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‘Mr Victor! Thank you, but I—’
‘If you are going to say you do not dance, then I shall not believe you,’ he said, smiling. ‘I saw you standing up with Lord Kirkster.’ The smile faded. ‘Perhaps my scar offends you.’
‘No, of course not.’ She felt obliged to look into his eyes, to show she was telling the truth. ‘Sir Geoffrey said you were a military man. Is that how you came by it?’
‘Yes. An encounter with a French cavalry sabre at Salamanca. I am grateful it was such a neat cut and not deep enough to do much damage.’
She shuddered. ‘You were very fortunate, I think.’
‘Indeed I was, Miss Meltham. But we are straying from the point. I invited you to dance.’
Deb hesitated, then saw the glint in his grey eyes. Laughter, or a challenge? She could not be sure.
He said softly, ‘Perhaps you are afraid to dance with me.’
It was the truth. The attraction she felt to this man frightened her. She had never felt such a strong affinity before. Not even with the man who had courted her. Who had said he loved her and then proved himself worthless in the most devastating way.
She shook off the memory. Mr Victor was smiling at her, causing her insides to flutter in alarm. However, she was not about to admit it and her chin went up.
‘Afraid? Why should I be afraid, here amongst friends?’
His lips curved upwards into a smile that caused a flutter of excitement deep within her.
‘Quite.’ He held out his hand. ‘Shall we?’
Tentatively she lifted a hand and her fingers were immediately held in a firm grasp. It was surprisingly comforting, as if he had drawn her inside a protective shield. As if she need fear nothing while he was beside her.
One dance, no more.
She was dancing with a stranger. She could not deny the lift of her spirits to be on the dance floor, nor the frisson of excitement to be dancing with someone other than her brother. For years she had denied herself this pleasure, but all the old familiar feelings had returned almost as soon as the music started. The intoxication of skipping and twirling around the floor with an admirer, someone whose gaze made her feel as if she was dancing on top of the world.
Deborah tried to rein in her happiness, but it was impossible. No matter, she told herself, giving in to the temptation to smile at her partner as they held hands and moved down the dance. She was older and wiser now. Her head could not be turned in such a short time. But, oh, the way the blood fizzed and sizzled through her veins when he spoke to her!
‘You dance very well, Miss Meltham.’
His voice was deep and warm, wrapping itself around her like velvet.
‘I fear you flatter me, sir. I am out of practice.’
‘Then we should remedy that. Will you not dance a second time with me?’
The music was ending and he was holding on to her hand, smiling down at her. Warning bells clamoured in Deborah’s head. This was too much, too soon. She had seen that look in a man’s eyes before. It meant nothing. No, she thought, worse than nothing. If she allowed herself to believe he was sincere, it meant trouble.
She pulled her hand free.
‘Thank you, but I, I am not inclined to dance again.’
With a formal little smile she backed away before turning and walking off. Her spine tingled, she was sure his eyes were upon her. He had looked surprised, almost shocked, at her words, as if he could not believe she would refuse him. She lifted her head a little higher. No doubt he thought she was desperate for a partner. He did not realise that she dressed in this drab way to avoid such attentions.
Once bitten twice shy, she reminded herself. But that did not stop her surreptitiously watching him from the side of the room. Her eyes followed him as he moved off to join Sir Geoffrey and she watched as their host introduced him to Mr and Mrs Appleton. She was guiltily aware of feeling pleased that he did not ask anyone else to dance.
‘Dear heaven,’ she murmured, ‘what a pathetic creature I am, to be so smitten by a man after one dance.’
Feeling rather lost and even a little sick at this shocking revelation, she made her way to the dining room, where refreshments had been set out. She helped herself to a cup of punch. She did not think she should drink it, but at least it looked as if she was doing something. Lizzie Gomersham came bouncing up and Deb summoned up a smile for her.
‘I saw you dancing with Mr Victor,’ said Lizzie, filling a punch cup and drinking it in almost one gulp. ‘I stood up with him, too, but thankfully I was already promised to another partner after that and could make my escape before he asked me to dance again.’
‘Why should you want to escape?’ Deb asked her, mystified.
Lizzie’s eyes widened. ‘That horrid scar! I vow, Deborah, I could not help but stare at it and I almost missed my steps. Did it not upset you?’
‘I barely noticed it.’
Deborah had been too intent upon his eyes, glittering in the candlelight. And on the glinting smile that seemed to be for her alone. Just thinking about it now sent her stomach swooping. Lizzie continued to chatter.
‘Papa said I must try to ignore it because Mr Victor was a soldier. He told Papa he was wounded while fighting in Spain. Of course, as soon as Mrs Appleton heard that she insisted he come to her charity ball tomorrow night. She said she was sure he would want to support the Military Widows’ Fund and, of course, what could the poor man do but agree?’
