by Balogh, Mary
Her eyebrows arched upward. “You only suppose, Mr. Thorne?” she asked him, and she looked slightly amused.
He thought about it. “I only suppose, Lady Jessica,” he said. “I also suppose it is possible that I miss being home.”
She tipped her head to one side and tapped her fan against her chin. “Ah,” she said, “I catch your meaning, sir. America is your home too. Will you be returning, then?”
“Perhaps,” he said.
The amusement in her eyes deepened and she drew breath to speak. But the blushing young man was leading Lady Estelle Lamarr onto the ballroom floor, and another man from Lady Jessica’s court had stepped closer and was clearing his throat.
She ignored him for the moment, but she did not say whatever she had drawn breath to say. She looked inquiringly at Gabriel, perhaps waiting for him to ask for a later dance.
He did not do so. It seemed probable to him that every set was already spoken for and that it might give her great pleasure to tell him so. Or perhaps he was attributing to her a spitefulness that was not part of her nature. Anyway, it was too late now. Her partner had bowed to her and reminded her that the next set was his. He looked at Gabriel with a pointed frown, and it struck Gabriel that her whole court of admirers was viewing him with less than welcoming amiability.
“Your servant, Lady Jessica,” he said, and turned to stroll away.
Bertie had not danced at all and apparently had no intention of doing so. “One attends balls because it is expected of one,” he told Gabriel. “And because at the start of a Season it is always good sport to look over the new crop of young hopefuls come to market. The trouble is, though, that one is then expected to dance with ’em.”
Gabriel chuckled.
“But come along,” Bertie said. “I’ll introduce you to old Sadie Janes’s granddaughter. Third on m’mother’s list. There is just time before the dancing starts.”
Gabriel joined him again after dancing with the girl, a pretty little thing who had a tendency to go tripping off in the wrong direction and then to giggle when she caused confusion among those performing the steps correctly.
“Lady Estelle Lamarr, Bertie,” Gabriel said. “Who is she?”
“Dorchester’s daughter,” Bertie explained. “The Marquess of Dorchester, that is. She has a twin brother. He is over there with her now. The tall, dark one.” He pointed inelegantly. “The marquess is with the Duke and Duchess of Netherby. The duke is the one with very blond hair and all the rings and diamond pins and the jeweled quizzing glass. I would give a great deal to get a look at his whole collection of glasses. It must be worth a fortune.”
He looked very different from his sister, Gabriel thought.
“Lady Jessica is his half sister,” Bertie said as though he had read Gabriel’s thoughts. “Her mother was a Westcott. The duchess was also a Westcott, but there is a long story attached to that. I’ll tell you one day, though I am bound to get all the details mixed up. Ask m’mother. She will tell you. The next set is a waltz. Do you know the steps?”
“You think they may not have crossed the Atlantic?” Gabriel asked.
“Well,” Bertie said, “I have not learned ’em, and I have never done more than dip a toe into the Atlantic. Dancing face-to-face with the same woman, making conversation while avoiding treading on her toes, is not my idea of a good time.”
“It might be,” Gabriel suggested, “if you fancied the woman.”
Bertie shuddered and then let off one of his guffaws.
Perhaps he would see if Lady Jessica Archer was free to waltz, Gabriel thought. But when he glanced across the ballroom, he observed that someone else was already bowing before her and extending a hand for hers.
Lady Estelle Lamarr was still standing with her brother—they looked very much alike, though he was a full head taller than his twin—and two very young men. She was laughing and patting one of the latter on the arm. A remarkably pretty young lady, and the daughter of a marquess.
“I have this one, Bertie,” he said. “You may take a rest from your matchmaking duties.” And he approached the group and was introduced to Viscount Watley, the twin, and to Mr. Boris Wayne and his brother, Mr. Peter Wayne, who were, according to Lady Estelle’s introduction, her sort-of cousins. She did not explain in what sort of way that was.
“May I beg the honor of this waltz, Lady Estelle?” Gabriel asked. “If you have not promised it to someone else, that is.”
