Slightly Wicked

Chapter XVI

Rannulf had never attended a ball from personal choice. He had, nevertheless, attended his fair share, polite society having decreed that its members be forced to enjoy themselves on occasion by tripping the light fantastic. The ball at Harewood, he saw as soon as he and his grandmother had passed along the receiving line and entered the ballroom, looked as if it would be a tolerable squeeze for a country affair.

A great deal of effort had been put into decorating the room pleasingly with great banks of flowers and potted plants.

He looked about and was amused and unsurprised to discover that the houseguests, all splendidly clad in their London finery, were easily distinguishable from the lowlier guests from the neighborhood in their simpler evening wear. Miss Effingham, whom he had just passed in the receiving line, was resplendent in delicate lace over pink satin, the waist fashionably high, the neckline fashionably low, her blond hair piled in elaborate curls threaded with pink ribbon twined with jewels. And he had, of course, been maneuvered into soliciting her hand for the opening set of country dances.

And then he spotted Judith Law, who was in the process of looking away from him and bending to say something to her grandmother. He inhaled slowly. She looked much as she had looked the first time he saw her in that gown— voluptuous and elegant, the simplicity of the design only emphasizing the feminine curves and the vibrant beauty of the woman wearing it. Her hair was smoothed back over her head, but she had done something intricate with the back of it, and it was prettily and delicately entwined with pearls.

He felt a surge of something that was not lust, though it certainly included desire. He had, he realized, been waiting all day for this moment and fearing that perhaps she would not put in an appearance at all.

Mrs. Law raised one glittering arm and waved her jeweled lorgnette.

“Ah, there is Gertrude,” his grandmother said. “I shall go and sit with her and watch the revelries, Rannulf.”

He escorted her across the room, noticing as he did so that Judith was not isolated as she had always been in the drawing room and at most other activities during the past two weeks. Roy-Hill and Braithwaite were standing close to her.

Greetings were exchanged and his grandmother seated herself beside Mrs. Law.

“You are looking remarkably lovely this evening, Miss Law,” she said. “I hope you mean to dance?”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Judith flushed and smiled, something he had seen her do too rarely in the past two weeks. “Yes, Lord Braithwaite has been kind enough to offer to lead me into the first set, and Sir Dudley has asked for the second.”

“I would imagine, then,” Lady Beamish said, “that any gentleman wishing to dance with you this evening had better speak up soon.”

“Oh.” Judith laughed.

“Miss Law.” Rannulf bowed. “Will you do me the honor of saving the third set for me?”

She looked fully at him then, her lovely green eyes wide, her red hair gleaming in the light from the chandeliers overhead. It was, perhaps, the moment at which he realized how very reluctant he had been over the past week or so to call a spade simply a spade. It was not lust or tenderness or affection or liking or companionship he felt for Judith Law, though all of them were included in that sentiment he had been unwilling to name.

He loved her.

“Thank you, Lord Rannulf.” She made him a slight curtsy. “I would like that.”

A heightened buzz of anticipation around them diverted his attention then. Lady Effingham had stepped into the ballroom and was approaching the orchestra dais. Sir George came in behind her, his daughter on his arm. It struck Rannulf that they had waited for his somewhat late arrival before beginning the ball.

He stepped forward to claim his partner, who was blushing and smiling and looking very pretty indeed.

“It is said, Lord Rannulf,” she said as they took their places opposite each other at the head of the lines of ladies and gentlemen, “that the rules of good ton do not apply to a country ball and that a gentleman may ask a lady to dance with him as many times as he wishes. But I am still afraid it may be construed as less than good manners to dance more than twice with the same partner. What do you think?”

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “it is even better manners to choose a different partner for every set, especially when the gathering is large enough—as this one is tonight, for example—to provide more than enough choices.”

He had, of course, given the wrong answer—quite deliberately.

“But sometimes,” she said, tittering, “good manners can seem tiresome, can they not?”

“Exceedingly,” he agreed. Braithwaite had stepped up beside him and Judith beside Miss Effingham.

“Yet even good manners, as decreed by the ton,” Miss Effingham said, “allow for a gentleman to dance with the same partner twice without incurring censure. In all the balls I attended during the Season, I was forever being asked to dance twice with the same gentleman, and no one ever accused me of being ill-mannered when I did so, though a number of other gentlemen complained when I had no free sets to offer them.”

“Can one blame them?” he asked.

