With This Kiss Part 3

Five.

May 1835 Grace's debut went about as well as she had imagined it would.

Lily shone in the ballroom. She danced like the sprite Colin imagined her; she laughed at all the young men, and they adored her for it.

By the end of May, four men had asked for her hand, and one of them was heir to a marquess.

Grace had one proposal, from a thirty-eight-year-old widower with three daughters.

The only bearable part about it was that she made the miserable experience sound rather funny and bright in her letters. She painted pictures of abject suitors collapsed at Lily's feet. She painted her desperate swain with a child in each arm and one on his shoulders. She told Colin about his brother Fred knocking over the punch bowl at Lady Bustfinkle's musicale because-as it turned out-he had drunk far too much punch himself.

She never wrote a word about what it was like to sit at the side of a ballroom even as the music made her feet long to dance. She made it sound as if London gentlemen adored shy girls who had no clever conversation.

She had realized by now that she wasn't ugly, except perhaps in comparison to Lily. She was quite acceptable, with a heart-shaped face and nice eyes. Thanks to her mother, her gowns flattered her slender figure and red hair.

But she simply could not sparkle. And at times she felt so desperately shy that she could hardly speak.

Then Colin wrote one of his rare letters, congratulating her on having a brilliant season.

She couldn't bear the fact that she had, in essence, misled him. So she sent a little self-portrait as a well-dressed mouse sitting in the corner of the ballroom, watching everyone dance.

She didn't put the truth of it down in words.

Words were hard; painting was easier.

He didn't write back.

She told herself that he was silently sympathetic, that he was wis.h.i.+ng he were home to dance with her.

Then she tried to believe it.

Six.

May 1836 The Duke of Ashbrook's townhouse Colin didn't return to London again until the following year, when Grace was nineteen. The night before his s.h.i.+p was due in Portsmouth, she was sick with nerves.

By two days later, she was just sick. He was definitely in London; her own parents had seen him and he had told them warmly-according to the d.u.c.h.ess-how much he appreciated her letters.

But he hadn't called on her. She didn't want appreciation. She was old enough to know exactly what she did want.

"Perhaps he'll come to the ball tonight," Lily suggested. Then: "Do you suppose that the fact Lord Swift sent me violets means that he is serious?"

Grace didn't feel precisely jealous of her sister. She would hate to be the center of attention the way Lily was; she was much more comfortable dancing with second sons and future vicars. She actually liked sitting at the side of the room, where she could watch the dancers. It wasn't easy to memorize a face well enough to be able to paint it the next morning or, sometimes, that very night. If a face was so interesting that she was afraid she would forget details, she might stay up half the night painting, much to her mother's dismay.

In fact, she didn't pay young gentlemen much attention unless they had interesting features. According to her mother, that explained why they paid her even less.

She didn't care.

She was in love, and although it was difficult to imagine a future with Colin-given the fact that he hardly ever wrote her, and never a word about anything personal-she couldn't help herself. Loving him was as natural as breathing. And as essential to her as her ability to paint.

That night, the family went to a ball thrown by the d.u.c.h.ess of Sconce. Grace danced a few times, and sat down to supper with her sister, a flock of Lily's admirers, and Lord McIngle, a Scotsman who was showing signs of becoming an admirer of her own. Even though he wasn't old, or widowed, or half blind.

Supper was just over; she had curtsied to Lord McIngle and was following her sister into the crowded ballroom, when there was a rustle through the room.

Grace turned. Colin was standing in the door. All around her she heard whispers; after all, he had recently been made captain of his own vessel: the youngest Englishman ever to receive that honor.

His uniform was magnificent, dark blue with gold trim and gold b.u.t.tons all over his chest. The gleaming, bronze-colored epaulets on his shoulders made him look outrageously manly. His cravat was lace, and (she thought) the white emphasized the darkness in his eyes.

She loved the fact that he carried a secret in his eyes, one that he had never let out, except once, on the sh.o.r.e of the lake.

She instinctively started toward him, but made herself stay still and allow him to come to her. Lily always said it was important for gentlemen to pursue ladies, rather than the other way around.

That frozen moment gave her an excellent view of the most romantic thing to happen in London in ages, or so everyone said the next morning. As Colin walked down the steps, there was one of those accidental, miraculous partings of the crowd that happens even in crowded ballrooms. Colin was at one end, bowing before Lady Sconce, straightening, looking up . . . and Lily was at the other.

