by Farr, Diane
“Well, sir—I’m afraid, sir—that is, I think she might be a bit—well—” Derek took a deep breath and faced his employer squarely. “I’m afraid you’ll think she’s above my touch. Sir.”
The friendly twinkle in Lord Stokesdown’s eyes dimmed a bit. “You don’t say. Who is she?”
Derek wished he hadn’t been quite so candid. It was one thing to be above-board with one’s employer, but quite another to bandy Cynthia’s name about. “She’s—” He swallowed hard. “It’s my understanding that she is Lord Ballymere’s daughter, sir.”
“Ballymere.” Lord Stokesdown’s smile faded. He stroked his chin, apparently troubled. “Ballymere. Well, it’s an Irish title, of course. And there’s nothing wrong with your breeding, dear boy. If your family’s estate hadn’t been left in that havey-cavey way, I’d call it a respectable match. Not brilliant, of course. But respectable.”
“Yes, sir,” said Derek woodenly. “Thank you, sir. But my family’s estate has been left in a havey-cavey way. I shan’t inherit. My brother’s holding the reins.” He smiled wryly. “And he and his wife are already setting up their nursery.”
“Ha. Expecting, are they?” Lord Stokesdown looked properly sympathetic. “I hadn’t heard.”
“And there’s one other small obstacle to courting Ballymere’s daughter.” Since he was baring his soul, Derek supposed he might as well bare it all. “She’s a Beauty.”
Lord Stokesdown’s look of sympathy deepened. “Dear me. A Beauty. Well, well. Her family’s likely to be ambitious, then. High expectations and all that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, lad, I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” said his lordship bluntly. “But you’re a good-looking boy, and you’ve a pleasant way with you. Engaging manners and so forth. Never know but what the chit may lose her heart to you, eh? And Ballymere may have modern notions, for all we know. Ready to let the daughter choose, rather than marry at his bidding.”
“Yes, sir. That is my hope.”
Lord Stokesdown seemed ready to turn the subject, but suddenly he paused, an arrested expression seizing his features. “Ballymere,” he muttered again. “Good God. Never tell me—” He halted in mid-sentence and bent a piercing look upon his secretary. “I hope you haven’t formed a tendre for Cynthia Fitzwilliam. If you have, heaven help you.”
Derek felt a frisson of alarm. “How so, sir?”
“Then you have?” Lord Stokesdown gave a queer sort of groan. “Devil take the boy! He’s fallen for the Frost Fair.” He shook his head mournfully. “You’ll never win her, lad. She’s the coldest wench in England.” He must have seen the affronted astonishment crossing Derek’s face, for he hastily added, “If the reports are true, that is. I’m not acquainted with her.”
“Well, I am, my lord,” said Derek stiffly. “A little. And—did you say something about a Frost Fair? What is that supposed to mean, if you please?”
Lord Stokesdown coughed. “You haven’t heard that? Well. No wonder. It’s a pity you haven’t, for it might have given you warning.” His expression was not unkind, but his brows were knitted with concern. “Don’t know who started it, my boy, but that’s what everyone calls her.”
Derek began to feel genuinely angry. “I should like to know why anyone would call her that, my lord. It seems unjust.”
“Well, well, don’t poker up. The wags always bestow nicknames on the latest beauties, you know. Sometimes they stick, and sometimes they don’t.” He studied Derek, the concern in his sharp eyes deepening. “This one stuck,” he added gruffly. “So I warn you, Derek. The soubriquet may sound silly to you—most of ‘em are silly—but it would not have caught fire, had it not seemed apt to a great many people.”
An explanation suddenly occurred to Derek. Relief shot through him. “Perhaps the nickname refers to her appearance,” he suggested. “Her coloring is extremely fair.”
“Well, I daresay that’s part of it. For your sake, I will hope it’s the largest part,” said his lordship, still frowning. “But that’s not what one hears. I’ll go to this absurd ball, and I’ll take you with me. But I’ll be candid with you, lad—I’m hoping you meet a lady who will drive the Frost Fair from your thoughts. I’m a busy man, and I can’t afford to have my secretary driven into a decline.”
