Dreaming, p.1
Dreaming, page 1
RICHARD DID HIS BEST TO IGNORE HER . . .
What are you drinking,” Letty asked. “Brandy?”
“A little destruction.” He gave a mock salute and laughed bitterly, then made the mistake of looking at her.
Her expression turned serious. “Why do you do that?”
He brought his face intimidatingly close to hers. “Because it makes me feel good.”
She drew in a breath and her eyes widened, but to her credit she didn’t move. He felt as if he held her heart in his hands. He didn’t want to be handed any hearts.
“I like things that make me feel good—strong drink, hard rides across the moors”—he lightly touched her cheek—“debauching innocent girls.”
“And shocking people,” she added, her face scant inches from his, her expression showing no signs of intimidation.
He could smell the scent of lavender lingering about her, clean and sweet . . . and pure. It triggered something inside him. His mouth closed over hers, hard and demanding. He intended to do exactly what she accused him of: shock the bloody hell out of her . . .
The Novels of Jill Barnett
The Novels of Jill Barnett
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From Bell Bridge Books:
JUST A KISS AWAY
BEWITCHING
DREAMING
IMAGINE
CARRIED AWAY
WONDERFUL
WILD
WICKED
THE HEART'S HAVEN
SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY
THE DAYS OF SUMMER
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About Jill Barnett
Jill Barnett sold her first book to Simon and Schuster in 1988 and has gone on to write 19 novels and short stories. There are over 7 million of her books in print, and her work has been published worldwide in 21 languages, audio and large print editions, and has earned her a place on such national bestseller lists as the New York Times, USA Today, Washington Post, Publishers Weekly, Barnes and Noble and Waldenbooks —who presented Jill with the National Waldenbook Award. She lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest.
Dreaming
By
Jill Barnett
BellBridge Books
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.
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Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright 1994 © by Jill Barnett
2010 Electronic publication - Bell Bridge Books
Electronic ISBN: 978-1-935661-65-8
Originally published 1994 by Pocket Books, mass market edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
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Cover Design: Debra Dixon
Interior Design: Hank Smith
Artwork Credits:
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Author name alphabet - © Jaguarwoman Designs
Stars © Patslash | Renderosity
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Prologue
London, England, 1813
She believed in dreams, but this evening was fast becoming a nightmare. Alone in a small alcove of the crowded ballroom, Letty Hornsby watched the crush of English society swarm onto the dance floor for another set. Dripping in feathers and finery, they laughed and danced, flirted and fanned, all to the accompaniment of an orchestra of strings and woodwinds.
Anxious dandies fluttered around this season’s bouquet of fresh females like butterflies in search of the richest nectar. They moved through the crowd, bowing and filling in dance cards, arguing in gentlemanly style over who would pluck a treasured waltz from this season’s Incomparable.
Her first ball of her first season. Yet she had never felt so alone and far from home. She had wanted her father to be with her, but on that morning so many months past when they’d first spoken of her come-out, he had raised his head from behind the latest issue of Roman Antiquities and said he was long past balls and the season’s pleasures. She’d do much better with her mother’s aunt providing her introduction.
However, Aunt Rosalynde hadn’t introduced her to anyone except the hostess, then she’d shuffled Letty over to this side of the room whilst she scurried off to hear the latest on dit, leaving Letty to fend for herself in a ballroom filled with strangers.
She might be standing in a lonesome corner, but in her mind she twirled and spun and schottisched to the music. Beneath the long skirt of her gauze gown, hidden under a satin underslip and petticoat, she tapped a silk-slippered toe to the tune of a country dance. She closed her eyes and imagined that she was dancing and laughing and smiling, the belle of the ball, the princess she’d always dreamed she’d be, with long flowing titian hair and an even longer line of admirers waiting to dance with her.
The music ceased, the dance ended, and so did her dreaming. She sighed for what she wished would happen and opened her eyes to face sad reality. She wasn’t a titian-haired princess and the belle of the ball. She was Letitia Hornsby, with nut-brown hair, long and curly as a pug’s tail, and she was standing in a corner at her first ball, alone and forgotten.
From nearby a girl’s gay laughter rippled into the air. Intrigued, Letty took a couple of steps out from the shadows, leaving a tall marble statue of Cupid alone in his alcove. Standing next to this icon of romance had done little to improve her situation.
The laughter sounded again. She watched a lovely blond girl snap open her fan, wave it playfully, and then, skirts in hand, sink into a deep curtsy before a group of doting young men. She fluttered her eyelashes slightly, then smiled up at her swains, who fought over themselves to offer her a hand up.
The girl denied them all, then rose so smoothly even Letty felt the urge to applaud. The men did applaud and argued over who would lead the divine and graceful miss in the next set.
Letty wished she knew the girl; then perhaps she could ask her to share. One dance was all she wished for. Just one.
