by Jenna Jaxon
Mrs. Doyle looked about, grumbled something under her breath, and motioned Amanda out into the corridor again. Striding quickly down the dim passageway, she turned her head from side to side, as if searching for something. At last, she ducked into a room on the right, which turned out to be a small alcove with a balcony overlooking the ballroom. Unless they approached the railing, no one could see them.
“Very well, Amanda,” Mrs. Doyle said, turning to her, hands clenched on her fan. “Please explain your insistence that I invite Lord Somersby to our party. You gave me no choice in the matter, which most young ladies of breeding would know is simply not done.”
“I do beg your pardon for that, Mrs. Doyle.” Amanda tried hard to sound contrite, but it was very difficult to do so when she was so pleased with the outcome. “I know I should have waited until Lord Somersby had left us to ask, but I was so excited by his attentions during the dance and then he asked for the supper dance.” Bouncing on her toes, she squeezed her hands together to try to stem the urge to twirl around the room. “You cannot know how exciting this all is to me.”
The pinched features of Mrs. Doyle’s disapproving face softened. “I do understand, Amanda. You should’ve been out these past two years, having been instructed in the correct behavior. Had it not been for your mother’s death—”
“I wouldn’t have had a come out even if she had lived, Mrs. Doyle.” Her mother had made it clear long before Amanda’s eighteenth birthday that she should set her sights on marrying within the village. “Mother wanted nothing to do with the society that had shunned her because she married my father.”
“Still, your grandfather should’ve done something for you.”
Amanda shrugged. “He may have tried, but she wouldn’t have allowed it. I don’t believe they spoke from the day of her marriage.” While she’d been a wonderful woman, doing much good for the poor in their village, Amanda’s mother had seldom spoken of the family that had disowned her.
Cocking her head, Mrs. Doyle stared frankly into her eyes. “Did you not feel some qualm, then, using your grandfather’s inheritance for your come out this Season? Knowing your mother would’ve disapproved?”
“No, ma’am.” Amanda shook her head. That decision had actually been easy. “I talked with Father about it, and he said I should not be disadvantaged just because of the choices my mother had made. In fact, he’s the one who suggested this.” She waved her arms to indicate the gown, the ball, Mrs. Doyle herself. Things her mother would never have wanted for her. Perhaps this Season was partly a rebellion against her mother’s expressed wishes. “I had wanted to spend the money on a bigger, newer house for us, but he’d have none of that.” Her father had a stubborn streak as well. “In the end, I couldn’t say no.”
“Nor should you have.” With a sigh, Mrs. Doyle cupped her face. “You are the image of your grandmother. I look at you, I see her. And I’m very happy to sponsor you for her sake if nothing else. We came out together, and I remember that Season very well indeed, though it was many years ago.” She dropped her hand, and her rather brisk manner returned. “That being said, you must remember your manners and not try to take control of such matters until you are mistress of your own house.” Taking Amanda’s arm, she started them for the door. “Now we will return to the ballroom, where you will find partners for the rest of the dances.”
“But I don’t want—”
“Amanda.” Mrs. Doyle gave her arm a shake, her mouth stern. “You have come to Lady Hamilton’s ball to dance with eligible young gentlemen. No matter that you have found one to your liking already, you should still partner with others. Perhaps you will find one you like even more.”
“I somehow doubt that.” Who on earth could eclipse Lord Somersby, with his handsome features and perfect dance skills?
“Try anyway. It is accepted as the polite thing to do. You will be thought odd if you refuse to dance with the other gentlemen. You have no idea that his lordship is in any way serious in his intentions toward you. He has merely expressed a desire to partner you at a ball. He may have seen a pretty face and wished to impress you. I fear I have been far too secluded in Dorset these many years past.” She shook her head as they passed into the corridor. “I have not come to London for a Season since my daughter came out over ten years ago. I will speak to friends and discover what there is to know about Lord Somersby. But for now, you must dance and talk and laugh with the other gentlemen as well.”
“I promise to do so, Mrs. Doyle.” She just didn’t promise to like it.