Derek laughed out loud. “No fear of that, sir. Is that her reputation? That she drives healthy young men into declines?”
But Lord Stokesdown did not join Derek’s laughter. “It is,” he said grimly. “So guard your heart, boy. Now, what about that letter to Sheringham? Do I sign it or not?” And he briskly returned to business.
Derek dressed for the embassy ball with greater care than he had ever dressed for anything, feeling grateful that the prevailing mode did not require men to deck themselves with jewels, lace, or fabrics threaded with gold. Fifteen years ago, he could never have afforded this masquerade. Tonight, however, he looked every inch the gentleman and would be dressed as gorgeously as any man present; beautifully cut broadcloth and clean linen were the order of the day. A waistcoat turned out in a modest, but elegant, brocade was as far as he need go to flaunt his supposed social standing.
He stared hard at the mirror when he was done, then gave a wry nod. “It will do,” he muttered.
He looked prosperous enough to pass as Lord Stokesdown’s son…to those who did not know his lordship’s family. Was that cheating? He hardly knew. After all, he didn’t intend to lie about his prospects. The Polite World was full of purse-pinched gentlemen, many of whom had little more than Derek had. “All policy’s fair in love and war,” he reminded his reflection sternly, and picked up his hat.
The first ordeal, throughout which Lord Stokesdown grumbled under his breath, involved standing in a long line to pay their respects to the ambassador and a string of other dignitaries. When a gorgeously wigged and liveried person bawled, “The Earl of Stokesdown! Mr. Whittaker!” Derek stepped forth and bowed as if to the manor born. As far as he could tell, no one cared or questioned who the young man at Lord Stokesdown’s elbow might be. Lord Stokesdown had seen fit to bring him; that was apparently enough. Amazing.
The rooms were very crowded. It was just such a gathering as Derek would have relished—had he been privileged to observe it, rather than participate. As it was, enjoyment was not first among his emotions. Nerves on the stretch, he prowled along the edges of the ballroom, surveying the crowd. His Cynthia was nowhere to be seen among the shifting knots of smiling strangers.
The orchestra was tuning up, barely audible above the din of chatter. The ball would soon begin. Derek hovered at a discreet distance from the entrance to the room and kept a weather eye on the doorway.
She soon appeared on the raised threshold, as he knew she must. Derek felt his breath hitch. She was dressed similarly to a dozen other girls in the room, but somehow the effect was entirely different on Cynthia. The other females looked well enough, draped like so many Greek statues…but Cynthia was Aphrodite in the flesh. Her head held regally high, her white shoulders sloping elegantly, light seeming to ripple along the crown of her flaxen hair, she wore the clinging gauze with graceful confidence. She came in with a group of others who clustered round her, but Derek could not have said who they were. He had eyes only for Cynthia.
Again, she seemed to immediately feel his gaze touch her. Her lovely head swiveled and her blue eyes went unerringly to his. This, Derek thought groggily, must be what the ancients meant when they spoke of Cupid’s arrows. He felt the point slam home in a flash, fairly rocking him back on his heels. Super-aware of her, he saw the quick rise and fall of her breath—but once, and once only. She immediately mastered whatever emotion had shaken her. Her eyes slid away from Derek as she returned her attention, with a visible effort, to her companions. And then, arm in arm with another lady, she drifted down into the ballroom and away from him.
What the deuce—! This was carrying discretion a little too far.
Piqued, Derek started to muscle his way through the
crowd toward her. He soon found himself at the rear of a jostling line of men, elbowing each other genially out of the way as they jockeyed for position near the two ladies. There was a great deal of laughter and good-natured ribbing taking place, but Derek wasn’t feeling particularly good-natured. He hung back, struggling to quell the outrage he felt at having to wait his turn.
The chap next to him gave him a friendly nudge. “I say, which d’you fancy? The Incomparable Isobel, or the Frost Fair?”
Derek stared at him. “Sorry?”
