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There could be no doubt. He narrowed his eyes as he studied the young woman who sat in the alcove opposite. She was accompanied, until they took to the dance floor, by an older man and woman, the man attired in a well-cut evening suit that nevertheless appeared to be straining at the buttons and the woman in canary-yellow satin.
He moved slightly behind the half-closed velvet curtain. He could see the young woman, but she couldn’t see him. Yes. It was the climbing suffragette. Her hair had been loosened by her tumble when he’d last seen her and instead of a ball gown she’d been clad in smooth, slippery stuff that he could still seem to touch in his hands. Beneath it her flesh had been warm and soft.
He took the covert opportunity to examine her more closely. Her hair was a glossy chestnut colour that reminded him of a horse he’d ridden as a child, when the stables had been full at Beauley Manor. Most of the horses had been sold off now. Her white gown was understated, in contrast with her mother’s, for he presumed the pair to be her parents. Its simplicity showed off her fine complexion that was possibly her best feature.
Yes, she was pretty. Though he might not have remembered her if he hadn’t caught her in his arms.
He grinned to himself.
He’d been uninterested at the ball until he spotted her. The same faces, the same gossip. He couldn’t think why he’d consented to come. But it was preferable to sitting at his desk and going through the family papers and accounts yet again, hoping the numbers would add up differently.
‘Who is that in the alcove opposite?’ he asked.
His mother lifted her lorgnette. ‘I have no idea.’
‘No one we would know,’ said Arabella.
Adam winced. Arabella could sound snobbish and sharp, but he knew that his elder sister often sounded sharp when she was anxious and she was anxious now. She was intelligent, too. She’d guessed the extent of their financial straits, even though he’d shouldered the burden alone. There was no point in alarming them until it was absolutely necessary, though he guessed both Arabella and Jane had some notion. They’d seen him work on the estate accounts night after night, ever since their father died.
‘Wait.’ His mother peered through her eyeglass. ‘She comes from somewhere in the north. Her father is Reginald Coombes. He makes some kind of confectionery. She’s the sole heiress, I believe.’
‘Oh, gosh,’ said Jane. ‘That must be Coombes Chocolates. They’re delicious.’
A sweet heiress. Adam chuckled inwardly. Well, well.
‘She’s wearing a lovely dress,’ Jane said rather wistfully. ‘It’s so much nicer than mine. I’m surprised no one wants to dance with her.’
Jane was wearing a debutante hand-me-down of Arabella’s, bless her heart. A couple of extra inches of white trimming that almost matched had been added at the hem. Arabella wore a gown in a shade of mustard that did nothing for her complexion or thin figure, the unfortunate fabric a bargain buy at the haberdasher’s. She hadn’t attracted many partners, either.
‘You’re a Beaufort,’ his mother said to Jane. ‘It doesn’t matter what you wear.’
‘I think it might, Mama,’ said Jane, with a sigh.
Indeed, being dressed in rags might matter, Adam thought grimly. He dreaded breaking the news of the extent of their diminished means to his mother and sisters. Telling them exactly what was left of the family fortune—precisely nothing—wasn’t something he looked forward to.
Adam studied Reginald Coombes. Short and stout, he possessed the same bright blue eyes as his daughter. The mother, a blonde whose prettiness was almost overwhelmed by her yellow satin and more diamonds than Adam had ever seen on one person, gazed at her husband with obvious affection. It touched him that they seemed happier than many of the other married couples on the dance floor. Indeed, few married couples were dancing together at all. They certainly looked happier than he’d ever seen his own parents. Not that his parents were often together in the years before his father’s demise.
He shunted the memories from his mind.
Adam moved his attention back to the lone figure in the alcove, watched how she straightened her back, stiffening her spine and jutting out her chin, as if daring anyone to pity her for being a wallflower. She appeared to be smiling.
But it must be hard, to sit there alone.
He slid on his gloves.
‘Adam,’ his mother hissed. ‘What are you doing?’
* * *
‘Miss Coombes?’
Violet jumped. In her mind she’d left the ballroom and begun to carry out her plan. She shifted on the gilt-legged chair and widened her knees so her thighs didn’t touch. She couldn’t risk anyone suspecting what she had wrapped like garters around her silk stockings. ‘Yes? Oh! It’s you!’
‘Indeed.’ A pair of midnight eyes found hers. ‘We meet again.’
