The Bride Behind the Curtain (10 page)

James saw. Of course he did. His eyes missed nothing. “Don't do that. You might hurt your hands.”

“I have to hold on,” she answered. “I feel like I'm going to fall.”

“Would I ever let you fall?” He was caressing the inside of her thigh now, so lightly. How could such a light touch reach down into her blood and make her moan yet again?

“Hold on to me,” he urged her. He had her other ankle now, and he'd moved forward so that his body was between her thighs.

At once, she wrapped her legs around him and he put his arms around her, and nothing had ever felt so wonderful as when he kissed her again. She clenched herself tightly against him, almost sure she would hurt him, or herself, but he did not stop kissing her. His hands did not stop caressing her. His muscled body was hard and hot and wonderful between her thighs. She was burning. She was swollen and weeping with sensation. Her fingers wanted to be everywhere, on his shoulders, his arms, down along his back, as if she was trying to memorize him with her touch. He was growling, deep in his throat, and the sound thrilled her almost as much as his relentless, burning caresses.

“Do you feel me, Adele?” he whispered hoarsely in her ear. “Do you know what you are doing to me?”

She did, actually, thanks to Helene's very instructive books. The books, however, had not mentioned how very good it would feel when that thick erection pressed up against her most sensitive point.

Exquisite fire lanced through her. She pressed closer, she shimmied, and she rubbed. She knew what would happen, or she thought she did. She'd touched herself in the dark, knowing it was as wicked and as forbidden as anything she did now, and she didn't care then and she didn't care now. She pressed closer, kissed him harder, intent only on his body and hers. On his heat and pleasure, and hers.

And all at once he had hold of her hands again. But this time his wasn't bringing her close; he was pushing her away. She cried out in frustration and alarm.

“Adele,” he breathed her name. “Adele, listen to me, my beauty. If you want this pleasure, you will have it, but not like this. Not in haste. I want . . .” His voice shook. He grazed his knuckles down her cheek. “I want to give you all the time you deserve. I want to savor your delight. But we have to remember who and where we are.”

“I . . .” Something was happening. Something important that she had forgotten. Something seeking to disturb this moment, bank the fires inside her. Inside them.

It was the clock. The case clock, down in the hall. It was chiming, distantly, insistently. The quarter, no the half, no three-quarters.

Three quarters to nine. The others had left at eight. Left for the party. The party they'd all been looking forward to. That was vital to their plan. That was their first act.

Adele sucked in a shuddering breath and met James's gentle, deep gaze.

“I want this,” she told him. “I want
you
. More than anything. But I promised Helen and Madelene I'd see this through with them. It's bad enough that I'm so late. I can't . . . I can't let my friends down.”

He ran his thumb across her lip, which had been left exquisitely sensitive from all his kisses. “I would not want you to. Come, my beautiful. Let us get you dressed.”

It was absurd. She was tingling and shaking and still alone in a borrowed bedroom with a man. This man, who had only to look at her to send the most luxurious and heated sensations through her whole body. She could not possibly be walking to the bed with him for the express purpose of opening a dressmaker's box and pulling out a gown;
the
gown.

“Hold up your arms,” he murmured. “I will help you dress.”

She hesitated. “You'll be careful with it?”

“Do you doubt me? Hold up your arms.”

She held up her arms. She also closed her eyes and held her breath. He chuckled, and she felt an unreasonable surge of annoyance. She felt the brush and the weight of the cloth as he drew it over her head. Her hands found the sleeves and the exquisite fabric slid sensuously down her arms.

“There now,” he murmured. His hands busied with the hooks and the tapes. “Not a curl out of place. That anyone can see, that is.” He chuckled wickedly, and she blushed. He also lifted his hands away, and Adele, breath held, fingers crossed, turned and faced herself in the mirror.

That was not her. That reflection bore no relation to the Windford Dumpling. This was a tall, curved, queenly woman. Her dress was daring. Inspired by the style of a previous age, it had a lower waist that emphasized her hips and a bodice that accentuated her curves rather than trying to flatten them out. Skirt panels of deepest ruby silk were saved from being overly sensuous by alternating with others of chaste white. Intricate white beading sparkled around the hem, on the long white sleeves, and around the surprisingly demure neckline. Her hair had been simply dressed, with only a single band of cut glass beads threaded through the loose tumble of golden curls. Her red slippers, her white gloves, and her white wrap all glittered with Marie's patient beadwork.

She looked new. She looked daring. She looked . . . she looked vibrant and alive.

“
Mon Dieu
,” breathed James. “I had no idea I . . .” He swallowed. Her eyes strayed to the knot in his breeches. “I think I must change my mind. I cannot let you go anywhere looking like that.”

