Page 60 of Nothing But a Rakehell
He was going to get back to himself.
Chapter 13
The frogs and the night birds provided the music for her, although Glory did hum a few bars here and there as she practiced Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot. She’d come out here to the long field by the river to practice her dancing, before tomorrow morning’s lesson. She’d needed air, and a bit of freedom and the certainty that she wouldn’t be interrupted.
The gentlemen in the house were rowdy tonight. They’d gathered in the billiards room—not far enough away to keep her from hearing shouts of laughter, smelling occasional wafts of cigar smoke, or worrying she’d be caught out in the ballroom.
She was practicing, because, as much as she hated to admit it, both Hope and Mr. Thorpe had been right. She was getting stronger with repetition. Not that she was exactly graceful, but she’d begun to get the particulars of the rhythm, spins and turns of this particular dance. What she needed now was stamina—she still could not make it all the way through the full dance without pain and fatigue in her weak leg.
She’d chosen the far end of the field, past the wide curve in the river, where a line of shrubs topped the bank. If she danced in front of them, she would not be so visible from the road, should someone venture past. Not that they would, so late. She felt quite safely alone, save for Poppy’s comforting presence, so she hummed and carried on for as long as she could, before she sat on the bank for a rest and tried to breathe in the peace of the scene.
It was a lovely night, with a soft breeze and the murmur of the river and the stars shining so brightly overhead. She concentrated on them, instead of the place on the bank where she’d kissed Keswick. She stared hard and saw the stars had begun to fade a little across and downstream, as the moon started to rise over the trees. The dance of moonlight on the water more than made up for it.
Poppy nickered at her, then went back to cropping grass. With a sigh, Glory stood and went to begin again. Miss Munroe had been correct, too. She should arm herself with as many weapons as she could—she would need them all when she went to London next year.
She had to face facts. She was going to have to go and partake of the Season, as Hope wished. Any secret fantasy about Lord Keswick saving her from such a fate had to be rooted out, ripped from where it had been hiding, tucked away, down in her inner recesses.
He was a good man. She felt it—a truth that lived in her very bones. She knew he’d done something to help that street sweeper, just as he’d helped Tom, the stable lad, find a better life.
He was generous and kind—and he didn’t want anyone to know it. He made her laugh, made her feel comfortable and safe, made her feel alive with a soaring passion—but he didn’t want her to do anything about it.
She’d thought she had something to offer him in return for all of those grand feelings, but she had been wrong.
She’d thought he might need her in his life. She’d thought he’d needed a friend, a feminine point of view, a woman who could act as a confidante and sounding board.
She’d had doubts about whether he would allow her close, but now she suspected he didn’tneedher close. Clearly he didn’t lack for feminine companionship. Lady Tresham was mostly bored and overdramatic and Miss Vernon was more than a little forward, but put them together with Betsy the barmaid and herself—and even here in the country’s limited society, the last thing Keswick lacked was women in his life.
With resolution, she pushed on with her dance. She would master it. And perhaps another. She would let go of silly, girlish dreams and deal with the realities of her situation.
She stretched her arm out towards her imaginary partner. She made the turn and stepped forward, then back. Now to cross behind her neighbor in line, and to form a graceful arch just as Mr. Thorpe always urged . . . but in thinking too much about her arms and lines, she lost track of her feet. Her weak leg stumbled, then twisted in the wrong direction. Flailing wildly, she went down.
She lay curled in the grass for a moment, breathing deeply.
“Curse it all,” she said, rolling over onto her back. But no, that wasn’t nearly strong enough to voice her anger, dismay and frustration. Frowning, she searched for really good curse word.
“Damnation!” she said loudly.
It felt good.
“Hell and damnation!” she yelled at the sky while her feet pointed right toward the spot where she’d kissed Keswick.
A sudden rush of tears started to flow. They leaked from the corners of her eyes and ran back into her hairline.
“No!” Her own weakness infuriated her. “I willnotcry!”
Yards away, Poppy’s head came up. Her ears pricked toward the bridge. She snorted a warning.
Glory froze. What? What had alarmed her mare? No one would be out here now. But what else could it be? There used to be boars in the forest. But they were long gone, weren’t they? A dog?
Poppy snorted again and stamped a foot. Glory braced herself. She had to get to her feet. If a wild dog—
Something dark blotted out the sky above her, just as she started to sit up. A head. A man’s head, bent over from behind her.
“God in heaven, are you all right?” he asked, just before her forehead cracked into his.
* * *
“Scorch and burn it!”Keswick clutched his forehead and reeled back.