She tittered again. “The fourth set is to be a waltz,” she said. “I was not allowed to dance it until halfway through the Season when Lady Jersey finally gave me the nod of approval. I believe she did so because so many gentlemen had complained to her about not being able to dance with me. I suppose many people here tonight will not even know the steps, but I pleaded with Mama to include one. I suppose you know the steps, Lord Rannulf?”

“I have shuffled through a few waltzes without treading on my partner’s toes,” he admitted.

She laughed merrily. “Oh,” she said, “I am sure you did not come even close to doing so but are merely funning me. I am sure you will not tread on my toes. Oh!” She colored prettily and set one hand over her mouth. “You were asking me, were you not? I shall die of embarrassment if you were not.”

He pursed his lips, amused despite himself. “I cannot have you expiring in the middle of your own ball, Miss Effingham,” he said. “We will show all your guests how superior your waltzing skills are.”

“Oh, not just mine,” she said modestly. “Yours too, Lord Rannulf. Do you waltz, Judith? But I daresay Uncle never allowed you to learn the steps, did he? It is said to be a scandalous dance, but I think it is perfectly divine. My dancing master said it must have been created just for me, dainty and light on my feet as I am. He was very foolish. I do believe he was half in love with me.”

The orchestra began playing the opening bars of the country dance and prevented Judith from replying.

But of course, the questions had been rhetorical anyway. Rannulf concentrated his attention on his partner, as good manners dictated, though all his awareness was on his love, moving gracefully at her cousin’s side.

Judith was breathless by the time Lord Braithwaite returned her to her grandmother. It had been a vigorous set and she had enjoyed it thoroughly despite the fact that she had had to endure being so close to Lord Rannulf and Julianne the whole time. But that fact had had its compensations. She had understood from the way he replied to all of Julianne’s efforts to draw him into flatteries and flirtation that he really was not behaving like a man who was about to declare himself. More important, perhaps, she had overheard Julianne maneuver him into agreeing to waltz with her during the fourth set. It was the time when she, Judith, would watch most carefully, though how she would save Lord Rannulf from the proposed trap she did not know. She could not simply warn him. How foolish she would sound!

“Perhaps, Miss Law,” Lord Braithwaite said, “your father did allow you to learn the steps of the waltz?

And perhaps you will do me the honor of dancing it with me?”

He had gazed at her with open admiration throughout the dance. It had been very flattering. He was a handsome and amiable young man.

“My father had no chance either to forbid or to approve waltzing lessons,” she explained. “The dance has not even reached our neighborhood yet. I shall enjoy watching you dance it with someone else, my lord.”

Her grandmother, she noticed, plumes nodding in concert with Lady Beamish’s as they talked and commented upon the scene before them, was easing her earrings off her earlobes and wincing as she did so. Poor Grandmama— would she never learn that there were no earrings she would find comfortable?

“Grandmama.” Judith leaned solicitously over her. “Shall I take them upstairs for you and put them away?”

“Oh, will you, my love?” her grandmother asked. “But you will miss your dance with Sir Dudley.”

“No, I will not,” Judith said. “It will take me only a minute.”

“I would be very grateful, then,” her grandmother said, putting the jewels into her hand. “Will you bring me the star-shaped ones instead, if it is not too much trouble?”

“Of course it is not.”

Judith hurried from the ballroom and up the stairs to her grandmother’s room, taking a candle from a wall sconce in with her. She found the large jewelry box, returned the precious earrings to the velvet bag from which most of this evening’s finery had come, though there were still plenty of pieces left in it, and hunted through the section she herself had allotted for earrings. But she could not see the star-shaped ones. She rummaged around among the necklaces and bracelets with no success. She was about to choose another pair of earrings instead when she remembered that the star-shaped earrings were the ones she had taken from her grandmother’s hand after the evening at Grandmaison. They must still be in the reticule she had carried that evening. She closed the box and put it away as quickly as she could, hurried to her own room, and was relieved to find the earrings just where she had thought they would be.

She hastened from the room and almost collided with a chambermaid who was passing by. They both squeaked in alarm and then Judith laughed, apologized for being in such a rush, and ran back downstairs.

The sets were already forming, she could see through the ballroom doors, but as luck would have it she ran up against Horace as she hurried through them. She stopped abruptly, feeling both flushed and breathless.

“Going somewhere, Cousin, in such a hurry?” he asked her, blocking her way when she would have stepped around him. “Or should I say coming from somewhere in such a hurry? Some assignation, perhaps?”

“I have been to fetch some different earrings for Grandmama,” she said. “Excuse me, please, Horace. I have promised this set to Sir Dudley.”

