Downtime (22 page)

I decided she didn’t look all that worn out. “Do me the honor of a dance, Miss Neilan?”

“Kathleen,” she said, and gave me her hand. Allowing me to lead, she guided me through something she called a mazurka. It left us breathless and ready for another sit. She escaped unhindered back to dinner, but I was brought down at the door by the ever-charming Mrs. Petrova. Bagged and hauled off for another dance, I wondered if burning my dance card would do any good. But all the women had one too, with my name emblazoned on it. There was no escape.

Several dances later, I was mentally calculating whether I had the strength left to sneak off and walk back to Bloomsbury. The room had gotten warmer as the evening progressed, even though at some point the servants had opened the doors leading to the terraces to let in the night air. I took the first opportunity I could find to slip outside, into the cool peace and quiet. It was a welcome relief, and I wondered that more people weren’t taking advantage of it. Victorians had too much energy for their own good.

Ducking past an arch overgrown with vines, I went down a few steps to another terrace with a good view of the other houses and the church in the distance. There I spotted a wicker bench under an arbor creaking with roses. The perfect hideout. But no sooner had I dropped onto the bench than I discovered I wasn’t alone. On the other side of the terrace, lost in the view, lingered the wayward groom. I thought I’d never seen anyone look so miserably resigned to the forces directing his life.

Emerging from the sea of cushions, I crept up behind him, sure he was bound to sense me at any instant. I kept my voice low. “Who are you hiding from?”

He drew a startled breath, then let it out with a laugh. “I’m not hiding,” he asserted without a whole lot of conviction.

“No?” As a defensive gaze turned to meet mine, I snorted, “Well, I sure as hell am.”

His lips twitched. “You are? And from whom?”

“Everyone.” I tossed the dance card on the ledge, hoping fervently a good stiff wind would take it off. “Who came up with this barbaric method of assigning dancing partners in advance? It bites.”

Ezra’s eyebrow lifted inquisitively. “Bites?”

“Yeah, bites. Sucks. Is no fun. And I can’t bloody dance,” I finished off in disgust as the strains of music began again in the ballroom.

“Of course you can.” His hand found its way into mine. “Commence with your right foot, slide forward and step, and one, two, three…” He raised our clasped hands above our heads as we stepped toward each other, meeting under the arch of our arms.

“Oh. Like the minuet.”

“Exactly so. A waltz minuet. Now, back, and one, two, three, bending your knees like this.” He bent his slightly as we stepped back, and I did the same. “We walk around each other.” We circled around and he let go of my hand. “Bow to the lady and take her hand again.” He took my left hand this time and we repeated our forward and back step. “Now bow, and then the waltz, sixteen measures.”

His arm came around my waist and he sprang into an energetic waltz, one I could now keep up with. Ezra looked impressed. “You’ve picked it up quite wonderfully.”

“I couldn’t have survived out there, otherwise,” I said, with a jerk of my head in the direction of the ballroom. “It was a hell of a challenge to not step on anyone’s dress.”

“I know they would forgive you for it.”

“Not a serious breach of etiquette, huh?”

“Well, it is. But every now and then, etiquette is breached. Rules are broken. It’s only human nature.”

“So you do allow each other to be human. That’s good to know.”

He smiled at me. “A heartless thing, you are.”

“Completely,” I agreed as we again met under our upraised arms. “But I think you’ve got enough to spare.”

I don’t know why I’d said it. It seemed to come out before I’d even thought. Ezra stopped dancing and, letting go of my hand, stared at me with familiar trepidation. “Too much, I think,” he said quietly.

“You don’t want to marry her.”

His features twisted with an expressive wealth of frustration and doubt. “I thought I did. I thought….”

He sank onto the bench and I sat beside him, wishing I had a way to make it easier for him. He’d be giving up a hell of a lot. But then, he had to consider what he would gain.

He was apparently weighing just that, because before I could so much as bat an eye, he turned and kissed me. I was too startled to do more than just begin to kiss him back when he broke from the contact and grabbed the arm of the bench, as if he hoped to stop his fall from one very high precipice. “Forgive me. I had to….”

“You had to?”

“I think I wanted to.” He closed his eyes and hunched over, knuckles white around the wicker arm. “Oh dear God.”

Damn, he was sexy when he was flustered. I leaned against him. “So do you?”

Opening his eyes, he peeked at me warily. “Do I what?”

“Want to?”

His eyes said it all. I kept the kiss gentle, a warm press of lips on lips. Any more than that would necessitate crawling into the bushes until the servants came to kick us out. Ezra didn’t resist; to the contrary, he was losing himself to it without a thought for the crowd waiting on the formal announcement of his engagement. His hand found my shoulder and, seeking a more intimate touch, my neck, fingers threading into my hair. He breathed my name against my mouth, astonished by the need overtaking him—I knew, because it was overtaking me. One kiss and I was ready to devour him. This was something that could only get more complicated by the time I left his world behind—but goddamn, he could kiss.