“There you are, Peter,” she said while the whole group laughed over a joke Gabriel had not heard. “The reprieve for which you prayed no more than a few moments ago. Thank you, Mr. Thorne. That would be delightful. Peter claims to have two left feet, but I do not believe it for a moment.”
She was not a young girl, Gabriel thought as he waltzed with her. He would put her age at twenty-one or twenty-two. Here was someone else, then, who was in no hurry to make her choice and marry. She was the daughter of a marquess. She was prettier and livelier than Lady Jessica Archer. More approachable. Perhaps . . .
But he had the strange feeling that though he had come here tonight in order to look about him for marriage prospects, his mind was already made up.
Really?
When he did not know the woman and did not much like what he saw? When it seemed to him she did not like what she saw?
Yes, really.
His mind was made up.
Five
Louise, Dowager Duchess of Netherby, Jessica’s mother, went the following afternoon with her sisters, Matilda and Mildred, to call upon their mother. Eugenia, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, had lived for the past two years with her sister, Edith, who was celebrating her birthday today. It was not surprising, therefore, that the three sisters were not the only callers. Their former sister-in-law, Viola, Marchioness of Dorchester, and a cousin, Althea Westcott, were there too.
The conversation moved through a number of topics while they all sat about the dining room table, partaking of tea and pastries and cake. Inevitably the discussion included the Parley ball last evening. Four of them had been present for it—Louise, Mildred, Viola, and Althea—and those who had not were eager to hear all the news and gossip. There were always some newcomers to talk about this early in the Season.
“Peter danced four sets,” Mildred said, speaking of her middle son as she eyed a pastry that oozed cream before choosing a more sensible slice of seedcake instead, “including one with Miss Parley herself. The poor boy was very nervous about making his debut into society, though one rarely hears anyone talk about a man making his debut, does one? Thomas congratulated him this morning at breakfast for not having trodden upon anyone’s toes. But apparently Miss Parley trod upon his, and he has the bruise to prove it.”
They all laughed.
“It was gratifying to see that both Estelle and Jessica danced all evening,” Viola said. Lady Estelle Lamarr was her husband’s daughter by a previous marriage.
“It would be even more gratifying,” Louise said, “if either one of them or both had shown any particular interest in any of their partners. It is disturbing that they are both well past the age of twenty without even the prospect of a wedding on the horizon, or even a betrothal. What is wrong with young women these days?”
“Perhaps,” Matilda said, “they are waiting for love, Louise. And if that is so, then I can only applaud their good sense.”
“That is all very well for you to say, Matilda,” Louise said. “You do not have daughters to worry about. And do they have to wait until they are fifty-six to find love?”
The comment was a bit unjust. That was the age at which Matilda had married Charles, Viscount Dirkson, two years ago. It had been her first marriage.
“That is unfair, Louise,” the dowager countess said. “Matilda would have married Charles—yes, the same Charles—at the age of twenty if her father and I had not stepped in, very ill-advisedly as it turned out, to stop her.”
“No doubt you did what you considered the right thing at the
time, my lady,” Miss Adelaide Boniface, Edith’s companion, said soothingly.
“Jessica danced with Mr. Rochford before supper,” Mildred said. “He was much in demand with the young ladies all evening. He is very handsome, and appears to be exceedingly charming too. Also well mannered. I noticed that he sought an introduction to Jessica before the dancing even began, and he did it the correct way, by applying to Louise. He was very attentive to Jessica while they danced. She looked as if she might be interested.”
“Who is Mr. Rochford?” the dowager countess wanted to know.
“He is soon to be heir to the earldom of Lyndale, Mama,” Louise explained. “As soon as the missing earl has finally been declared dead later this summer, that is, and Mr. Rochford’s father becomes the new earl.”
“Yes, of course,” her mother said. “I know all about that. I had just forgotten the young man’s name. He is as handsome as everyone says he is, then?”
“He is said to have red hair,” Edith said. “I can never quite like red hair on a man.”
“But his is a dark red,” Cousin Althea said. “It is actually very attractive. He is very attractive. He would be a splendid match for Jessica, Louise.”
“As she would be for him,” Louise agreed. “But I begin to despair of her.”