“Which d’you fancy?” the young man repeated patiently. “I don’t care which of ‘em I dance with. Don’t mind claiming the Frost Fair if it’s the Incomparable you like, or vice versa. By the time we get near enough to speak, most of their dances will be spoken for, y’know. So if you do fancy one above the other—”
Something like horror tied Derek’s tongue for a moment. But surely, he reminded himself, Cynthia would save him a dance. She all but asked him to come here tonight. He would not be here otherwise. He forced a smile. “I’ll take my chances,” he told the fellow next to him.
But when he stepped into the inner circle, so close to Cynthia that he imagined he could feel the heat of her body, she still did not acknowledge him. She stood like the statue she resembled, as lovely and perfect as marble—and as lifeless. Her gaze was fixed on, apparently, the opposite wall of the room. What on earth was the matter with her? The girl they called Incomparable Isobel was a lively brunette whose chatter masked Cynthia’s silence—but as Derek was focused entirely on Cynthia, her silence seemed louder to him than Isobel’s merry prattle.
When he could bear it no longer, he chose a moment when everyone save himself and Cynthia were laughing, and lightly touched her elbow. “Cynthia,” he murmured, in a low and urgent tone.
She stiffened. After a fractional pause she glanced in his direction, her eyes wide with reproof. And—fear? But the emotion flitted so swiftly across her features, he was not sure whether he had seen it or no. “Sir?” she said icily. She did not quite meet his eyes.
“Lady Cynthia,” he amended hastily, sketching a bow. It must be gossip that she feared. Very well, he would play the game, if she wished him to. It was hard to pretend that Cynthia meant nothing to him, but she was right to guard her reputation. He gave her his most charming smile, the one he might use with any attractive acquaintance. “I seem to have reached the head of the queue at last. I hope you have managed to save me a dance.”
She bestowed upon him a distant, faintly bored smile. “I’m so sorry,” she said politely. Then, apparently as an afterthought, she added: “Another time, perhaps.” And she turned her shoulder to him in dismissal.
Derek was stunned. Had he done something to offend her? If so, he must make amends—at once. He stepped back into her line of sight and touched her elbow again. “I beg your pardon,” he said, with an earnestness that he hoped was audible only to Cynthia. “But I wonder if ... if ...” He cudgeled his brain, trying to think of some innocuous thing to say. “I wonder if I might bring you a glass of punch?”
“Thank you, no,” she said calmly.
She did not appear angry. She did not appear, actually, to be feeling anything. But her faint, slightly incredulous smile seemed to put him at an infinite distance. And before he could recover his wits and think of another gambit, a broadly-grinning man in a striped waistcoat walked off with her and into the first set that was forming.
Derek stared after them, absolutely flummoxed.
The jovial chap who had addressed him earlier gave him a friendly dig in the ribs. “She frosted you, begad! Seen her do it before, a dozen times. But you walked right into it, old man.” He peered more closely at Derek. His good-natured grin faded a bit. “I say, don’t take it so hard. She’s famous for that sort of thing, y’know. Does it to everyone.”
Not to me, he wanted to say. But he said nothing. The words would be indiscreet, he told himself. The more painful thought—that the words would also be patently untrue—he shoved to the back of his mind. He would think about that later. Not now. Not in public.
He gave the friendly chap a rather strained smile. “I suppose that’s why they call her the Frost Fair?”
“Oh, aye! Didn’t you know? Ha! Ha! No wonder you look bewattled.” He shook with laughter. “The closest you’ll get to her is a dance or two, my friend. And never twice in the same night, mind! Not that you’d want to spend more than ten minutes with the chit. No one does.”
“Why not?”
“Well, if it’s your notion of a good time to dance with a wench who stares down her pretty nose at you and won’t say more than three words together—” The fellow shrugged, grinning. “If she weren’t such a treat for the eyes, I daresay no one would bother with her.”
Derek frowned. “It can’t be that much of a punishment to dance with her,” he said, with some asperity. “There were enough men queuing up for the chance.”
“Oh, certainly! As you say. She’s all the rage. One must be in the mode, you know, so one dances with the Frost Fair—when one can. And besides, she is a treat for the eyes.” He stared hungrily after her. “And a man likes a challenge, too, o’course. She won’t dance with just anyone. So it’s a bit of a feather in one’s cap, to steer Lady Cynthia round the floor.”
