A Daring Courtship

by Valerie King

  Charity responded that she had not, and the subject now shifted to more domestic issues, continuing until the avenue leading to Hambledon had been reached. From that point, the occupants of the coach fell silent as every gaze scoured the grounds.

  “I have never seen so many Chinese lanterns,” Hope said. In these few words she gave utterance to the general feeling of awe now prevalent within the coach. It would seem Lady Hambledon had created a fete, indeed.

  Lady Hambledon’s imagination had been captured by the east. Her home had been decorated with palm trees, an enormous array of flowers of every kind undoubtedly obtained from the London markets, and thousands of lanterns casting her gently rolling park into a fairyland of light. At odd, unexpected moments, fireworks would suddenly burst from one vantage or another, setting the crowd of guests into surprised cries followed by applause.

  The male servants paraded about in Moroccan slippers and garb reminiscent of the east, their heads covered in turbans. The serving maids wore glittering gold tunics over muslin gowns, their curls and faces covered by flowing scarves and veils. Champagne flowed, and fruits, sweetmeats, a variety of nuts, tartlets, and smoked fish were offered innumerable times to guests traveling from one intriguing location to the next. The pathways were punctuated with gypsies telling fortunes, with jugglers and magicians teasing the youngest of the ladies. And in the center of all, well into the heart of her land, was an enormous tented ballroom in which an orchestra could be heard playing a constant stream of familiar melodies.

  Madeline walked with her sisters until one by one they were drawn off by their friends or beaus. Her father disappeared early on, heading in the direction of the billiard room with Squire Crawley. By the time she was alone, Georgiana found her, taking her by the arm and confessing that even she felt her mother had surpassed herself in the exotic and wondrous scope of her fete.

  “Have you seen the lions?” her friend asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Madeline responded, stunned.

  “Yes, there are two lions in cages. The handler steps inside and the huge beasts perform tricks.”

  “I must see them at once,” she said.

  Georgiana guided her in to an eastern path well lit with swaying lanterns, a delightful breeze adding to the charm and gaiety of the festivities. “I hear them,” Madeline said. “What a dreadful sound.”

  A servant bearing a turban, his skin darkened by what Georgiana had told her was walnut juice, bowed and offered a glass of champagne and apricot tartlets. Madeline could not resist nor could her friend. On they moved, heading in increasing fright toward the roar of the African beasts.

  Madeline’s happiness grew, as well as her pride in her accomplishment. She was here at Lady Hambledon’s fete, as were Sir Roger and Lord Anthony, though she had seen neither gentlemen yet.

  A young lady that Madeline immediately recognized as Arabella Lindfield darted across her path, causing both ladies to stop abruptly. She was squealing with laughter, the cause of which soon made itself known as a rather wild young man from the village of Balfriston, Thomas Piddinghoe, followed quickly in her wake.

  Madeline was disgusted and lifted an eyebrow. Georgiana, however giggled beside her. “Oh, to be young and in love.”

  “I doubt they are in love,” Madeline returned severely.

  She felt her friend give her arm a squeeze. “Oh, Maddy, you are too prosy at times.”

  “How can you say such a thing? Were any of my sisters to act in so hoydenish a manner, I should be mortified beyond words.”

  Georgiana sighed but let the subject drop, an easy thing to achieve since another roar, closer now, had captivated their attention completely. No, Madeline could not agree with her friend in the least. What strictures her mother would pronounce were she to have witnessed such an event.

  Madeline smiled. Her mother had been very particular, indeed. Her words returned to her: A lady always rises above the ignorant, the coarse, the foolish. Madeline suddenly realized that was how she felt in all her dealings with Sir Roger and how it was she had been able to overcome much of her dislike of being courted by him. She had risen above his unfortunate birth. In this, too, she felt a great deal of pride in herself. After all, she had been forced into the odious situation completely against her will, her wishes, her true desires for the future. But she was thereby doing her duty to her family and in this she took immeasurable comfort and, yes, pride.

  When the path opened to reveal two red and black cages settled amongst spreading oaks, the ladies gasped to witness the trainer’s hand held captive in the mouth of one of the lions. A crowd was gathered in stunned awe at the man’s courage, Madeline no less so. He removed his hand, at which time the crowd applauded him fiercely. The lion sat quietly until a series of fireworks exploded nearby. The lion roared, causing even the trainer to jump slightly. Several cries went up. The trainer took the chain at the lion’s neck and gave a tug. The lion immediately lay down.

  Madeline was watching, her gaze riveted to the trainer, when suddenly she felt hands on her waist and a pinch that followed so swiftly that she was sure she was being attacked. She shrieked and whirled about only to find Sir Roger grinning at her.

  “Oh, what a devilish thing to do,” she said.

  “It was awful, and I would beg your pardon, except that now you are smiling, so you cannot be too overset. How do you do, Lady Bladen?”

  “Very well, thank you.” An exchange of pleasantries followed, but only for a handful of minutes, after which Georgiana excused herself, saying that she had just caught a glimpse of Julia Rockingham and needed to speak with her at once.

