Crystal Heart Page 11

  Alana closed the door of the best guest bedroom, where her grandfather was staying, behind her, and fled to the sanctuary of her own room. Of course she wouldn’t be required to act as a companion any longer, Lady Pamela had told her. Not her, the granddaughter of a duke! It really was too bad of her, not to tell the Valentines who she really was. So Lady Pamela had said, and Grandfather had agreed, drat the man. Oh, she knew things had changed and could never go back as they were. She would, however, have welcomed the distraction of Lady Honoria’s tart comments and even, God help her, her complaints.

  Her room was a haven. Sinking down at the writing table, Alana massaged her aching temples with her fingers. Oh, what a dreadful coil. She had lied to John; he had lied to her. In that they were both guilty. If that were all that was between them, they could get past it. There was more, though. John knew who she was, had known for some time, apparently. Before he had proposed? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Sir Gabriel suddenly materialized before her. “That was not well done of you, madam.”

  Alana rubbed again at her temples. “Oh, do go away. I’ve been through quite enough.”

  “Throwing the heart like that. I’ve told you, madam. Never toss away love.”

  “Love. Ha! He doesn’t love me.”

  “By the lord Harry, you are the most pigheaded, stubborn pair it has ever been my misfortune to meet!”

  “And what of you?” Alana accused. “When you can tell me that you made no mistakes, then you can give me advice.”

  “I thought you would profit by my experience.” He dropped down to one knee before her. “Marry the man, Alana. You know ‘tis what you want.”

  “I can’t. Grandfather doesn’t approve of the match.”

  “What?” Sir Gabriel pulled back. “What is he thinking?”

  “Lord knows. It is almost funny. All this time he has been urging me to marry, and now when I’ve found someone suitable, he doesn’t approve. Ooh!” She rose and stalked about the room, hands balled into fists. “He wants me to return to Yorkshire with him. He says that John has a reputation for wild living—”

  “Has he, indeed.”

  “Apparently. And because of it, he isn’t good enough for me.” She spun around. “And the Marquess of Ware apparently doesn’t approve of me! You would think he and Grandfather would be at daggers drawn, but they are quite united in this. Ooh! It makes me so angry I could—”

  “But you do not wish to marry Mr. Winston, madam.”

  “It should be my choice! Oh, I don’t know what I want anymore.” She sank down at the writing table again, massaging her forehead. “Do please go away. I’ve the most terrible headache.”

  “I am sorry for it, madam. I will leave you, then.”

  “Thank you. Do you know,” she said, raising her head and catching Sir Gabriel just as he faded, “I don’t even know how John knew who I was. We never met in town. Of that I am certain.”

  Sir Gabriel reappeared. “I, ah, I’m afraid I told him.”

  Alana stared at him. “You? Why?”

  “Because he was being so blasted slow at things! I thought this would hurry him along.”

  “It certainly did. So that is why he proposed,” she said, grimly, and looked up. “Or did you tell him after?”

  “Afterwards. You were being stubborn, too, my girl. I thought he would confront you, not do what he did.” Sir Gabriel shook his head. “I do not understand people today.”

  “So he didn’t know who I was when he proposed,” she murmured.

  “No. Mind you, he finds you more suitable now.”

  “Suitable!”

  “Of course. The granddaughter of a duke—”

  “Oh, get out! I will not be courted for my position.”

  “Madam, he loves you.”

  “Not enough, apparently.”

  “He did the honorable thing, writing to your grandfather.”

  “Drat him and his stupid sense of honor! Drat all men. I’m tired of the lot of you. Always meddling, always ordering one about—”

  “I can see you are upset, madam. I shall leave you, then.”

  “Upset! Yes, I’m upset. Come back!” She jumped to her feet as Sir Gabriel faded away. “There’s more I want to say to you—oh, go, then! I—yes, what is it?” she called, as a knock sounded on her door.

  Lady Pamela stepped in. “Oh! I thought perhaps your grandfather was in here with you.”

  “No, ma’am.” Alana composed herself by a great effort. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Naughty girl, not telling me who you were.” Lady Pamela glanced about the room, as if looking for someone else. “I declare, I am quite vexed with you.”