“Why not?” She touched her hair nervously. “What's the matter with me?”

“Nothing,” he said as if the word choked him. “You are exquisite. Every man who sees you will be utterly subdued.”

“You're exaggerating.”

“I am in earnest.” He moved closer, but he did not touch her. He could not without crushing the gown, and he knew it. All her work, all her dreams and planning, all the years she had longed to wear exactly this gown before the whole world suddenly meant nothing. She hated the dress and wanted it gone. She wanted to lie down naked with him. She wanted to beg him, no,
command
him to touch her and stroke her and teach her how to do the same for him, until pleasure shattered them both.

“I can't go with you,” he was telling her. “It would not look proper. I had an invitation, but I was not planning on using it.”

“Why not?”

He smiled and pressed a kiss against her brow. “No need to look so worried. I was waiting for word on some ships coming in. I've invested in their cargoes.” He kissed her again. “When they come in, it will be enough to clear the last of my debts, and a little more.”

“Oh, James!” She threw her arms about him, but that was not enough, so she kissed him as well, and because that felt so very good, she had to press closer.

At least she did until he separated them, firmly. “You will spoil your gown and your face, and I will not permit it. But looking as you do, I see I cannot let you out of my sight, either.” He stroked his fingers gently down her cheek and dangerously across the skin her décolletage exposed. Adele shivered. “I will follow you to the dance.”

“I'll look for you,” she told him. “I'll find you, and I'll . . .” Her mouth was dry. She was entirely aware of the flutter of her pulse, in her wrists and low in her belly. “We will find a way to finish what we've begun.”

“Oh yes.” He kissed her, gentle once more, his voice and his eyes filled with wicked promise. “Yes, my beauty, my very dear, we will do that.”

“Adele, thank goodness! We were getting worried,” Madelene said.

The entrance hall of the Bassett Assembly Rooms was crowded with men and women in their finest evening dress, either giving their wraps to the liveried servants or passing through the open doors to the glittering ballroom beyond. For many, it was their first grand ball of the season, so everyone was anxious to make a good impression. Women and girls all wore their finest new gowns and carried fans of lace and gilt and sandalwood. The men favored deep blues, burgundies, and blacks for the evening. A few “exquisites” stood out in their pale greens, pinks, or sky blue attire.

“It took a little longer to get ready than I hoped,” Adele told her friends.
And longer to say farewell to James than it should have.
“I thought you would be inside already.”

“There was an overturned carriage,” Helene said. The silver looked extremely well on her, Adele noted with a surge of pride. “We were delayed by nearly an hour . . .”

Only an hour. Adele's head spun. It had seemed like an eternity, and like no time at all. She was gone. She was lost. Here was the moment they'd staked so much on. Helene and Madelene both looked splendid in Marie's gowns, in
her
gowns, and yet all she could think about was James. Her eyes kept darting toward the door, to see if he was there yet.

“Are you all right, Adele?” Miss Sewell asked.

There was a world of meaning under those words, and while there was warmth and understanding, there was also that core of steel that had been there from the beginning.

“Yes,” Adele answered. “I am perfectly all right.” She thought of James's eyes blazing with desire, of his hands, so knowing and strong, his mouth against hers. She was blushing and she knew it. She avoided her friends' eyes and busied herself with taking off her cloak to hand to Bridget.

“Oh my!” Madelene breathed. “Adele, you look wonderful!”

“All right, ladies,” Miss Sewell said briskly. Miss Sewell had no need of Adele's designs. She wore a deep forest green that set off her merry eyes and auburn hair. Gold beading and embroidery trimmed the skirt and sleeves. The décolletage was saved from being shocking by the sparkling fichu pinned in place with a brooch shaped like a spray of feathers. “Fix yourselves. It's time for us to go in.”

Madelene blanched white, but Helene took her arm firmly. “You can do this and you are ready,” she said before Madelene could utter a single protest. Madelene, as Adele had pictured at the New Year's party, was in a gown of shimmering champagne silk with clear beading on the hem, and only the simplest cream sash, a shawl dyed rich gold, and white roses to adorn her strawberry blond hair. She glowed.

Adele had replaced Helene's usual aggressively plain grays and blues with a simple silver sheath, trimmed in cut glass beading around her waist. More clear beading glittered like diamonds on the band that held her curls. With silver slippers and pearl white gloves, she looked like Athena come to earth.

Madelene's hand went up to her wreath of roses. Helene took hold of her hand and gently but firmly pressed it into place against her side. “You are perfect.”

Miss Sewell stepped up to the footman, who gave her a conspiratorial wink so quick Adele wondered if she saw it at all. Then, he straightened up and solemnly intoned, “Lady Adele Endicott, Lady Helene Fitzgerald, Miss Deborah Sewell, and Miss Madelene Valmeyer.”