‘What indeed?’ murmured Deborah, although in her opinion, the gentleman would do nothing he did not wish to do. There was a steeliness about him, a dangerously ruthless air. It made her shiver just to think of it and she was obliged to give herself a little shake.
‘It is quite wrong to judge a person by appearances,’ she said, as much to herself as to her young friend.
‘Well, to be truthful, I soon grew used to the scar,’ Lizzie confided. ‘In fact, when I look at him now I think it makes him look quite piratical. Like the Corsair, which you must admit is very romantic.’
Deb decided she did not want to think about the man at all, scar or no scar.
* * *
Mr Victor did not approach her again that evening, but Deb was still aware of his presence in the room. She knew a moment’s unease when she saw him talking to her brother, but they did not disappear together into the card room, so whatever the man was about she could acquit him of wanting to fleece her brother of what was left of his fortune.
Perhaps she was indeed being fanciful. Perhaps he had not been watching her those times she had seen him in the market, or at the assembly. Fallbridge was a small town, so it was inevitable that one should see its inhabitants out and about. And yet, she could not quite dispel the feeling that all was not as it seemed with Mr Victor and on the short carriage ride back to Kirkster House she asked her brother what he thought of their new acquaintance.
‘Victor? Why, nothing. He declined to play cards with me this evening, did you know that? Told me he preferred to listen to the music! He seemed a dull dog. Why should I think anything at all of him?’
‘Oh, no reason.’
‘Have you taken a fancy to him, is that it?’ Ran sat forward, as if trying to see her face in the darkness. ‘Shall I make enquiries, find out if he is an eligible parti?’
‘No, no, of course not. Do not be so foolish.’ She forced herself to laugh and speak lightly. ‘It is just so unusual to have visitors in Fallbridge, that is all.’
‘Well I think it would be a very good thing if you were to make a play for him,’ he said, throwing himself back into his corner. ‘It might give you something to think about rather than fussing over me.’
She heard the petulant note in his voice and did not reply. She was familiar with his quick changes of mood and knew a wrong word now would spark an argument. Tonight had been a good evening. Ran had been on his best behaviour, he had not drunk too much, nor gambled too heavily and she allowed herself to hope that he was indeed improving. But when they arrived at the house she was dismayed when he did not follow her up the stairs, but went off to the drawing room, calling to Speke, the butler, to bring him a bottle of wine.
* * *
As charity balls went, this was a small affair. Gil stood at the side of the room, watching the dancing. Appleton had told him that, cleared of furniture, the drawing room could accommodate four-and-twenty couples at any one time. Gil tried to appear impressed, but his overriding feeling was that he had wasted another evening. Last night at Gomersham Lodge had been a disaster. He had rushed his fences and Deborah Meltham had shied off like a frightened colt. He had told himself he would do better this evening, but he had been here for over an hour now and there was no sign of her.
He should leave. He had no wish to stay here, being polite to these good people when his heart was so full of blackness. He pushed through the crowd towards his hostess, ready to make his excuses, but as he drew close a sudden flurry at the door heralded a late arrival. Mrs Appleton turned and Gil was close enough to hear her delighted cry.
‘Deborah, my dear, what a delightful surprise, I had quite given you up!’
And there she was, in the doorway. Her silk gown was very simple, but with its high neck and long sleeves, it gave a slender elegance to her petite figure and the rich plum colour enhanced the creamy tones of her skin and made her green eyes glow with an added vibrancy. Gil’s eyes went swiftly around the room, surprised that the other men present were not staring in admiration at Deborah Meltham. Was he the only one who could see the passionate woman behind that cool, elegant façade?
She was saying something to Mrs Appleton, who dismissed it with the wave of her hand.
‘Pray do not apologise, Deborah. You are here now, that is all that matters. And here is Mr Victor, in need of a partner for the next dance.’
‘I am indeed,’ put in Gil, bowing. ‘If Miss Meltham would do me the honour.’
There was a wary look in her eyes when she lifted them to his face and he was tempted to give her a reassuring smile. Instead he raised his brows and gave her a challenging look. It worked, her chin went up.
‘Miss Meltham always supports our good causes by purchasing a ticket, but she rarely attends.’ Mrs Appleton laughed, unaware of the tension sparking around her. ‘Tonight we are all honoured.’ She stepped aside, putting a hand on Deborah’s back as if to push her forward. ‘Hurry now, my dear, there is another set forming and they have room for you and Mr Victor.’