  “I am sorry, ma’am. There were reasons.”

  “But it doesn’t signify. Imagine! A duke, a marquess, and a viscount at Heart’s Ease! My Valentine’s Day masquerade will be a stunning success. You will come, won’t you?”

  Alana shifted from foot to foot. “Ma’am, I don’t think—”

  “Oh, please, do say you will! I wrote this just for you.”

  Alana took the pink paper heart Lady Pamela handed her, knowing at once what it was. It was odiously familiar from the long hours she had spent writing invitations. She was not, however, going to be a guest at the masquerade. Not if she could help it. “I shall have to speak with my grandfather, but—”

  “A most charming man. He is agreeable, he said, if it is what you want. Do say yes.” Lady Pamela laid her hand on Alana’s, beaming at her. “Lord Ware and Lord Kirkwood are staying.”

  “Are they?” Alana said in surprise. And her grandfather had actually agreed to the invitation, as well. Her stomach sank. There was no way she could gracefully refuse.

  “Yes. It would be the most romantic thing if we could announce your betrothal that night.”

  “No! That is, there’s no betrothal, ma’am.”

  “No? Whyever not? You could do much worse, dear Alana. If I may call you so?”

  “Yes. My grandfather doesn’t approve the match.”

  “Mercy!” Lady Pamela stared at her. “Well, we shall just have to talk with him, shan’t we? In the meantime, have you a costume? I will tell my dressmaker to make you something, if you wish.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not necessary. I should be able to find something in the attic. If you don’t mind,” she added.

  “Oh, no, not at all.” Lady Pamela smiled. “I shall let you rest, now, you must be tired after all that excitement! Shall we see you at dinner tonight?”

  Alana briefly closed her eyes, and then gave in. There was no way out. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Very good.” Lady Pamela smiled at her, and went out.

  Left alone, Alana again drifted over to the writing table, sinking down upon the chair, the paper heart still in her hand. With sudden energy she crumpled it, tossing it far across the room. Dratted Valentine’s Day masquerade! She wished she’d never heart of Heart’s Ease, or of Mr. John Charles Winston, Viscount Kirkwood. Never had she dreaded a Valentine’s Day more. Everything was ruined, and how it would ever come out right, she didn’t know.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Good morrow, madam.”

  Alana blinked sleepily, pushing herself up on her elbow in bed and brushing her hair back from her face. “Sir Gabriel?” she said, looking at him across the room, where he sat at her writing table. “What do you here this morning? I’ve hardly seen you all week.”

  “‘Tis Valentine’s Day.”

  “Oh, lord, so it is.” She collapsed back onto the pillow and then suddenly sat up again, tucking the coverlet around her shoulders at the gleam in his eyes. “Oh, Sir Gabriel! Your vow—”

  “No matter. I had hoped that perhaps you might find happiness.” He shrugged. “It seems not meant to be.”

  “Well, sir, if I were to believe old traditions, you are the first male I’ve seen today, and so you will be my sweetheart,” she teased.

  He didn’t smile. “I’m not for you,
madam. I would not be enough for you.”

  “You may not exactly be substantial, but you’re far more trustworthy than most men I’ve met.” She smiled. “I can depend on you to appear when I least expect it.”

  “Madam, I believe you’re being too harsh on young Kirkwood.”

  “And I believe that is none of your affair. Would you kindly leave, sir, so I may dress?”

  “In a moment.” He rose and crossed to her. “You’ve a costume for this evening?”

  “Yes, a dress I found in the attic. Why?”

  “I would that you wear this.” He pointed towards the bottom of the bed,

  For the first time Alana noticed that a gown was spread there. It was the green silk gown she had seen in the attic, but it looked different. The silk was vibrant, bright, no longer faded, while the lace around the neckline was a pristine white. How Sir Gabriel had managed this, she didn’t know, she thought, reaching out to touch it. “It is beautiful, sir.”

  “It was my Madeleine’s,” he said, making her look up sharply. “It would please me greatly if you would wear it.”

  “I—yes,” she said, before she could change her mind. “If it fits, I will.”