The crowd turned. The crowd looked and was silent. There were the Delacourte sisters. There was Octavius Pursewell, and Lewis Valmeyer. There was Patience, arrived separately with Marcus beside her. All of them had gathered to see her falter, and fail.

Slowly, the crowd began to murmur. Ladies whispered behind their fans. Men leaned toward one another and spoke confidentially. Madelene clutched Helene's arm, and searing doubt stabbed through Adele. She'd got it wrong. The crowd was going to laugh. All of them. She'd failed her friends, failed herself. She was pathetic, hopeless,
fat
 . . .

A queenly woman dressed in topaz silk with plumes dyed to match sailed out of the crowd to take Miss Sewell's hands and kiss her cheek.

“My dear, dear Deborah!” She was Mrs. Wrexford, their hostess for this evening. “How delightful of you to join us. I was so hoping you would come, and let me see . . . These are your protégés?” Mrs. Wrexford beamed as Miss Sewell performed the introductions. “Lady Adele! I must compliment you. That gown is perfection! Clearly you have found a new modiste, and you have been keeping her a secret from the rest of us!”

Adele gazed up at her in mute gratitude, and her heart swelled with painful hope.
She's Miss Sewell's friend. She's being polite. It doesn't mean . . .

Mrs. Wrexford had already turned from her to speak to a young matron who was stepping up to them. “Look here, Mrs. Beale, are not Lady Adele and her friends entirely splendid?”

Mrs. Beale smiled and waved her lorgnette. “Mrs. Wrexford, won't you introduce us . . . Lady Helene, how do you do? I must ask if you would do me the greatest favor and come meet my brother? He's demanding to know who the goddess in silver is and will not let me breathe until I have gained an introduction for him.”

Helene glanced sharply at Madelene, who lifted her chin and nodded. As Helene allowed herself to be led away, Miss Sewell instantly stepped into place beside Madelene. They had no time to exchange a word or draw breath before a matron in black whom Adele did not recognize edged up to them, or rather, to Madelene herself.

“Hello again, Miss Sewell. And Miss Valmeyer, I do hope you remember me. Mrs. Portman. We met last season at the Montgomerys' boating party? What an exquisite gown you are wearing!”

Madelene blushed, but for once she did not stammer. “Oh, it was Lady Adele's choice. She has such a wonderful eye.”

“I must say! I will certainly be speaking with her later, but right now you must come with me and meet my son, Damion. He's . . .”

“Damion!” cried Miss Sewell. “Why, Mrs. Portman, I haven't seen him since he came back from Cambridge. May I join the party?”

“Of course, Miss Sewell. It has been an age, hasn't it? We can have ourselves a cozy little gossip while the young people get acquainted.”

Her chaperone winked and gathered her hems, but Adele had no time to feel abandoned, for a new crowd was forming, all around her. Women and men, matrons and youths, and a few gray-headed lords. And all of them, all of them asking for her.

“Lady Adele, this is Mister Rayburn, and he begs the favor of the allemande . . .”

“Lady Adele, spare my poor heart and tell me you have a waltz still free . . .”

“Lady Adele, so delighted to meet you. I am hoping you might favor me with the cotillion . . .”

“Not even a country dance left? I am desolate!”

“Lady Adele, would you care to . . .”

It was magic. It was what she had always wanted and more. Adele danced every dance, country dances and allemandes and cotillions and waltzes. When at last she had to sit down because she was breathless from the dancing, she found she had to settle disputes among the young bucks as to who was going to fetch her glass of punch and who her ice. Then came the fashionable matrons, glowing and smiling and chattering. What days is Lady Adele at home? I would dearly love to call. I'm giving a little luncheon, just a few young friends. Would you care to be one of the party? Oh, here is my son Douglas. Douglas, have you had a chance to meet Lady Adele?

And all the while, Patience watched, white-faced, from the edges of the room as society stood in line to speak with Adele.

She couldn't take it in. She didn't know which way to look or who to answer. She could barely breathe. She lifted her eyes to try to find Miss Sewell, or Helene, or Madelene, just to have an excuse to slip away, just for a moment.

She saw James.

The assembly rooms had been made in an Italianate style, and had been given an upper gallery that made a promenade around the dance floor. People looking for a little relief from the crush could stroll up there and watch the dancers below. James leaned on the railing, looking down at her. Despite the distance, she felt the touch of his gaze. She also felt his warm pride as he watched her. He saw her looking up to him, and their eyes met.

Adele's heart tipped over, and suddenly nothing else mattered. She was light as a feather. She could lift her arms and soar over the crowd to join him where he stood if she so chose. As long as she knew James was there, she could do anything at all.

