Lady Standon clapped her hands. ‘Please, take a partner and form a big circle, facing in. I am going to teach you La Pistole, it is new from France.’
Nathan watched, half an ear on the instructions, while the couples turned to face each other, walked back and then together, linked hands and circled…Clemence was smiling up at Eden Ravenhurst, her theatre-manager cousin, one of the less reputable Ravenhursts. How lovely she looked with him, his height balancing hers, her unconventional looks, piquant in contrast to his conventional handsomeness.
They were all making some gesture with their hands that made her frown, fleetingly, then circling again and beginning again with the partner behind them.
‘Ingenious,’ Mr Danvers remarked. ‘Very simple and they are constantly changing partners. Most amusing.’ At Lady Standon’s gesture he struck up the music and the couples began their measure.
Clemence had still not regained her smile. Back and forth, join hands and circle, back again. What was there to frown about? Then everyone raised their right hands like children playing at shooting, aimed at their partners and stamped their feet hard. Bang! Around the circle, dancers were laughing, clutching their hands to their breasts and circling to face their new partner to start again.
She was no longer in profile, now he could see her full face and she had gone pale. Lord Hoste raised his hand, aimed—bang! Clemence broke out of the circle and ran.
Nathan took a dozen long strides to where the commodore was turning to follow her. No one else seemed to see anything amiss. ‘Leave her to me, sir,’ he snapped and was past and out of the room before the older man could respond.
Clemence had not gone far, only through the small salon and out on to the terrace where she was standing quite still, her back to him. She had her arms crossed tightly and was clasping her elbows as though to hold herself together. Her shoulders were quivering. She did not move as the heels of his shoes struck on the stone flags.
‘Sweetheart?’ He pulled her against his chest, and she came as rigid as a board, her arms still tightly locked. ‘What is it? I’m here.’
‘You weren’t,’ she said, her voice choked. ‘You weren’t there.’
‘You wanted me to dance with you?’ This seemed a violent reaction for such a cause and not at all like her.
‘No! You weren’t there when he was going to shoot me. I was going to die and then Street shot him in the face and he died instead and I saw—’ Her voice choked off into silence.
Appalled, Nathan gathered her tightly into his embrace and held on. She didn’t seem to be weeping. After a moment he ventured, ‘When?’
‘Just before the mast came down.’ She gave a little shudder and he felt her shoulders relax. ‘I dream about it, you see,’ Clemence said into his shirt front. ‘Not before, but ever since you left me here. I don’t dream about anything else, just that. I think it’s because you were there for everything else.’
Nathan rubbed his cheek against the soft curls on her crown. He hadn’t been there. And now Clemence, his brave Clemence, who had fought McTiernan, climbed from her balcony to freedom, defied her scheming, evil family, was reduced to running away from a romping dance with friends in the safety of the English countryside.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he murmured. ‘So sorry.’
‘No.’ She shook her head, the curls moving back and forth on the starched folds of his neckcloth. ‘You gave me Street. He shot the man and then you came for me. It is my fault I am so foolish.’
‘Oh, no, not foolish, sweetheart.’ He rocked her against the warmth of her body. ‘Just tried beyond your strength.’
She had needed him. His absence gave her nightmares. She had looked him in the eye and told him, with some emphasis, that she knew when she was in love with a man. But she had never been in love or formed an attachment, she had told him that, too. His head was spinning.
‘Clemence.’ He tipped up her face. She had stopped shuddering and her eyes were dry. ‘Clemence…’ He wanted to say it—the temptation to say those three words and see the reflection of her feelings in her eyes was almost overwhelming. ‘Clemence.’ Somehow he managed to clench his teeth and be silent. It was harder than it had been to walk with composure to be flogged, to stand here, silent, when the woman he loved was in his arms, waiting.
And then she smiled faintly and lifted her hand to his cheek, running the back of it down and along his jaw. ‘It’s all right,’ she murmured. ‘It will be all right.’
How could it be? He frowned down at her, not at all comforted by the sadness in her candid eyes or the calm resignation in her voice.
‘Ahem.’ They both turned. Lord Hoste was standing, a cloak over his arm, regarding them somewhat quizzically from the window. ‘You aunt feared you may be finding the night air chill, Miss Ravenhurst.’ He held out the cloak and she went out of Nathan’s arms towards him.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Clemence allowed him to drape it around her shoulders and then, without a backward glance, stepped over the low sill and was gone.
‘Snuff?’ Lord Hoste produced an enamel box and flicked it open with his thumbnail. ‘I think this might be an opportune time for a quiet talk, Stanier.’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘That young man is in love with you,’ the duchess remarked, taking a sip of chocolate.
They were seated in the first-floor bow-window embrasure of the duchess’s apartment, having breakfast tête à tête and somewhat later than the rest of the guest
s. Clemence was heavy-eyed after a troubled night’s sleep. The nightmare had not come, but her dreams had seemed full of Nathan. ‘He is?’ she managed, wincing at the inadequacy of the response.
Her aunt regarded her severely over the rim of the cup. ‘Do not be coy with me, Clemence.’