“Perhaps,” Viola said, “something can be done to encourage a match with Mr. Rochford, Louise? He really is a good-looking man, though I did think last evening’s choice of waistcoat rather unfortunate. Marcel, the silly man, commented that all the guests ought to have been issued with dark eyeglasses to avoid the danger of being blinded.”
Matilda chuckled. “I must tell Charles that one,” she said.
“The American gentleman caused something of a stir too,” Althea said. “He is Lady Vickers’s kinsman, Eugenia, and her godson—and Sir Trevor’s. He is not actually American, but he has recently returned from several years spent there. He is a fine figure of a man. Very elegant. He also was introduced to Jessica—by Lady Parley herself.”
“He did not dance with her,” Louise said. “I am not sure he even asked. Jessica said nothing about him afterward.”
“He waltzed with Estelle,” Viola said. “She said afterward that she enjoyed his company, though she says that of most of her partners.”
“Rumor has it he is very wealthy,” Althea said. “Unsubstantiated rumors are not always to be trusted, of course. And no one seems to know a great deal about him or what he was doing in America—or what he did before he went there, for that matter. There is a certain air of mystery about him. I daresay that is part of his appeal.”
“Are you thinking of him for Estelle, Viola?” Mildred asked.
“I am constantly thinking of everyone for Estelle,” Viola said with a laugh. “But she has a mind of her own. She has yet to show any real interest in marrying.”
“Girls are not as they were in my day,” the dowager countess said with a shake of the head.
“I hear of both Mr. Rochford and the American wherever I go,” Matilda said. “I assume it is Mr. Thorne you were speaking of, Althea? Lady Vickers has not been shy in putting it about that he is wealthy, so I daresay it is true. She would lose considerable face if it turned out that he was a pauper. I look forward to meeting both gentlemen. And I agree with you, Viola. Perhaps we really ought to start thinking of ways to throw Mr. Thorne into Estelle’s path again, and Mr. Rochford into Jessica’s.”
“We?” Mildred asked, her eyebrows raised. She took the cream pastry after all, since no one else had removed temptation from her reach, and bit into it with slow caution.
“Well, if the past few years are anything to judge by, they are not doing much to help themselves, are they?” Matilda said. “What they need is a helping hand. Not to attract the gentlemen. Good heavens, they are both unusually lovely girls and could not possibly be more eligible if they tried, one of them the daughter of a duke and the other of a marquess. They need a helping hand to narrow their choices to one and to fall in love.”
“I wish it could be done as easily as saying it,” Louise said with a sigh.
“Alexander and Wren are expected to arrive in town tomorrow,” Althea said, speaking of her son and his wife, the Earl and Countess of Riverdale. “Elizabeth and Colin are planning a small party to welcome them, though that is only an excuse, of course. Elizabeth loves entertaining and Colin does nothing to restrain her. I believe he loves it too. Perhaps I could suggest that both Mr. Rochford and Mr. Thorne be added to her guest list?” Elizabeth, Lady Hodges, was her daughter.
“Are we all playing matchmaker, then?” Mildred asked. “I thought we had stopped that after Matilda’s wedding.”
“It is not matchmaking when one arranges to throw together young people who may not have the good sense to throw themselves together,” Edith said. “Is it? I daresay Jessica and Estelle have met so many eligible gentlemen since they left the schoolroom that by now they can hardly recognize a good catch when they see him. I agree with Matilda. And Viola. They do need a helping hand.”
“Aunt Edith,” Matilda said, wagging a finger in her direction, “you are talking just like one of us.”
They all laughed.
“I am sure Elizabeth can be trusted not to be too obvious about it,” Louise said. “But, Althea, can you make sure that Mr. Rochford and Mr. Thorne are not the only guests from outside the family? Jessica would realize the truth in a moment and she would be mortified. She would confront me with it too. She is very prickly about having her life interfered with.”
Althea’s eyes twinkled. “Elizabeth would never commit such a social faux pas, Louise,” she said. “But yes, I will make sure there are other guests outside the family.”