Chapter 3
With a smile on his lips and a spring in his step, Richard quickly made his way toward the card room. Oh, but this evening was turning out to be vastly entertaining. Not only was he engaged to dance with one of the prettier girls in attendance this evening, but he was coming into the home stretch in the race to obtain his stable. Miss Sharpe had proved a delightful partner, and he actually looked forward to their next dance and the supper with her as well. Surely he could use that time to his advantage. Her eagerness to wring an invitation for the card party out of her chaperone boded well for his cause. A choice bit of strategy on Miss Sharpe’s part there. He couldn’t have arranged it better himself.
“Bravo, Miss Sharpe,” he muttered beneath his breath. She already seemed so taken with him that perhaps another meeting or two would do the trick. Like a ripe pear ready to fall into his hands.
Still, he’d best have a care about her. He’d been so fascinated by her he’d not even realized they were alone on the veranda until they were at the balustrade. Now that was mastery on her part. Had she been worldlier in the ways of the ton, she could have gotten herself compromised and had him in a leg-shackle this minute. A shudder rippled down his back and he snagged a glass of champagne from a passing footman. After a delicious sip, he sighed and sauntered toward the supper room to take a peek.
Lady Hamilton’s suppers were among the best offerings in the ton. Tea, lemonade, wine, and champagne sat side by side on one long table, interspersed with glittering candelabras, to the left side of the festively decorated room. In addition to the army of footmen circling the ballroom, additional servants here stood ready to serve any beverage at the nod of a head. His mouth watered at the thought of the white soup, cold fowl, lobster patties, tongue, sweetbreads, sherry trifle and more. Her supper tables were legendary.
Richard stood sipping his champagne, musing over Miss Sharpe. Lady Hamilton had given no particulars about her beyond her name and that she was new in town. That could mean anything. The girl had told him only a little of herself, though her actions had spoken quite loudly. Still, he would get the rest of her background before the night ended.
If he could spy Eric, the task would be in hand instantly. His friend had a knack for soaking up information as the flowers soaked up sunlight and was all too happy to provide it at a moment’s notice. He’d lost sight of the man while engaged with Miss Sharpe, but now that he had some time before seeking her out again, he would find him.
Gulping the rest of his drink, he nonchalantly strolled to a small table laden with desserts awaiting the supper hour, snagged a lemon ice, then hurried back into the corridor. The cold confection sent a refreshing burst of citrus throughout his mouth. It melded with the lingering flavor of the dry champagne into a refreshingly light, sweet taste. He must recommend it to Miss Sharpe at supper.
A momentary confusion—that odd thought had sprung from nowhere—vanished as Eric came into sight with a short, dark-haired lady, a Miss Gillingham, he believed, on his arm. Eric spotted him, and the couple came toward him.
“There you are, Somersby. Wondered where you’d gotten to.” Eric raised his eyebrows but said nothing else. “Miss Gillingham, do you know Lord Somersby?”
“Yes, we’ve met previously. My lord.” The chit curtsied, her gaze firmly fixed on the floor. They’d been introduced and danced once at an earlier entertainment. The young lady had either been warned about him or suspected something in his attent
ions weren’t genuine, for she’d steered clear of him ever since.
“We’ve had a bit of fresh air and are looking for a sip of something. I see you’ve been doing the same.”
“Excellent champagne, I must say.” Richard cocked an eyebrow at Eric. “I’m off for the card room. Join me when you are free?” More a command than a question, but then Eric had been his faithful follower for years.
“Delighted. I’ll just locate a footman and see Miss Gillingham gets some wine then take her to her mother.”
“Of course. Miss Gillingham.” He bowed and smiled his best wolfish smile, showing all his teeth.
The girl gasped and curtsied then tugged Eric toward the ballroom.
