Laurel McKee Read online

  Eliza paused before one of the floor-length mirrors that lined the green silk walls of the assembly rooms. She didn’t look like a puzzle, she thought. She wore a fine gown of silver-lilac silk, embroidered with silver thread and beads, proper half-mourning that went well with her grandmother’s diamonds. Her dark hair was carefully curled and piled high and pinned with pearl combs, not tucked up “croppy” style, as Lucy Fitzgerald and her wild sister-in-law Pamela liked to effect. They were easily reckoned to be “democratical” and thus not danced with.

  Eliza preferred to keep her convictions hidden, or at least as hidden as they could be, where they could do the most good. Silks and diamonds were as good a mask as any, though her disguise was slipping, if Morely and Pelham’s conversation was any indication. Soon she would have to come out into the open—as they all would.

  She closed her eyes against the lavish party. Ever since she was a girl, she had been keenly aware of the difference between her family’s comfortable life and those of the Irish farmers and workers. She saw the gulf between the privileged Anglo-Irish few and the suffering many. As she grew older and her marriage gave her independence, she learned how the government in Dublin truly worked; she often went to Parliament to sit in the gallery and listen to the debates. Whenever any politician actually showed some compassion and tried to help the Irish people, tried to lessen the harsh Penal Laws or improve the lot of the Catholics, they were shouted down by the Ascendancy landowners who were protecting their exclusive powers and privileges.

  She had tried to follow her mother’s fine example of charity and compassion but quickly saw that would never go far enough to really improve anyone’s life. It could never lessen the weight that prevented real prosperity and happiness. The land she loved so much was dying under oppression.

  So, when Lord Edward Fitzgerald, the son of her mother’s friends the Duke and Duchess of Leinster, came and asked for her help to make true changes in Ireland, to throw off British rule as America had done and move forward as an independent nation, it seemed the work she waited for. The work she was meant to do.

  She would not turn away from it.

  Eliza turned her back to the mirror to study the room behind her. That kaleidoscope of dancers, the spiraling music and laughter, grew ever louder and wilder as the punch poured on. This Christmas season had been like none other she could remember. Irish holidays were always lavish and merry, but this year there was a knife-sharp edge to it all, a frantic decadence, as if they could all go tumbling down into dark oblivion at any moment.

  “Après moi, le deluge,” she heard someone say behind her. She turned to find her sister Anna standing just beyond the edge of the glass’s reflection. Anna’s beauty had only grown over the years, and now she was all gold and ivory and roses, a bright, brilliant goddess in her white and pink gown.

  Too bright, perhaps? Eliza examined Anna’s shining blue eyes, her tumbled blond curls—the champagne glass in her hand.

  Anna laughed. “You see, sister, I can read your mind. We dance while Rome, or Dublin, burns.”

  Eliza shook her head and took the glass away from her sister. “Were you in the card room?”

  “Of course. I must have my share of fun while I can, since I’m to be shipped back to Mama at Killinan after Christmas! She is shockingly strict these days, Eliza. You would think I was still in the schoolroom with Caroline.”

  That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, Eliza thought as she tasted the champagne that was left. Anna was as wild and frantic as everyone else in Dublin, and that could be very dangerous in the days to come. “How much did you lose?”

  Anna waved her lace fan in a dismissive gesture. “The merest amount, Eliza, I promise. Mostly to Peter Carstairs, too, and he won’t press to be paid.”

  “Because he is violently in love with you. Like all the other young men in Dublin.”

  Anna laughed, her cheeks bright pink. “Well, I am not in love with any of them, I assure you! Silly puppies, all of them.”

  “One day, sister dear, someone shall capture your heart, and then you shall have to eat your words.”

  “I could say the same thing to you, Eliza. Where will all your talk of independence go when you meet someone you could truly love?” Anna took a lobster tart from a footman’s tray, munching on it thoughtfully before saying, “Someone dashing and smart, not like Mount Clare. Someone handsome, too…”

  Eliza laughed. “You have been reading too many romantic novels, Anna! I must lend you some more improving volumes.”