  “I am pleased. I will leave you, then.” He turned, and then stopped. “You will be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Yes.” Alana kept her voice steady by a great effort. Tomorrow she and her grandfather would leave. Left behind would be Heart’s Ease, and the way of life that had been hers for five years. Left behind would be John.

  “I will say good-bye to you, then, madam.”

  “Oh, no—”

  “I fear I will be in no mood to speak to anyone tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Sir Gabriel.” She held out her hand, and then withdrew it. Even if he were near, she couldn’t touch him. “Pray don’t despair. I shall keep searching for your family, and perhaps next year—”

  “I hold out little hope, madam. I do thank you for all you’ve done.”

  “Oh, Sir Gabriel.”

  “Good day, madam.” He swept off his hat, and bowed. “And goodbye.”

  “Sir Gabriel!” she cried, but he had faded from view. He was gone.

  Tears prickled at her eyes as she stared at the spot where he had been. Absurd to feel this way, such loss and grief for a man long dead. Oh, if only she had been able to help him! It seemed more than one person would be bereft on this Valentine’s Day.

  A little while later, dressed for the day, Alana left her room and walked towards the stairs. There, at the landing, she encountered John.

  For a moment both looked at each other, and then John nodded. “Good morning, Miss Sterling.”

  “Good morning, my lord.” Alana fell into step beside him going down the stairs, feeling a curious mixture of joy and pain. In the last few days they had hardly seen each other, except at meals; when they had, they had barely spoken. It was sweet relief, and exquisite torture. She prayed he would not renew his protestations of love; she wished that he would.

  “You are leaving tomorrow?”

  “Yes. And you?” she asked, though she knew the answer.

  “Yes.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to her. “Alana—”

  “Oh, there you are, my lord!” Lady Pamela, garbed in a pink morning gown, bustled into the hall. “I know you’ll want your breakfast, but when you’re done, may I see you about the play? There are some lines I am certain Camilla would never have said.”

  John shot Alana a look, and she bit back a smile. It really was most ridiculous, this play Lady Pamela insisted on staging, especially since she had removed what both John and Alana thought were the best lines, those brimming with humor. She had replaced them instead with simpering platitudes. What made the situation more humorous was that those lines had been taken directly from either Camilla’s journals or letters. John would be happy to be done with this task, Alana thought, and her amusement faded. Once he finished, he would leave. Would she ever see him again?

  “Come. We can discuss this over breakfast.” Lady Pamela took John’s arm and led him towards the dining room, leaving Alana to follow. As she walked behind them, feeling alone and abandoned and unable to keep her eyes from John, a startling thought came to her. Except for Sir Gabriel, who surely didn’t count, John was the first man she had seen today. Was he, against all odds, to be her sweetheart after all?

  “This is the damndest, oddest house I’ve ever seen,” the Duke of Grafton growled that evening, as he escorted Alana into the music room, where the masquerade was to be held. He was not in costume, but wore only a domino and a mask. Alana had had trouble coaxing him to wear even that much. “Damn place is all pink.”

  “Grandpapa, hush. You promised to behave,” she murmured, though privately she agreed. Lady Pamela had outdone herself for this gala night, carrying the decorations to an extreme Alana could never have imagined. Like many of the other rooms in the house, the music room was painted pink. Lady Pamela, however, had not been content with that. Nearly every inch of the wall was covered with lacy hearts, satin hearts, velvet hearts, of all sizes and all shades of red, from palest pink to deepest burgundy. Festooning the walls, and the gallery above where the musicians played, were garlands of silk roses in pink, red and white, twined with pink satin ribbons and gilded vines. The chairs were upholstered in crimson velvet; musicians and servants alike suffered in red doublets and white hose; and, hanging from a doorway was a porcelain Cupid, all pink and white. It was, so Alana had been told, meant to act as a kissing bough did at Christmastime. There was even a sprig of mistletoe hanging from Cupid’s arrow. Alana took one look at that and vowed to keep as far from it as possible.

