The Officer's Temptation Ch. 10

Author's note: No full sex scene this chapter.

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The Officer's Temptation

Chapter 10: The Ball

"Marlowe, dear, what do you think? The gold or the silver?" Marlowe glanced up from the sketch he had been attempting of the hearth in the study. His mother stood at the door holding up two decorative shawls. Her dark hair was tied in curl papers, wrapped and ready to be styled for the ball later.

He grinned. "With your complexion? The gold. The silver would make you look like a corpse."

His mother scowled and threw one of the shawls at his face. The tiny decorative beads scratched his jaw as the cloth thumped in his face. "Is that any way to talk to your mother?"

He laughed as he pulled the shawl off, making only the smallest of grimaces as a hair got caught in the bead work and yanked out from his sideburns. "It is when she insists on talking to me on matters of fashion. Isn't this why you invited Mrs. Jennings?"

"She's too busy getting ready." His mother made a delicate sniffing sound and pulled a chair up to the desk beside him. "I need to remind your father to have a conversation with you about how to talk to women. I may be old, but I am not yet a corpse," she said wryly.

He handed her back the so recently weaponized accessory. "Do you mean to say that my attempts to stress you into an early grave have been fruitless?"

She chuckled and held up the golden shawl to study it. "You're right. I think this will suit better than the silver. It is our last ball in Florence. I want something bold and memorable."

"It's our only ball in Florence," he reminded her, nibbling on the end of his pen and thinking that the week had passed altogether far too quickly. The families were nearly ready to pack up and make off for their next destination in Milan. Besides preparations for the ball, there seemed to be a hundred other small tasks to complete--visits to be made, sites to be seen, and of course, things to buy. Though hadn't yet departed, Marlowe was already feeling a growing nostalgia for Florence, where they had spent the longest leg of their tour. Now they would be on to Milan for only a week and afterwards the families would split with the Jenningses continuing into Switzerland and France and the Hugheses and the Balfreys returning south to Genoa where they would set sail back for England. It would be a few more months until the Jennings family finished their tour and returned home, but if all went according to plan he supposed it would be even longer before he saw Kate again. Perhaps years. Perhaps never if she met some handsome artist or poet in the streets of Paris and neglected to return home.

"What troubles you?" his mother asked, observing the shadow that crossed his face. She looked over his shoulder at the drawing. "Having difficulty with the sketch?" She pursed her lips as her eyes flicked approvingly over the page. "You always did like to draw, when you were a young boy. Do you remember? And this is coming along quite nicely. Katherine's lessons have made a marked improvement in your forms."

"Praise for the teacher and not the student?"

She smiled. "I remember the governess's complaints about the student when he was a wee lad sneaking toads into the nursery instead of studying his arithmetic."

"Miss Compton was a poor teacher. Miss Jennings is infinitely superior."

His mother quirked an eyebrow. "I suppose you'll dance with her tonight? You'll be a beautiful pair on the dance floor."

Marlowe groaned. "Mother, please." But despite himself he smiled.

She looked at him approvingly. "It is nice to see you smile again. It makes me so nostalgic to see you like this." She placed a hand on his arm. "You were the happiest child I ever saw, did you know that? Your sister cried and fussed so much, but never you. After you returned from Spain, I thought--"

But there was a sudden movement at the door and she trailed off. A manservant hovered in front of them, dipping his head. "Excuse me Signor, Signora. Lady Balfrey has arrived. Shall I show her in?"

Marlowe's mother dropped her hand from his arm and nodded as the manservant scampered off. "I forgot I had told her that she might come over to borrow a pair of earrings," she said, standing.

Marlowe put away his pen and drawing, racking his brain for an excuse to have a quick exit. In seconds, however, Arabella was entering the room. She was as beautiful as always, though her light seemed a bit tamped down, her eyes harder. Marlowe rose as the women kissed cheeks in greeting.

"You'll forgive me dear," his mother said. "I was so preoccupied getting ready that I forgot that I had told you to come by. The earrings I meant to give you are still tucked away upstairs. It completely slipped my mind."

"Don't bother yourself if it is too much trouble," Arabella smiled demurely. "It was so kind of you to even offer them to me."

