Page 12 of Scars of a Passionate Revenge
She could scarcely stop thinking about it. Now that she could see him in the bright lights of the ballroom, she was sure that she knew him, but she could not place it, could not remember where she had seen him before.
In a moment of confusion, she lost her place in the dance, and felt the mortifying sensation of her foot landing upon his. She looked up at him, her face crumpled in embarrassment.
“Sir, I beg your pardon!” she squeaked, barely able to get the words out, so strong was her embarrassment. “I lost my concentration for a moment. Please tell me that I have not hurt your foot?”
He grinned broadly at her, then looked down and flexed his foot. “No bones broken, Miss Dunberry. It happens to the best of us. Shall we continue?” He smiled again, his mouth wide and his handsome face opening up completely in the movement.
It was at that moment that a gasp left Alice’s mouth. Benedict! Could it really be the same Benedict? She stared at him as they continued to dance; she scarcely knew how she managed to hold herself up on her feet, the shock was so great, but his strong arms supporting her helped her to keep her composure.
Her mind, though, was racing, even if on the outside she looked completely normal. Could it be Benedict, whom she had spent that whole summer with, playing together as children? He clearly did not recognize her at all, but the more she looked at him, the more convinced she became that it was true.
Still she could not quite believe it though. As they reached the end of the dance and stood waiting for their turn again, she glanced down at Benedict’s wrist. Could it be that this man had the same birthmark on his left wrist that her childhood friend had, the mark she had always thought was shaped like a pear?
Yes, there it was, just visible at the point where his cuff reached his wrist! She took a breath and was about to speak, to tell him that they knew each other, so that they could share stories of that shared summer childhood together. It all made sense now that she had found him so familiar and felt so comfortable in his company. But as her memories pushed themselves forward to the front of her mind, she held back.
The fire. There had been such a terrible fire, towards the end of the summer, and she had never really understood how it had happened.
But Benedict’s father, the estate manager, had disappeared shortly afterwards, and Benedict had disappeared too. And everyone said that he had stolen some horses and been dismissed from his position, with a threat of the Sheriff on his tail. Of course he had run away—who wouldn’t, in that situation?
But Alice knew that a ballroom was not the place to bring up such memories. And clearly Benedict did not remember her at all, or surely he would have said something? She did not want to embarrass him, anyway, by talking about what had happened to his father. She decided to stay quiet, to enjoy his company and try not to think of the past.
But as the dance continued and she struggled not to stare at his face as they whirled around the floor, she could not help but marvel at him being there at all.
The son of an estate manager, now a fine gentleman at a ball, the focus of everyone’s attention due to his obvious wealth and status in society. How had he achieved it? She wished she could ask him; she was sure that the story would be an amazing one. But she knew that now was not the time, and in fact, she might never be able to ask him.
She felt a strange sense of desolate confusion as the dance ended. If he never recognized her, then she would never find out the truth about how he had come to where he was now.
***
As the final strains of the music to which they had been dancing died out, and the musicians took a well-earned break, Benedict turned to Alice and smiled.
“I must return you to your companions,” he said softly. He found that he was feeling rather unexpectedly wistful that their time together had come to an end. He knew that he could not ask her to dance for a second time in one evening without drawing far too much attention to them both.
He had not quite yet finished hatching his plan, so he was not ready for this. But he wished, somehow, that they could spend more time together, and even regain the easy connection that they had enjoyed in the garden earlier that evening.
But he knew that that was not possible. Not tonight, anyway. She may well be the daughter of his arch enemy, but he felt that she was most likely blameless in what had befallen his father after the fire. The daughter of the household would have had no power to influence such decisions. Most likely she knew nothing about it.
They made their way, arm-in-arm, across the ballroom, back to where Lady Danneville was standing on the edge of the dance floor. Lady Clara had already returned, and Benedict smiled to himself when he saw that Cecil was still by her side and they were chatting contentedly together.
Lady Danneville. As he approached her, he tried to search his mind for memories of what she had been like during his childhood. She was the wife of the baron, and the baron had been his father’s employer, so surely he must have encountered her, at least a few times?
But try as he might, Benedict could not remember any details. He cursed himself inwardly, yet again, for the failings of his memory. After the fire, and the injuries he had sustained, he found that there were whole chunks of his childhood that he could not remember, and the character and behavior of Lady Danneville formed part of this blank period of his life.
But he had a sense, just from looking at her, that she was not a kind woman. He had noticed, of course, her rather embarrassing behavior when he had asked Miss Dunberry to dance. And now, as they approached her, she seemed to be glowering at them.
Her face changed, all of a sudden, as they came closer. It was baffling, Benedict thought, how quickly her expression altered. Now, she was all smiles.
“Well, then, you two are returned from your dance as well. Pray, Alice, tell me, did you enjoy yourself? I was relieved to see that you did not embarrass yourself too much, especially considering how infrequently you dance with gentlemen.”
Benedict winced on Alice’s behalf, then cleared his throat. “Miss Dunberry was the perfect companion,” he said firmly. “And it pains me greatly that we will not be able to dance together again this evening, as I am afraid I must shortly take my leave and depart from the ball, but I hope that we shall see each other again soon.” He dropped a low bow in front of Alice and looked into her blue eyes as he rose. “Miss Dunberry, it has been a pleasure to meet you.”
He felt a surge of pleasure at the sight of the blush that was creeping up her cheeks, before forcing himself to turn away. He had seen Cecil looking at him rather quizzically, and he suspected that his friend would choose to remain at the ball a little longer, rather than following after him. And so be it, he thought.
Let the man enjoy himself. But Benedict knew that he could not stay any longer. He did not trust himself not to betray himself and ruin his chance of achieving his revenge on the baron. He had to leave now.
He could not resist looking back, though, and seeing what appeared to be Lady Danneville berating Alice. He could tell that the older woman was not speaking kindly, and Alice was staring at the floor and looking rather unhappy.
Something in him rose up and he felt a sudden desire to rush over, grab her hand and whisk her away from her troubles.