In the bright light of the ballroom, Lily looked-to Grace's objective eye-as beautiful as a true fairy sprite. She wore a pale gown suitable for a young lady, but because the d.u.c.h.ess of Ashbrook had a hand in the fabric, Lily sparkled with a subdued gleam that made her skin look flawless, and her hair blazed like rubies on white velvet. She had a perfect figure, round in all the right places, and slim everywhere else.

Grace's heart sank to her toes with a thud. She was wearing her most beautiful dress, the one that made her look like a Renaissance queen, or so her mother said. But she-and her mother-knew that an ordinary girl, no matter how sweet her expression, couldn't hold a candle to Lily. No one could. And it just made it worse that Lily wasn't vain about it. Even though she still had moody spells, she was a genuinely nice person.

The joy on Lily's face when she saw Colin walk into the ballroom was entirely unfeigned. And the look of utter shock, and then dazed awareness that came over his face . . . entirely unfeigned.

Having spent a few years in London ballrooms, Grace could diagnose love at first sight as well as anyone. Colin had just fallen in love. And Lily? Perhaps Lily had as well. She had a weakness for men in uniform. She was smiling at Colin, holding his hands and smiling up at him with such unmitigated pleasure that Grace wanted to weep. Or vomit.

She felt that, too. She felt just as joyful that Colin was home safe, that he had survived all those sea battles and whirlpools, and made his way home with prizes and accolades, though she didn't care about those. She just cared that he was home, rather than five fathoms deep with his bones turned to coral, and all the rest that Shakespeare wrote about drowned men.

And then, as everyone sighed with delight, the young lion returning with the vice admiral's special commendation asked Lily to waltz with him.

Grace watched from the side of the room as Colin twirled Lily, one hand lightly clasping hers, the other around her waist. When they were opposite Grace, Lily's head fell back and her curls fell over Colin's arm. She was laughing, looking up at him. When Lily laughed, as their father always said, the world laughed with her.

Grace watched until they neared the doors to the portico, saw Colin's face light with pleasure, saw the way he bent toward Lily as if he were a frozen man and she were a fire.

Then she turned and walked, very precisely, to the entryway. She shook her head when the butler offered to fetch her mother, telling him instead that she wanted the Duke of Ashbrook's carriage drawn up immediately. Then she asked him to inform her mother that she had a headache.

She fled.

Seven.

Colin took one look at the exquisite, laughing Lily and lost his heart. He had entered the ballroom feeling rather cold and sick. She had looked at him, then laughed, and held out her hands.

Lily was everything battle wasn't: she was exquisite and fragile and utterly precious. The very sight of her told him that there were things in the world worth fighting for.

He danced with her, and that was even better. He could hardly believe that they used to refer to her as The Horror.

"How can you be naughty Lily?" he said, looking into her dazzlingly beautiful eyes. She was dainty, and yet perfectly shaped, like a statue of Venus. And she smelled so good . . . the sort of perfume that reminded him that there were rooms where no one crumpled to the floor with a cry of pain, where there had never been a smell of death and decay, where there was always another gla.s.s of champagne to drink.

He forced his jaw to relax. He had made up his mind not to think about that sort of thing. To leave it behind. Only a weakling would let memories follow him like a trail of wailing ghosts all the way from Portsmouth and into a ballroom.

The good thing was that Lily knew nothing of war. He almost didn't want to see Grace because she knew too much. She knew that he hated the navy. He was afraid merely seeing her might unman him.

He took no pleasure from the ocean anymore. All that was subsumed with his loathing of battle.

But here, with Lily, he felt different. He could feel his heart lifting. This was the way out of the maze of fear and memory: dancing and laughing with an enchanting woman who knew nothing of war, who had a dimple in her cheek, who smelled like roses. He twirled her faster and faster, letting the tempo guide his steps.

In the ballroom, there was no death and blood. No tears. No letters to be sent to mothers.

He smiled down at the lovely la.s.s in his arms. Her lips were the color of spring roses and her eyes were soft and affectionate. Lily was like a whirlwind made of laughter. The faster they twirled, the more she loved it, leaning back against his arm and giggling.

After their dance, he asked for Grace. But he was secretly glad when it turned out that she had gone home with a headache.

"She never would have left if she knew you were coming," Lily told him. "She absolutely adores you, though I don't know why. You obviously don't deserve it!"

Over her fan, her eyes shone with a merry, wicked light. Around them pretty girls swirled, their dresses light and airy against their perfectly shaped bodies, arms gleaming in the candlelight, lips rosy. He traded Lily to a sleek young lord who told him, languidly, that he had deep admiration for the navy. "The bravery," the man said, waving his hand. "All the courage you chaps display. Quite remarkable."