  “Not if it’s going to make me sound like I’m reading from Fordyce’s Sermons. We have to make merry while we’re young—while we can.”

  “So, you will leave sermons until you’re an old, gray widow like me?”

  “Oh, Eliza dearest! Widow you may be; old and gray you are not. You can still find romance.” Anna pointed with her folded fan at the dance floor. “What of Walter Fitzwilliam? He cuts a fine leg.”

  “And he is a terrible drunk. He fell into the gutter on Sackville Street last week, they say.”

  “That does not bode well for the bedchamber, then,” Anna muttered. “I have heard things about men who imbibe too freely. It, er, disables certain vital parts.”

  “Anna Blacknall!”

  “There are benefits in reading novels, sister. Especially French ones. What of Lord Aldington…”

  At that moment, the assembly room doors opened to admit a group of latecomers. As was becoming more frequent in Dublin, as regiments newly arrived from London sought amusement, they were officers. Young ones, too, not old and portly colonels in too-tight red tunics. These men seemed tall and strong, their bright gazes keen as they swept over the noisy throng.

  “Well, now,” Anna said. “This is more like it.”

  “Anna, I am hardly likely to take up with some newly arrived officer,” Eliza said.

  “No one said you have to ‘take up’ with one! A dance would make a fine start.” Anna tapped her fan against her chin as she examined the new arrivals. “What about that one there? He is quite a beauty, I must say, and even taller than you.”

  Eliza couldn’t help laughing. It felt as if they were at a horse fair, and Anna was a shrewd Arab trader evaluating fillies. “Which one?”

  “That one, of course. He doesn’t appear a drunkard at all, does he?”

  Eliza followed the pointing line of Anna’s fan to a man who was half turned away from them, greeting Mr. Neilsen, the Master of Ceremonies. From that angle, he did seem a beauty, she had to admit. Very tall, with broad shoulders, a tight backside, and his long dark golden hair tied back with a black ribbon. If only those fine shoulders weren’t encased in a red coat!

  Green would suit them so much better.

  Then he turned toward her, the flickering light of dozens of candles falling over the chiseled angles of his lean face.

  Eliza gasped. She was surely imagining things! Anna’s romantic nonsense was infecting her senses.

  She closed her eyes, gulping down the last of the champagne. When she looked again, though, nothing had changed. He was still there. Bigger than life. Bigger even than the dreams that had come to her, unbidden, over the years.

  Will Denton was back in Ireland. Major Denton, to judge by the decorations on his uniform. Time had carved his face into a hard, elegant sculpture, like a statue of a Roman god colored bronze by a harsh West Indies sun.

  From across the room, his eyes, those intense blue-green eyes she had imagined so often over the years, seemed to touch her very heart. The noise and movement of the room all faded away, and she saw only him. For an instant, she was fifteen again, so full of yearning and romantic hope.

  Her hand tightened on the glass until it bit into her rings and dragged her back down to earth. To cold reality.

  “Good heavens!” Anna exclaimed. “Isn’t that Viscount Moreton’s younger son? The one who’s been gone so long?”

  “I believe so,” Eliza said hoarsely. Her throat felt so dry and tight. Where wa
s that champagne when it was needed? “I’m surprised you remember.”

  “Oh, I never forget a face. Especially one like that. Was he not your friend back then?”

  “I wouldn’t call him a friend. Just a neighbor and acquaintance.”

  “Did you sneak out to go riding with all your acquaintances, then?”

  Eliza shouldn’t be surprised, really. Despite her careless, party-loving facade, Anna had always been a shockingly sharp observer. Which meant having her in Dublin, now of all times, was not very wise. “That was a long time ago.”

  “The years have certainly been kind to our old neighbor. We should renew our acquaintance. It’s surely the polite thing to do.”

  Before Eliza could protest, Anna seized her by the hand and drew her across the room, through the knots of laughing people. Will watched their approach, his expression utterly unreadable, as if he had become a Roman statue in truth. As she drew closer to him, she suddenly recalled every minute they had spent together. Every single stolen kiss.

