The Sweet Far Thing (59 page)

“Some rule; others are meant to be subjects.” His knight takes my queen, putting my king in danger.

“What do you say, Miss Doyle? Your whole future could be arranged to your liking. Everything you could possibly want. Your pick of beaux—my son, perhaps.”

An icy cold presses its thumbs against my ribs. “Did you arrange for Simon and me to meet? Was that all part of your plan?”

“Let us call it a happy coincidence.” Lord Denby attacks my king. “Checkmate, my dear. It’s time I returned to the tables and you to the dance.” He stamps out the last of his cigar. Its cloying smoke lingers as he strides to the door. “Do consider our offer. It is the last time it will be presented. I am sure you’ll do what is in our best interests—and yours.”

I want to throw his fading cigar after him. I want to cry. I press my fingers to my eyes to keep the tears at bay. I’ve been so dreadfully stupid to underestimate the Rakshana’s reach—and to trust Simon Middleton. He never cared for me. He played me like a pawn, and I took the fall willingly.

Well, I won’t be unguarded anymore.

“Miss Doyle!” Mrs. Tuttle scurries toward me with a scowl when I reach the ballroom. “Miss Doyle, you mustn’t run off like that again. It isn’t proper. It is my duty to see to it that you are right at all times—”

“Oh, do shut it,” I growl.

Before she can object, I weave my spell. “You’re thirsty, Mrs. Tuttle. Thirstier than you’ve ever been in your life. Do try the lemonade and leave me in peace.”

“I should like some lemonade now,” she says, putting a fluttering hand to her throat. “Dear me, I’m parched. I must have something to drink.”

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I leave her and watch the ball from behind a pillar. I’m alone, full of magic and hate, the two twinning into a new force. Nearby, Lady Denby gossips with Lady Markham and several other important women.

“I have grown very fond of her in these few weeks, as if she were my own daughter,” Lady Denby crows.

“She will make a most suitable match for him,” another lady agrees.

Lady Denby nods. “Simon has not always shown good judgment in such matters. And we have been misled before. But Miss Fairchild is the best sort of young lady—well-bred, agreeable, without flaw, and of good standing.”

An ample matron, beaded and bejeweled within an inch of her life, hides behind her fan. “Lady Markham, have you decided on the other matter, of young Miss Worthington?”

“I have,” she sniffs. “I’ve spoken to the admiral tonight, and he is agreed: Miss Worthington shall come to stay with me, where I might shepherd her season; her mother will not have a say in the matter.”

Lady Denby pats Lady Markham’s hand. “That is as it should be. Mrs. Worthington must pay for her disgrace, and her daughter is far too bold and tempestuous a creature. You’ll take the girl under your wing and mold her into the sort of lady acceptable to all.”

“Indeed,” Lady Markham says. “I feel it is my duty, as her mother has failed in that regard.” The women cast glances toward Mrs. Worthington, who dances with a man half her age. “And let’s not forget the young Miss Worthington’s substantial inheritance. If brought to heel, she would make a valuable wife for any man.”

“Perhaps your Horace,” Lady Denby coos.

“Perhaps,” Lady Markham says.

I imagine Felicity a cosseted debutante in Lady Markham’s parlor instead of a free spirit in a Paris garret, as she desires. She’ll be pitied and powerless, the very qualities she hates most. It will never happen; I’ll see to it if I must.

“Ah, here is our Miss Fairchild now,” Lady Denby announces.

Simon delivers Miss Fairchild to his mother, and she fawns over the girl while he attends to her in a courtly fashion. I burn with a terrible longing. For as much as I claim to hate them, I envy the way in which they all seem to fit one another so perfectly, the ease of their careful little lives. Cecily was right: Some people don’t belong. And I am one of them.

Demon beasts. That’s what they are. Ann’s words come back to me:
But they are the ones who rule.

Not tonight, they shan’t, for the power of the realms flames within me, and I’ll not temper it.
Don’t go up
against me, mates. I will win.
And I want to win. I want to win at something.

I close my eyes, and when I open them, Simon has broken away from his mother, Miss Fairchild, and all the acolytes. He strides toward me with a hungry look and extends his gloved hand, palm up, though it feels as tense as a fist. His jaw is determined, his voice raw as he says, simply, “Dance with me, Gemma.”

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He has called me by my first name, and it sends a shock through those near enough to hear it. Mrs.

Tuttle looks as if she might drop her lemonade. For a moment, I do not know what to say. I should feel remorse. Instead, a terrible satisfaction flows through, exciting me. I have won. And winning, however cheaply bought, is thrilling.

“Dance with me, Gemma,” Simon says again, more loudly and insistently. It gains the attention of the other guests. Many of the dancers have slowed, watching the scene. There is whispering. Lady Denby’s mouth has fallen open in disbelief.

Lord Denby has taken notice now. His eyes meet mine, and there’s no mistaking my intent.
Corrupt my
brother, will you? I’ll see you in hell first, sir.

The smile I give Simon is like a fallen angel’s. He seizes my wrist tightly, and half drags me to the dance floor. He’s making a spectacle of himself. Roughly, he pulls me into waltzing position. The music begins anew, and Simon and I twirl around the floor. There is a heat between us that does not go unnoticed by the others. With each push of his hand against the small of my back, it feels as if Simon wants to eat me alive. I have brought about this affection in him. Let everyone see how powerful I am. Let them think me a beauty, nakedly desired by an important gentleman. And let Lord and Lady Denby be disgraced in the bargain. I cannot keep the satisfied smile from my lips. I am in command and it is intoxicating. On the edge of the dance floor, Lord Denby watches, fuming. He was wrong to doubt me.

