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  Cynthia tried not to sound as annoyed as she felt. “Mama, that is unfair. Pray remember that he was just completing an arduous journey. How could I ask him to walk?”

  But here they reached the drawing room and their privacy was, perforce, at an end. Cynthia was glad of it. She entered the lighted area with relief, joining Hannah on the settee. It was a refreshment to the spirit, she thought, just to be with Hannah. Hannah was so undemanding.

  Her friend gave her a shy, admiring smile. “How beautiful you look,” she blurted. Hannah’s complete lack of envy was one of her most endearing qualities—and, Cynthia often suspected, the only thing that made their friendship possible. “Did you have that gown made up in London?”

  “No. It is Irish.” Cynthia smoothed the gleaming folds of taffeta across her lap. “I would not admit that to another living soul,” she said teasingly.

  Hannah giggled. “Your secret is safe with me. Such a lovely color! I wish I could wear that shade.”

  Hannah was dressed very correctly for a girl of nineteen, in a modest, but elegant, Indian muslin. It was true that the white of her gown was a better choice for her than soft pink would have been. The delicate tint would have made Hannah’s already-pink complexion appear red as a beet.

  “Your own costume is quite becoming,” said Cynthia loyally.

  Hannah pulled a face. “Thank you. I look plump as a pigeon in it, of course. But that can’t be helped.”

  Cynthia was hard-pressed to think of an answer to this. Hannah was short and plump; there was no denying it. Fortunately, Lady Ballymere interrupted them before she needed to reply. Lady Ballymere drifted over to the two friends and perched on a nearby chair, smiling archly.

  “Lady Hannah, I am agog to know your opinion of Mr. Whittaker. You have known him for some time, have you not? A most handsome young man. Or so I think.”

  Cynthia felt her hackles rise again, but Hannah seemed to see nothing suspicious in Lady Ballymere’s overture. “Mr. Whittaker is very handsome,” she agreed innocently. “He and Lady Malcolm are often mistaken for twins. And I think my Aunt Natalie a very pretty person.”

  “He seems agreeable as well.”

  “Oh, he is more than that.” Hannah suddenly sat up, animated. “He is the kindest man imaginable. You know, I have always been stupidly afraid of horses—always!—and last year, he taught me to ride. Just a little, but no one had been able to teach me anything before. He was so patient, and never once laughed at me. I was excessively grateful.”

  “Oho! Handsome and kind. He sounds the perfect match for some lucky young lady.” Lady Ballymere shot an amused glance at Cynthia, inviting her to share the joke. “I wonder why he singled you out, Hannah dear? What reason could there possibly be?”

  Hannah looked startled. “I don’t believe he singled me out, precisely.”

  Lady Ballymere gave an indulgent laugh. “Was he teaching other young ladies to ride? No?” She tilted her chin as if considering, then laughed again, shaking her head. “Well, I daresay you would think my view of the matter quite impertinent, so I shall not voice it.”

  She rose and drifted away to join Lady Malcolm and the duchess by the fire, so she did not see the bright blush that suffused Hannah’s face.

  “I… I never thought of that,” muttered Hannah, stiff with distress. “I wouldn’t think of that.”

  “You are too modest,” said Cynthia quietly. Pain moved in her heart. Was it jealousy? She refused to examine it. She would think about it later. For now, she kept her attention firmly focused on Hannah’s embarrassed face. It bothered her that Hannah evidently thought so little of her own charms. “Is it such a strange thought?” she asked her gently. “That a gentleman might admire you?”

  Hannah gave a tiny gasp. Her hands fisted in her lap, clutching her muslin skirts. “Admire me? Derek Whittaker?” She shook her head with mute vehemence. “It wasn’t like that. I cannot explain, but it wasn’t like that.”

  Cynthia was watching her friend closely. “The notion seems unwelcome to you.”

  “Of course it is!”

  “Why?”

