CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Brock entered the Darlingiver ballroom as the strings of a country reel started. He and Harold had deposited their coats at the door long after the host and hostess had quit their receiving line; they had arrived too late for dinner. Now, pairs moved around the dance floor in the same manner he had seen at countless soirees since his return to polite society.
They had planned to visit White’s that evening for a round of cards, but had changed their plans when the invitation had arrived with a personal note from Lord Darlingiver, requesting their attendance.
“Are you sure you are unacquainted with the Duke?” Harold leaned close to ask over the swell of the music.
“Most positive. All I know about the man is that his mother is linked to Lord Liperton. Hence our acceptance of this fashionably late invitation.” Brock spotted the Unker twins on the fringes of the dance floor, each swaying to the music. “Why do we not adjourn to the card room?”
Harold followed behind Brock, his cane thumping the floor as he went. “Do you see him?”
“I have not a clue what he looks like, so no, I have not seen him.” The man had requested a reply to his invitation and they had complied; Lord Darlingiver would be expecting them. Why he had extended entrance to his home, Brock was not sure.
“I will obtain drinks for us and meet you in the card room.” Harold did not wait for Brock to warn him about the consequences of returning with sherry.
Brock moved further into the room, toward the smell of cigar smoke and congregating men. Knowing of the link between Lady Viola and the Darlingiver family had convinced him to accept the invitation. After the glimpse of her in the park two days before, he had not seen her again. He and Harold had attended a ball, a musicale, and the opera since then, but she had not been at any of the gatherings, his spirits dashed as each evening drew to an end.
Time was running out. Brock had neglected his estate in his quest for vengeance, and could do so no longer.
The crowd in the room moved to the music, even those not dancing. Extravagant hats and colorful dresses swirled, much the same as any other ball he had attended. Every evening proceeded the same way, although he hoped the outcome of tonight would be more favorable.
As he reached the double doors leading into the card room, a rush of men sought to exit. “What is going on?” he asked a passing gentleman he recognized from White’s.
“She is here.”
“She?”
“As if I need to tell you of all people who she is,” the man huffed, and hurried past Brock into the suddenly quiet ballroom.
Brock turned to survey the room behind him. Everywhere he looked, people faced the door through which he had entered only moments earlier. Skimming the hat-clad heads of women and the balding and sometimes wigged heads of men, his gaze alighted on a few figures congregated at the top of the stairs leading into the room.
Her back was to him as a footman removed her cloak. Brock was unsure what made the woman the center of attention—until she turned to face the crowd that stood in stunned silence.
Light from the candles far above glistened off her iridescent purple evening gown, cut low off her shoulders and barely concealing her breasts from view. The tightly gathered middle showed off her lean waist. Her chestnut brown hair had been swept up into a loose knot high on her head, unlike the severe knot she’d worn when working with her foals. No ridiculous hat hid its magnificence from view.
Brock dragged his eyes from her and realized he was not the only one affected by her presence. Every man and woman stood with their mouths open in awe. Dance pairs separated. Servants froze where they stood, the bubbles in their wine glasses slowly rising to the top.
And the small group did not seem to notice any of this.
A part of him wanted to scream, to protest the adoration the crowd turned on her. The other part of him only thirsted for more time to watch her, take in all her glory, before his extreme need for revenge overtook him.
Their hostess, Lady Darlingiver, and a younger man—their host, Brock presumed—met the group as they finished removing their cloaks. Curtsies and bows ensued, followed by hugs of acknowledgement.
Finally, the group turned to the waiting crowd. Lady Viola smiled.
Not the smile of a confident woman of the ton, or even the shy smile of a newly introduced debutante. This smile was one of outright terror. It pulled unnaturally across her face.
How did he know this? Because he had been privy to her smiles before. If he looked closely, he could see her hands shake when she lifted the skirts of her gown to descend the few steps into the ballroom.
And then, everything returned to normal. The music filled his ears again and the members of the ton broke into their ceaseless chatter once more. Had it ever actually stopped?
Brock gave his head a slight shake to clear the image of Lady Viola from his head.
As if on cue, the crowd separated and an empty path was created for him. Directly to her.
It seemed his moment had come, although he had not anticipated giving her the upbraiding of her life in an overly crowded ballroom. Possibly on a sparsely attended veranda, but here?
Unfortunately, he did not have any further time to ponder his options.
Her head lifted and their eyes met, her sapphire blue to his brown. What he saw reflected back was much the same as what he knew his own held: anger, cold and raw.
What in heavens could she be so mad about? Brock and his family had been the injured party, not her. While his father had suffered, she had retired to the country to take up a new hobby, although he knew she had not completely left her old ways behind. He had seen the love letter on her desk. Had she traveled to London in hopes of rekindling that romance?
Could he allow her to ruin the lives of another family? Every fiber of his being screamed no. He could not allow it. But how could he stop it? He had been unsuccessful thus far in locating D & C Fine Foals, and he feared he would also fail in this.