To her relief he stepped aside and gestured her in with an exaggeratedly courtly sweep of one arm. She hurried to complete her errand and turned with an apology to her partner.

It was lovely to be dancing again so soon. Sir Dudley Roy-Hill engaged her in conversation as much as the figures of the dance allowed, and she met the openly admiring glances of several other gentlemen. At home she would have been somewhat disturbed, imagining that she must have done something forward to invite such leering attention. But leering was her father’s word. Tonight, with her newfound belief in her own beauty, she could see that the looks were merely admiring. She found herself smiling more and more.

Yet all the time she was aware that the next set was to be danced with Lord Rannulf Bedwyn. He had had almost no choice, she knew. Lady Beamish’s words about any gentleman having to ask her early if he wished to dance with her had quite unwittingly forced him into being gallant. But she did not really care. On two occasions—both out at the lake—he had come to spend time with her when he might easily have avoided the encounters. Let him dance with her now, then. And she did not care what Aunt Effingham had to say about it in the morning, though doubtless there would be plenty. Soon enough she would be going back home where at least she would not be expected to behave like a servant.

She could hardly wait for the next set to begin. If only it could last all night. Or forever.

If only it could last all night or even forever, he thought. She danced the slow, stately steps of the old-fashioned minuet with elegance and grace. She did not look directly into his eyes except once or twice, very briefly, but there was a look on her face that spelled awareness and— surely—happiness.

His attention was focused fully on her while all about them the varied colors of gowns and coats slowly swirled in time with the music and light from the candles overhead gleamed on hair and jewels and the perfumes of colognes and hundreds of flowers mingled in the warm air.

How differently he saw her now from that time at the Rum and Puncheon. Then, though they had talked and laughed together and he had enjoyed her company, in all essentials she had been little more to him than an extraordinarily desirable body to be bedded. Now she was . ..

Well, now she was Judith.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” he asked when their joined hands brought them close to each other for a moment.

“Exceedingly well,” she said, and he knew she meant it.

So was he. Enjoying a ball, which he had rarely done before, enjoying the slow minuet, which he had never done before.

There was something between them, he thought, like a strong current of energy, binding them and at the same time isolating them from everyone else in the room. Surely he could not be imagining it. Surely she must feel it too. It was not just sexual desire.

“Do you waltz?” he asked her.

“No.” She shook her head.

I will teach you one day , he thought.

She lifted her eyes to his and smiled as if she had heard the thought.

He was, he knew, the envy of every man in the room. He wondered if she realized just what a stir she was causing this evening or just what sour looks she was drawing from her aunt.

“Perhaps,” he said, “if you have not promised every remaining set, you will reserve one more for me.

The last?”

She looked at him again and for a few moments held his gaze.

“Thank you,” she said.

That was almost the sum total of their conversation all the time they danced. But there was that feeling of being bound, of sharing hearts and emotions, of words being unnecessary.

Perhaps, he thought, by the end of the evening she would be tired of dancing and they would sit together somewhere where they were properly in view of the other guests but where they could have some private conversation. Perhaps he could ascertain if her feelings toward him and his offer had undergone any change during the past two weeks.

Perhaps he would even ask her again tonight if she would marry him, though he rather believed he would prefer to ask her tomorrow, outdoors, where they could be entirely private together. He would ask her uncle for permission, take her down to that little lake, and then declare himself.

There was something about her manner—he was sure he was not imagining it—that encouraged him to hope that she would have him after all.

He amused himself with such thoughts and plans as he watched her dancing, that quiet glow of happiness—surely it was that—on her face.

And then the music drew to its inevitable end.

“Thank you,” he said, offering his arm to escort her back to her grandmother’s side.

She turned her head to smile at him.

“You dance very elegantly together,” his grandmother said as they approached.

Lady Effingham was behind her mother’s chair, Rannulf saw.

“Judith, dear,” she said, her voice cloyingly sweet, “I hope you have thanked Lord Rannulf properly for his kind condescension in leading you out. Mother seems very tired. I am sure you will not mind helping her to her room and remaining there with her.”

But Mrs. Law swelled up rather like a hot-air balloon, glittering and jangling as she did so. “I most certainly am not tired, Louisa,” she said. “The very idea of my missing the rest of the ball and leaving my dear Sarah to sit here alone! Besides, Judith has promised the set after the waltz to Mr. Tanguay, and it would be ill-mannered of her to disappear now.”

Lady Effingham raised her eyebrows but could hardly say anything more in the presence of Rannulf and his grandmother.