Still holding those green eyes, Gil put out his hand. Silently she took it and he could not be sure which of them trembled as his fingers closed around hers. The music started and they danced the first few movements in near silence. Deborah replied with no more than a word to Gil’s attempts at conversation. She was unsmiling, guarded, as if she was afraid to enjoy herself. They made their way down the dance and then it was their turn to stand and watch the others.
‘Is it such a penance to stand up with me?’ he asked her, knowing that for the moment they could not be overheard.
Immediately her eyes flew to his, then she looked away again.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘I told you last night, I am out of practice. Dancing with anyone other than my brother, I mean.’
‘And why is that? Does your brother object to gentlemen paying you attention?’
‘No, of course not. Although he is—can be—very protective of me.’ They were moving again and she said, ‘Forgive me, I must concentrate on my steps if I am not to stand upon your toes.’
He said innocently, ‘Is that why you came, then, to practise your dancing?’
Her lips twitched. ‘Perhaps it was.’
Or perhaps she came to see me.
The faint blush on her cheek suggested that might be the case. She was smiling, more relaxed in his company, so he forbore to tease her and they finished the dance so much in harmony that he risked asking her to stand up with him for another.
‘Purely for the practice,’ he added solemnly.
She chuckled. ‘Are you sure your toes will stand a fresh assault?’
He grinned. ‘Oh, I think so.’
She laughed, blushed, but she remained with him for the next dance and after that she allowed him to take her in to supper.
* * *
It was not until later, when he was back at his rooms at the George, Gil realised that for all the time he had spent with Deborah Meltham at the Appletons’, he had not once thought of revenge. Even when she had told him her brother could be very protective, a point he should have noted, as it played perfectly into his plans. But those plans might well come unstuck if he allowed Deborah Meltham to get under his skin.
He had spent dark, grief-ridden months working out a way to destroy Kirkster, only to discover that the fellow was doing that himself with his drinking and his gambling. Gil was convinced now that the only way for him to inflict pain on Kirkster was by ruining his sister and he would not let anything stand in his way.
* * *
Deborah was in the morning room, writing up her accounts, when Speke came in.
‘There is a gentleman to see you, Miss Meltham. A Mr Victor.’
Deb’s pen spluttered at the butler’s words and she blotted the page, giving herself time to compose herself before she replied. The gentleman was only making a courtesy call after their dancing together last night. Nothing out of the ordinary about that. For a panic-stricken moment, Deb wished she had not given in to the temptation to go to the charity ball. The butler coughed, reminding her that she could not delay much longer.
‘I have shown him into the drawing room, ma’am.’
‘Thank you, Speke. Where is Lord Kirkster?’
‘His lordship has not yet left his room.’
No hope of a chaperon, then. It was nearly noon and this information suggested Ran had drunk himself into a stupor again, which was another reason she should not have gone out. With a sigh she rose and shook out her skirts before going off to meet her visitor.
Speke left the door open once he had shown her into the drawing room. Which was as it should be, Deborah knew, to observe the proprieties, and this sign of the old butler’s regard helped her to greet her visitor calmly.
‘I am sorry my brother is not here to see you, Mr Victor.’
She gave a disarming smile, hoping it would distract him from the faint smell of stale wine that pervaded the room.
‘No doubt he is busy out of doors.’
‘Yes.’
No need to tell him the truth, that in all likelihood her brother was still sleeping off last night’s excesses. In her mind she could see Randolph falling unconscious in his chair and dropping his full wineglass on to the carpet. She had witnessed it herself too many times to doubt that is what had occurred.
‘I am on my way to view a house. Lagallan Manor.’ He waved a hand, as if to apologise for his riding coat. ‘I thought I should stop to pay my respects.’
‘That is very kind. Will you not sit down?’
‘Thank you.’
She took a seat and watched as he carefully placed his hat, gloves and riding crop on the side table before crossing the room and lowering himself into the chair opposite. There was strength and a lithe grace in every movement, she noticed. But then he had been a soldier, he was no idle fop.
‘Forgive me.’ His eyes flickered towards the open door. ‘You have no lady living with you?’
‘I live here alone with my brother, sir.’ One hand fluttered. ‘At four-and-twenty I am beyond the age of requiring a chaperon.’
He inclined his head silently and she was grateful he did not try to flatter her with insincere disclaimers.
‘So, you really are looking for a property, Mr Victor.’
‘Did you not believe me?’
‘Fallbridge is a small market town, the society is not...fashionable.’
‘I am not so hard to please and I found the company last night very enjoyable.’
There was nothing she could do to stop the blush rising and staining her cheeks. She was sure they must be crimson. Heavens, had she forgotten how to accept a compliment? As if to spare her embarrassment he turned to look out of the window.