An older gentleman taps Simon on the shoulder to signal his intention to break in, but Simon pulls me closer. We dance on, gathering more and more attention, and when it is enough—when
I
decide it’s enough and the point has been made—I bring it to an end.
Time to stop, Simon. Say good night, sweet
prince.

Blinking, Simon comes back to himself, utterly perplexed to find me in his arms.

“Thank you for the dance, Mr. Middleton,” I say, stepping away.

A faint confused smile appears on his lips. “It was my pleasure.” At once, he searches for Lucy in the crowd.

Gossip spreads like contagion. I’m whispered about, glared at from behind fans as I leave the floor.

The magic crashes over me in a wave. I’m suffocating with it. It comes off me like a sickness, infecting all who come into contact with me, liberating their hidden desires. A gentleman gives me a helpful arm, and in that gesture he is seized. He turns to the older gentleman sitting near.

“What did you say to me earlier, Thompson? You’ll answer for that.”

The older man’s mouth tightens. “Fenton, have you gone mad?”

“Is it madness to say that I will not be blackmailed for my debts to you any longer? You do not own me.” He lays a hand on old Thompson, and just like that, the magic spreads.

The old man rises to his feet. “Here now, chap, I daresay if it weren’t for my charity, your standing would be a shambles and your family in the workhouse.”

Quiet, quiet,
I think.
Forget. To your brandy and cigars.
They take up their glasses again. What has been said is forgotten, but the bitter rancor remains, and they eye each other warily.

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I careen into a spinster chaperone with her charge, and I feel the pain in her heart. The aching desire she has for her married employer, a Mr. Beadle.

“He does not know,” she says in a sudden rush. “I must tell him. I must confess my fondest affections for him at once.” And it is all I can do to grab hold of her hands until the feeling is replaced by the one I put in its stead.

“Shall we have cake?” she says to her confused charge. “I have a sudden need for cake.”

A prickly sweat rises upon my brow. The magic burns in my veins.

Lord Denby sidles up to me. His face is florid; his eyes burn. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Miss Doyle.”

“Have you not heard, sir? I am a very dangerous girl.”

“You’ve no idea what we can do to you,” he says evenly, but his eyes flash.

I whisper low in his ear. “No, sir. You’ve no idea what
I
can do to
you.
”

Fear shows itself briefly in his eyes, and I know I have won this round.

“Let my brother be or face the consequences,” I warn.

“Thank heavens I’ve found you!” Felicity trills. “Good evening, Lord Denby. Would you mind awfully if I borrowed Miss Doyle?”

Lord Denby is all smiles. “Not in the slightest, my dear.”

“Where have you been? You must save me,” Felicity insists, linking her arm tightly through mine.

“From what?”

“Horace Markham,” she says with a laugh. I glance over her shoulder and see Horace looking after her.

He holds fast to her fan as if it were Felicity herself. “The way he moons over me,” she says, making a face. “Hideous.”

I laugh, happy to be in Fee’s world, where everything from a lovesick suitor to the choosing of a hat is ripe for drama. “You shouldn’t be so charming,” I tease.

“Well,” she says, tossing her head, “I can’t help that, now, can I?”

Felicity and I take refuge on a terrace overlooking the street. The drivers have gathered in a huddle, keeping one another company. One tells a joke, and I can see by the way the others lean in that it is naughty. They fall into laughter but quickly disperse at the sight of one of the guests. Hats are donned, spines are stiffened as Lucy Fairchild walks toward her carriage. Simon keeps pace, but Lucy’s chaperone shuts him out. The driver helps the women into the carriage and it pulls away from the curb, leaving Simon behind.

“How delicious!” Felicity exclaims. “Scandal! At my ball—and not involving
moi.
Astonishing!”

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“Yes, it is rather astonishing that there are events which have nothing at all to do with you, isn’t it?” I quip.

Felicity puts her hands on her hips, a wicked smile on her lips. “I was to offer you lemonade, but now, I shall only satisfy myself. You may watch me enjoy it and suffer.”

She saunters off and I let the cool night air wash over me. Down below, Lord Denby consoles his son.

They exchange words I cannot hear. Lord Denby prevails, and he and Simon return to the ball.

As they pass, Lord Denby sees me on the terrace. He stares daggers at me, and I put my fingers to my mouth and blow him a kiss.

I spend the day after the ball, Sunday, with my family before returning to Spence. The seamstress has come to fit my gown to me and make minor adjustments. I stand before the mirror in my half-finished gown whilst she takes in a pinch here, adds a ruffle there. Grandmama hovers nearby, barking instructions to the woman, fretting over every little detail. I pay her no mind, for the girl staring back at me from the mirror is starting to become her own woman. I can’t say exactly what it is; it’s not something that can be named. I only know that she’s there, emerging from me like a sculpture from marble, and I’m most anxious to meet her.

“You look like your mother. I’m sure she would have wanted to be here for this,” Grandmama says, and the moment is ruined utterly. Whatever was struggling from the marble of me is gone.