He danced with a friend of Lily's, who had bouncing curls and s.h.i.+ning white teeth. In fact, her teeth were rather mesmerizing, and he found himself imagining her head as a skull, but then he forced the image away-away-and managed to put himself back in the gaily turning ballroom.

"More champagne?" The evening was drawing to a close, but Lily and her friends were as fresh as daisies, as beautiful as they had been hours ago.

He took the gla.s.s, perhaps his fourth, perhaps his eighth, and met Lily's eyes with a smile. He was sure it was a smile because he turned his lips the right way.

"I want to meet your friend, Mr. Philip Drummond!" she said.

"You know of Philip?" For a moment the two worlds collided; with an effort of will he pushed the other one away.

She laughed, gaily. "Of course I know of him-from the letters you've sent Grace, silly. We all know Philip or, rather, Lieutenant Drummond now, isn't it?"

He managed only half a smile this time and tipped up the gla.s.s of champagne. "Drummond is a capital fellow. A great friend."

"Where is he now?"

The champagne rushed down Colin's throat in an angry rush of bubbles. "With his family in Devon."

"Oh, of course!" Lily put a hand on his sleeve. "Colin, it's time to go home."

He frowned down at her.

Her eyes were sympathetic. Everything you'd want a wife's eyes to be. "You've had too much champagne," she told him. And then she came up on her toes and, to his utter horror, wiped a tear from his cheek. "Come on, old thing," she said, tucking her arm under his and towing him off toward the door. "I expect the navy doesn't give you much champagne, do they? We must have Father send you a case in the diplomatic bag . . ."

He stumbled along with her, letting a stream of words carry him to the door, whereupon his father appeared from somewhere, and then he fell into the darkness of the carriage.

"I don't sleep much," he told his father, blinking because Sir Griffin was a little hazy in the dark carriage. "But I think it will be all right tonight."

"I'm so glad," his father said, but he sounded sad.

So Colin added, "Because of the dancing. Because of Lily."

"Lily?"

His father sounded a little dubious, so Colin made the statement even more positive. "When she's there, and I'm dancing with her, and she's smelling of roses in late summer, I don't think so much. She's my tonic." He swept his hand in the air and accidentally hit the wall of the carriage.

His father's hand landed on his knee, warm and steady. "I love you, Colin. We all love you."

What was the point of saying that? He would have asked, but all the champagne swept up into his head and he collapsed into the corner of the carriage.

In the end, the memories invaded his sleep, anyway.

But when he woke up, he remembered that it was Lily who had chased them away.

The next morning, her eyes s.h.i.+ning, Lily told Grace that Colin had come to the ball. Apparently he had asked for Grace, but no one could find her, and finally their mother had told him that she had a headache, and he had said he was sorry to hear that.

And to tell her how much he appreciated her letters.

Grace decided at that moment that there would be no more letters.

Colin paid a call that morning, but Grace refused to leave her chamber. Lily popped her head in, and said that Colin was taking her for a drive in the park, and did Grace wish to come?

Grace was so consumed with love and anger and anguish that she shook her head. "I'm painting," she said. "You know I paint every morning."

"After all those letters, don't you wish to see Colin?" Lily asked, looking surprised. "I'd think you'd be dying to say h.e.l.lo to him. He's even more handsome now, Grace, I promise you that. And it was so sweet when he became a little tipsy on champagne last night. I shall tease him about it."

Much later that evening, after supper had come and gone (Grace ate in her room), her mother looked in, gave her a hug, and said, "Darling, are you certain that you don't wish to say h.e.l.lo to Colin? I expect he finds it confusing, given that you have written all those letters. He's coming tomorrow morning as well."

She swallowed and said, "He's fallen for Lily, hasn't he?"

The d.u.c.h.ess opened her mouth . . . and shut it again.

"Hasn't he?" Grace asked in a hard little voice. She had seen it happen. She knew.

"I believe Colin has discovered Lily's charm," her mother said, finally. "But that doesn't mean that he won't discover yours as well."

Grace rolled her eyes. "I might as well be invisible when Lily is near, Mother. You know that."

"I disagree." But mothers are mothers, and Grace knew better than to trust her mother's opinion.

The d.u.c.h.ess caught her up in another hug. "You are my dear, darling Grace, and any man who doesn't see what a wonderful woman you are doesn't deserve to kiss the hem of your gown."

Mothers say things like that.