Read Online Vivian Roycroft by Mischief on Albemarle - Free Book Online
Authors: Mischief on Albemarle
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tirade, her lips thinned and her expression exasperated, or contemptuous, or something — and then Cumberland straightened and turned toward the refreshment room.
The man was fetching her an ice. Or tea. Or something. He fussed over Beryl as if she belonged to him, and now he was waiting on her. Not precisely the sort of behavior one expected from a duke, that.
And on the thought, Cumberland's pale glance slid aside, cut through the assembly room's crowd, and pinned Fitz into place. Like a beetle in a collection, helpless against a greater strength and intelligence. As if—
—as if he, the younger son of an earl, was of no account at all, at all.
Broiling with rage, Fitz stalked from the ballroom and into the humid night.
Chapter Five
Wednesday, March 17, 1813
Benson appeared in the drawing room doorway, imperturbable as ever behind his deepening wrinkles and with only the faintest of scowls marring his usually friendly demeanor. "Mr. Finian Fitzwilliam, miss." The Wentworth family butler had attended her dolls' tea parties in the nursery; he'd never since shaken what seemed to be an instinct for indulging and protecting her.
No matter who announced him, Fitz was the last person she wanted to see. Which her guardian butler apparently had sorted out. "I'm not—"
But before she could get the excuse out, Fitz slid past Benson and sauntered through the door, billowing into the dull drawing room and brightening it with his usual casual grace, the same easy smile. Even in the room's dimness, with only one stick of candles lit against the dull, drizzly sky, his claret tailcoat shone like a lighthouse beacon and his confidence outshone that. He'd always been the life in any room he entered, the sunlight, the color, the heartbeat. That entry wasn't unusual. He strolled in as if he owned the place and had every right to be there. As if nothing had happened between them.
But something had. Or, more precisely, something had broken between them, something long treasured and coddled in her heart. It had shattered along with last evening's lost enjoyment as she had stalked from the dance line to Lady de Lisle's corner, weathering the open, catty stares and the falsely sympathetic titters en route. Only when she'd been seated, a soothing cup of tea cradled in her hands and His Grace fussing over her like a proper suitor — only then had she realized what had broken.
Her willingness to wait for Fitz to grow up.
She was tired of twiddling her thumbs while he played games, as if they'd never become adults.
If he wasn't going to develop an appropriate tendre for her, then she had no further reason to wait for him. Not after yesterday's humiliation at Rotten Row. Not after last night.
Because his replacement had arrived on schedule.
But still, Fitz brought the drawing room to life when it seemed no one else could possibly have done so. He grinned with all that charm, his eyes twinkling with affection — it couldn't be mistaken for anything else — warmer than the cheerful little fire, and all of it aimed at her. Without effort, he tugged heat into her coolness, straight from the heart.
The sharp, broken shards in her soul twisted within their wounds, drawing fresh blood. How could he be so unkind?
He bowed. "Good morning, Beryl."
"Fitz." She kept her curtsey brief and her chin square. "We must talk, I suppose."
"Indeed we must." Without waiting for an invitation — indeed, when had he ever? — Fitz settled onto the settee and splayed his arms along the back. "What the dithering devil do you think you're doing?"
Lately, the emotions Fitz had most often aroused in her, despite her desperate love for him, had been a slow, coiling, building anger, heavily flavored with exasperation. But those words slammed into her like hammer blows, left slow and building behind and jumped straight to towering rage. It flashed through her like a fire; perhaps all that had kept her behavior within bounds over the last few months had been
The man was fetching her an ice. Or tea. Or something. He fussed over Beryl as if she belonged to him, and now he was waiting on her. Not precisely the sort of behavior one expected from a duke, that.
And on the thought, Cumberland's pale glance slid aside, cut through the assembly room's crowd, and pinned Fitz into place. Like a beetle in a collection, helpless against a greater strength and intelligence. As if—
—as if he, the younger son of an earl, was of no account at all, at all.
Broiling with rage, Fitz stalked from the ballroom and into the humid night.
Chapter Five
Wednesday, March 17, 1813
Benson appeared in the drawing room doorway, imperturbable as ever behind his deepening wrinkles and with only the faintest of scowls marring his usually friendly demeanor. "Mr. Finian Fitzwilliam, miss." The Wentworth family butler had attended her dolls' tea parties in the nursery; he'd never since shaken what seemed to be an instinct for indulging and protecting her.
No matter who announced him, Fitz was the last person she wanted to see. Which her guardian butler apparently had sorted out. "I'm not—"
But before she could get the excuse out, Fitz slid past Benson and sauntered through the door, billowing into the dull drawing room and brightening it with his usual casual grace, the same easy smile. Even in the room's dimness, with only one stick of candles lit against the dull, drizzly sky, his claret tailcoat shone like a lighthouse beacon and his confidence outshone that. He'd always been the life in any room he entered, the sunlight, the color, the heartbeat. That entry wasn't unusual. He strolled in as if he owned the place and had every right to be there. As if nothing had happened between them.
But something had. Or, more precisely, something had broken between them, something long treasured and coddled in her heart. It had shattered along with last evening's lost enjoyment as she had stalked from the dance line to Lady de Lisle's corner, weathering the open, catty stares and the falsely sympathetic titters en route. Only when she'd been seated, a soothing cup of tea cradled in her hands and His Grace fussing over her like a proper suitor — only then had she realized what had broken.
Her willingness to wait for Fitz to grow up.
She was tired of twiddling her thumbs while he played games, as if they'd never become adults.
If he wasn't going to develop an appropriate tendre for her, then she had no further reason to wait for him. Not after yesterday's humiliation at Rotten Row. Not after last night.
Because his replacement had arrived on schedule.
But still, Fitz brought the drawing room to life when it seemed no one else could possibly have done so. He grinned with all that charm, his eyes twinkling with affection — it couldn't be mistaken for anything else — warmer than the cheerful little fire, and all of it aimed at her. Without effort, he tugged heat into her coolness, straight from the heart.
The sharp, broken shards in her soul twisted within their wounds, drawing fresh blood. How could he be so unkind?
He bowed. "Good morning, Beryl."
"Fitz." She kept her curtsey brief and her chin square. "We must talk, I suppose."
"Indeed we must." Without waiting for an invitation — indeed, when had he ever? — Fitz settled onto the settee and splayed his arms along the back. "What the dithering devil do you think you're doing?"
Lately, the emotions Fitz had most often aroused in her, despite her desperate love for him, had been a slow, coiling, building anger, heavily flavored with exasperation. But those words slammed into her like hammer blows, left slow and building behind and jumped straight to towering rage. It flashed through her like a fire; perhaps all that had kept her behavior within bounds over the last few months had been
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