Chuckling lightly, Richard ambled into the foyer and headed for the room Lady Hamilton had designated for the card players—a modest, oak-paneled chamber with six or seven small deal tables scattered about. The walls boasted works of art in autumn colors, mostly landscapes, with one very fine portrait done in the style of the old masters. Richard settled himself at one of the round tables, opened the card box, and withdrew the deck then shuffled the cards. Almost all the other tables held players busily winning or losing money. Only he had come for a different purpose.
A few minutes passed before Eric entered the room and seated himself across from Richard.
“You called me in here to play cards, Richard?” A frown furrowed his friend’s brow. “I would have thought you’d—”
“Wish to talk about Miss Sharpe? Of course I do.” Richard continued to shuffle the cards, though he had no intention of playing. “I trust you have information that will be of use to me?”
“Some, perhaps.” Eric narrowed his eyes. “Are you interested in that quarter?”
“Hah.” His voice came out so strongly heads turned toward them. He lowered it and continued. “Only as far as it will get me my racing stable. She seemed very eager to please tonight, but I prefer to have as many facts as possible at my disposal. It never hurts to be prepared.”
“Well, that’s true enough.” Eric grabbed a handful of counters and spread them out in front of him. “So, Miss Amanda Sharpe.”
“Amanda?”
“Yes. A bit different, isn’t it?” Eric lined up the little mother-of-pearl ovals in rows.
“So is she. In many ways. You should have seen how she forced her chaperone into inviting me for cards on Monday. One of the more calculated moves I’ve seen a young lady of breeding accomplish.”
“What did she do?”
“Asked the lady to invite me while I stood before her.”
“I say, Richard.” Eric paused, the final counter in his hand. “That was rather—”
“Smoothly done, I thought. I quite liked her spirit.” Richard sighed, and nodded to his friend. “So what did you find out?”
“Well, according to my mother, who I went to immediately after you asked Miss Sharpe to dance, the young lady is the granddaughter of a Mr. John Weeks, a respectable, prosperous gentleman of the gentry who managed to amass a bit of a fortune. It was slated to go to a male heir, but he went missing in France last summer. The old man continued to live in hope and so rewrote his will. As his only known living relation, Miss Sharpe inherits the estate and all monies, to the tune of about ten thousand pounds. Although if this male relative turns up within the next five years, it all reverts to him.”
Richard paused his shuffling. “Not a bad inheritance. She should be able to land a husband with that for a dowry. Perhaps even a gentleman with a title.”
“Just not yours?” Eric grinned.
“No, decidedly not mine.”
With an abrupt shake of his shoulders, he shuffled the cards once more. “What about her family? Did your mother speak of that?”
“Yes. And therein lies the tale of why a woman of one and twenty is only now out in Society. Her mother made a mésalliance with a surgeon in Warwickshire.”
“Good lord.” The cards scattered out of Richard’s hands. “A surgeon? Not a physician?” Not a gentleman.
“A Mr. Henry Sharpe, surgeon. Her parents disowned her, and she apparently raised Miss Sharpe for a life of drudgery in Warwickshire. Now that has changed.”
“Although her parentage has not.” That was a blow, or would have been had he wished to court Miss Sharpe in earnest. Of course, Father would never sanction such a marriage. Pity that. Miss Sharpe might have made a delicious and interesting sort of wife. Richard shook off the fanciful notion. His father had already selected his bride. No surgeons in Lady Edith’s ancestry, he’d wager. “What can you tell me of Mrs. Doyle?”
“Mrs. Doyle? Why would you wish information about her?”
Richard shook his head. Eric would be lucky ever to marry and then likely only through an arrangement. “Again, Eric, one must know something about everyone. Even about a chaperone. One never knows what will be useful or when.”
Shrugging, Eric straightened up the counters. “Mother only mentioned she’s lived quietly in Dorset since her husband died five years ago.”
“Any idea where in Dorset?”
“Lyme Regis, I believe.” Having made six rows of the little pearl circles, Eric gathered them up and poured them back into the box. “Are you sure you’re not interested in the lady? You’re acting rather oddly.”
“I am not.” He gathered the cards, turning them over and over until they presented a precise stack. “I’m merely gleaning information to use if it becomes necessary. And her father’s occupation certainly gives me reason to break off with Miss Sharpe once she declares herself to me.”
