Page 21 of Lady Frederica and the Scot Who Would Not
The smoldering flames in his eyes filled her with hope, but then he said, “I’m flattered, but that’s not a position I could ever fill for you.”
Shame burned her cheeks, but she had to know what it was about her that had made him refute her offer. “Whyever not?”
“It’s very complicated,” he said, releasing her as if he could not depart from her quickly enough. His hand came to her back as it had when he’d led her onto the dance floor, and before she even realized his intentions, he maneuvered her through the crowd and deposited her unceremoniously by Guinevere. Then, to Guinevere, he said, “Do not let your sister out of your sight. Your husband will explain after the ball.”
And with that, he departed, leaving her burning with humiliation. Still, she was unable to rip her gaze from him as he strode gracefully away. She tracked his movement across the ballroom as long as she could, which was for a few minutes. He was taller than most of the men there, broader shouldered, and his dark wavy hair was longer than that of most other men of thetonand glistened under the chandeliers.
Beckford stopped at Carrington’s side, said a word into the duke’s ear, and then both men looked toward where Freddy stood with Guinevere, before turning on their heels and disappearing altogether down a corridor, which Freddy happened to know led to Carrington’s private study.
“Whatever was that about?” Guinevere asked from Freddy’s left.
“I haven’t any idea,” Freddy lied, not wishing to face a lecture from Guinevere in the middle of the ball. Tomorrow would be soon enough, and Freddy had no doubt the lecture would likely come very early once Carrington told Guinevere that Freddy had been going to Covent Garden on her own for missions. And then, in all probability Vivian would join in on the lecturing once she discovered what Freddy had been up to, and then Vivian would no doubt make good on her threat to tell their parents about SLAR and Freddy’s nightly jaunts, which were the only thing that had ever made her feel as if she belonged anywhere, and that would officially be over, though it had really unofficially been over for months.
She hated Beckford in that moment. She hated him for not wanting her as much as she wanted him, even as she knew reasonably that was not reason to hate him. So she tried to shove that aside and concentrate on being angry at him for ratting her out to Carrington. Yes, she knew Beckford thought he was protecting her, but it wasn’t his right, especially when he couldn’t even be bothered to consider being her lover.
Blast Beckford. No, not blast him,damnhim. It felt good to think the profanity in her head.Damn him. Damn him.
Thanks to Beckford, she now had nowhere to go, and she was not certain what to do. She needed to think.
“Freddy, whatever is the matter?” Guinevere asked, drawing Freddy’s attention back to her sister. “You’re dreadfully pale, and you look as if someone you loved has just died.”
Not someone, but possibly something—her chance for a life of belonging. “I’m simply not feeling well. I’m hot and did not eat before coming. I think I’ll get some fresh air.”
“I’ll go with you and—”
“Duchess!” Lady Northingham waved her fan in the air as she made her way toward them. The gossiping matron, who’d told Freddy on more than one occasion she was a most odd girl, was the last person Freddy wanted to stand around chatting with. Though now that Guinevere was a duchess, Freddy knew Lady Northingham would not dare say such a rude thing to Freddy’s face. She’d reserve it to say behind her back.
“Oh, dear,” Guinevere said, looking between Freddy and Lady Northingham.
“You stay,” Freddy said, patting her sister’s hand. As much as she’d longed for the closeness she once felt to her sisters, which was the thing that had kept her from feeling like a total outsider amongst people who were supposed to be her set, that time was over. Guinevere had many obligations and little time.
“I’m sorry, Freddy. You understand, don’t you, darling?”
“Of course,” Freddy replied and forced a smile she didn’t feel as she made her way through the crush of guests at her brother-in-law and sister’s home.
By the time she reached the terrace, her heart was racing, and she felt as though she couldn’t take a proper breath. She flung open the door, rushed into the cold, bright night, and made her way past the one couple outside and down the stairs to the garden below. As she stepped onto the pebbled path that led to the maze, tears stung her eyes, and her gown seemed to grow tighter and more confining, just as her life was.
What was she to do now? She ran past the orderly rows of rosebushes toward the maze, her slippers crunching on gravel and her breath coming out in white rings in the frigid air. She couldn’t simply give up, but she honestly didn’t know how to go about starting a new life in a world where so few choices were available to women, and she was acutely aware that her time to create a new plan was short indeed. Covent Garden, Blythe, and a position as a bookkeeper had seemed too good to be true because ithad beentoo good to be true.
She ran through the maze, passing another row of rosebushes and coming too close to the bushes. A branch of thorns caught the sleeve of her gown and ripped straight through the material, cutting her arm as it did so. In her effort to unhook her sleeve, she got the edge of her skirt stuck in one of the thornbushes, as well, and inadvertently ripped her skirt in an attempt to free herself.
Finally, unhooked, she ran toward the center of the maze once more, slippers smacking the tiny stones of the path in apat, pat, patpattern, and the pins meant to keep her hair in place abandoned their duty. Locks of hair slipped their confines to dangle in front of her eyes and curl around her neck. By the time she reached the inner maze where the fountain was, she was panting, her hair was mostly down—tumbled, no doubt, in wild disarray about her shoulders—and her gown was not only ripped but dirty.
She stared down at herself in dismay for one moment, and then she threw her head back, tilted her face to the starry sky and started to laugh. This night fit who she was perfectly. The outsider. The oddity. Loud, boisterous Freddy, who had forever embarrassed her mother, father, sisters, and anyone close to her with her blunt words, loud laugh, and even louder voice. The sister who chattered constantly and forever ignored the manners she’d been taught. The sister who talked politics and principles to men who only wanted to know she could plan an appropriate dinner party.
In Covent Garden she was sure she could be as loud as she wanted and no one would care. And she could kick off her shoes. Freddy blinked, righted herself, and looked down at her slippered feet before actually kicking off her shoes. They flew into the bushes, and she laughed.
She’d gone mad! It was glorious! She wished she’d done this ages ago instead of trying to be someone she was not. She wanted to go even more mad! Why not? No one was out here.
The moonlight glinted off the fountain, and an outrageous, wonderful idea came to her. She wanted to stick her feet in that fountain. She’d wanted to do such a thing for as long as she could remember, but she had never dared. She bent over, pulled up one edge of silk and underskirts, and knotted it so that the gown was hiked to her thigh. She repeated the process on the other side, peeled off her stockings, and then she skipped over to the fountain, stepped over the edge, and stood in the shallow water.
It was so cold it stole her breath and numbed her feet almost instantly. It was the best feeling in the entire world because she’d chosen the act that had led to it. She inhaled a long, deep breath, filling her lungs to near bursting, then let it out in a slow release, watching the white stream of air that came from her lungs. She didn’t want to go back in, but her absence would be noted eventually, and it was freezing out here. She turned back toward the house and stilled, gooseflesh racing across her body.
Lord Brooke stood at the fountain, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk twisting his lips. “You’ve made ruining you quite easy.”
Chapter Seven
It took all the concentration Gabe possessed to push the image of Frederica in her alluring, revealing peacock-blue gown telling him she wanted him to relieve her of her innocence out of his head. Christ, if only it would be that simple. He mentally willed himself to concentrate on the task at hand, and he managed to relay to Carrington what Frederica had been up to and the danger she might currently be in from Brooke.