"It's no trouble at all." His mother fussed with her gown, looking between Marlowe and Arabella. "It is only that I shall have to go fetch them myself. I have two pairs of emeralds and I don't want the girl getting confused since I didn't lay them out for you."

"Of course," said Arabella. Her eyes flicked over to Marlowe, conspiring behind her dark lashes. "I can wait a moment, but I mustn't tarry long. I still have so much to do before getting ready for the ball."

Mrs. Hughes smoothed her gown and picked up the two shawls that she had left lying on the back of the chair. "I'll only be a moment, dear. Marlowe, be a gentleman and keep Lady Balfrey entertained for me."

Marlowe turned to Arabella when his mother was out of the room. She was looking at him with a frank, yet unreadable expression, her eyes wide, and her lips pursed in thought. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. He did not know how to talk to her without stolen kisses or planning some secret tryst.

"Shall I ring for tea?" he awkwardly asked.

"No, I'll be away as soon as I have those earrings from your mother. No need for tea."

The silence stretched between them again. "How have you been feeling since..." he trailed off.

"Since you abandoned me in a brothel?" She crossed her arms. "You'll be relieved to know that I discovered that I am not with child."

"I know," he said tensing his fingers. "Lord Balfrey mentioned it. He said that you were distraught. I'm sorry that you were feeling... unwell."

She turned her face towards the window. "Did I ever tell you why I was so happy when I thought there was going to be a child?"

"No."

"Children can't abandon their mothers. It is a love that runs deep. And I have so much love to give, Marlowe. And no one who seems to want it!"

"Nicholas wants it. He yearns for you! You should see his eyes when he speaks of you. He loves you, Arabella, truly."

She scoffed and pouted her lips. "But you don't."

He sighed. "I cared for you. I still do. I want you to be happy, but this thing between us is not the way. It's not what I need, and I don't think that it is good for you, either. That doesn't mean that things have to be awkward. We can be friends." Even he didn't believe his own words. It was difficult to be in a room with Arabella and not think of the way she looked naked, writhing beneath him. But surely with time, they could put the whole tawdry affair behind them. "Nicholas loves you, and you married him, so I can only assume that you must have loved him at some point. Perhaps you should try reconnecting with him, and forget this thing that we had."

Her eyes were wide and pleading. "If you wanted me to be happy, then you would come back to me."

"I can not."

She trained her eyes on him with a petulant expression. "You're going to regret it."

His heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?" He tensed his hand so hard that a bolt of pain coursed through his nerves. Was she going to say something to Nicholas? To Kate?

But the petulant expression melted away into something seductive and devious and she only tittered. "Will you save me a dance this evening, Lieutenant?"

Marlowe rocked back on his heels. "Arabella, I can't. Please understand. It is best for the both of us if we limit our contact as much as possible."

Her whole face seemed to tighten, and the softness that had settled around her eyes hardened with bitterness. She stood as they heard Marlowe's mother's footsteps approaching in the hall. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "We'll see about that."

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"Lady Balfrey is in fine form this evening." Kate whispered as they passed on the dance floor, gloved hands touching momentarily in a turn. Marlowe twirled with another partner before the dance allowed him to return to Miss Jennings. The curls pinned beside her face wafted slightly as they swirled by one another, and they did another pass. Kate's eyes shone at him from across the dancing line.

"And what ever could you mean by that?" he whispered in her ear as she rejoined him.

Their arms interlaced as they circled. Her scent filled his nose like orange blossoms flowering in the hot air. "You have eyes, do you not?"

"For no one but yourself," he said glibly. They hopped past each other on another turn.

"You are flirting, sir."

"Yes. Is it working?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she tittered.

"Of course. Could you not say?" He whispered in her ear on the last pass, feeling his voice drop deeper into his chest.

"I can't solve all your problems for you, dear Lieutenant. You shall have to be resourceful and find out on your own." She swiped a damp curl away from her forehead as they stepped into the final positions of the dance.

"Now who is flirting?" he teased.

"Not I. For the song is ending and I can only flirt while dancing."

"Then we must dance again." The last strains of the music faded from the air. He grinned at her as he gave her a little bow. Her dimples showed as she gave him the requisite curtsy. The ballroom erupted into applause for the musicians, who wiped the sweat from their brows before beginning to pluck their strings for the next dance.

