EPILOGUE
Year 1814, May. Helmdon Court, Northamptonshire, England.
Music floated across the terrace to where Rosalind was sitting on a cushion-covered wooden bench, the small orchestra playing a trilling Mozart tune. The French doors had been flung open to welcome in the long-awaited and vaguely warm spring air also bringing scent from the rose garden.
The low murmuring of her friends was a lovely counterpoint to the high strains of the violin. Lucy was muttering about where her husband had disappeared to with her slice of cake, and she sighed loudly as Clara rather tentatively suggested that their respective husbands were last seen heading to the card room. An owl’s cry carried to her on the aromatic breeze, its haunting sound soon echoed by its mate. There was a sof–
“May I have the pleasure of this dance, my countess?”
Oh yes. There was also a deep rasping voice that sent shivers down her spine. She opened her eyes and peered up at her husband looming over her. Lanterns had been set on the terrace and they reflected back in his gaze.
“Yes indeed, you may. Will you excuse me?” Clara and Lucy both nodded, their faces wreathed in smiles.
“I believe I’ll go fetch my own cake,” Lucy said rather dispiritedly, as Clara helped her heavily enceinte friend from the chair.
The dance floor was not the typical crush as the ball was only for a select few: friends, relatives, soldiers and the occasional swarthy groom. A certain Irish innkeeper had remained by his wife’s side in Cheshire, their babe expected any day.
Rosalind swept up her crimson skirts as Lucas marched them to the dance floor. He’d said that tonight she looked like a ruby in her deep-red gown – fiery, an inextinguishable flame, the most magnificent of gems… What was a woman to say to that?
As the first notes of the dance played out, Rosalind tilted her head. “A waltz?”
“Well, we did put in a lot of practice, did we not?” Tonight, Lucas’s eyes were the colour of light rain but the idea of waltzing brought a darkness to them.
A large palm covered her waist and another engulfed her hand as they started to move. They’d realised a few weeks before that neither had the faintest idea of the steps to this decadent new dance, and so they had hired an instructor. Last night, they’d practised for the final time in this silent ballroom…alone.
They hadn’t got very far. The waltz, Lucas claimed, required him to hold his partner far closer than was proper in the shadowy light. She had swayed against him until their breaths became fast and another more heated dance had taken place against the ballroom door. Her gaze flitted to the large portal.
“I hope, my lady, that you are concentrating on the ball and the wellbeing of our guests, and not…other matters?” Lucas said as he swirled her into a turn, his smile wicked.
“Of course, my lord husband,” she retorted as innocently as possible, managing to stand on his foot. “Everybody is most content. And the help I have had – your mother, my friends, Daphne, Lily – I’ve hardly had to lift a finger.” She waved said finger at Benedict and his now wife as they waltzed past, also improperly close to each other.
“Stone has brought our wedding gift down with him from Cheshire,” Lucas said as they dipped into another turn.
Rosalind smiled with delight. Due to the harsh snow and cold, Lucas had stayed at Stonebridge Hall for most of the winter and, as they hadn’t wanted to wait, they’d married there as well. Lucas’s mother and their London friends had been sorely missed but everything else had been perfect. Including Goliath.
Clandestine riding lessons had taken place with only Ridges and Daphne. The look of shocked surprise on the faces of Lucas and Benedict as she’d ridden up to the church for their wedding, mounted alone on Goliath, had been wonderful.
The horse, however, had looked less pleased. His ragged old mane had been brushed until it gleamed by Ridges and Billy, and wreaths of hothouse flowers and forest leaves had adorned his neck. He’d later been caught nibbling the bouquet. Now the steadfast Goliath was theirs: a wedding gift from Benedict.
Another turn in the dance brought her body against Lucas with a soft bump.
“Major,” she protested, “that wasn’t how we were instructed.”
But she merely received a squeeze of the waist in reply.
The dance came to an end, quicker than she’d wanted, and Lucas guided them back to friends at the refreshments table. Clara’s husband, Rook, had appeared out of nowhere – or the card room – and was bent close to his wife. “Fancy taking some air on the terrace, Clara love?” he asked. “I’ve just lost a small fortune at cards to some lady called Lily Mereworth.”
“Do wander to the sunken gardens,” Lucas interjected. “Rosalind has had the sconces lit.”
Clara and her husband exchanged an odd look but took Lucas’s advice, strolling hand in hand to the French doors, Clara’s sapphire-blue dress swirling about her.
Lucy, however, was still looking dejected.
“No cake?” Rosalind asked.
“No, none. And I’m trying not to cry. I know ’tis ridiculous, but the slightest thing makes me blubber at the moment.”
“Well, don’t look around then.”
