Page 31 of Venus in Disguise

Narcissa stilled, aware of a fresh note of respect in Maud’s voice. She waited as Maud fished out a handkerchief and dried her eyes.

“I do not deserve the kindness he showed me,” she admitted. “The generosity, but he has saved me, Narcissa. He has given me a home of my own, a place that no one can ever take from me, and you cannot know, cannot imagine what that feels like after a lifetime of uncertainty.”

Narcissa gaped at her as Maud came closer and took her hands, squeezing them hard.

“My dear, listen to me,” she said, her voice serious and full of concern. “You have nothing to fear from me. I shall never betray you ever again. Indeed, if you can bear to forgive me, I should be the friend to you I ought to have been from the start, but I beg you will heed me this once.”

“Go on,” Narcissa replied hoarsely, still reeling from the revelation that Mr Anson had done such a thing for Maud.

“Mr Anson is a gentleman,” Maud acknowledged gravely. “In the truest sense of the word. He is a good man, an honourable one, but he can still bring you nothing but trouble, my dear. I cannot advise you strongly enough to stay away from him. Your father is not a kind man, nor, if you will forgive an old woman’s opinion, a good one. Disaster beckons if you allow Mr Anson to court you.”

Narcissa let out a huff of bitter laughter at those words. “Have no fear, Maud. Mr Anson has no thoughts of courting me. Indeed, you have only echoed his last words to me. I shall not see him again, for he has no desire to see me.”

Maud’s expression pinched with compassion as she heard the undisguised pain behind the words.

“I am sorry, my lady,” Maud said, and as Narcissa looked into her eyes, she saw the truth of those words and nodded.

“Then that makes two of us,” Narcissa said, sounding defeated as they trudged listlessly about the sodden garden and dark clouds rolled in on the horizon.

25th February 1850, Lady Kerseymere’s ball, Mayfair, London.

Ash did not regret the end of the month of February. It had been grim on all fronts, the weather vile and his mood even worse. A short-lived and disastrous affair with Mrs Travers had ended acrimoniously, not that he entirely blamed her. He had been neither kind nor attentive, and all his much-vaunted charm had been absent. Everything had gone wrong during the weeks in which he had said goodbye to Narcissa, and even Vivien had told him to go to the devil after trying her best to discover what was wrong with him.

He told himself he didn’t know what was wrong, what was making him act like a petulant child whose favourite toy had been taken from him, but that was a lie.

Narcissa had invaded his soul, his every thought. He even thought he could smell the scent of her lingering in rooms he entered, as if she were haunting him. It was a kind of madness, and yet he could not break free. He couldn’t sleep, for heated dreams plagued him, the feel of her skin against his so real that he woke sweating and hard with an unfulfilled desire for a woman he could not have. He was losing his mind at a rate that was as startling as it was terrifying, and he did not know what to do about it.

Yet here he was again, and this time at an event he knew Narcissa was attending. He had tried his utmost to get out of it, but his brother-in-law was away mending some minor disaster his mother had instigated, and Vivien had told him he had better escort her himself to make up for his horrid temper. He had agreed, reluctantly, but only on the condition she find someone else to escort her home again, for he was not staying long.

For now, he lounged indolently in a dark corner of the ballroom, trying his best to remain unobtrusive, for he was in no mood for polite chitchat. People stood around the edges of the ballroom, chatting or watching the dancing. Numbers were a little depleted this evening as the weather had been so vile of late it had kept some guests away. Through the gaps in the milling crowd, he saw glimpses of the dancers as they whirled past, and his heart gave an unaccustomed leap in his chest as a familiar head of shining fair hair caught his eye. She wore a gown of delicate silver-grey tonight, so pale it was almost white.

Ash told himself not to torture himself, not to look, but his feet moved of their own volition, taking him closer to the dancers. She was dancing with Lord Elsmere, who was gazing down at her cleavage with ill-concealed desire in his eyes, though Ash suspected it was her dowry as much as her person that excited the bastard.

You’ve no chance, you poor fool, Ash thought sourly, even as a fierce surge of jealousy rose inside him. Elsmere might be feckless and irresponsible, and a terrible prospect as a husband, yet if he’d had money the duke would have looked upon him with far more favour than he did Ash. It didn’t matter. It was hardly the first time he’d come up against such bigotry. Yet it was the first time it had kept him from a woman he suspected might have been one he could have loved, might have been the one for whom he would have reformed himself.

With something very much like sorrow filling his chest, Ash watched Narcissa circle the floor in another man’s arms. Turn away and leave, he told himself, but he could not, his gaze fixed on her as though compelled by some magnetic force. Finally, the dance ended, and he watched as Elsmere led her from the floor. Despite knowing better, he followed at a discreet distance, watching as Justin Ogilvy appeared at her elbow and bowed, offering her his arm.

Enough, he thought savagely. There was nothing to be gained by torturing himself and gazing after her like some lovesick boy. He was no boy, but a man grown, and there were plenty more fish in the sea. If Narcissa had truly wanted him, she would have fought for him, would have refused to let him go that day, as Viven had fought for the man she loved, pursuing him unashamedly.

Despite the things Narcissa had told him, her feelings could not run deep. He’d done the right thing in ending the affair before it truly began, and he’d do well to remember that.

25th February 1850, Lady Kerseymere’s ball, Mayfair, London.

Following her dance with Mr Ogilvy, Narcissa followed the duke from the ballroom, her heart thudding so hard she thought she might be sick. She had not expected him to attend the ball tonight and his sudden arrival seemed strange. She had been told only that he needed to speak to her at once.

Terrified at what it was her father had to say to her, she did as he had instructed as best she could, walking with her chin up, giving no outward sign that there was anything amiss. It might be nothing terrible, she reminded herself. Her father was always terse and irritable, even when he wasn’t furious with her, so there was no reason to suppose she was in trouble… except that some sixth sense had her stomach churning. Mrs Chandler had been in an odd mood this evening, more brittle than usual with both Maud and Narcissa.

Too late, Narcissa realised Mrs Chandler knew something and, whatever it was, she had told the duke.

The duke led her to a small, brightly lit parlour where she was dismayed to discover Mrs Chandler and Maud waiting for her. Her gaze immediately flew to Maud, who gave a small but decisive shake of her head. The hard knot of anxiety balled in Narcissa’s stomach released a little, yet the smug, rather catlike satisfaction in Mrs Chandler’s eyes boded ill. Narcissa had always held the rather uneasy suspicion that her cousin was jealous of her and would be more than pleased to see her marry Lord Wishen. For, whilst it might make her a countess, it would also make her his wife. As Mrs Chandler’s late husband had also been far older than her, and it had not been a happy marriage, her cousin must know what kind of life that would let Narcissa in for.

The duke closed the door. “Mrs Chandler, I received your letter but an hour ago and came at once. I shall not make the error of failing to act as I did with Fidelia.” He turned to Narcissa, regarding her with disfavour. “I had hoped that you would not let me down as disgracefully as your sister did, but I see I was mistaken.”

“Y-Your grace?” Narcissa said, her voice trembling as her worst fears were realised.

Whatever it was he had discovered, it was bad.

“I trusted you to behave as a lady, to conduct yourself in a manner befitting your station and the dignity of the name to which you belong, but I see now that I was mistaken. There is a flaw in the bloodline that shows itself in the female members of this family. You are all driven to wickedness and licentiousness, no matter what is expected of you, what you owe to me in deference to every opportunity I have granted you. I have given you everything you could ever have desired, and this is how I am repaid, with lies and deceit and behaviour of the kind that only makes me feel shame to have sired such an unnatural child.”