Louise sighed again as she surveyed the plates set out upon the table. “Oh,” she said, “whatever happened to the cream pastry I have had my eye on? Did someone eat it? It was you, Mildred, was it not? You always did that when we were girls. You would wait until there was one slice left of a cake we all adored, and you would take it without any offer to share. My waistline thanks you, however. I hope something will come of Elizabeth’s party, but I will not hold my breath. Behold a mother in the depths of despair. Hand me that plate with the jam tarts, will you, please, Aunt Edith?”
“It is a magnificent bouquet, Jessica,” Anna, Duchess of Netherby, said, sounding a little doubtful. “It is also a little hard to see around, is it not?” She got up from her chair across the hearth from her sister-in-law’s and sat on another. “That is better.”
The bouquet, lavish and enormous, and surely containing at least one of every species of flower known to mankind, had been awaiting Jessica in the drawing room when she returned from a morning visit to the library with Anna and her children, Rebecca, aged four, and Jonah, aged two. Six-year-old Josephine had not gone with them, though reading was one of her favorite activities, because her father, Avery, had asked if she would like to ride her pony and accompany him to Hyde Park. Horses and riding were Josephine’s passion.
The bouquet was from Mr. Rochford and was just the sort of thing Jessica might have expected him to send if she had thought about it. The dozen red roses from Lord Jennings, standing in their crystal vase upon the sideboard to one side of the door, were dwarfed in comparison.
“I wish it had been put somewhere else but here,” Jessica said. “It is almost embarrassing.” No, it was embarrassing.
Anna laughed. “I believe you have made a conquest,” she said. “A big one. All the other single ladies in London would surely go into collective mourning if they could see it.”
“He danced with me once,” Jessica protested.
“Ah, but he had eyes for no one but you while he was doing it,” Anna said. “And at supper he conversed with no one except you. I would swear he did not even look at anyone else. Then, after escorting you back to the ballroom, he left abruptly, never to return. He strode out, in fact. I would not swear that he intended to draw everyone’s attention, but . . . Well, I would wag
er a modest amount upon it that he did.”
“He wanted to dance with me again,” Jessica explained, “and professed himself to be heartbroken when I informed him that the remaining sets of the evening were all spoken for.”
“You have indeed made a conquest.” Anna laughed again and poured them a second cup of tea. Luncheon was over and all the children except Josephine, who was still out with Avery, were in the nursery for their afternoon naps. Jessica’s mother had gone with Aunt Mildred and Aunt Matilda to call upon Grandmama and Great-aunt Edith. It felt good to relax.
Jessica was not quite sure she liked Mr. Rochford. She wanted to. He had certainly seemed like the answer to all her prayers when she first set eyes upon him last evening. He was young, dazzlingly handsome, charming, amiable, and very eligible—or was about to be. He seemed in a fair way to becoming the darling of the ton. Certainly all eyes had been upon him throughout the evening. And though he had danced every set before theirs, it had been impossible not to notice that she was the focus of much of his attention. She had been the focus of all of it during their particular set, as Anna had just observed, even when the figures of the dance had separated them for brief spells. He had been visibly crestfallen when she had told him, untruthfully as it happened, that she did not have a free set to offer him for the rest of the evening after supper. When he left, he had succeeded in looking somehow tragic. Had it been deliberate?
What was it she had not quite liked? Oh, there was absolutely nothing. Perhaps for the first time in her life she was powerfully attracted to someone, was in grave danger of falling in love with him, and had taken fright. But no, that was absurd. That was not it. What was it, then?
Was it his waistcoat? Would a plain ivory one to match his silk knee breeches have looked more elegant with the dull gold evening coat? Her own brother was known for his gorgeous attire, morning, afternoon, and evening. He was known for his elaborately tied neckcloths, for the copious and glittering pins and rings and fobs and quizzing glasses he wore about his person. But . . . Avery was never, ever vulgar. Had that waistcoat crossed a borderline into vulgarity, then? But what a trivial reason to dislike someone—to perhaps dislike him. Ah, but then there was his smile. It was a spectacular smile, given the white perfection of his teeth, but did it always have to be quite so wide? He had worn it practically all evening except when he was leaving. Oh, and there was the studied elegance of his bow, which he had demonstrated for her several times. And the lavish and numerous compliments he had paid her.