoid any reason for talk.

Not for the first time, William swore under his breath at his late brother Oliver's antics. The man had had a title to uphold, and bungled the job completely. If Oliver hadn't been so drunk he'd crashed his carriage, killing himself and his companion, William would be happily ensconced at Poundridge Hall, the family's estate, far from London and the inanity below.

As the second-born son, he had been expected to do as he pleased, within reason. And what pleased him—whiling the hours away in a quiet laboratory with little or no interruptions—was hard to come by these days.

Oliver had his foibles, but he'd had a good heart, and perhaps the time had come to put any bitterness aside. All that was required of William this evening, according to his sister, was to plaster a smile on his face and dance with Lady Marianne exactly twice, as one time would be considered an insult while three turns would result in gossip. What was so difficult about that?

The door opened and Claire's pale face emerged into the candlelight. He was at his sister's side before she could shut the door, taking her by the elbow and guiding her to one of the chairs opposite his desk.

“What are you doing out of bed? You're too ill to be wandering around on your own.”

She wagged a finger at him. “Don't try to deflect blame here, William. It's bad enough I'm unable to play the hostess this evening, you shouldn't be hiding away as well.”

He smiled, relieved she felt well enough to tease him. “I was about to return. It's no good spying on me, I told you I'd behave.”

“You'll behave too properly for your own good, I'm afraid. That won't get you a wife.”

He put his palm to her forehead. The heat emanating from her smooth skin alarmed him. “You ought to be resting.”

“I'll return as soon as you promise to attend to your guests. I wish I felt better; I'd be there at your side. You know that, don't you?”

She sighed and secured a flaxen curl under her nightcap. Although Claire was his senior by four years, everyone thought he was the elder, partly due to her fragility but also because of the contrast in their complexions, her white skin to his ruddy tone.

“Have you even seen Lady Marianne yet tonight?” she asked.

“I greeted her when she came in and spoke with the duchess, as well.”

“And do you think that's enough?”

He perched on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. He wasn't in the mood to be reprimanded. “Of course not. I stopped up here briefly.”

“I know balls and dancing aren't quite your style, William, but Mama would have wanted this.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Would she?”

“Don't be dramatic. Mama would have wished to see you happily married, particularly as now you have the title.”

“I'm certain Father would have preferred Oliver be alive and well and carrying on the Talbot lineage. Not me.”

“Well, Oliver has only himself to blame.” She sucked in her breath. “I didn't mean to say that. I am unkind.”

“He made a mess of things, didn't he? And now it's up to me to straighten them out.”

She reached forward and touched his knee. “Although Oliver's death upended your plans, you've done splendidly so far.”

He laughed, and the sound came out harsher than he'd intended. “I wouldn't have studied nearly as hard at Oxford if I'd known there was no way I could practice medicine. What a waste of three years.”

“Don't be churlish. You would have studied just as diligently. You're not like Oliver. You've always done what was expected of you. And I'm proud of you.”

Always doing what was expected. Yes, that certainly summed his life up in a sentence. Instead of answering, he rang the bell for her lady's maid. “You must go back to your bedchamber right now. My first priority is to get you well. The many social events you have me attending are getting in the way.”

“You shall cure me, I have no doubt. But for now, for this evening, will you please go back downstairs and mingle? Attempt to have a little fun. You might enjoy it.”

Her lady's maid rapped on the door.

William kissed his sister's cheek and helped her up before addressing the servant. “Please take Lady Claire to her bed. She'll need cool compresses and one dosage of Peruvian bark mixed with wine.”

Claire screwed up her face like a little child. “Ugh. Awful stuff, that bark of yours.”

“Have a biscuit afterward to take away the taste.”

“You are too kind, Dr. Talbot.” She shuffled off toward her rooms.

He headed the opposite way, back to the ball. As he passed the library, a soft sound, like a murmuring or a sigh, caught his attention.

He pushed opened the door and came to a halt. Inside, a tall woman dressed in blue leaned over an open book on the mahogany table, a lamp at her elbow.

“Excuse me, madam?”

The woman jumped and bumped into the table, almost knocking over the lamp. She steadied it, then threw him an irritated look. “You startled me. I was reading.”

Her reaction threw him off guard. After leaving the door wide open for propriety's sake, he drew closer. She was handsome and tall, coming up to his chin, and her wide shoulders served to accent her tiny waist. The lady's thick, dark hair was dressed in a simple knot and her gown was plainer than most, but her eyes were arresting. Even in the dim light, they blazed with rich color. Like the cobalt blue of an apothecary bottle.