As if in answer to her wish, a young dark-haired man stepped from the crowd and scanned the room, searching until his gaze stopped on her. His look changed to one of decided interest.
Every muscle in her body tensed in anticipation.
He slowly, purposefully, strode toward her.
Oh, this was it! Her breath caught in her chest and she prayed she wouldn’t do something shameful, like burst into tears or swoon, especially before he reached her.
Beneath her gown she could feel her skin sweating nervous tears of its own. She supposed she should have fanned herself—she had made an attempt to learn the art of fanning—but at that moment her fan hung uselessly from Cupid’s drawn arrow.
With each step the dandy took, Letty’s heart pounded louder in her ears. In a flash of fancy she imagined it was a drum roll signaling the joyous moment she’d been awaiting. To dance. Oh, to finally dance!
The violins sang out an introduction to the next set. He was almost there. Not realizing she had even done so, she took a step toward him and stumbled, then felt his glove on her arm as he steadied her. She gazed up into his face and smiled her gratitude.
“Beg pardon, miss.” His voice was so welcome a sound after no conversation for two hours. But not half as welcome as he himself was.
Still smiling a thank you, she raised her left hand, her dance card dangling from it by a pink silk ribbon.
“Pardon me,” he repeated.
“’Twas my fault,” she said in a nervous rush. “I stepped on my hem. It’s a bit long, you know. I told Aunt Rosalynde—she’s a Hollingsworth, of the Exeter Hollingsworths? I told her it was too long, but she wouldn’t listen, just told me to hush because I chatter too much and to let her handle everything since she knew what she was about.”
Letty took a badly needed breath and raised her hand with the dance card a little higher. Now, standing inches from him, she waited for the question she’d been waiting for all evening.
“Beg pardon, Miss Hollingsworth—”
Her smile shined with pure joy. “Oh, I’m not Miss Hollingsworth. I’m Miss Hornsby.”
Standing more stiffly, he said, “Miss Hornsby.” He gave a sharp nod. “I need to pass by.” His voice was curt.
Pass by? Letty looked into his eyes and frowned. He was looking over her shoulder.
With a sinking feeling of dread, she followed his avid stare. He wasn’t looking at her, but instead at a raven-haired girl who stood behind her.
Letty turned back to him and blurted out, “You want her?”
His look turned hard as stone.
He hadn’t wanted Letty.
She recovered herself quickly and stepped out of his path. “Excuse me.” Her voice was so quiet she could barely hear it herself. To hide her humiliation, she averted her eyes. She could feel them well with moisture, and in a matter of seconds the small rosettes that decorated her hemline l ooked like nothing more than a pink blur.
The orchestra began anew with Letty still standing there, staring down, taking deep quivering tight breaths, and searching desperately for the strength to endure this long night completely alone.
There would be many more balls and routs, a thought that did nothing to improve the knot in her stomach. If anything, the thought of more nights like this made her even queasier.
Perhaps it was best she was alone. She didn’t think she could speak to anyone at that moment and not make a utter fool of herself by sobbing uncontrollably on their shoulder.
She took one more fortifying breath, then another, and looked up again, her gaze drawn to the dancers on the ballroom floor, watching them with the same rapt hunger of an orphan watching a family celebrate Christmas.
Within seconds, she found herself looking at the young dandy and the girl of his choosing. Their dark hair caught the golden gleam of light from the hundreds of candles burning high above them. There was a magical quality to the way they glided and twirled through the intricate steps of the dance.
After a turn Letty met the girl’s gaze, and she fervently wished the floor would just open up and swallow her. There was pity in the girl’s eyes. Pity.
Biting her lips, she turned quickly, needing somewhere to go. She glanced at the terrace doors, but it was still pouring rain outside. Chin up and shoulders back, she snatched her fan from Cupid and strolled toward the refreshment table with what she hoped was the correct amount of panache.
Once near the table she just stood there, not wanting to be gauche and fetch her own cup. Her aunt had drilled the rules of etiquette into her head until she could repeat them in her sleep: A young lady always waits for a gentleman to help her down from a carriage. A young lady always waits for a gentleman to open the door. A young lady always waits for a gentleman to serve her. It seemed to Letty that a young lady’s sole purpose in life was to wait for a gentleman to read her mind.
A young man walked up to the table. A moment later he turned back around, a cup of lemonade in each hand.
Letty glanced at the cups, then met his look with a smile.
He smiled back. And left.
Apparently he was no mind reader.
She tapped her fingers impatiently on her ivory fan and turned back to the table. Cups of lemonade were lined up like palace guards in neat regimented rows. She wondered what dire thing would happen if she just leaned over and picked up her own drink.
She cast a casual glance toward the wall where the turbaned chaperones sat gossiping and speculating. Referred to by many as the old crows’ nest, it was from that illustrious corner that sight of one wrong move, one faux pas, could ruin a girl.
