Part 10 (1/2)

”Lord Kesseley, you must be faster, for these London ladies are light-footed.” He laughed at his witticism and whisked Lady Sara away.

Killing Edward would never achieve his purposes. It would only cause Edward a few minutes of distress. Kesseley marveled that Edward could even be a poet. His soul had no substance, knew no hards.h.i.+p. And the world showed no inclination to give him any.

Lord Kesseley led his freckled dancing partner onto the floor. They both stood, hands clasped, waiting on the orchestra. He looked over Edward's back at Lady Sara. A shy, expectant smile waited on her lips. Edward inclined his head, whispering into her ear She giggled, flas.h.i.+ng a quick peek at Kesseley as the music started.

Kesseley stepped forward, crunching down on Miss Barten's instep. She shrieked in pain, reaching for her poor foot.

”Are you well?” he cried. He bent to a.s.sist her, but instead slammed his head into hers. She wailed again.

Everyone was staring. Other twirling dancers b.u.mped into them, sending them tumbling together. He tried pulling her to safety, but she pushed him away and limped back to the wall, sobbing. He followed, repeating his apologies and inquiring if he could carry her, take her arm, get a refreshment, find a physician. Several young ladies came forward, taking their wounded sister into their arms and circling her like a protective herd against a predator.

Kesseley felt the sweat pouring under his cravat amid the whispers and discreetly pointing fingers.

Again he inquired if he could help Miss Barten.

”Haven't you done enough?” called an anonymous female voice from the crowd lining the wall.

Kesseley bowed, then bowed again and again before slinking out of the ballroom. Stupid, big, stupid Ajax. No wonder Edward gets all your women. Stupid, big, stupid Ajax. No wonder Edward gets all your women.

He poked his head into different parlors, not seeing his mother anywhere. Finally, he found a large, spreading fern near a refreshment table by the servant pa.s.sage and hid himself behind its long palms.

He remained there, coming out only to look for his mother in the open parlors, packed with perspiring people fleeing the ballroom in search of cool air and audible conversation. He could see their elbows nudging each other, as if to say look, look, that's him. look, look, that's him. So he retreated back to his palm tree, feeling like a dolt as he watched the clock hands tick around the numbers. So he retreated back to his palm tree, feeling like a dolt as he watched the clock hands tick around the numbers.

To h.e.l.l with this! He was going home. He was going home.

Tinkling female laughter trickled in from beyond the opened door. Instinctively, Kesseley withdrew to his palm and hid.

Leaning on Lady Sara, Miss Barten limped into the room. Pain crumpled her freckled features. Around her moved the crowd of young ladies, murmuring comfort.

Shame burned his ears as he watched poor Miss Barten struggle. He wanted to run from the hideout behind his plant, get down on his knees and apologize again. But somehow he felt he wasn't wanted as the ladies' eyes surveyed the room, making sure they were alone. When satisfied that no one was within earshot, their shoulders lowered and slumped, their sweet uplifted mouths relaxing to their normal, flat states.

Kesseley was trapped. He crouched lower under the leaves.

Lady Sara spoke first, her sweet voice noticeably sharper, harder than Kesseley remembered. ”Do you think your foot shall heal in time for your ball?”

Miss Barten glowered at her friend. ”It will swell and turn purple, and I won't be able to dance with Sir Charles. And it's all your fault! You made me dance with him!”

”It's not my fault. I would never step on your toe, dearest,” Lady Sara a.s.sured her friend.

”It was that horrid, overgrown country b.u.mpkin!” She looked at the other ladies to make sure they were all in accord with her a.s.sessment of Kesseley. They obligingly stated their solidarity. Horrid. Clumsy Ajax. Clabberfooted. Unhandsome. Horrid. Clumsy Ajax. Clabberfooted. Unhandsome.

”He will ruin my entire Season! My life!” Miss Barten wailed, burying her head in Lady Sara's shoulder.

”Hardly, dear. Sir Charles must come and comfort your poor swollen foot,” Lady Sara said tartly, smiling in appreciation of her own naughtiness as the others giggled into their hands, their faces pink with pleasure, even as they admonished their friend for saying something so fast.

”Tell her what Mr. Watson compared your ankles to,” one young lady begged Lady Sara.

Kesseley could hear Lady Sara whisper, and the ladies let out squeals of delight.

”Mr. Watson is so romantic. He is just like Lord Blackraven!” one lady said, jumping on her toes and clasping her hands at her heart.

”If Mr. Watson is Lord Blackraven, Lord Kesseley is more like-like Lord Blackraven's steward or groom,” Miss Barten spat.

”Certainly not his valet,” Lady Sara quipped.

”We shouldn't speak that way,” said a lone cautious female voice.

”You're right, of course, for my father says he is England's authority on pigs,” Lady Sara said.

Wasn't she the clever girl?

”I have Mr. Watson to save me,” she continued, ”but you all must take care to avoid Lord Kesseley, or you may end up a pig farmer's wife.”

”We can't avoid him forever. He is an earl. One of us will have to marry him,” the cautious one speculated.

”Let us hope for some witless merchant's daughter to think he is a prize and save us,” Lady Sara said.

The conversation ended abruptly as the music resumed, and the young men came looking for their partners. The ladies straightened their posture and met their gentlemen with angelic smiles.

Kesseley remained hidden, quiet. All his life, he'd tried to be kind to others, to listen to their lives, their complaints, their pains. He rebuilt their homes, paved their roads, redesigned their ca.n.a.ls, dug wells, fed their families. The plundered estate he inherited prospered as it never had before. His tenants were better off than most of England. All he wanted was for someone to love him as he could love her. So he wasn't the best dresser, perhaps he hadn't the finest manners and, yes, he did think pigs were a very intelligent, gentle species. Did this hold no value to a lady? He felt like a squashed spider, stepped on merely for the sin of being ugly and humble.

”Tommie, are you in here?” his mother called. He stepped out from behind his palm and let his mama come and wrap him in her arms.

”Let's leave,” she whispered. He gently kissed her head. The musky scent of another man filled his nose.

Chapter Ten.

On her last night in London, Henrietta lay on the sofa in the parlor, her hand dangling down, scratching Samuel's stomach. Quiet. Just the clomp and rattle of carriages pa.s.sing on the street and the occasional strings of music drifting from a nearby party. She felt numb, as if her heart had closed up shop.

If only her mind would do the same. It churned and churned. Edward, Lady Sara, Mr. Van Heerlen, Kesseley. Finally, she picked a spiral in the cornice and mentally divided and counted the arcs with the Fibonacci number sequence, anything to occupy her mind.

1, 1...

She wished Kesseley wasn't mad at her. That, for once, she could please him.

2, 3...

Edward must think she was chasing him about like some mad chit.

5, 8...

What would she say to Mr. Van Heerlen? She could hardly deny him now.

13, 21...

Maybe love could grow over time? Like a slow leaking spring, dripping little by little until the emptiness filled. So slow as to be imperceptible. Then one day she would look across the table as her husband was putting strawberry preserves on his toast and think, how could I have ever loved Edward?