“True. I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“That is why your schemes never come to fruition, Eric. You do not plan. You allow the moment to take you where it will. I, on the other hand, have carefully worked out each step of this seduction.”
“Seduction?” The startled look Eric gave him made him laugh. “I thought you planned only to gain her affections.”
“And to do that one must seduce, not necessarily with the body, although that may also be a means to the end.” One of the pleasanter aspects, in fact. He placed the deck of cards back into their container and closed the lid. “However, I will also seduce her with sweet words and gestures such as sending bouquets of flowers, so ultimately her own imagination will make her believe I love her.”
Wide-eyed, Eric stared at him. “Is this how you secured the other two ladies?”
“It is how I’ve secured every one I’ve ever pursued.” Richard laughed and stood. He’d show Eric a thing or two. “Come see how it’s done, old chap. You may benefit from watching a master at work.”
* * * *
“Miss Sharpe, I believe you are engaged to me for the next set?” Richard smiled his most charming smile as he reached his prey.
She had been talking to Lord Stanley when he approached her, but broke off whatever she’d been saying to send him a beaming smile of her own. “Yes, I am indeed.” She glanced back at Lord Stanley, her excitement bubbling up. “Will you excuse me, my lord?”
“But of course.” The elderly man nodded and waved her off. “Go and enjoy.”
Taking Richard’s arm, Miss Sharpe headed them eagerly toward the floor. “I am very happy to report that I’ve discovered the supper dance is to be a scotch reel.” She squeezed his arm, sending an unusual frisson of heat skittering up to his shoulder. “I must confess the reel is my favorite dance. It is so lively it always makes me want to laugh.”
His partner did indeed look livelier than at any other time this evening. Her cheeks glowed a rosy pink, her toes tapped as they stood waiting for the set of eight to make up. Her perfect mouth smiled as she chattered on to him about the dance. Surely such indiscriminate actions were unbecoming in a young woman. Still, Richard found himself entranced by Miss Sharpe’s vitality. She seemed to have an enthusiasm for the dance, the ball, for entertainments in general. In fact, her joy for living was so infectious it swept him up until Richard found himself gazing into her incredib
ly blue eyes then sliding his attention lower. Were her lips as soft as they looked?
Startled by that thought, he would’ve pulled back had not the dance begun. She seized his hand and drew him into a ring, the short lively steps coming to him automatically from years of practice. They wheeled right in a coupled star, then left, then wove around their circle at what seemed a break-neck pace. He had to concentrate just to keep up with his partner.
Miss Sharpe, he must admit, danced the reel with superb grace and a sprightly gait. Light on her feet, she danced on the tips of her toes, it seemed, bouncing and giggling as she passed by him. Her cheeks flushed to the deep pink of the French roses blooming at his father’s estate in Somerset. Her bright blue eyes sparkled with delight.
Excellent. He’d make certain she had the most splendid time tonight.
His partner and another lady shot into the middle of the circle formed by the rest of the dancers. Miss Sharpe seemed to hover above the floorboards, so swiftly did her feet move. Admiration for her skill rose unbidden in Richard, and his chest puffed with pride in his partner. Then she was out of the circle, skipping around the edges as the men raised their arms above their heads as the Scots do when dancing. His own footwork was on display in this figure, and he suddenly strove to show off his best form, so that she would not be disappointed in his performance.
As they continued circling and weaving, turning and skipping, Richard kept looking for Miss Sharpe when she was not in proximity to him, admiring her form, stealing glances at the flash of her ankle, daintily covered in white stockings with pink roses in the clocking, or her tiny feet, clad in small, pale pink slippers.
When at last the dance brought the partners back to one another, there was one final leap, and the music ended. Gasping for breath, Richard laughed as he bowed to Miss Sharpe then took her arm and tucked it into his as they left the dance floor. He’d never truly enjoyed dancing until tonight. Miss Sharpe was an excellent partner, who made dancing a joy.