Henry took the stairs to his bedchamber two at a time, leaping up them as if Caro herself would be waiting in his bed. Once he was alone, he cracked open the seal with a hand that felt cold. He was disappointed when he saw how short the note was.
Dear Henry,
Thank you for your reply to me. I know it must have cost you a great deal of effort, and I value it accordingly.
I have been thinking over my last letter, wondering if I did right to persuade you to stay in Town when you might have desired to leave. But I cannot regret doing so, for I’ve gotten my way, and that means I shall see more of you.
I have learned that your sister is hosting a ball for you in two weeks’ time. I should be honored if we could dance together. Once again, you see, I am trying to persuade you, but I hope not against your wishes. We shall find out, once we are holding each other close.
Your friend
Well. It was short, but it was everything it needed to be. He stretched out on the floor for a while after that letter arrived, grounding himself on the Brussels carpet of his bedchamber.
The last time he’d been in Brussels itself, he’d been anything but grounded. He had forgotten the troubles of war for an evening by flirting his way through a ball. The night before Quatre Bras, as it turned out. Hours of dancing turned into hours of marching turned into hours of pain.
But not every ball led to battle. Not every dance led to destruction. Sometimes they were simply meant for pleasure.
He leaned his head back against the side of his bed, remembering his younger self. The scandalous whirl of a Continental waltz, the winding pattern of a London country-dance. The tight thrum of wanting through his body and blood. He had lost the simple joy of it over time, but soon he could have it all again. He need only wait for the ball and for the chance to clasp a woman in his arms.
Arm. One arm.
But even remembering that the number of his working upper limbs had been decreased from plural to singular did not lessen his resolve. He would do everything to make this ball—and himself—a success. Even if he could hardly dance anymore, he would find the joys left to him. Caro would help him do it.
I would be honored, he wrote back, his printing still clumsy and slow. You may have any dance you desire.
Maybe he could have something he desired too. He had the hope of it, and he would promise anything just for the pleasure of having hope again.
Seven
“This is snug. Quaint. And I do not mean that as an insult, Hal, though those words usually mean social ruin.”
Henry accepted this magnanimous praise from Emily, who perched at the edge of a delicate chair of gilded beech. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap as she surveyed her small domain.
Small their evening gathering was, at Henry’s request. Only Bart, Caro, and Frances had joined the family party at Tallant House. Dinner now over, the six sat in the gilt-papered, lamp-lit drawing room. A low coal fire winked, banishing clamminess from the long reach of the room. A space for cards, a space for books, a space for music, a space for just sitting and wishing one had a cheroot to smoke.
Henry and Emily sat in the latter space, while the other four battled through a rubber of whist. “Would you care for a cheroot, Emily?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You’d regret it if I said yes. Jem would have my head for it, and then he’d be hanged for beheading me. And then you would have to assume the care of John and Stephen. They can be absolute hellions, and I do mean that as an insult. Though also as a statement of fact.”
“Just a suggestion,” Henry said lightly.
Emily paused. “This plan of yours. Dinner at home. Hal… it was a good idea.” Her brows puckered, an expression of doubt she wore with enviable rarity. “Perhaps I should have arranged more small events like this one, instead of the grand ball in the Argyll Rooms next week.”
Such an admission was akin to Bonaparte saying that perhaps he should have stayed on Elba and not caused so much trouble on the Continent.
“It’s all right, Emily,” Henry said, hiding his astonishment. “Thank you for arranging the dinner tonight.”
Her aplomb reappeared in an instant. “It’s all part of the plot,” she said with a dismissive flick of fingers.
“The throwing-me-a-ball plot?”
“No.” She peeked over the high back of her chair, then ducked down and whispered, “The finding-a-wife plot.”
“Ah. Yes. That.” Discomfiture knotted Henry’s stomach. After his first introduction to Caro, he had wanted to take on the rest of his courtship without interference.
At least, without any interference besides what he sought out on his own.
It was damned difficult to keep up a wall of confidence when no one had faith he could rebuild his life. Maybe not even himself. Why else would he have asked Frances to help him win Caro, if not doubt that he could triumph alone?
He peered around the back of his own chair. Frances was laughing and sliding coins across the card table to her partner, Bart. Caro gave an exaggerated sigh and tossed her cards down. “Jem,” Henry heard her say, “we’re going to be roasted and toasted, you and I.”
Chagrin, confusion, unease—whatever one called it, it twisted through Henry’s chest at the sight of Frances’s smile. Already, he had wrapped her tightly into his fledgling courtship of Caro. He couldn’t write a letter to Caro without recalling Frances helping him shape letters; he couldn’t give her flowers without thinking of Frances’s advice. He couldn’t hear Caro’s voice or see her face without his eyes seeking Frances, his ears sifting sounds for the careful speech and wicked laugh of his own ally.
And yet, with all the help Frances had given him, he had given her very little in return. It was hardly flattering to ask the help of an unmarried woman in winning the hand of another. It implied that she wasn’t worthy of attention herself… didn’t it?
He didn’t mean to do that. It certainly wasn’t true. She looked vivid in the low glow of fire and lamp, her strong features all shadow and light. Deep eyes and a mouth made for secrets. Chiaroscuro, that stark Italian technique, would be the perfect way to paint her.
If he could paint.
Which he couldn’t.
Which was why he needed Caro.
There was no denying the countess was as lovely as Botticelli’s Venus. If he could persuade her to look his way, it would be no hardship to look back at her.
That was the odd thing, though—she hadn’t looked his way much this evening. Certainly not as much as one would expect from the partner in a secret correspondence.
“Excuse me, Hal.” Emily had perked up. “They finished their rubber of whist. I shall arrange things to further our plot.” She called, “Jemmy, do deal me a hand. But I shall scream if I have to partner you.”
She glided over to the card table, while Henry stared at the grate. The coals were glowing, not much more than ash now, occasionally split by faint fire. He could see the slanting flickers through the milky glass of the fireplace screen. It was walnut framed, painted with a snowy marble temple flanked by two sturdy oaks, their wavy branches intertwining.
It had been Henry’s wedding present to Jem and Emily a decade before. He’d thought himself very clever, representing the story of Baucis and Philemon: the couple who grew old together, kindhearted, and were transformed into trees after their deaths so they could live on side by side.