Page 40 of The Scandalous Deal of the Scarred Lady
The lights flickered, the musicians settling again in their places, a soft swelling of sound from the stage as Helena sat staring hard at her gloved hands in her lap. Her face itched. Her arms itched. Everywhere itched and all she wanted was to rake her fingernails over her flesh.
“I…I need some air I think,” she said suddenly and rose. Her skirts rustled around her, the soft whisper of butterfly wings carrying her aloft to whatever escape she could find. She could not breathe…could not get another bit of air into her body so long as she stood here thus.
But he rose with her, one hand coming to capture her trailing hand, to draw her back to the seat next to his even as the lights went down and the music commenced, a powerful piece by Bach, that left a queer ache in her chest as she heard it.
“Stay,” he said softly. “Stay and listen with me. Stay and…”
There were no more words to say. Already they were drawing attention from the nearby boxes, Phoebe hissing at her to sit down. She was causing a scene, must always be causing a scene.
She sank in the darkness to her seat, stifling a sob. There was no escape after all for curses. Worse, by the very act of being here, she was hurting her aunt whom she loved with all her heart. And the gentleman that she was fast thinking that shecouldlove had any of this courtship been real.
The music rose and fell, following a rapturous progression of chords that should have swept Helena far beyond the pain of overhearing such crass words. Had they known she was there and directed their comments to her in this way simply to be brutal and unkind? Had they known he was there?
She idly scratched at her leg through the fabric of the dress, sad and miserable and wishing only that they might go home. Three visits? Four. What did it matter in the grand scheme of things? Let the brooch stay in his hands forever, she cared not what happened to it anymore.
A hand found hers in the darkness, warm and masculine, so large it seemed to engulf her own. Fingers squeezed her own, a comforting gesture that brought a gasp to her lips, and a quick turn of her head to study his profile, but his gaze was fixed on the stage, not upon her even as the hand slipped away as though it had never been there at all.
Three. That was three times tonight he had touched her. Her hand tingled from the sweetness of it, that comradely gesture, that showed he had heard and understood, though he himself must have been upset as well, to hear such terrible things said about him.
They were both outcasts then. Helena thought about this as the music changed and shifted to another piece, the final one of the night. She tried to concentrate on the notes, but in the end, all she could do was wonder at that brief touch and what he had meant by it. The others had been a polite leading she knew, to get her through the crowd, and keep her from being scared.
The Duke of Durham was truly a very kind man.
As the music ended, Helena could only sit in the darkness waiting for the lights to come back on, wondering at the strange spell that had fallen over her. She rose from her seat in something of a daze, hardly noticing when the Duke spent some time looking for a glove that wound up having been under his own chair where it must have fallen from his pocket.
She thought little of it until they reached the lobby and she saw how empty it was. The gloves should have been in his coat, not in the pocket of his jacket. He had carried them with him then, in case there needed to be a delay. He had planned this then, to stave off further embarrassment.
She, Helena, had caused this.
Helena ducked her head, thankful when she was helped into her cloak that she might draw the hood up again and hide.
Chapter 25
The Duke of Durham hadn’t been able to reach her once that night. There had been that bright, beautiful moment when she’d come down the stairs, her slippered feet, an angel upon the stairs, flashing in and out of view from under the ridiculous cloak and long purple skirts.
How he envied those feet, their dance, for they seemed happy as she skipped lightly toward him, a hint of laughter in the eyes peering brightly from beneath the hood that almost hid her face completely.
But something had happened there and between the parlor. Had he been forward in offering her his hand, in teasing her so indelicately? He simply did not know. But from that moment on, she had withdrawn though he’d tried to tease out a reply or two in the carriage.
She held the eagerness of a child, peering through the curtains while they drove, fascinated by the view of the city at night. James had seen that much in the way she tried so hard to pretend she hadn’t been looking at all.
Still, her quietude might have been taken as shyness, or even a ladylike modesty, had he not seen a much more boisterous side of her already. He missed his companion from the tea that had taken only days before. He’d looked forward to the mischievous smile and the delight with which she’d confronted the world.
But when he saw her within the lobby, seen the way others had looked upon her, James had thought then that he’d understood. Lady Barrington had been uncomfortable with the scrutiny, though he’d seen no true harm in it. The ton was every watchful for new faces, and Andrew at least had come forward, his usual cheerful self.
It wasn’t until the intermission and the half-overheard conversation from the next box that he’d understood her heartbreak and even fear. Never had he felt such anger toward another soul, and he longed dearly to let the two ladies in the next box understand just what he thought of their snide remarks, only they’d attacked him in the next breath.
And James had come to realize just how badly in shambles his own reputation was.
He barely heard the music, though he stole a touch of her delicate hand, squeezing her fingers gently to let her know that he was there, and despite the strangeness of their arrangement, he had come to care about her, and, in fact, he wanted to careforher, if he could.
But how could he when he could not even care for his own household?
At the end of the performance, he subtly dropped a glove under his chair, glad that he’d taken them with him though in truth he’d been so flustered by her beauty unveiled when the cloak had finally been removed, that he’d quite put them in the wrong pocket entirely.
How could the world not see that Lady Barrington was a vision? That anyone could have so much to say about a few blemishes upon her skin when faced with such a radiant smile or bright eyes when her hair had such luster and her dress such charm…the world should have seen her as he did, and it confounded him that they had not.
The search for the glove gave him an extra moment with her, a chance to hear her talk though she’d answered his questions in monosyllables, as though she were already a hundred miles away.