  As startling as all this was, though, what caught all eyes was the trellis, in the far corner of the room. It bloomed with more silk flowers, and in it stood Lady Pamela and Sir Ronald, holding court. She glowed in a gown of bright pink satin, something Alana was convinced the real Camilla would never have worn; poor Sir Ronald looked morose and rotund in the mulberry velvet coat she and John had found in the attic, worn with lace at the cuffs and the full breeches fashionable long ago. Alana felt a spurt of sympathy for him. “I do see what you mean, Grandpapa,” she said. “It is a bit much, isn’t it?”

  “A bit much? This house is a bit much. I’m here only for you, Lainie girl.”

  “For me!” Alana stared at him. “But I thought you wanted to stay.”

  “Good gad, no! Just thought you should have some fun, after working all this time,” he mumbled, not looking at her.

  Alana stared at him consideringly. “Grandpapa, what are you planning?”

  “Are you accusing me of something, girl?”

  “I know you.” Her eyes narrowed. “I will not marry Kirkwood.”

  “And I don’t want you to. Enough of this, girl. Can’t a man want to see his grandchild enjoy herself?

  “You usually don’t. You usually have another motive.”

  “I am hurt, girl, by your low opinion of me. I want only what is best for you.”

  “Unfortunately we tend to disagree on what that is.”

  “But you will come home with me now.”

  “Yes, Grandpapa.” Alana smiled. For all her grandfather’s gruffness, there was a pleading look in his eyes. “I will come home. So long as you don’t pinch at me to marry,” she added.

  “Harumph. We’ll see. Ah, good evening, Ware. What think you of all this?”

  The Marquess of Ware, similarly attired in a domino and plain mask, shook his head. “Never seen anything like it. Good evening, Miss Sterling.”

  Alana curtsied. “Good evening, sir. And—” Her voice died. Behind Lord Ware stalked—Sir Gabriel? But he wouldn’t appear here, would he? Yet, there he stood, tall, commanding, in a coat of forest green velvet, with his hair carefully arranged in long curls and a huge plumed hat upon his head. His eyes were hidden by his mask, but she knew the gleam in them well. “I—what are you doing here?” she hissed.

  “Good evening, Miss Sterli
ng,” he said, sweeping off the hat and bowing low. Alana’s sense of unreality increased. It wasn’t Sir Gabriel’s voice; it was John’s. “Are you well? You look a trifle pale. Rather as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  He knew, the wretch! But, good heavens, the resemblance was amazing. Why had she never remarked it before? “Good evening, Lord Kirkwood. ‘Tis rather warm in here.”

  “So it is.” John glanced around. “And very pink.” For a moment his eyes met hers, and the old companionship, the old sense of sharing secrets that no one else knew, returned. Then he looked away, and the moment was lost.

  “Harumph.” Grafton was glaring at John. “Contracted any more wagers, Kirkwood?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Harumph. Well, you both look as if you planned your costumes together.”

  “No,” John and Alana said in unison, and then he looked at her more closely. “That is the gown we found in the attic.”

  “Yes,” Alana replied, briefly. She had no intention of telling him where she had got it.

  “It suits you.”

  “Thank you, sir. If you’ll excuse us, we should make our greetings to our hosts.”

  “Ours, too. Grafton, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Lord Ware said, and took the duke’s arm. The two men moved off, engaged in conversation, leaving John and Alana alone.

  “Well,” John said, after a moment. “Shall we, ma’am?”

  Alana regarded the arm he held out to her, and then sighed inwardly. She didn’t want to touch him; she wanted to touch him so much! “Thank you, sir,” she said, and placed her hand on his arm. She was acutely aware of his nearness as they crossed the room, and of the strength of his arm under her hand. Warmth spread through her in tingling waves, an odd feeling, but not unpleasant. If only she could trust him—but she could not go on with that train of thought. It would do no good.

  “Why, Miss Sterling,” Lady Pamela gushed when John and Alana reached the trellis. “That is you behind the mask, is it not? And—is it really Lord Kirkwood? Why, Sir Ronald! Does he not look the very image of Sir Gabriel Follett’s portrait?” Sir Ronald mumbled something that they took as assent, and she hurried on. “The resemblance is amazing. And Miss Sterling. I see you chose to dress in the style of the time. Like me.”