  Hannah seemed, for a moment, to be at a loss for words. Then she found her tongue. “Because I wouldn’t know what to do,” she exclaimed, then gave a shaky laugh. “Only think how awkward it would be! I’ve never been admired, you know. Not in that way. And to have a gentleman like Mr. Whittaker admire me—a man who is such a favorite of the ladies, so sought-after...” She blushed again, biting her lip. “Oh, it’s preposterous! I would never catch the eye of a man like that. You should see the way women look at him! And, besides... he is family, you know. He is Aunt Natalie’s brother. There is something... I don’t know... wrong about it. Or so it seems to me.”

  It was silly, Cynthia scolded herself, to feel relieved. Derek’s interest in other women was none of her business. Hannah’s interest in Derek, had it existed, would also have been none of her business. And yet she was conscious of feeling, rightly or wrongly, that a great weight had been lifted from her mind. She was still wrestling with her wayward emotions when Hannah slipped a hand into hers.

  “And besides,” Hannah whispered shyly, “I am in love with someone else.”

  This was news.

  Cynthia stared at her, amazed. “You are? With whom?”

  “Someone I have loved for simply ages.”

  “You never said a word!”

  “You didn’t know him.”

  “Do I know him now?”

  Hannah nodded, her eyes sparkling. She suddenly looked much prettier. “Can’t you guess?”

  Cynthia couldn’t. Her mind went completely blank. Hannah, in love! And not with Derek Whittaker. The idea that any girl who was acquainted with Mr. Whittaker could somehow fall in love with someone else struck her as inconceivable. She blinked at her friend in baffled astonishment.

  Hannah’s face was rosy with blushes. She leaned in to Cynthia and breathed, “It’s John Ellsworth, of course.”

  Of course? Cynthia’s first reaction was incredulity. It seemed impossible that Hannah—or, indeed, anyone—could harbor a secret longing for the supremely uninteresting John Ellsworth. But Hannah had burst into a whispered explanation, as if spilling her secret had unleashed a torrent of confidences she had been longing to share.

  “I’ve known him all my life. He is only two years older than I, so we often played together as children, and I promise you he has always been so good—so decent—just everything a man should be.” Hannah was aglow with tender emotion. “I had the measles when I was eight and he used to come and read to me. Can you imagine? He never showed the least fear of catching the contagion from me. I was lonely and miserable, and frightfully ill, and he brought in his toy ship and showed it to me, and promised we would sail it on the fish pond when I was well. He sat with me for hours and hours, making things with his hands—he’s very good at making things—and talking to me, even when I was too ill to answer properly. I never shall forget it.”

  “And... and you have loved him since you were eight?”

  Hannah nodded, laughing. “I believe I have. Yes.”

  This was terrible. Hannah in love with Mr. Ellsworth! Cynthia found she had to look away to hide her growing consternation. What could she say, to convince Hannah to look elsewhere?

  “Perhaps,” she suggested at last, Ayou simply find it easier to talk to Mr. Ellsworth than to other gentlemen. Since you have known him all your life.”

  “Oh, certainly,” Hannah agreed. “I know I am shy, and that I ought to make an effort to overcome it, but I can’t seem to help it—especially with men. Most men are very off-putting, don’t you think? I never know what to say to them. But I’m completely at ease with John.”

  “Yes. But that is the point I meant to make.” Cynthia cleared her throat delicately. “In other words... perhaps if you knew other gentlemen as well as you know Mr. Ellsworth, you might find them agreeable, too.” Inspiration struck. “Only look at Mr. Whittaker, for example. When you gave him a
chance to be kind to you, he was.”

  “Oh, I’m sure many men are pleasant and kind. Perhaps most are.” Hannah looked thoughtful. “I don’t know why it is, but somehow—out of all the kind and pleasant men in the world—one’s heart seems to fix on a particular man, and want no other.”

  Cynthia’s spirits sank. She certainly could not argue with Hannah’s observation; she knew it was true. How many men had danced attendance on her, since she turned seventeen and was thrust into the ton? It was impossible to count them. And yet, out of all that horde, only one had touched her heart.

  One question remained. She studied Hannah’s face, trying to read every nuance in her friend’s expression. “Does Mr. Ellsworth return your regard?” she asked softly.