She took his arm, and halfway pulled him from the floor. "Lud, I shall faint away if I dance another step. The air is too close in here. And besides, I should not be monopolizing you. There are so many ladies who would like a turn."

The air was close, damp with the humidity of summer and the heat of the dancers and candles that flared around them. Even with the magnificent set of doors that lined the wall to the gardens all thrown open, there was no breeze to be found. He steered her towards the table where a servant was filling glasses of cool water from an urn. He handed one to Kate and took another for himself. Condensation had collected on the glass, dampening his glove. "How could I enjoy dancing with another partner after witnessing your grace on the dance floor?" The better question was how could he bear to watch Kate dance with anyone else. He felt a churning in his stomach just thinking of another man provoking her radiant smile. But that, he decided, was too impolitic to say.

She giggled indelicately, almost spitting out the sip of water she had taken. 'I stepped on your foot!"

"Only once... or twice," he teased. "I didn't mind at all. I suppose they will have to take the foot off after such an injury, but truly, I don't mind. It's not often a man can claim to have been injured by a stampeding elephant."

"You rogue! You wound me with your teasing."

"Not as much as you wounded my foot." His sharp wit was rewarded with an even sharper poke in the ribs that set him laughing.

Kate jerked her chin at something across the ballroom. "See, there is your Lady Balfrey," she said. "She shall send the chaperones to their deaths."

Marlowe followed her gaze before he could stop himself. Arabella was beside Nicholas, dressed in a scarlet gown whose deep square neckline was perhaps only a tenth of an inch away from being too scandalous for polite society. Her cheeks were flushed with wine and she was hanging onto Nicholas in a way that was so sensual, it was almost obscene. "She's not my Lady Balfrey," Marlowe said pointedly.

"Perhaps she would like to be."

Arabella's eyes suddenly met his from across the room. She honed in on him with an intense focus that made him think that perhaps her very visible ardor for her husband was only a newfound scheme to induce jealousy, perhaps her plan for how to make him regret terminating their liaison. "That's nonsense," he told Kate. "Shall we take a turn around the garden?"

"If my chaperone does not object."

Marlowe snorted. "Your mother has been gossiping away with mine all night and has barely looked at you."

"I never claimed she was a capable chaperone. But still, we must honor propriety a little. Though she would swat me if she realized how many dances I gave you."

They made their way to the gaggle of older women who were chatting animatedly on the edge of the hall. Mrs. Jennings and Marlowe's mother both looked over as he escorted Kate to their side.

"There you are darling," said Mrs. Jennings. "I was just talking about you."

"Oh?"

"Mrs. Hughes and I are ready to retire for the night. I can no longer dance until dawn as I could when I was young."

"You haven't danced a single step all night, Maman."

"Impertinent girl!" her mother chided. "But you needn't fear. I'm not trying to drag you away from the ball. I know how you do love to dance." She gave her daughter a coy smile. "And you and the Lieutenant make such a handsome pair."

Marlowe's mother's lips pressed into a calculating smile as Mrs. Jennings spoke. Marlowe crossed his arms. He sensed a plot afoot. "Whatever have you schemed now, Mother?"

His mother patted her thick hair nonchalantly. She looked demure and saintly in her pale green dress, her golden shawl tastefully draped over her arms, truly the picture of maternal kindness. "Nothing, dearest. I only suggested to Mrs. Jennings that if we were to take our leave, that you could be Miss Jennings's chaperone for the rest of the evening."

"Mother! I am a man. I am hardly fit to...to..." he sputtered.

"Are you a gentleman, son? A man of honor?"

"Of course," he lied.

"Then it will be no trouble for you to safeguard our Miss Jennings this evening. And Lord and Lady Balfrey are in attendance, as well. Mrs. Jennings and I are confident that between the three of you, Miss Jennings has no real use for a chaperone any further this evening."

"But what will people think?"

Marlowe's mother scoffed and leaned towards Marlowe, speaking in barely a whisper. "Oh Marlowe, you must have noticed how lax these Italians are. I should wager that no one shall have anything at all to say on the matter. There are so few English here, and barely anyone of note. And if you are that concerned, my son, you can always pass Miss Jennings off to Lady Balfrey's care." Her eyes flicked across the ballroom. "Although, I can say in confidence, I find you more morally fit."