  Madeline did nothing to prevent her leaving. How could she when Sir Roger was standing next to her looking resplendent in a black tailcoat of superfine, a finely embroidered burgundy silk waistcoat, black breeches, silk stockings, and black leather shoes. His neckcloth was tied in a simple manner, his shirt points were of a medium height, and in every respect he gave the impression he had taken Brummel’s dictums on fashion quite seriously. She approved warmly of his appearance, another reason she felt quite proud tonight, for unless one was knowledgeable about Sir Roger’s parentage, one would think he was an English gentleman and nothing less.

  For some reason, these thoughts, however noble in her own mind, suddenly brought her father’s image back to her of how he had appeared when she had laughed so heartily at his saying he was in love with a Frenchwoman. She could recall vividly the despair in his eyes and on his face. Only why on earth was she thinking of that now, when everything was going so well for her?

  She therefore pushed the thoughts aside, and when Sir Roger asked if she would honor him with the next waltz, she agreed readily. He offered his arm, and together they walked in the direction of the tent.

  “How are you enjoying Lady Hambledon’s decorations?” she asked, smiling up at him. “It must please you in its familiarity.”

  “Very much so, you can have no idea. My thoughts more than once have been given to memories of having resided in India. I found myself grateful for her choice of theme. What did you think of the lions?”

  “They frightened me. I cannot imagine how their trainer is able to command his own fears.”

  “That I suppose we shall never know.”

  Lord Anthony came into view, with Cressida Crawley on his arm. He was looking down into the young woman’s face, his expression deeply affectionate.

  “A love match?” she queried softly, as the couple disappeared down another brightly lit path.

  “I believe it may be, particularly since I know for certain that Mrs. Crawley told him she never permits the squire to bring any of his dogs in the house.”

  Madeline chuckled. “Then it is a match for certain.”

  As they made their way toward the tent, Madeline surveyed the scattered groups, her gaze seeking the tall, elegant figure of Lady Cottingford. Thus far, she had not encountered her ladyship, and even now she did not see her among the guests. She released a small sigh.
However much she might be enjoying the fete, she was still cognizant of one quite necessary deed she must accomplish, the most difficult of all, in fact. Not only must she introduce Sir Roger to the viscountess, but she would also have to begin the delicate process of procuring an invitation for herself, her father, and Sir Roger to her ladyship’s prestigious harvest ball.

  Her heart skipped a beat several times in response to the truth that though she had accomplished a great deal, the largest dragon to slay was yet before her. Only where was Lady Cottingford?

  ~ ~ ~

  Sir Roger glanced at the lady beside him. He saw the slight frown marring her forehead and knew that she was hunting for Viscountess Cottingford. His conscience smote him as he recalled the truth of his situation. He knew he was using her badly in this regard, and for the moment he debated telling her she need no longer fret about procuring the harvest ball invitations.

  Only for a moment, however. Some instinct warned him against the idea, at least for the present, something perhaps yet unknown to him about Madeline Piper.

  “This is by far the most elaborate of Lady Hambledon’s fetes,” she commented.

  “I begin to think we have been transported to Olympus.”

  The lady beside him chuckled. “She would like to hear that you have said as much. She is very fond of a compliment.”

  “Most people are, I believe.”

  “Indeed, I think you have the right of it.”

  The open air tent, which amounted to an enormous canopy, was lit with equal dazzle by scores of Chinese lanterns. Here, palms and flambeaux flanked every taut, supporting rope so that no guest would be tripping over unseen lines. Sir Roger was impressed, for every detail had been attended to with thought and care. At an opportune moment, he would offer his compliments to his hostess, for in his vast experience, particularly having enjoyed the last three London Seasons, he had seen any number of rather spectacular events. Lady Hambledon’s fete surpassed most of them.

  He found he was enjoying himself prodigiously and had done so as well at both Mrs. Crawley’s soiree and Mrs. Rockingham’s picnic. He was very fond of society. “I want to thank you, Madeline, for your strenuous efforts on my behalf.”

  At that, she looked up at him and smiled. “You do not accuse me of doing so merely because my family has need of your fortune.”

  He could see that she was teasing him, and the candid reference to the purpose of their imminent betrothal made him smile broadly in response. “I believe I can be grateful whatever your motivations. I would not have come to know Chilchester society without your exertions. You are to be commended.”

  “Thank you,” she responded in a manner that let him know she was fully aware of her achievements as well.

  Nearing the tent, a servant passed by, bearing empty champagne glasses. He leaned close to her. “Did I tell you that I have received confirmation of my order for the wine? Five hundred bottles. A small fortune, actually.”

  She shook her head. “I have told such whiskers over the past fortnight. I still blush when I think on it.”

  “You blush very prettily, too.”

  She glanced at him, her lovely green eyes lit with laughter. She had never appeared more beautiful than now, with the flambeaux near the tent ropes casting flickers of light over her face. A powerful sensation gripped his chest, and had not the present country dance been ending and a waltz announced, he might have suggested a long walk into the less frequented pathways.

  As it was, he led her onto the ballroom floor, took her in his arms, and smiled down into her face. “Do you realize this is the first time we shall have danced together?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Madeline felt peculiar. Sir Roger’s hand was upon her back, his other holding hers in a gentle clasp. A dizziness assailed her. She blinked, wondering if she would be able to manage the steps and whirls of the dance when she could not feel her feet precisely.