  Hannah’s face fell. “I don’t know,” she admitted, sighing. “He has never spoken.” She fidgeted with her skirt, trying to smooth the area she had twisted earlier. “We are very young,” she said hopefully. “Some girls do marry at nineteen, but John is only one-and-twenty. That’s an early age for a man to choose a wife.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Cynthia had to suppress a twinge of guilt. She and her mother had been trying to use Mr. Ellsworth’s youth and inexperience to their advantage. But the very qualities that would assist a beautiful girl to trap a man into a loveless match, would work against a plain girl who truly loved him.

  “And I’m very sure of his friendship,” Hannah added. “So, in that sense, I know I have his regard.”

  Cynthia hesitated. Oh, she had to spare her friend heartbreak if she could! But how to say it in a tactful way—? Meanwhile, Hannah had noticed her friend’s silence. She was looking puzzled, and slightly hurt.

  “What is it?” Hannah whispered.

  Cynthia shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just that... I have heard that men often overlook what is under their noses. I am wondering if... if it would be easier, actually, for you to win the affections of someone else. A man who was not already your friend.”

  Hannah seemed about to speak, but her attention suddenly shifted to a point over Cynthia’s shoulder. Cynthia turned, following the direction of Hannah’s eyes. The door was opening. The men had arrived.

  Cynthia felt her pulse begin to race. Be calm, she told herself sternly. The duke walked in first, deep in conversation with Lord Grafton and Sir Peter Ellsworth. Lord Malcolm followed, his eyes immediately seeking his wife. Cynthia felt a twinge of wistful envy at the smile they exchanged; it was so warm that one felt compelled to look away, as if intruding on something private. Malcolm headed directly for Natalie’s side. Behind him, out of the shadowy passage and into the light, came Derek and Mr. Ellsworth.

  She felt Hannah sit up straighter, and, out of the corner of her eye, caught her friend’s welcoming smile. Poor Hannah! Now that Cynthia knew her friend’s secret, Hannah’s feelings for Mr. Ellsworth were painfully obvious. Cynthia thought she would rather die than be so transparent.

  Still... there was something wonderful about Hannah’s wholeheartedness.

  What would it feel like, she wondered, to smile like that—with no thought of whether one’s smile would be returned? What would it feel like, to wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve? It took courage, Cynthia suddenly realized. She looked again at Hannah, new respect dawning in her. Hannah, for all her shyness, was brave in ways that Cynthia was not.

  It was a disturbing thought. Did she owe her legendary poise, the self-possession she prided herself on, to cowardice? She had to admit it was possible. That was definitely fear she felt as Derek walked through the door. In response to her fear, she assumed her customary posture of graceful impassivity—aware, for the first time, that it was a defensive gesture. It was fear that was setting her features, even now, into their habitual mask of serene reserve. Donning her Frost Fair disguise made her feel safe. Or, at least, safer.

  From behind her wall of self-control she watched Derek. Inwardly, she was a mass of quivering insecurities, confident of nothing. Outwardly, she displayed utter composure. She knew she had perfected the pose; no one would guess the turmoil she felt, just being in the same room with him. No one would guess, from her cool, faintly bored demeanor, that she would lie awake tonight burning with heartache.

  And, as fate would have it, Derek had entered with Mr. Ellsworth! Seeing them side by side, in stark contrast to each other, it was impossible to deceive herself. Hannah was right. One’s heart settled on a particular man, and wanted no other. Waves of despair battered Cynthia. What a colossal fool she had been, telling herself that all she required in a husband—after escaping Sir James Filey by the grace of God—was a kind heart.

  She had no reasonable hope of finding happiness wed to John Ellsworth, however kind he was. It had been a mistake to pretend, even to herself, that she might. And now, in addition to the misgivings she already felt about Mama’s ambitions, Cynthia must face wounding Hannah through her actions.

  All in all, it had been a dreadful day.

  Chapter 6

  It was blessedly cold in the passage. Cynthia halted on her way back to the drawing room and pressed her exhausted forehead against the cool wallpaper.

  Solitude. Thank heaven. What a wonderful thing it was to be alone, away from the flaring candles and the roomful of eyes.

  The eyes in the drawing room expected her return. She could not hide from them forever. She wished it were possible to escape to her bed chamber but, unfortunately, she had already slept for several hours this afternoon. If she excused herself early, claiming to be tired, her mother would be alarmed. And she could not face another inquisition. Not tonight.