James pushed himself away from the railing and bowed down to her in his grandest style. He was so engaged in this that he did not see what Adele did; that Marcus was striding toward him.

***

James Beauclaire stood in the assembly rooms' gallery promenade and watched the world fall in love with Lady Adele. Stunned murmurs wafted to him, up from the floor and across from his fellow spectators in the gallery, and their talk only made him grin.

“. . . that dress! So delightfully
new
.”

“. . . Shocking, I call it, an unmarried girl in such a color! But I must say she carries it off very well . . .”

“Who is she?”

“That's the older of the Windford sisters, Lady Adele.”

She'd done it. She had planned and she had worked and she had created this moment for herself, and he was proud of her and for her.

“Beauclaire!” James was so focused on listening to the talk about Adele, the sound of his own name startled him. He looked around to see Octavius Pursewell sauntering up to him with an already rumpled-looking Lewis Valmeyer right behind. “What are you doing mooning about up here? We expected you in the card room hours ago. Lewis here wants revenge for that last drubbing you gave him.”

Lewis there was already well on his way to being drunk, and Dutch courage had put a dark gleam in his eyes.

“I'll be along shortly,” he said to them. “But I warn you, Valmeyer, you'll probably be disappointed. I am not inclined to serious play tonight.”

“Other things on your mind?” inquired Octavius.

“I'm afraid so.” James turned his attention back toward the dance below. “
Bonne chance, mes amis
.”

Fresh exclamation rose up from below.

“No! Lady Adele is a . . . well . . . She's always been rather plain, hasn't she?”

“Not anymore. That's Lady Helene Fitzgerald with her, if you can believe it!”

“And can that be the mousy little Valmeyer girl? She's positively radiant!”

James tried to settle himself back to his self-imposed sentry duty. But standing and watching was growing increasingly difficult, especially with the tide of men and boys surging in Adele's direction.

Well. Let them dance with her. Let them charm and flatter. Not one of them had seen her as he had, in only her stays and chemise, flushed with desire. Not one of them had felt her bold kisses, her delighted hands on their skin.

And not one of them will
.

The thought was immediate, and solid as stone. Adele was his. Entirely his. If she did not realize that already, he would teach her the truth of it. Patiently. Lovingly.

And then she looked up to him, and lightning shot through his heart. He bowed to let her know he saw her. He also understood that the time for watching was over. He'd intended to wait until he had definite news, but it was clear that would not do. It was time he showed the world who was to stand beside Lady Adele.

At that moment, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. James turned to see Windford standing beside him, in his full, grim, ducal dignity.

“Good evening, Beauclaire,” Marcus said evenly.

“Good evening, Lord Windford.” This time James's bow was much more restrained. “I didn't think to see you here.”

“I didn't mean to come, but Aunt had an indisposition and so I had to escort Patience. She wanted to be here to see Adele's . . . entrance.”

James mouth curled into a small smile. “Somehow I suspect that's not the word she used.”

“No. It wasn't.”

“And now that she has seen it, what, pray, does Lady Patience think?”

“You can see for yourself.”

Indeed he could. Lady Patience stood with her usual coterie, including the Delacourte sisters. Even at this angle, James could make out their combination of horror and envy as the world attempted to crowd around Adele. Some young woman James didn't know stepped up to Patience. Whatever she said, Patience's face twisted up tight, and the answer made the other girl draw back in shock.

“Beauclaire,” Marcus dropped his name like a stone. “We need to have a word.”

“Of course,” James said. What other answer could he make?

It was, naturally, difficult to be truly private at a public ball, but Marcus led James to a shadowed corner of the gallery that was, surprisingly, by the strange currents of crowds, unoccupied. Marcus folded his hands behind him and gazed down his long nose at James, and James, for the first time in a very long time, remembered this was a man to fear.

He decided it would be best to speak first.

“You will have noticed by now, Your Grace, I have developed a marked preference for Lady Adele. I wish to assure you that my intentions are the most honorable.”

Windford was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, he was as serious as stone. “And if I threatened to cut her off if she married a French fortune hunter?”

“Are you going to do it?” James asked, as steadily, and as seriously.

“I wouldn't want to. But I won't let her be taken advantage of, either. Adele isn't Patience. She'll break.”

“You underestimate her, Windford. Adele is by far the stronger of the two.”

The two men stared at each other. Power and need, the right and the urge to protect, shifted between them in that thick, tense silence before it resettled into its new formation. James held his peace. He must let Marcus's thoughts and feelings work themselves out. If this were the gaming table, he would wait easily, had done so a thousand times. But no hand of cards, no cast of the dice had ever meant so much, nor would it ever.