Tangled Reins

Chapter Nine

The riding party the next morning was a relaxed affair. From Cavendish Square came the Darent sisters, Hazelmere, Fanshawe, Ferdie and Mr Dermont. At the gates of the Park they were joined by Lord Harcourt and Miss Bressington. There were few others about at that hour, despite the clemency of the weather. Before long the three couples had parted, to amble down the glades and rides, totally absorbed with each other, while Ferdie and Mr Dermont were deep in discussion over the latest type of suiting.

As was often the case when she was alone in Hazelmere’s company, Dorothea’s composure was more apparent than real. She was having increasing difficulty maintaining the cool unconcern she felt was her only defence against those all-seeing hazel eyes. His presence physically disturbed her to the point where her mind no longer functioned with its customary clarity. Amid others, at balls and parties, where convention laid its restraining hand on his actions, she could retain sufficient command of her wits to deflect his subtle attacks. But when they were alone, with nothing to prevent him from leading her thoughts along avenues she knew to be as dangerous as they were exciting, she no longer felt confident of keeping him from guessing how deeply he affected her. In fact, she was no longer sure that she was hiding anything from him at all. She had no idea what he had made of her behaviour in the Duchess of Richmond’s orangery. On the other hand, his imperious manners had abated not one whit. And he had yet to speak, even obliquely, of love.

As they rode side by side deep within the Park, far out of sight of the rest of their party, she was conscious of steadily increasing confusion. It was fraying her temper, particularly when the reprehensible creature beside her seemed not to know the meaning of uncertainty. His attitude was always one of complete assurance. She had a peculiar feeling of being inexorably caught up in something she did not comprehend, some trap baited with an irresistible lure, impossible to escape. And he was at the centre of it, drawing her ever closer.

Hazelmere took the opportunity to tell her he would again be away until some time in the next week. His brief trip to Hazelmere had revealed more examples of his neglect than his conscience would countenance. Having done all he could to impress upon the ton how definite his intentions towards her were, and what her response to his proposal was likely to be, he was determined to rectify the problems on his estates without delay. Other than the lady riding beside him, there was little to keep him in London; the débutante balls were not generally high on his list of enjoyable functions.

While she accepted the news of his projected absence prosaically enough, Dorothea was surprised by his final comments. ‘In my absence, if you should need help in any way, you can trust Ferdie or Tony, or Alvanley, Peterborough or any of the others of our set, for that matter. We always help each other and they would unhesitatingly stand in my stead were there any need.’

She turned her wide-eyed gaze upon him, but was unable to see anything in his manner, other than a rueful twinkle in his eyes, to give her a clue as to what exactly he meant.

The twinkle was occasioned by the realisation that he had told her rather more than he had intended. He was slipping again. If she paused to consider she might wonder why his powerful friends should extend their protection to Miss Darent. That they would definitely do so to the future Marchioness of Hazelmere was a thought that might occur. He was sure she had no idea how publicly accepted their relationship had become and suspected that the realisation would be greeted, at least initially, with dismay, if not anger. It formed no part of his plans to force her hand thus early in the Season.

He then spent the best part of a pleasurable hour trying just how far into the realms of the improper he could lead her. He found it was rather further than his own rapidly diminishing control made safe. So, with a skill born of extensive practice, he adroitly disengaged, leaving her confused but with no idea of where they had been headed.

They were the last to rejoin the group, and the look on Hazelmere’s face reminded Ferdie that he had a bone to pick with his lordship, and Tony too, come to think of it! In otherwise perfect harmony, the group made its way out of the Park and back to Cavendish Square, where Julia Bressington was to spend the day.

A select masquerade ball was to be held the following Thursday at the Bressingtons’. The Season’s débutantes had been clamouring for a masquerade. Such events, commonplace some years previously, had fallen into disrepute because of the licentiousness they provoked and the difficulty in policing acceptable standards of conduct. However, wilting under the continued entreaties, a group of mothers had put their heads together and devised a compromise. While the ball was to be a masquerade, there were strict rules. Entry was by invitation only and everyone had to wear plain black dominoes over evening dress. Masks would be provided at the door, so the hostesses would know each face before any were permitted to enter.

Dorothea was disappointed when she realised that Hazelmere would not be back in time for the masquerade ball. She considered not going herself but, as chaperons were not permitted in the ballroom and Lady Merion was therefore taking a well-earned rest, Cecily did not like to go alone. To add to this, Lady Merion made various obscure comments about not wearing her heart on her sleeve or pining away just because a certain nobleman was absent from town. Not being obtuse, Dorothea took the point, and with good grace accompanied Cecily to the ball.