Letting her fan drag casually atop the tablecloth, Letty sauntered around the table until she was sure her person blocked their view. With the tip of the fan, she covertly pushed a cup toward the edge of the table, where, with just the right speed of movement, she could snatch up the cup without them seeing her.
One deep breath, and very slowly she slid her hand toward the table.
Closer.
And closer.
And closer.
“Thirsty, hellion?”
She gasped and snatched back her hand. There was only one person who called her “hellion.” There was only one person with that voice. The sound of it always made her feel as if she had drunk an entire pot of hot chocolate. Warm. Sweet, and a little sinful.
She spun around with a whispered “Richard . . . ” And looked up into the face of the Earl of Downe, the man she had loved as long as she could remember.
He stood under the candlelight, his dark blond hair damp with raindrops that shimmered and sparkled and made it seem as if he had been delivered to her in a cloud of stars. He picked up a cup of lemonade and held it out to her. She stood there frozen, unaware that her heart was in her eyes.
“Are you going to take this or make me stand here all night?” He raised the cup until it was eye level and looked down at her, amused.
“Oh . . . thank you, my lord,” she said in a half croak, then took the cup and raised it to her lips and drank the whole thing in two giant gulps. She stared into the empty cup, searching for something brilliant and witty to say.
But before she could open her mouth he had reached out and tilted up her dance card. It was all she could do not to jerk her hand away before he saw the humiliating fact that her card was empty.
His face was unreadable, but he seemed to watch her for the longest time. Then, just as he had done in a thousand of her dreams, he wrote his name in a large masculine scrawl across the card. He dropped the card and held out his hand.
She just stared at it.
“I believe this dance is mine.”
She met his look. It was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms and sob her gratitude. For once in her life, for once in the company of Richard Lennox, she did the proper thing. She placed her hand in his, and felt a small flutter deep inside her. After a half curtsy, she let him lead her to the dance floor, praying to God that she wouldn’t fall flat on her face and ruin everything.
The music filled her ears with notes more lovely than Mozart ever wrote. She moved slowly, feeling as if she were in one of her most enchanting dreams.
He touched her other hand and she almost cried out, so sharp was her reaction to him. Like one whose heart had just taken wing, every sensation in her young body came instantly alive. The air became tactile, the candlelight as warm as an embrace. Each breath she drew was honey, each note of music the sweetest of sounds.
In less time than it took a tear to fall, she was dancing. With Richard. She couldn’t will her eyes to look up at him, and she was so nervous she had to concentrate on her steps.
“You miscounted, hellion.”
She stumbled, but he pulled her into a turn, one strong arm keeping her steady. She looked up at him, then, half embarrassed, half thankful, completely besotted, and she whispered, “How did you know?”
He leaned down slightly and whispered into her ear, “Your lips are moving.”
She flushed, red and hot, so flustered that she went in the wrong direction, throwing the entire line of dancers off. By the time she’d found her way back to him, he was making a serious effort to hide his amusement.
No one else was. She dipped her head to keep from seeing their smirking faces, and on the next turn her fan caught on the hem of his velvet coat. Shackled to his coattail, she was forced to follow him down the gentlemen’s line of the dance as she tried to loosen her fan.
She stepped on his foot three times during the remainder of the dance. But at least she didn’t fall. Next time she prayed for something, she’d have to remember to be more specific.
Ten minutes after they had started, the music, sadly, stopped. Eyes closed, heart pounding, she finished in a deep curtsy. Too soon, way too soon. She didn’t even realize she had been holding her breath until she released it.
In utter silence, he led her from the floor over to Cupid’s alcove. She turned, thanked him, then added quietly, “I’m sorry about your foot, my lord.”
He said nothing. His face carried that same look of casual indifference it always wore of late, and she wondered what he was thinking when he wore it. Vaguely she heard him voice his pleasure before he made a quick bow and walked away.
Her gaze locked on his broad back, clad in a dark green velvet coat that matched the deep color of his eyes. Even when he had joined a group of men on the opposite side of the room, she could not will herself to look away. His friends clapped him on the back and stood there talking and laughing. Never once did he give her another glance, but she didn’t care because he had danced with her.
Her mind in cloud castles, she sagged back against the wall and stared at nothing. If, for the remainder of the season, she never danced again, it wouldn’t matter, because Richard Lennox, recently the Earl of Downe, the center of her dreams and the object of her affections for six long years, had actually danced with her. At a ball. In front of everyone!
She looked up at Cupid, balanced on a pedestal, his arrow drawn. Then she stared down at her dance card for the longest time, watching Richard’s signature as if she expected it to just disappear, to fade as so many of her dreams had in the cruel light of morning. She ran her fingers over the handwriting. But it didn’t fade.