The waltz was next and he had been effectively forced into dancing it with Miss Effingham. He found her amusing, at least, he thought as he bowed and turned away to find her. Not that she would be flattered by the nature of his amusement, he supposed. And he had the last set to look forward to. And tomorrow morning. Though he must not be overconfident about that. If Judith Law did not wish to marry him, she would not do so merely because of who he was or because of his money.

She would have to love him before she would accept him, he suspected.

Did she love him?

Insecurity, doubt, and anxiety were entirely new emotions to a man who had cultivated ennui and cynicism for most of his adult years.

Julianne was looking more flushed and brighter-eyed than she had all evening, Judith could see. But that look could be accounted for entirely by the fact that she was dancing with Lord Rannulf again. It was a reaction Judith herself could sympathize with.

More ominous was the fact that Horace was approaching Uncle George and drawing him a little apart from the group of older gentlemen with whom he had been conversing. Judith had refused an invitation to go with Mr. Warren, who did not waltz either, in search of a drink of lemonade, though she had smiled her thanks. She needed to stay in the ballroom. She watched, her heart pounding. Surely that nasty plot being hatched in Julianne’s dressing room this afternoon could not have been a serious one. Whoever would want a marriage with a husband acquired in that way?

But Julianne desperately wanted to be Lady Rannulf Bedwyn, she knew.

And Aunt Effingham was just as desperate to marry her daughter to him.

Horace was probably reveling, too, in the prospect of getting some revenge for what Lord Rannulf had done to him outside the summerhouse at Grandmaison a week ago.

Judith was only partly aware of the shocking, thrilling nature of the waltz, in which ladies and gentleman danced as couples, touching each other with both hands, twirling about the dance floor in each other’s arms. Under any other circumstances she might have been envious indeed of those who knew the steps and had handsome partners with whom to perform them.

She was only partly aware too of the nodding plumes of her grandmother and Lady Beamish, who sat in front of her enjoying the show and occasionally commenting upon it.

Branwell could waltz, she noticed in some surprise. He was waltzing with the elder Miss Warren, laughing with her, as if he did not have a care in the world.

But even the minor distraction of watching her brother proved almost fatal to Judith’s vigilance. When she found Lord Rannulf and Julianne again with her eyes, they had stopped dancing, and he had his head bent to hear what she was saying. She was rubbing one wrist, talking fast, and looking somewhat distressed. She pointed in the direction of the door.

Horace meanwhile was still talking with his father.

Judith waited no longer. Perhaps it was all meaningless though it looked very like the beginnings of the plot she had overheard. Perhaps after she had left Julianne’s dressing room they had changed the place.

But she would have to take a chance on that. She slipped out of the ballroom as hastily and surreptitiously as she could, raced down the stairs, saw with relief that there was no servant to see her and wonder at her destination, and slipped into the library, which was so much her uncle’s private domain that she had never been inside the room before.

It was quite dark, but fortunately she could see enough to find her way to the windows and throw back the heavy curtains. It was a moonlit, starlit night, the clouds of the day having moved off some time during the evening. There was enough light in the room that she could see what she needed to see—two walls of bookcases crowded with books from floor to ceiling. She hurried toward one that was behind both the door and a heavy sofa.

The next minute seemed endless. What if she had come to the wrong place? What if Julianne had dragged Lord Rannulf off somewhere else to be discovered kissing her or otherwise compromising her?

And then the door opened again.

“It must be in here.” It was Julianne’s voice, high-pitched and anxious. “Papa gave it to me for my come-out ball and he would be dreadfully cross with me if I were to lose it. But even if he were just to see that I am not wearing it he would be hurt and upset.”

Judith could not imagine Uncle George being either cross or hurt or upset.

“If you know you left it in here,” Lord Rannulf said, sounding perfectly calm, even amused, “then we will recover it and will be waltzing again within two minutes.”

He strode into the room, without a candle, and Judith saw Julianne shut the door with a backward kick of one foot.

“Oh, dear,” she said, “that door always swings shut.” She went hurrying after Lord Rannulf and then exclaimed with triumph. “Oh, here it is! I knew I must have left it here when I came down for a little rest earlier, but of course I was terribly afraid that I was wrong and really had lost it. Lord Rannulf, how can I ever thank you for sacrificing part of our dance and slipping down with me before Papa noticed?”

“By putting it on your wrist,” he said, “so that I can take you back to the ballroom before you are missed.”

“Oh, this clasp,” she said. “There is not enough light. Will you help me?”

