Jane Lark - The Dangerous Love of a Rogue

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Fate played an odd game on Mary at the Fosters’ ball; as Mary stood talking with Miss Emily Smithfield, Lord Farquhar asked Mary to dance the first set.

She accepted with a shallow curtsy, smiling at him, then glanced back to give Emily, who invariably ended up the wallflower once more, an apologetic smile. Emily was the shy type, too quiet, but as she had only come out this season, she was still finding her place in society.

Mary looked back to see if Emily had found another companion to speak with, and caught her mother watching. The look in her eyes resembled the one in the drawing room that morning. Her father’s eyes glistened in the candlelight when she looked at him.

They thought she carried a torch for Lord Farquhar and he for her.

Mary turned away.

Lord Farquhar carried his torch for her good friend Lady Bethany Pope.

Oh heavens , lying never brought any good. It was always found out. The only time she’d lied in her childhood was when she’d accidently broken her mother’s perfume bottle. She’d hidden the broken bottle and claimed no knowledge of it. They’d known because she was the only one who smelt of the perfume.

She’d been in more trouble for lying than for breaking the bottle.

She’d never lied again – until the day of the Jerseys’ garden party.

Lord Farquhar’s eyes twinkled with good humour as he led her on to the floor. She liked her friends. She’d formed a good set last season. She glanced back at poor Emily. She was sure Emily would become settled, her friends were loyal, happy people, and generous in nature, all of them – yet none of her male friends carried an air of mystery, as Lord Framlington did. She selfishly wished for a life that was more exciting than this.

Her heart ached with a bitter sweet sadness. Lord Framlington made her long to unravel all the things he kept hidden. He was exciting…

Yet she had not even known his given name until she’d been about to leave him in the glasshouse.

The image of his eyes as he’d asked her to say his name aloud caught in her memory.

He was… vital… consuming heat… danger – and mystery. All other men were bland compared to him. How could she carry a torch for a bland man when there was Lord Framlington to compare to?

She would probably never marry, and then if she never married her whole life would be dull.

“You do not look quite the thing this evening, Mary. You look distracted. Is anything wrong?”

Lord Farquhar’s fingers gripped hers as they passed each other in the format of the country dance.

She had not even spoken to him since they’d walked on to the floor. “Nothing is wrong. But thank you for asking. I am merely tired, I have attended too many entertainments…”

“You can never attend too many…Are your shoes pinching? You may have too much dancing if your shoes are pinching…”

Mary laughed at his attempt to cheer her but stupidly it sent her tumbling into the doldrums.

If she never spoke to Lord Framlington again she would have to endure an entire life of dullness?

“I should be honest. It was not I who noticed. Bethany did. She sent me to cheer you up.”

“Ah.” Mary glanced at Bethany, who now stood beside Emily, then she looked back and smiled at Lord Farquhar.

She must cease longing for Lord Framlington. This was enough to make her happy. It had to be, and happiness was enough. Even if inside she spent her life screaming for excitement.

When the dance drew to an end Lord Framlington entered the ballroom, as her group swapped partners then formed the next set.

He walked with a group of men. They stopped and looked about the ballroom.

One gentleman’s gaze passed over her, then jolted back, stopping on her for a moment before he turned to the man next to him, his lips tilting in a smirk. Then they all looked at her.

She turned away.

Lord Framlington had spoken of her to his friends, then. What had he said? She hoped he’d not told them anything.

“Mary?” Philip Smyth took her hand and pulled her into motion as the music began. She was one step behind everyone, her heart racing as nausea tumbled in her stomach and light-headedness made her feel as if she might collapse.

But she did not give in to her weakness for the dark-haired, vibrant brown-eyed Lord Framlington, she lifted up her chin, caught up the step and continued, focusing on Philip and smiling as hard as she could.

When the music drew to its crescendo and ended in a brisk flurry, relief and a desire to reach the safety of her mother swamped Mary. But before she had chance to ask Philip to take her back, a shadow fell over her. She turned. John’s cousin, from John’s father’s side, stood beside her, Lord Oliver Harding, with another man.

“Miss Marlow.”

She had met Lord Harding at several events but he’d never paid her any particular attention. He was older than John and not interested in John’s young half-siblings.

Mary curtsied. “Lord Harding.”

He smiled, bowing only slightly then he turned to the gentleman beside him.

Heat burned beneath Mary’s skin. He was one of the men who’d entered with Drew.

“May I introduce Mr Harper to you Miss Marlow, he begged an introduction. Mr Harper, Miss Marlow, is my cousin’s sister.”

Mary searched for a memory of the man’s name but could recall nothing. She’d never seen nor heard of him before.

He gripped her hand, then kissed the back of her glove. Goosebumps ran up her arm, like a cold breeze had swept in to the room.

Bowing her head, to avoid his gaze, she curtsied a little.

When she rose and looked at him, she met piercing, assessing, blue eyes.

His blonde hair gave him a look of innocence, but his eyes denied it entirely. He was a rogue, of the worst sort, the sort who did not even bother to court wealth. That was why she’d not seen him before, because he was not the type of man to attend sedate functions. Even the card room here, she was sure, would not play deep enough.

He was a man who danced only with sin – and Lord Framlington’s chosen companion…

“May I have this dance, Miss Marlow?” If she refused it would be obvious to everyone around them as the sets had already formed and she would have to leave the floor alone. Philip had turned away.

Her mouth was too dry to answer. She nodded, anxiety spinning in her gut. Why would he single her out? What had Lord Framlington said?

“You’re very beautiful, Miss Marlow. More so than I’d thought, I admit. Now I can see why he is so smitten.”

“He?” Her cheeks heated with a deeper blush as they took the first steps of the dance moving forward then back. Then they turned to make a ring of four with the couple to their left.

Mary faced Lord Framlington.

Ah. So this was the game?

They completed a full circle, hands joined as a four and then she turned, looking at Lord Framlington and walking towards him as the dance required.

“Miss Marlow,” he acknowledged her with perfect formality.

Her fixed smile faded.

The next move was a closer turn, shoulder to shoulder, he pressed close. Heat scorched down her arm, and burned inside her, her heart thumping hard. She opened her mouth to breath, but there was no air.

“Mary,” he leant a little to whisper to her ear. “Did you receive my letter?”

“Yes.”

“Will you write to me?”

There was no time to answer. They were parted by the figures of the dance.

She faced his friend again, her heart pounding as she sought to watch Drew through the corner of her eye. There were no other moments to speak with him, and the rest of the dance seemed endless as the complicated patterns moved Drew further and further away.