Violet’s heart gave an unexpected thump. In her dream the night before, her rescuer appeared so impossibly handsome that she scolded herself in the morning. Surely her imagination had run wild. Now he stood in front of her in black-and-white evening attire he was even more attractive than in her dreams. In the dim streetlamp lighting she hadn’t fully taken in the firm set of his clean-shaven jaw, the line of his strong mouth.
On the street after her tumble she’d been surprised that he appeared younger than his commanding voice suggested. He must be about five years older than she, rather than the ten she’d originally thought, perhaps close to thirty years of age, she guessed. The two forked lines between his dark eyebrows made it difficult to gauge. His shoulders were broad in the well-cut tailed jacket, which showed some wear.
‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’ Violet shifted on her chair again. There was the faintest rustle of silk.
If he heard he made no sign. ‘Nor I you.’
Violet cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I’m glad to see you. I wanted to thank you properly. I ought to have been more grateful to you for...ah...catching me.’
It struck her later what a risk she’d taken. It could have ended very ill indeed if he hadn’t been there.
A phantom of a smile glimmered in his eyes. ‘To catch you was my pleasure.’ He glanced around the ballroom. ‘I didn’t know suffragettes liked dancing.’
‘I haven’t been doing much dancing,’ Violet blurted out, then bit her tongue.
‘Perhaps we might remedy that.’ He bowed low and held out his gloved hand. ‘May I have the honour?’
‘But I don’t know your name.’
‘My apologies.’ He smiled. His teeth were even and white. ‘We haven’t been formally introduced. I know you are Miss Coombes.’
‘Violet Coombes.’
‘Indeed?’ Some comprehension, almost amusement, flared in his expression. ‘I’m Adam Beaufort.’
‘Beaufort. I know your name. Then that means you are... There’s a house...’ Violet tried to simulate the society page in her mind. She’d read something about his family home, she was certain of it.
‘The Beauforts of Beauley Manor. Yes.’ He inclined his head. ‘I recently inherited the estate.’
‘Oh. I see.’ It came back to her now. Their historic estate was in Kent, and the Beauforts were an exceptionally old English family. The kind of society family she’d never expected to welcome the Coombes.
‘If you’re at all concerned about my pedigree,’ he said drily, ‘that’s my mother and my two sisters over there.’
He indicated a group in the alcove opposite. A grey-haired woman, straight-backed, dressed in black, was studying Violet through her lorgnette. Behind her stood a tall, haughty young woman, wearing a mustard-coloured gown. She looked down her nose at Violet. Seated next to the grey-haired woman was a big-boned girl with hair escaping from her bun. Violet had seen her laughing across the dance floor. She flashed a quick smile.
‘My parents are here, too.’ Just in time Violet remembered not to point. She nodded towards her mother and father. Her mother was tripping over her train, trying not to stare at the tall, dark-haired man in their alcove.
‘Now we’re introduced,’ he said smoothly. ‘Shall we dance?’
Violet stood up. Her head came just above his shoulder. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
She took his proffered hand. Instantly the sensation of being in his arms returned. Even through their gloves she could feel it. Safety. Danger. Mixed into one.
Through the crowd he led her to the centre of the ballroom. The previous dance had ended and another was about to begin. A path cleared before him. Some of the men nodded in his direction, and more than a few pairs of female lashes fluttered. She sensed all eyes upon them, though he paid no attention to it.
They stood face to face. He released her hand. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do with her arms. They hung awkwardly, by her sides.
‘I presume you waltz?’ he asked politely, as they waited for the orchestra to start up.
‘I’ve had lessons,’ she replied. Another thing she probably shouldn’t have said. Then she recalled stamping her foot at him. She sighed. It was too late to pretend to be other than whom she truly was and she wouldn’t have wanted to in any case.
Again she noted a flicker of amusement. ‘Excellent.’
The music struck up. It was ʻThe Blue Danube’, one of Violet’s favourite pieces of music. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, ‘I trust you dance as well as you climb.’
He swirled her into his arms.
Violet’s breath surged up through her body. In an instant he swept her away, across the polished floor. Her lessons were nothing like this. She had never danced with such a partner—why, she never really danced before. In his powerful arms her feet glided over the floor as if she floated above it. The waltz started slowly, then became faster. The violins soared and shimmered, the horns played the beguiling tune as the woodwinds kept time. Her slippers chased his black-leather shoes, speeding with the melody as it rose and fell. His grip never wavered as he lifted her off the ground with every turn.
She’d wondered what it would be like to dance in his arms. Now she knew.