Getting a grip on his shoulders, I eased him back. “Take a deep breath.” I took one, myself. “Time to slow down. Remember where we are.”

“Morgan….” He stopped, but in his face was everything he couldn’t vocalize.

“Yeah, I know.” Between us, we couldn’t put enough words together to have a decent discussion about it. Not when what we most wanted to do didn’t require any conversation whatsoever. “You’re either going to have to get married or break up with her. And I think you’re giving me way too much influence. So maybe I should catch a cab home.”

“Don’t go. I’ve made a mess of things, but I will not let you suffer the consequences.” He briefly clasped my hand before he got to his feet. “I need to think.”

“Don’t think too much. In the end, you’ve got to trust your gut.” Not that trusting mine had done me much good lately, but it was a reminder I think he needed or he’d find himself a permanent, unhappy fixture in Charlotte’s vision of domestic tranquility before he knew what hit him. “I’m going to let you think. I’ll be inside, overdosing on cooties. If you need me, just yell. Or maybe come get me, if yelling is a breach of etiquette.”

He seemed too distracted to respond, but then he looked up at me. “Cooties?”

I grinned and brushed a hand over the untamed hair falling across his forehead. “Never mind.”

It was about thirty minutes later, when I hit the tea room to scrounge for cake, that I inadvertently learned Ezra had made his decision. It came in the form of Charlotte’s dad, red-faced and out of breath, whipping past his guests as if we weren’t there. Curious, I tracked him down the hall and across the ballroom. Brushing off greetings with a tight smile, he vanished into a hallway and I followed. As I crept past the stairs, I heard voices and froze.

“She’s suspected he might break it off and he proved her right.”

I peered around the corner to see Mr. Blanchard standing in a doorway with George and a young woman I guessed was Charlotte’s sister, or maybe an aunt. She looked dismayed and George looked ready to shish kebab Ezra.

“I told you, Father. Didn’t I? Sir William thinks he’s too good for this family.”

“No,” Mr. Blanchard said calmly. “This isn’t Sir William’s doing. Sara, will you go up?”

“Of course.” Sara turned in my direction and I ducked back out of sight, wondering who the hell Sir William was. As Sara marched past, I peeked around the corner again to see Blanchard Jr. arguing in a furious whisper. His father silenced him with a firm grip on his arm.

“I’m going back inside and you will come with me. We have guests to bid good night.”

“And when they ask? Father, what in the world will you say?”

“Nothing tonight.”

“If you don’t, there will be rumors.”

“Let me handle this, George. Leave Ezra alone.”

“How could he do this to her?”

“I don’t know.” Mr. Blanchard looked troubled. “Maybe it’s true, what they say. The man’s not in his right mind. Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise.”

“It’s humiliating,” George muttered, shaking off his dad’s arm. “I won’t go in.”

“Then I’ll go alone.” There was no condemnation in his tone, just weary resignation. I ducked under the stairs again until he’d gone past. Another peek showed me George had gone in the opposite direction. That guy was going to make it more difficult for everyone involved and I didn’t get the impression his father had the will to get him under control. I wondered if Charlotte was upstairs crying. Damn, what a mess. Ezra had never come to get me, to let me know what he meant to do. Maybe he thought I’d shoulder more of the blame than I deserved. I wasn’t sure just how much I did deserve, but it had to be a pretty substantial amount.

Even so, I couldn’t help thinking this would be the best thing for all of them in the end. I only worried that Ezra wouldn’t make it that far, once his family had cut him adrift. I went to hunt him down and finally ran into him outside the ballroom, looking for me. The grim turn of his mouth relaxed some at the sight of me.

“Morgan.” He took my arm. “I need to talk to you.”

We found a quiet place in a bathroom down the hall. Perched on the wide rim of a marble tub, beneath winged cherubs poised at either end, Ezra told me the sordid details, most of which I already knew.

“She didn’t take it too well.”

“Better than I expected, really.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead, then leaned his elbows on his knees with a heartfelt sigh. “Better than anyone else has. Mr. Blanchard was polite, but clearly disappointed. And George was kind enough to inform me that I would assuredly come to regret it.”

I snorted. “Yeah, he’s a sweetheart. Look, don’t beat yourself up. The only one who matters is Charlotte, and I think she’s going to find someone else before too long. Eventually she’s going to understand that you did the best thing for you both.”

“I hope so,” he said softly. “I feel quite the cad.”

“Ezra, that falls under the heading of beating yourself up, so stop it. You and Charlotte were pushed into this by other people’s screwy expectations. At least you figured out it was wrong before you got married and had kids. So think of it as a mistake rectified before it did any permanent damage. She’s hardly more than a kid, herself. She’s got plenty of time to meet the right guy. And so do you.”