  The music commenced. With a firm pressure on her back, he began guiding her about the floor, up and back, round and round. All the while, she found she could not shift her gaze away from his.

  She felt as though the lovely summer night, the luminous fete, the dizzying whirls of the dance were all combining to cast the most inexplicable spell over her. She knew there were at least a score of couples also engaged in the waltz and circling the floor, but they were only a blur.

  Up and back, round and round.

  Nor did Sir Roger speak. Instead, he continued to hold her gaze with his, his blue eyes intense, his lips parted, his expression unreadable. She felt the strength of him in that moment, of his spirit, his willfulness, his stubbornness. She had not known a man like him before. There was perhaps in his Celtic nature an untamed vitality that the gentlemen of Chilchester lacked generally. She felt, even believed, that he was the sort of man who would accomplish anything were he to put his mind and shoulder to it. Had he not done so already in India?

  The music of the waltz seemed to play on and on forever. The more he turned her and whirled her, the more she fell beneath his spell, so that when the dance ended, she felt as though an entire eternity had passed.

  He hurried her away into the darkness of the night, stealing her along first one pathway, then the next, always the brightly lit island of the waltzing tent drifting farther and farther away from their small little ship. She continued to look at him, surprised and overwhelmed. She still did not comprehend what she was feeling, except that when he suddenly drew her into the deep shade of a sprawling oak and took her roughly in his arms, all of life made sense to her in that moment.

  She gave herself to his kiss the way she had surrendered to the waltz, as though he alone existed on the earth and no other. She clung to him, captivated completely by what was transpiring in a powerful flow between them, of mystery and passion. He had told her he had felt that together they were capable of great passion, but until now, until he was holding her so tightly against him, until his tongue was piercing her mouth so sweetly, she had not comprehended his meaning.

  Now, it was as though all the secrets of heaven had been revealed to her. Was this love? Her mind cried to know. Her heart responded in a thousand affirmations. This must be love—yet how was it possible?

  “Dearest Madeline,” he whispered against her lips. “Only tell me, could you love a Scot?”

  She leaned back to look into his face, the blue of his eyes nearly black in the deep protective shadows of the oak tree. Did she love him? Could she? “I am believing it more every moment I’m with you,” she whispered in return. Without waiting for him to respond, she made a small cry and kissed him hard.

  Nor was he hesitant as once more he embraced her roughly, kissing her thoroughly, wantonly, until she was breathless. The dizziness she had felt while waltzing with him increased tenfold. She was floating and delirious, happy beyond measure in the warmth and excitement of being kissed by him.

  Only after a time did he finally release her and then with a chuckle against her cheek. “I fear ruining your lovely curls. I find I can scarcely keep my fingers from sinking into your locks.”

  She laughed as well. “I think there is some madness at Lady Hambledon’s fete tonight.”

  “Madness, indeed,” he murmured, “of the very sweetest kind.” Straightening his coat and waistcoat and smoothing down his hair, for her fingers had been less restrained than his own, he guided her back onto the lighted path and gradually began returning her to the party.

  ~ ~ ~

  As he walked beside her, the glow of having kissed her clung to him like a gentle summer rain. He was happier than he had ever been before, happy that he was with her, that she walked beside him, that she had kissed him so passionately. He understood in this moment that he loved her. The thought came to him in such purity and simplicity that he did not question it in the least. He loved her. He believed he had loved her from the first, from that cold winter’s day when he had come upon her at the castle and she had been so lost in thought and appeared like an angel t
o him. Yes, he loved her very much, indeed. Only was she beginning to love him? Could she love him? If her kisses were any indication, the answer was a resounding yes and yet something within him still felt uncertain, though why he could not say.

  He held her arm tightly, feeling a strong impulse to tell her she had no need to worry about procuring invitations to the harvest ball. He looked down at her and opened his mouth to speak, but her expression arrested the words at the tip of his tongue. “What is it?” he asked.

  “There, near the pond. They are watching us.”

  “Who?” he asked, his gaze sweeping hard across the shadowy landscape. Finally, he saw the source of her troubled expression. Mr. Calvert and young Mr. Rockingham stood in frozen, condemning judgment. Harris once more had his hand to an imaginary sword hilt.

  “Do you think they saw us emerge from the woods?” she asked.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Oh, dear. I trust Mr. Calvert to keep his temper, but Harris—”

  Sir Roger glanced about quickly and saw to the west that a rather large bank of fireworks was being readied for display. “Come,” he said. “There is a group gathering near the fireworks. If either of the gentlemen desire to confront me, let them do so in a crowd,” he felt her arm trembling beneath his own. “You have nothing to fear. I beg you will trust me in that.”

  Madeline chuckled nervously. “I do not fear for you, Sir Roger, but rather for either of the gentlemen should your temper be aroused once more. Harris would dearly love to fight a duel, and it has been made known to me that you are a true marksman.”

  “I would not think for a moment to accept a challenge from Mr. Rockingham. He is fully twelve years my junior. It simply is not done.”