  The chill silence enveloped her, soothing her. She closed her eyes and slumped against the wall, limply allowing it to hold her up. Soon it would be possible to go back. Soon. But not yet. She needed a minute’s time. Just a minute to herself. Then she could face them all again, and go on with the charade... pretending that she felt nothing, when in truth she was miserable.

  * * *

  It was colder than Greenland out here in the passage. Where the devil was she? She’d freeze to death in that wisp of a frock she was wearing.

  Not that he cared, of course.

  Right.

  Derek’s lip curled in bitter amusement at his own folly. He did care. It was ridiculously obvious. He didn’t know how to stop caring. He had tried anger, and anger had failed him. What next? Was he doomed to pine for this heartless jade forevermore?

  And there she was. He halted in his tracks, the cold air forgotten. He had come in search of Cynthia—the more fool he. Well, he had found her. Now what was he going to do about it?

  And, more to the point—what was wrong with her? She seemed to be half-swooning. Her slender form sagged against the wainscoting. Her face was pressed to the wall. The remnants of Derek’s hostility melted into nothingness at the sight of her distress.

  He stepped forward. He had to, though he cursed himself for it. He could no more turn away from her pain than he could stop breathing.

  “Cynthia?”

  She gave a startled gasp and spun to face him. She was still pressed against the wall. Now her hands moved back to clutch it, fingers splaying against the flat surface. It was an oddly vulnerable, self-protecting gesture, as if she sought reassurance that there was something solid at her back.

  He understood the impulse. For him, too, the world seemed a suddenly flimsy place. A world where three years’ worth of anger could crumble in an instant was a world where anything might happen. The furniture might dissolve. The floor might fall away. Solid walls might evaporate. The line between reality and fantasy had blurred, and Derek was no longer sure he was awake.

  He must be dreaming; her eyes were too blue. Nobody’s eyes were that blue. Only Cynthia, Cynthia in his dreams, had eyes like that. How could she be real? How could she be here, in this house, in this passage between the rooms, in this private place with him, alone?

  But she was here. She was real. No dream could be this vivid. He could see her eyes dilatin
g, see the tiny flutter of her pulse beating in her throat. He could sense the rush of her breath. And the tremble of her lower lip, a tremble echoed at her neckline where the warm flesh beat high against the silk, betrayed the emotions she struggled to hide from him.

  Oh, Cynthia. A rush of unexpected tenderness swamped him. You cannot hide from me.

  * * *

  She mustn’t cry. Why did she feel like crying? He had startled her. The shock of being near him again, all unprepared, must be too much for her. He had caught her off-guard, that was all.

  No. That was not all. Had she forgotten? There was something about this man that crumbled her defenses. Oh, how could she have forgotten that?

  Helpless, she stared at him and felt her knees go weak. All her resolve, the will to be strong, seemed to drain out of her. She might hide her secret self from all the world, but not from this man. From this man, she could hide nothing.

  A sense of hopelessness washed through her. Was it possible to feel despair and exhilaration at the same time? Evidently it was. She had tried so hard to erase him from her heart! Until today, she actually believed she had succeeded. It seemed incredible to her now, that she had ever convinced herself of such a lie. And yet, had they never met again, she might have gone on believing it.

  Was she glad or sorry to have the truth revealed? To know, indisputably, that she had been touched by something that people searched their entire lives to find? She was glad. And, of course, she was sorry. She had never felt so glad about anything. She had never felt sorrier. Gladness and sorrow, exhilaration and misery, spilled through her in a rush of cold and hot and utter confusion.

  She had told herself, over and over, that her so-called feelings for Derek had been wholly imaginary. She had come to believe that the man she longed for did not exist, that she had created him out of dreams and yearning, as young girls will, and that the man she remembered was largely a product of her own imagination. But here he was, as solid and inescapable as reality itself. She could no longer delude herself into thinking she had exaggerated that long-ago encounter. Here stood the man she remembered, in the flesh, to prove that whatever she had felt when she met him had been every bit as earth-shattering as it had seemed.