sat to watch the dancers execute a lively gigue and hoped her belly would settle. Her whole future would be determined within the next half hour. Their plan was a sound one, but she’d feel better once it was irrevocably accomplished.
She figured she’d be better able to slip away between sets when so many would be intent on finding the punch bowl. The gigue was probably the last dance in the set, yet it went on and on. Just when she was sure the quartet was winding up for a big finish, they launched into yet another repetition of the theme. Delphinia tapped her toes, more from nerves than enjoyment of the music.
Lady Florence strode past, her gait determined. Most women who weren’t dancing strolled along the edges of the dance floor, the better to be seen by potential dance partners who were looking for the next name on their card. The duke’s daughter moved with purpose, her mouth set in a hard line, arms swinging. She didn’t notice that her lace handkerchief slipped out of one of her sleeves and fluttered to the floor.
“Oh, my lady,” Delphinia said as she bent to retrieve the handkerchief, but once her fingers closed around it, her throat constricted and she couldn’t speak another word. The Brussel’s lace on the kerchief was doing all the talking.
In twisted tones, the lace warbled on. Del couldn’t decipher what it was trying to say, but there was no mistaking the vision it showed her. Even though the room in the disjointed images was dark, Del could make out Lady Florence, waiting with hammering heart on tufted velvet. A man joined her and after a few moments of kissing, passion flared white-hot between them.
Delphinia dropped the handkerchief and her vision cleared, but the stab of pain in her head nearly brought her to her knees.
Lady Florence knows our plans , she realized. Del looked around for the duke’s daughter but didn’t find her anywhere. She’s gone to take my place.
Despite the way her head pounded, she started toward the door. She had to stop Tristan from making a mistake that would ruin all their lives. At the very least she needed to reach the parlour before Harmony and Lady Bettendorf.
“I say, Miss Preston, don’t scamper off.” Sir Rupert Digby blocked her way. “You missed our chaconne earlier so I believe you owe me this bourrée.”
“I can’t, Sir Rupert,” she said, knowing she was being terribly rude, but she couldn’t help herself. “I have to go—”
“Come now. Don’t be like that. Wherever you need to be, you can go after this dance. Lord knows, it’s quicker than a minute.” Sir Rupert grabbed her hand, settled one of his paws on her waist and whisked her out to the center of the dance floor before she could protest further. Sir Rupert was right. The bourrée’s steps were quick, but the dance music was Bach and his pieces stretched into next week with interminable repeats.
Delphinia tried to free her hand but Sir Rupert’s grip was like a manacle. She couldn’t escape gracefully and couldn’t wiggle away from him without causing a scene. For a moment, she considered feigning a swoon, but that would only draw more attention to her as attempts to revive her were made and she’d never get away.
Over the strains of the Bach, the longcase clock chimed a quarter to midnight.
Chapter 10
The door to the parlour opened and a dark figure slipped inside the room. He was quiet as a wraith. Florence was certain he must be able to hear her heart. It was all she could hear, pounding in her chest, throbbing in her ears.
She shifted on the settee. The rustle of her petticoats on velvet and the creak of the settee’s walnut joints sounded unnaturally loud. The man headed straight for her, his footsteps as sure and unhesitating as if the room was bathed in light.
Florence wondered if he could smell her fear there in the dark and that’s what drew him so unerringly to her.
She gave herself a mental slap. There was nothing to fear. She was simply
She figured she’d be better able to slip away between sets when so many would be intent on finding the punch bowl. The gigue was probably the last dance in the set, yet it went on and on. Just when she was sure the quartet was winding up for a big finish, they launched into yet another repetition of the theme. Delphinia tapped her toes, more from nerves than enjoyment of the music.
Lady Florence strode past, her gait determined. Most women who weren’t dancing strolled along the edges of the dance floor, the better to be seen by potential dance partners who were looking for the next name on their card. The duke’s daughter moved with purpose, her mouth set in a hard line, arms swinging. She didn’t notice that her lace handkerchief slipped out of one of her sleeves and fluttered to the floor.
“Oh, my lady,” Delphinia said as she bent to retrieve the handkerchief, but once her fingers closed around it, her throat constricted and she couldn’t speak another word. The Brussel’s lace on the kerchief was doing all the talking.
In twisted tones, the lace warbled on. Del couldn’t decipher what it was trying to say, but there was no mistaking the vision it showed her. Even though the room in the disjointed images was dark, Del could make out Lady Florence, waiting with hammering heart on tufted velvet. A man joined her and after a few moments of kissing, passion flared white-hot between them.
Delphinia dropped the handkerchief and her vision cleared, but the stab of pain in her head nearly brought her to her knees.
Lady Florence knows our plans , she realized. Del looked around for the duke’s daughter but didn’t find her anywhere. She’s gone to take my place.
Despite the way her head pounded, she started toward the door. She had to stop Tristan from making a mistake that would ruin all their lives. At the very least she needed to reach the parlour before Harmony and Lady Bettendorf.
“I say, Miss Preston, don’t scamper off.” Sir Rupert Digby blocked her way. “You missed our chaconne earlier so I believe you owe me this bourrée.”
“I can’t, Sir Rupert,” she said, knowing she was being terribly rude, but she couldn’t help herself. “I have to go—”
“Come now. Don’t be like that. Wherever you need to be, you can go after this dance. Lord knows, it’s quicker than a minute.” Sir Rupert grabbed her hand, settled one of his paws on her waist and whisked her out to the center of the dance floor before she could protest further. Sir Rupert was right. The bourrée’s steps were quick, but the dance music was Bach and his pieces stretched into next week with interminable repeats.
Delphinia tried to free her hand but Sir Rupert’s grip was like a manacle. She couldn’t escape gracefully and couldn’t wiggle away from him without causing a scene. For a moment, she considered feigning a swoon, but that would only draw more attention to her as attempts to revive her were made and she’d never get away.
Over the strains of the Bach, the longcase clock chimed a quarter to midnight.
Chapter 10
The door to the parlour opened and a dark figure slipped inside the room. He was quiet as a wraith. Florence was certain he must be able to hear her heart. It was all she could hear, pounding in her chest, throbbing in her ears.
She shifted on the settee. The rustle of her petticoats on velvet and the creak of the settee’s walnut joints sounded unnaturally loud. The man headed straight for her, his footsteps as sure and unhesitating as if the room was bathed in light.
Florence wondered if he could smell her fear there in the dark and that’s what drew him so unerringly to her.
She gave herself a mental slap. There was nothing to fear. She was simply
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