Lady Viola reached her hands down and lifted her many layers of skirts, her slippered feet carrying her across the now-vacant ballroom floor, in his direction.
Her purposefulness sparked something inside him and Brock began in her direction, his footfalls echoing in the again-silent room. Is this why he had been invited tonight? Had they been forced into this meeting? He did not care; all he cared about was putting this whip of a girl in her place. She’d destroyed many lives and it was his responsibility—no, his duty—to see that she also suffered.
He glanced over her shoulder as their paths drew closer. Miss Ruby followed hesitantly behind her, and her father, Lord Liperton, stood stunned and useless.
Their fate had been decided. Brock prepared himself for battle as he had all those years serving the King, his shoulders back, his chin tilted ever so slightly upward, his steps long and sure.
Too late, he saw his own determination mirrored in her stride. He couldn't help but wonder if this would be a fight to the death. At least one of them would leave this ball a victor, unlike the duel that took the lives of both his brothers—and ultimately his father, as well.
Her progress across the expanse of the room seemed to last days, possibly years.
He halted. Let her come to him. He did not seek to be known as the gentleman who accosted a lady of the ton in the middle of a ballroom.
Placing his hands on his hips and widening his stance, Brock looked around. Just as he had suspected, all eyes were on the collision about to take place—including the young man at Lady Darlingiver’s side. A smile lifted the corner of the dullard’s mouth, and Brock had no doubt this meeting had been orchestrated. A part of him wanted to avert exactly what the man hoped for, but at that moment Lady Viola stopped in front of him.
As her stride had matched his so did her stance, feet spread wide and hands on hips.
“Lord Haversham. How nice of you to attend the ball thrown in my honor.”
In her honor? She had his attention now. “Do you believe I would ev
er seek to honor you?”
“Is your presence here not confirmation enough?” she shot back.
“So, we are doing this? In the middle of a crowded ballroom?”
She dared to laugh, a cold cackle as she threw her arms wide. “I know it is not your preferred style. You are the type to sneak around and spread gossip about others. Being out in the open in this way must be uncomfortable for you.”
“You dare to confront me about ‘being out in the open’? I have never lied about who I am, or my motives.”
A hand grasped his elbow and tugged lightly. “Brock, I think—”
“Harold, if you do not seek a broken nose I would stand down and release me,” Brock said, never taking his eyes off the woman in front of him.
“I did not peg you for a violent man, Lord Haversham.” Lady Viola’s voice dripped with venom.
“Mr. Jakeston is correct. I believe we should—”
“Ruby, do see to my father, or Lord Haversham is likely to lash out violently at you as well.”
“You cannot believe that Brock would—” Harold started.
“Oh, I most certainly do, Mr. Jakeston,” she said, not breaking eye contact with Brock.
“May I interest you in a sherry, Miss St. Augustin?” Harold asked nervously.
“I think a cool drink is just the thing,” Brock heard Lady Viola’s friend reply, and the weight lifted from his arm. He rotated his shoulder, attempting to ease the tension there.
“May I say, you look positively ravishing this evening, my lady?” He tried a change of tone. While every fiber down to his core sought this confrontation, thought it was too long in the making, he did not wish to air his family’s soiled laundry in such a public place. “I suspect you looked similarly . . .” he took in her appearance from head to toe before continuing, “. . . scandalous when you manipulated my brothers.”
“And I am sure that when I was luring your brothers to their certain death, you were gallivanting around the continent.”
Her response brought him up short; he could hardly believe his ears. She’d admitted her responsibility in Cody and Winston’s deaths—more than that, she had practically thrown it in his face. The woman was every bit as evil as he had presumed. “Do not make light of my service to my country—your country.”
“I would not dare belittle the man who sabotaged my business to appease his own guilt for being absent for so much of his brothers’ lives.”
“Do not misunderstand the situation we both see ourselves in. It was you who ruined my life. You took my family from me with your petty, selfish games. You admitted as much only moments ago!”
“Enough!” shouted Lord Liperton.
Brock blinked, breaking eye contact with his target. Lady Viola’s father stood at her elbow, his face red with rage.
“This is quite enough! Viola, we are leaving . . . now.”
The tension broken, they both looked around them, seeing for the first time the scene they had caused.
The eyes staring back at Brock held contempt, although he was not certain if it was aimed at him or the loathsome woman before him. He swiveled to his left when a burst of laughter rang through the room. His cousin, Rodney, leaned in the doorway to the card room. From his broad smile he was enjoying the night’s entertainment greatly.
When Brock returned his gaze to his target, all he saw was her retreating form, hauled by her father toward a waiting footman holding out their coats.
Again he looked around him. Members of the ton continued to look upon him with disdain. Yes, the feelings of scorn were indeed directed at him.
Blast it! He'd botched the situation royally.