  She tried to breathe, but her stays were too tight. Only Anna’s firm clasp on her arm held her fast, not allowing her to run away. She had to keep moving forward, ever forward—toward Will, and the past that was suddenly all tangled up in the present.

  Mr. Neilsen bowed to them as they drew near. “Lady Mount Clare, Lady Anna. May I present—”

  “No need, Mr. Neilsen, for we are old friends! Are we not, Mr. Denton?” Anna said gaily. “Or should I say Major Denton, yes?”

  “I am most pleased to meet with you again, Lady Anna,” Will answered. Eliza thought she saw a flashing glint in his eyes, as if he would smile at them. But he merely bowed politely.

  “I’m surprised you recognize me. Have I not grown much taller?” Anna said. “Yet my sister, Lady Mount Clare, has grown only more beautiful. Would you not agree, Major?”

  Will looked directly at Eliza, his gaze steady and as dark blue and unreadable as the deepest sea. Eliza clutched at her folded fan, as if its carved ivory could keep her from drowning. “Most beautiful, of course—Lady Mount Clare. Then, you always were. Lord Mount Clare is most fortunate.”

  “He would be if he wasn’t dead!” Anna said brightly.

  “Anna!” Eliza admonished.

  Far from being repentant, Anna took Mr. Neilsen’s arm and smoothly led him away, saying, “Mr. Neilsen, there is something I absolutely must ask you about next week’s reception…”

  And Eliza was left quite alone with Will.

  Well, alone in a room with dozens of other people—people who always watched each other’s behavior with the most avid interest. Yet it felt as if there was only the two of them, cast round by a spell of glittering silence. All the years of her unsatisfactory marriage, her work, everything, just… disappeared.

  “You look well,” she said, finding her voice at last. “The islands must have agreed with you.”

  That lurking smile touched the corner of his lips. A mere shadow, but it sufficed. “Can they agree with any man? The heat, the hurricanes…”

  “Those recalcitrant natives?”

  “Them, too.”

  “And now you are brought back to Ireland to subdue a different set of natives?”

  Will laughed. She remembered well his old laugh, that merry, carefree sound that would burst forth like sunshine. This laugh was different, harsher somehow. Rougher and darker. “Do you need subduing, Eliza?”

  “Not by the likes of you, Will Denton. Major Denton.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember—not by a man in an English coat.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “And things change, do they?” His gaze swept over her, her silk gown and diamonds, the gold ring on her finger. “How long has Lord Mount Clare been gone?”

  “Over a year now.”

  “You look surprised as you say that.”

  In truth, she was a bit surprised. It seemed longer than a year; he had been so often away from home, from her—and she from him. An arrangement that suited everyone most admirably.

  Once, she could have said that to Will. Said anything, really. But the sun-bronzed, hardened man who stood before her was a stranger, and she had learned caution. Keeping one’s own counsel these days was essential.

  “Shall we take a turn about the room?” she said. People were beginning to watch them, no doubt to whisper about their long conversation.

  “Certainly, Lady Mount Clare,” Will answered, politely offering his arm. She slipped her fingers over the fine woolen sleeve, feeling the hard, taut muscle beneath. His hand flexed at her touch, sending the shift and ripple of it into her fingertips, and she realized that his laughter wasn’t the only thing that had roughened in the West Indies. He was not the boy she had once felt a foolish infatuation for. He was a man now, a man of mysterious depths and unreadable purpose.

  “Have you been to see your mother yet?” she asked, keeping her voice and expression carefully pleasant. Neutral. Polite.

  “Not yet, but they say we are to be posted to Kildare soon,” he said.

  Posted to Kildare. Very interesting. “She will surely be most happy to see you. Your father has been in London for many months. My mother tells me they have grown quite solitary at Moreton Manor.” And also that Lady Moreton lived in such terror of her tenants killing her in the night that she slept in the attic with a loaded pistol at her side.

  “I trust your mother is in good health? And Lady Caroline? For I see that Lady Anna is doing fine,” he said.