Marlowe's jaw was slack, but Kate was beaming. "Of course you can trust dear Lieutenant Hughes, Maman. Quite right. I'm certain that he won't allow any harm to come to me." Her grip tightened on his arm. "We were just about to take a stroll through the gardens, so I bid you goodnight."

"The gardens!" Mrs. Jennings said with raised eyebrows.

Marlowe's mother intervened. "I'd tell you to never allow it in England, Susan, but Mr. Hughes and I took our own stroll to escape the heat. I can assure you that they are bustling and quite well lit. Nothing like what we are used to in our country houses."

Mrs. Jennings gave her reluctant consent and Marlowe found himself being pulled away as soon as the requisite goodbyes had been issued. He did not fail to miss the slightly worried look in Mrs. Jennings's eyes and the devious expression in his mother's. The woman was so thoroughly vexing with her plotting. But on the other hand, how could he not be pleased to know that he had Kate all to himself for the rest of the evening? No curious parental eyes to spy on them, to speculate about his own escalating attachment. It was infuriating really, how damnably right his mother always was.

The outside air was fresh and light compared to the pressing heat of the ballroom. There were several stone benches along the exterior colonnade and Marlowe steered Kate to an unoccupied one. They sat in silence for a moment, watching other couples laugh and walk through the gardens. A few lanterns were lit, but most of the light was from the bright moon and the warm light of the ballroom which spilled out with the music through the open doors. This close to town, the garden really wasn't large when compared to the sprawling sort back home where reputations were so frequently ruined.

"I thought you were tired of dancing," he said to Kate, noticing that she was tapping her foot in time with the music.

"I am tired of dancing. But my body has other ideas. It is often quite passionate to the point of being unruly."

Marlowe swallowed hard at his own ideas of exactly what kind of passions her flesh might be desirous of. His own body was only too aware of her closeness, the scent of her in his nose, the press of her arm against his side, the shape of her slender neck as it curved into her chest, the swell of her breasts under her gown. And of course they were so near the shadows of the gardens. He blinked. "Your parents are so trusting," he accidentally said aloud. He tensed for a moment, worrying that he had revealed far too much of his thoughts, but she only laughed.

"They are appropriately trusting. I am a sensible girl." she wiped her brow and pulled off her gloves, tucking them into her reticule. She unfolded the small fan that hung from her wrist and wafted it through the air. It only served to make him even more aware of the heavenly way she smelled.

"Are you? Because someone told me that you were planning to run off to France."

"Well, there is that."

"You haven't told them yet?" He was mesmerized by the shape of her lips as she spoke. So lush and round and full of mischief. Would they taste of orange blossoms and jasmine like the scent of her perfume?

Her pert nose wrinkled. "Not yet. I haven't quite worked up the nerve. I am half-convinced that I should wait until the very last possible moment. So that they cannot dream up any notions for stopping me."

He closed his hand over hers and squeezed. "They love you. They will understand." The heat of her skin seeped in through his glove. He wondered what her skin would feel like under his without the fabric between them.

She leaned her head back, exposing that beautiful neck as she continued to fan herself. "You understand. Perhaps you will visit me."

"I shall," he said. But the thought caused an ache in his chest. He wanted her to seize the opportunity to make something of herself. He respected it. He believed in her and her immense talent. But he was realizing more and more what that would mean for him. Her mischief would be tucked out of site, away from him in Paris. No more lessons, no more easy conversation. He frowned. It would be an end to the floating feeling that rose in his chest when she entered a room. "I shall visit you."

"Will it make you uneasy to be among the French?"

"You mean because of the war?" He sighed, and released her hand, running his palms over his thighs. "Yes, perhaps. War is impersonal in a way, but also..." he trailed off, lost in thought.

She reached out to his hand, the injured one, and pulled off his glove by the fingertips, face set in curiosity. He let her, breathing in slowly as the glove dropped to his lap and her bare skin touched his hand. She traced her fingertips over it lightly, sending chills down his spine. Even in the pale light of the moon, the gruesome scar was visible. She traced it. He tensed, but did not pull away.