“I see.” Derek’s neckcloth suddenly felt too tight. He watched, helpless, as the leering buffoon in the striped waistcoat moved through the figures of the quadrille with Cynthia. It was ghastly to behold. The pattern of the dance brought her first to the side of one man, then to another. Every time one of them touched her hand or spoke to her, a stab of jealousy knifed through Derek.
The evening of his dreams rapidly dwindled into nightmare. He spent the next several hours propping the walls or leaning against one of the columns that lined the ballroom, moodily watching Cynthia as she floated from one partner to another. She behaved toward them all with the same cool reserve, but that struck Derek as small comfort; she behaved toward him with something less than that. As far as he could tell, she was utterly indifferent to his presence. She seemed completely unaware that his eyes followed her wherever she went. He found the latter hard to believe, but the alternative was worse: that she was aware of him, and was deliberately ignoring him.
It was inexplicable. Why hint that he should come to the ball, if she meant to cut him dead when he did? And, more importantly, why cut him at all? She must have felt what he felt, that night. She must have. How could she turn her back on that? How could she turn her back on him?
Was she, perhaps, being watched? He scanned the crowd, searching for signs that a suspicious parent lurked in the background, monitoring Cynthia with sharp eyes, but he saw no one. She had arrived with what seemed to be a family party, but had then been allowed to wander off with Isobel and choose her own dance partners. That did not argue for close supervision.
Had someone told tales about him? But who would do such a thing? And why? He had always led a fairly blameless existence. Women sometimes seemed to like him more than they should, perhaps, but he had never broken any hearts beyond repair. A man couldn’t be on the town without encountering a willing victim or two. He had no enemies, as far as he knew. And besides, he wasn’t well enough known for tales to spread, had there been anything interesting to tell.
Had she, perhaps, caused discreet inquiries to be set afoot, and learned something of his background? But what? His family was not contemptible. No heredity madness, or criminal exploits, or anything of that nature. He came from perfectly respectable stock—not the aristocracy, of course, but certainly the gentry. The Whittakers had been landholders for ages, and his branch of the family had owned the estate where he grew up, Crosby Hall, for four generations. They were the largest landholders in the neighborhood, in fact. He, himself, had nothing, but…
But surely his Cynthia would not be that mercenary. She would not care for riches. Not in light of what they had together, which was so much more important. He’d never fel
t anything like what he felt when he met her, and he’d bet a monkey that she’d never felt anything like it, either. It was, just as the cliché said, bigger than both of them.
Wasn’t it?
By the end of that interminable evening, Derek was no longer sure. He was no longer sure of anything. He felt wrung out, drained dry—the natural result of several hours of emotional crucifixion. It was incredible, literally incredible, but Cynthia had not only declined to dance with him, she had, afterward, never spoken to him again. He had looked forward to this ball in a fever of anticipation, expecting an evening of secret romance, tender whispers, and stolen delights. But apart from that one piercing moment when she first entered the ballroom, Cynthia had never even looked at him.
He clambered into Lord Stokesdown’s coach in the wee hours of the morning, numb with disappointment. His lordship gave him a sharp look as he sat across from him, but said nothing until the door was closed and they were on their way. Then he leaned forward and shook Derek’s knee in a friendly way.
“Eh, lad,” he said gruffly. “Pluck up. You look as if you had a worse time than I did—and that’s saying something.”
Derek forced himself to smile. “You have every right to be annoyed with me, my lord. Thank you for your forbearance—and for the opportunity to attend the ball, which I otherwise would not have had.”
“Hmpf,” his lordship snorted. “I’ve an affection for you, Derek, as I hope you know. Otherwise I’d remind you of what I said earlier.”
“That you warned me how it would be?” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Aye. I should have listened to you.”
“Always,” agreed Lord Stokesdown. His stockings gleamed white in the darkness as he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back against the squabs. “But I was thinking more of my admonition to you not to fall into a decline.” His voice was very dry. “I hope you have more sense, my young friend, than to waste time in pining for the chit. I never saw a girl telegraph her intentions more plainly. Your suit is unwelcome.”