Violet threw back her head and closed her eyes. The music swelled. Now she wasn’t following the rhythm, or his skilful feet. She stopped thinking about her steps, just allowed herself to blindly follow his lead as he looped her in circle after circle. The tune rippled inside her, sending her dizzy, as if she were spinning with her arms outstretched, the way she used to do in the garden as a child. Her lips widened. She wanted to cry out with the pleasure of it.
When she opened her eyes his were upon her. Hardened to impenetrable sapphire, they moved from her open lips to her bared neck, her head still thrown back.
He pulled her closer, his body pressed against her petticoats. Gripped by his eyes, his hands, she twirled, spun, twirled again.
Past his staring family in the alcove. Past her amazed parents. Past the girl from riding lessons, goggle-eyed. To Violet they became a blur. She could have danced for ever as he swept her across the floor, sending the other couples scattering in their wake.
All too soon the music ended. The final crescendo shattered in a crash of cymbals. He broke their gaze, let her go.
Violet put her glove to her racing heartbeat. ‘Oh!’
Adam Beaufort, too, seemed to need to regain his breath. He bowed, but not before she’d glimpsed the dart of a smile. ‘Perhaps you’d like some air, Miss Coombes. The balcony? I know you enjoy them.’
She laughed. ‘Yes. The balcony. Please.’
As they passed a waiter Adam seized two glasses of champagne and led her through the French doors on to the empty balcony that overlooked the rear garden. She sensed eyes from the ballroom burning into her back. She raised her chin.
‘Thank you.’ Gratefully she grasped the stem of the glass he offered her and drank deeply. She was tempted to drain it. Instead she put the cool glass to her burning cheeks.
He, too, drank, surveying her over the rim. ‘Your dancing lessons have been effective.’
‘My lessons never taught me to dance like that,’ she said frankly. ‘It was wonderful. Thank you.’
He shrugged. ‘There are certain skills in life that must be mastered.’
‘Surely dancing is a pleasure, not a skill,’ she protested.
One corner of his mouth curved. ‘Most of life’s pleasures become more pleasurable with greater skill, Miss Coombes.’
Violet removed the glass from her cheeks and stared out into the garden. Music wafted from inside the ballroom. Tiers of stone steps flowed down into a rolling lawn. Pale moonlight shone. Her breath began to return to her lungs, but she still felt as if she were spinning. With her free hand she clutched the edge of the balcony. The balustrade was made of stone rather than cast iron, in thick pillars. Below was a sheer drop into a huge rhododendron bush.
Adam Beaufort raised an eyebrow. ‘Assessing your descent?’
Violet laughed. ‘No. I promised you I wouldn’t climb any more balconies.’
Though she hadn’t promised anything else. Her thighs brushed together, reminding her of her plan.
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He lounged against a pillar, sending his face into shadow.
‘Tell me. What made you do it? Climb, I mean.’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
He shook his head. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘It was for the Cause. I intended to drape a women’s suffrage banner over the front of the gentleman’s club as a protest,’ she explained. ‘You must know how long women have been fighting to be granted the vote. The women’s colours are purple, green and white, you see. I sew the banners myself. Unfortunately I lost that one,’ she added regretfully.
He fell silent for a moment, took another draught of champagne. ‘Is it the first banner you’ve hung?’
‘No. I’ve hung others.’ And it wouldn’t be the last.
‘What’s your reasoning behind such an action?’
‘Wouldn’t any woman want to be treated as an equal?’ she asked passionately. ‘We’re treated as children who don’t know their own minds. Why shouldn’t we have the vote, take a role in choosing the government of our own country? Deeds, not words. That’s what we need now, for the Cause.’
‘You’re quite convincing, Miss Coombes,’ he drawled.
She clenched her fist around the champagne glass. ‘You’re mocking me.’
‘Not at all. Who can’t admire such conviction? How did you become involved in...the Cause?’
‘I’m only involved in a small way. I’m not a member of any organisation. I act alone. I’m just trying to do my part.’
‘Do your parents know what you’re doing?’
Violet sighed and shook her head.
He raised a brow. ‘I take it they wouldn’t approve.’
‘It’s a secret,’ she said rapidly. ‘I must ask you not to betray my confidence.’
‘You have my promise. I, too, keep my word.’
Violet let out a sigh of relief. Somehow she knew he told her the truth, even if in the shadow of the pillar his expression was unreadable.
‘There’s more to it, isn’t there?’ he asked.
Violet’s hand clenched on her glass. ‘I’m sorry?’
His teeth gleamed. ‘I suspect you have a more personal reason for your passion for the Cause.’