Entering the hall of Bressington House, they handed in their invitations and, approved by the hostesses, joined the queue leading to a table where the Misses Bressington were distributing masks. The sight of Dorothea affected Julia Bressington strangely. She tittered and then, looking highly conspiratorial, surreptitiously handed over a note.

Dorothea, waiting in line, opened the missive. It contained only one sentence: ‘Meet me on the terrace at midnight.’ She felt sure there was only one person who would dare send her such a peremptory command. So Hazelmere was coming to the ball after all. Presumably he would be late and so would have less time to find her in the crush.

Her mask was tied tightly across her face by a giggling Julia, holding the hood of her domino in place and completely covering her hair. Despite this disguise, no sooner had she and Cecily stepped over the threshold than each was claimed by suspiciously tall, domino-clad figures.

Feeling a familiar arm about her waist and looking up into a pair of laughing hazel eyes, Dorothea instantly relaxed, laughing back.

‘You’re already here!’

‘Already? How did you know I was coming at all?’ he asked, thoroughly surprised.

‘But you left me that note.’ As she said the words a dreadful premonition seized her.

‘What note? No. Wait.’ He drew her into a window embrasure. ‘Show me,’ he commanded, holding out his hand.

Dorothea had put the note in the inside pocket of her domino. She drew it out and handed it to him.

Hazelmere read the single line of script, the lines about his mouth hardening. The idea of Dorothea attending the masquerade to fall victim to some gentleman as experienced as himself had been sufficient to drive him to conclude his business a day early. But what the hell was this note about?

Seeing Dorothea pale under her mask, he slipped his arm about her waist. Tucking the note into his pocket, he led her towards the centre of the room. ‘Remind me, my love, to show you my signature some time. Then, if I ever send you a letter, you’ll know it’s from me.’

Deciding she was not going to be distracted by the ineligible epithet, which she knew had been included expressly for the purpose, she asked directly, ‘But who is it from, if not you?’

Hazelmere considered telling her some fanciful tale, anything to make her forget the incident, but one glance at her determined face warned him that that particular ruse was unlikely to succeed. He eventually answered, ‘I know no more than you, my dear.’

A waltz started up and Dorothea found herself circling the floor in his arms. By the time the dance concluded he had succeeded in convincing her to put aside her thoughts on the mysterious note and give her undivided attention to him. She learned that the principal attraction of a masquerade ball was that a lady could spend the entire evening in the arms of one gentleman without causing a furor. For his part, Hazelmere had no intention of letting her go. Luckily, as most of the couples in the ballroom were similarly invariant and Dorothea found nothing amiss with this arrangement, his possessiveness passed unnoticed.

After their second dance he drew her into a shadowed alcove. There, with Dorothea standing, unconsciously, within the comforting circle of his arm, they swapped their news.

‘And Lord Peterborough has been so attentive,’ sighed Dorothea, eyes dancing.

‘Oh?’ said Hazelmere, a frown in his eyes.

‘Mmm,’ she murmured in confirmation, adding innocently, ‘He told me to tell you so.’

The laugh this elicited made her tingle. His hazel eyes were wreaking havoc with her composure. ‘I must remember to thank Gerry next time I see him. In the meantime, sweet torment, come and dance.’

For the rest of the evening Hazelmere devoted himself to making her forget the existence of the note. He tried every trick he knew to bemuse and amuse her, hoping to divert her thoughts sufficiently to enable him to leave her, unsuspecting, with Fanshawe while he kept her midnight appointment. But while she certainly paid attention to all he said, blushing delightfully at his more provocative suggestions, she clearly possessed a distressingly calm and collected mind. He suspected that she guessed the reason for his behaviour and, short of kissing her in the middle of the ballroom, he could think of nothing that might succeed in distracting her. As midnight approached he gave up the attempt.

The rules for the ball called for a general unmasking at midnight. As the clock over the door approached five minutes to the hour Hazelmere, knowing that Dorothea, too, was keeping track of the time, drew her over to the windows leading on to the terrace.

‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’ he asked.

‘But of course!’ She assumed that his evident wish to spare her the midnight meeting stemmed from the belief she would be overcome by some missish sentiment. She felt slightly aggrieved that he didn’t know her better.

‘Before I permit you to go out on that terrace I want you to promise you’ll do precisely as I say.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that it was her note and therefore her adventure, not his. And she certainly did not need his permission to go out on the terrace! But there was no time to argue, and the gleam of amusement in his eyes suggested that he had guessed her thoughts anyway. Mastering her annoyance, she agreed. ‘Very well. I promise. What must I do?’