  Eliza glanced over to see that Anna had joined the dance and was leaping about and laughing with immense vigor. Eliza laughed, too, and said, “Anna enjoys… What is the phrase? Rude health. She is to return to Kildare after Christmas and is not happy at the prospect. Though my family is all very well, thank you.”

  “And you, Lady Mount Clare?” His voice lowered to a murmur, close to her ear. So close his cool breath stirred her curls, and she shivered. “How do you occupy your days in Dublin?”

  Eliza’s steps slowed, but she refused to let her polite smile waver. “Oh, Major Denton, my days are very full. I chaperone my sister, write letters to my mother, embroider cushions…”

  “A full day, indeed. Are your letters only to your mother, then?”

  “I have many friends I correspond with.”

  “So I have heard,” he said in a hard voice.

  Eliza stopped, so quickly that her hand tugged hard at his sleeve. “Are you insinuating I have a clandestine lover, Major? How terribly ungallant.”

  She tried to pull free, but he held her fast. Ahead of them was a set of tall glass doors leading to a narrow terrace. He tightened his grip on her arm, bearing her forward to the door so swiftly she hardly realized what he was doing. Before she could protest, she found herself outside with him in the night. Alone.

  It was too cold for any fresh-air seekers or secretive lovers, and the street below was eerily silent. No one wandered the lanes of Dublin at night these days, for fear of encountering the patrols. It was just her and Will—or rather, the hard stranger Will had become.

  “If only a lover was the rumor I heard,” he said, quiet and fierce. His stare never wavered from her face, as if he could read her secrets, read her very soul. Eliza backed up until she felt the hard edge of the stone balustrade through her skirts. Will followed, relentless, resting his hands on the balustrade so she was caught.

  They were as close as if they embraced, the warmth of his body wrapping all around her. But the hard glint in his eyes was far from affectionate.

  Eliza tried to laugh, to edge past him, yet she was truly caught. “I am just a respectable widow.”

  “A respectable widow who consorts with radical pamphlet writers and Catholic lawyers? With the likes of Lord Edward Fitzgerald and his French wife?”

  “My friends are my own business.”

  “You choose some dangerous friends in these uncertain times, Lady Mount Clare. And perhaps friendship is not all you offer them.” He leaned even closer, so c
lose she could scarcely tell where he ended and she began. And, despite the peril of her situation, she felt some of the old stirring within her, the excitement of just being close to him again.

  “Are you up, Lady Mount Clare?” he whispered.

  And the hot excitement was swept away in a cold tide at those words. The words that asked if she signed the United Irish petition. If she gave aid to traitors to that red coat he wore.

  She turned her head, staring blindly at the street below. “Whatever do you mean, Major Denton? La, such odd things you say! Did you learn them in the West Indies?”

  “Blast it, Eliza, listen to me!” Will grabbed her by the arms, holding her close, refusing to let her go. “You are as stubborn as ever. But you must listen to me now. This is a most perilous path you tread, and I would not see you hurt.”

  Eliza stared up at him, at his golden beauty limned in the reflected light from the assembly room beyond. He was beautiful, indeed—but so distant from her now. “What do you know?” she asked tightly.

  “I know all is not as it should be here,” he said. “That we dance tonight on a powder keg. And the most surprising people hold the match to set it alight.”

  “I have taken no oaths. You cannot arrest me simply for my friendships.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Eliza. Your ‘friends’ cannot win, and treason is a deadly game to play. Even for a countess.”

  Hot anger flowed through her, giving her a new strength. She twisted away from him, ducking past his confusing embrace. “I do not play the traitor here. And I believe this conversation is at an end.”

  She whirled toward the doors, but he caught her arm, reeling her back toward him. She collided with his chest, grabbing at his shoulders to hold herself steady. He wouldn’t let her go this time, holding her pinned to his hard body.

  “We were friends once, Eliza,” he said roughly. “Please, for the sake of that old friendship, listen to me now.”

  He hardly gave her a choice! She could not move, trapped by all his heat and strength, by the sudden weakness in her legs, the pounding of her heart. She said nothing.