He bent over her while she held up her wrist, and she slipped her free arm about his neck and leaned into him.

“I really am most terribly grateful,” she said.

The door opened again as if on cue and Horace held up his candle, muttered an oath, and tried to block his father’s view of the room.

“Perhaps it was not such a good idea after all to come down here to get away from the noise,” he said loudly and heartily. “Come, Father—”

But Uncle George, as he was meant to do, had smelled the proverbial rat. He moved Horace aside with one arm and came striding into the room just as Julianne shrieked, jumped back, and struggled with the bosom of her gown, which had somehow slipped down and come very close to revealing all.

It was time to begin the counter plan.

“Ah, here it is,” Judith said, stepping forward with a large book spread open across both hands. “And here are Uncle George and Horace to help me adjudicate the winner. And that is Julianne, I am afraid, Lord Rannulf. It was a raven that Noah sent out first from the ark to see if the floodwaters had receded.

Then he sent a dove. The dove was sent out three times, in fact, until it did not return and Noah knew that there must be dry land again. But still, it was the raven first.”

The way all four of them turned and gaped at her would have done justice to any farce. She shut the book with a flourish.

“It was a foolish thing to argue about,” she said, “and to bring the three of us downstairs in the middle of a ball to hunt for the answer. But Julianne was right, you see, Lord Rannulf.”

“Well,” he said with an audible sigh, “I suppose I must concede defeat, then. It is as well, though. It would have been ungentlemanly to crow over a lady if I had been right. Though I am still of the opinion that in my Bible it is a dove.”

“What the devil—” Horace began.

“Julianne,” Judith said, cutting him off as she put down the book, “are you still struggling with the catch of that bracelet? Can you not do it, Lord Rannulf? Let me try.”

“Hmph,” Uncle George said. “I came down for a moment’s peace and find that my library has been invaded. Does your mother know you are wearing her bracelet, Julianne? I daresay she does, though. A word of advice, Bedwyn. Never argue with a lady. She is always right.”

If she could have painted thunder in visible form, Judith thought, it would surely bear a remarkable resemblance to Horace’s face. She locked glances with him for a moment and saw murder in his eyes.

“I’ll bear it in mind, sir,” Lord Rannulf said. “That is definitely the last time I argue about ravens and doves.”

Julianne, tight-lipped and white-faced, pulled her arm away from Judith, fumbled with the catch of the bracelet, failed to do it up, snatched it off, and slammed it back onto the table where she had found it.

“Horace,” she said, “take me to Mama. I am feeling faint.”

“I suppose I had better return to my duty,” Uncle George said with a sigh.

A moment later all three of them had left, taking the candle with them and leaving the door ajar.

“What book was that?” Lord Rannulf asked after a few moments of silence.

“I have no idea,” Judith said. “It was too dark in the room for me to distinguish one title from another.”

“Are you quite sure,” he asked, “that the first bird out of the ark was a raven? I’ll wager it was a dove.”

“You will lose,” she said. “I am a clergyman’s daughter.”

“I suppose,” he said, “it was a plot to have Sir George Effingham believe I had seriously compromised his daughter.”

“Yes.”

“Careless of me,” he said. “It almost worked. I thought the chit silly and tedious but essentially harmless.”

“But Horace is not,” she said. “Neither is Aunt Louisa.”

“Judith.” He was coming toward her. “You have saved me from a miserable life sentence. How am I ever to thank you?”

“We are even,” she said. “You saved me last week in the summerhouse. I saved you this week.”

“Yes.” His hands were on her shoulders, warm, solid, familiar. “Judith.”

When had he started calling her by her given name? Had he done it before tonight? She fixed her gaze on his elaborately tied neckcloth, but only for a moment. His face got in the way, and then his mouth was on hers.

It was a deep kiss even though his hands did not move from her shoulders and hers did no more than grip the lapels of his evening coat. He teased her lips apart with his own and she opened her mouth to his.

His tongue came into her mouth, filling her, possessing her, and she sucked on it, drawing it deeper.

She felt like someone who had been starved and then presented with a feast. She could not get enough of him. She would never be able to have enough of him. She could smell the familiar scent of his cologne.

And then his mouth was gone from hers and he was gazing at her in the moonlit room.

“We are going back upstairs,” he said, “before someone can make an issue of your absence. Thank you, Judith. The time between now and the last dance is going to seem tedious indeed.”

She tried not to refine too much on his words. He was relieved at his near escape. He was grateful to her. He remembered their time together when he had thought she was Claire Campbell, actress and experienced courtesan. That was all.