‘Open the door and go out, but don’t shut it behind you. I’ll stay behind in the shadows. Walk on to the terrace but, whatever you do, don’t go more than halfway to the balustrade. And only go a few yards either side of the door. Understand?’

She nodded. Satisfied, Hazelmere held the heavy curtain aside for her to slip past, and followed her into the darkened alcove between the curtain and the window. He opened this and Dorothea moved out on to the moonlit terrace.

Directly in front of her was a flight of stone steps leading down to a gravel path, with the lawns and shrubbery in deepest shadow beyond. Mindful of her instructions, she moved to her left, keeping close to the house. She had only gone a few paces when a voice came to her from somewhere near the steps.

‘Miss Darent! This way!’

At exactly that moment someone inside the ballroom flung back the curtain over the next window along and opened it, but then, as the call for the unmasking was heard, closed it again.

The sound of running footsteps retreating along the gravel path came clearly to both Dorothea and Hazelmere, still in the shadows. Stepping up to her, he whispered, ‘Stay here.’ He went past her and lightly down the steps.

The last echoes of the footsteps were dying in the distance. The rhododendron bushes that bordered the terrace were dense and taller than Hazelmere himself. A most convenient setting for an abduction, he thought grimly. He was too wise to go searching in the darkened garden, leaving Dorothea unattended on the terrace, even though it seemed as though the mysterious leaver of notes had departed. Removing his mask and pushing back the hood of his domino, he returned to the terrace.

‘There’s no sign of anyone now,’ he said. ‘A pity, but no harm done.’

‘But who could it be, to play such a silly joke?’ she asked, tugging at the knots Julia Bressington had made in her mask strings.

‘Here, let me.’ He reached over her and undid the mask, removed it and pushed the hood back from her hair. Then, taking her face in both hands and tilting it up, he kissed her. After a moment his hands left her face to slip beneath her domino and gather her, unresisting, into his arms.

As the kiss deepened, Dorothea, again, lost all sense of time. He did no more than reinforce the lessons he had taught her in the orangery; there was no time for more. His experienced mouth claimed hers, gently persuading, while, under her domino, his hands drifted caressingly over her breasts, her waist and her hips. Then, reluctantly, he released her. Before she could recover he drew her hand through his arm and moved back to the door, saying in his usual manner, ‘We’d best return to the ballroom before our absence becomes too difficult to explain.’

Back in the ballroom before she could gather her wits, Dorothea had no chance to say anything. They were quickly surrounded by friends, all laughing and talking at once. But during what was left of the ball she was conscious of the hazel eyes resting on her often, their expression doing nothing for her peace of mind.

Later, as they left the ballroom together, Hazelmere remembered the note. ‘Incidentally, my love, should you get any further notes inciting you to do anything the least bit improper and which purport to come from me, you might remember I’m much more likely to make such suggestions in person.’

It was impossible to reply to that in any acceptable way. Dorothea wisely left it uncontested.

Leaving Bressington House a short time later, Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe insisted on handing the Darent sisters into their carriage. Belatedly realising that she had allowed Hazelmere to monopolise her for the entire evening, Dorothea threw him a glance that she hoped conveyed her disapproval of his managing ways. She could hardly claim success, as he laughed and murmured in her ear that if she continued to cast such provocative looks at him he would be unable to resist the temptation to kiss her again. In the shadowy carriage drive he suited the action to the words, before helping a thoroughly flustered Dorothea into her grandmother’s coach.

Hazelmere was more perturbed by the mysterious note and the incident on the terrace than he had let Dorothea guess. Walking back to Cavendish Square in company with Fanshawe, he considered the possible explanations.

Young heiresses had been abducted and held for ransom-that was one possible reason. However, most of the previous targets had been very wealthy. Dorothea, although commonly held to be well dowered, was not immensely rich. So, if it was an abduction attempt, the far more likely intention would be to have a touch at the Hazelmere coffers. It had never occurred to him that by making his interest in her so public he would make her a target for such attacks.

He considered the figure by his side. All was not well with his friend and, presuming from his silence on the matter that the cause was the younger Miss Darent, he did not like to add any extra burden to a brow already overwrought.

The romance between Fanshawe and Cecily was not proceeding as his lordship had hoped. He had discovered his love had a definite mind of her own and having once taken an idea into her head could hold to it buckle and thong in the face of all reason. She had objected to what she termed his proprietorial attitude at the masquerade, leaving him feeling decidedly rejected. While she had relented later, allowing him to escort her to their carriage, she had remained coldly aloof.

The two friends continued on their way, sunk in abstracted silence. They parted at the corner of Cavendish Square to retire to their respective chambers, troubled, for quite different reasons, over what the future held.