He was staring. Embarrassed, he glanced down at the book splayed on the table. “Shakespeare?”

“Yes.
Much Ado About Nothing
.”

“Is that the one with the witches?”

The woman's eyes twinkled with amusement. “No. I'm afraid you're not even close.
Much Ado
is a comedy. You're thinking of the Scottish Play.”

“Right. Of course. ‘Double, double, toil and trouble' and all that.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “Yes. Now you've got it.”

For a moment, they stared at each other without speaking. She broke their connection, gazing down and fingering the page carefully, almost lovingly. Her fingers were long and tapered. For some strange reason, the way she touched the folio made him uneasy. He cleared his throat and strode to the other side of the table, pouring himself a glass of brandy from the decanter.

“Do you always make free of your host's libations?” the lady inquired.

Her voice was low, but it carried well. If she whispered to him from across the room, he'd be able to hear her perfectly.

“Do you always break into libraries and read books without permission?” He was only half joking. As a child, William had ventured into this room whenever his father was out for the day and stared at his mother's face in the family portrait above the fireplace. Every so often, when he sat in the wingback chair near the window, enthralled in a book on anatomy or the apothecary arts, he would detect a faint scent of rosewater and wonder if her ghost was nearby, watching over him. He didn't like the idea of strangers stepping across the threshold.

She closed the tome and placed it back on the shelf, lifting the heavy volume with ease. “The door was open. And I'm not harming the book. I simply needed a moment. I take it you're a good friend of Lord Abingdon.”

He was reluctant to tell her his name. He knew he should escort her downstairs, away from the private rooms, and fulfill his promise to Claire to act as host, but the woman's directness was unexpected. He didn't want to leave quite yet.

And he understood her inclination to run away. “Is that the reason you've hidden in the library when you ought to be dancing? Because you needed a moment?”

The woman crossed her arms, suddenly defensive. He'd touched a nerve. “I wasn't hiding. Only reading. I must be going back.”

The odd trespasser seemed so unhappy at the prospect of returning to the throng of guests, his heart went out to her. Part of him wished he could stay in the library all evening, studying the woman before him. Perhaps it was her height, or her eyes, or her throaty voice, but she seemed a different creature from the china dolls he'd been introduced to at the balls and dinners he'd attended since ascending to the title. Her candor was refreshing.

“Why do they call it the Scottish Play?” he asked.

She studied him a moment before answering, as if she were trying to figure out if he was serious. “Because if you say the real name of the play, you'll curse the production.”

He couldn't help himself.

“You mean if you say
Macbeth
?”

The woman's regarded him with suspicion. “Yes. You said that to spite me, didn't you?”

“What happens if I say
Macbeth
?” William whispered the word this time.

“You can say it all you like here. The curse only manifests when said in a theater.”

“And why is that?”

The woman's eyes flashed. “Apparently, William Shakespeare visited a coven of witches while writing the play, and stole the spell word for word. As retribution, the witches placed a curse on the production. The legend has lived on ever since.”

William laughed. “And you believe that?”

“I've seen it happen.” She stepped closer to him. “During one performance, the actor playing the lead fell off the stage. At another, a fire broke out during the second act. You'd be surprised.”

He knew he should stop speaking with her, out of propriety if nothing else, but he was enjoying himself too much. “I'm a man of science. I don't believe in ghosts or curses or any such nonsense. The fire probably started because someone was careless with a candle and the actor most likely fell off the stage because he was drunk.”

She smiled, showing even, white teeth. “I do believe he was drunk. How did you know?”

“Science. I assume all actors are drunkards.”

“That's a strong presumption. Have you ever attended a play?”

“No. My father used to say they were full of foxed vagabonds. But it appears you've been to quite a few.” As soon as he said the words, William realized he'd taken his remarks too far.

It was as if he'd slapped her. The animation dropped from her face and she scowled. “I must be going back to the ball.”

He stepped forward, closer to her. “One moment, tell me how you know so much about Shakespeare. Your study appears to be more in depth than most.”

“My family is involved in the theater.”

William took a sip of his brandy, anger rising in his blood. He should've known. She was probably part of his late brother's circle of troublemakers, and had sneaked in uninvited. No matter how fascinating her appeal, he knew more than he cared to about the proclivities of women in the theater and the myriad ways they ensnared men, including his brother.

He finished the brandy and set the glass down on the table. The alcohol seared his gullet. “Your family? In the theater?”