“He is reportedly a guest of Lord Mather for the Christmas holiday, thus invited to the Masque. No, I have not seen him. I do believe his sister is accompanying him, and their mourning is not officially over, but I am sure they will adhere to the proper customs.”
John Clay-Powell, the Earl of Blaisdale, was one of hundreds of titled peers of the Realm known by name and reputation. No one could possibly list all of them. Certainly those ladies currently gathered at Melcourt Hall had no interest in the vast number of royalty, or non-royalty for that matter, who ran the country. It was a perhaps sad reality that immature females of society were abundantly fascinated by the trappings that wealth and prestige provided, but bored by how that wealth was acquired. Therefore, it was only those noble gentlemen of available status who piqued their interest. Lord Blaisdale was one such man.
New to his title and seat in the House of Lords as of eight months ago, Lord Blaisdale was a childless widower in his late thirties with an enormous estate in Staffordshire; a country home in Fife, Scotland; a townhouse in London; tremendous affluence and prominence; and considerable magnetism and attractiveness. If the murmurings of his womanizing, gambling, and borderline roguish behavior had reached their innocent ears, each young lady chose to ignore it. It was an accepted fact that a man in Lord Blaisdale’s position needed only one thing: a wife. And nearly every girl there judged herself up to fulfilling that post.
Georgiana and Kitty alighted from the Darcy carriage with sparkling eyes darting everywhere at once in a vain attempt to absorb it all. Two years ago the fashionable ball gown choice had been white. Not so this year. Color abounded in every hue imaginable with elaborate masks prominently veiling many faces. No real attempt at disguise was intended, the embellishments an amusement. Strains of music filtered through the raised voices and laughter. Crowds of bodies occupied nearly every available space with the line of carriages without visible end. Not a single fireplace burned, a supplementary heat source unnecessary even on this chill night in early January.
Lord and Lady Matlock were found in the parlor, George and Richard gradually drifting to join them with numerous halts along the path to engage in conversation. It had been three years since Colonel Fitzwilliam had been able to attend the Masque, many of the Derbyshire residents having not seen him in years. Dr. Darcy was remembered by dozens of old friends and anxiously accosted by strangers who merely desired meeting the legendary, world traveling, eccentric Darcy.
Richard suffered a momentary panic when Georgiana, with Kitty in tow, was waylaid immediately after passing through the formal reception line by Miss Vernor and Miss Hughes. Cognizant of the promise he had made to his cousin, he fully intended to be a chaperone, of sorts; but it quickly became clear that she was managing fine. George kept one eye centered on his niece no matter where she and Kitty migrated.
The young ladies sincerely welcomed Miss Darcy into the fold, thrilled to have a new member and confident in the indisputable reality that she was of the highest class. Miss Bennet was welcomed equally without question, few even remembering in the sprightliness of the moment that she was of a lower class. As Darcy had predicted to Lizzy, these inconsequentials disintegrated in time. This was especially true in what was, for all its glamour, nonetheless a country gathering far removed from the inherent snobbishness of a London society event.
The Bingleys arrived shortly thereafter. After long years of association with Darcy, Bingley was passably acquainted with several of the male citizens of Derbyshire. The short months of his and Jane’s residence had not afforded them the opportunity to socialize too often except for a handful of dinner invitations with prominent families near Hasberry Hall and the village of Winster. Jane’s exposure to the women of the region was limited to the aforementioned local couples and the friends of Lizzy, who had embraced her readily as Mrs. Darcy’s sister, but also on her own merits. Gerald and Harriet Vernor greeted them effusively, including Caroline in the welcome, and each took a Bingley under their wing for the evening.
While the single ladies giggled and gossiped, the bachelors surveyed their prospective dance partners with glee. Naturally there were the older gentlemen who had mastered the giddy emotions of youth; they appraised from a respectable distance with outward indifference and generally tended to favor the slightly older unattached females who had also regulated their flightiness. Nonetheless, the groups of excitable single men grew with each passing year and were more than adequately numbered to squire the energized girls.
A barely discernable ripple passed through the company, a signal from who knew where, that the dancing was about to begin. Brothers sought sisters and vice versa, as a way to be properly introduced and initiate conversation with those of the opposite sex.
Georgiana, to her shocked delight, found herself amid a thick cluster of admirers. Her innocence and sheltered existence did not prepare her for the full impact of being a Darcy. As her brother had for years been the prime bull of Derbyshire, Georgiana was the prized heifer. This would have been the case regardless of her semblance, but, again like her brother, Georgiana’s physical beauty heightened the attraction. There was not a man in the place unaffected by her presence.
“Brother,” began Miss Hughes, “allow me to introduce Miss Darcy and Miss Bennet. This is my brother, Mr. Avery Hughes, and my cousin Mr. Tyndale.” Bows and curtseys all around, Kitty dimpling flirtatiously and Georgiana shyly flushing.
“Mr. Hughes, it is a pleasure to see you again,” Georgiana said. “How are you enjoying Cambridge?”
“Very much, Miss Darcy. Of course, I am rather obligated to respond positively or my father will chastise me for not embracing my studies.”
Georgiana laughed. “Well, I do hope the sentiment is largely true. My brother speaks fondly of his time at University. Quite makes me jealous at times, in fact.”
Mr. Tyndale interjected with a smile. “It is a pity females cannot attend, I believe. Certainly would liven up the occasional stuffiness of the atmosphere.”
“Be careful what you say aloud, Mr. Tyndale,” Miss Vera Stolesk declared with a flick of her folded fan. “Such scandalous talk has no place at a ball.”
Mr. Tyndale bowed her direction. “Forgive me, madam. Permit me to beg your forgiveness by complimenting you on your ensemble. Lovely mask. I hardly recognized you until hearing your voice.”
“Oh, posh Rydell! Quit flirting so outrageously. You have known Miss Stolesk since you were a baby!” It was his sister, Miss Hilary Tyndale teasing, the group laughing as Mr. Tyndale again bowed with a flourish.
“Miss Bennet, how are you enjoying Derbyshire?”
“It has been delightful, Mr. Blake, thank you. Primarily I have been visiting my sister and snowed in at Pemberley, but that has allotted me time to play with my nephew.”
“You have unfortunately arrived at the worst time of the year for sightseeing.”
“But at the perfect time to attend a Masque!” Kitty retorted with a giggle.
“Indeed, and most fortunate for us.” This minor flattery was uttered quietly by a young man yet introduced: a tall, dark haired gentleman of twenty years standing silently at the edge of the group. He smiled, deep dimples flashing and several female knees instantly grew weak.
“Mr. Falke, you have an annoying habit of sneaking!” Miss Trent declared with a dramatic hand over her heart.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Trent. I did not wish to intrude unwarranted, but did wish to make the acquaintance of these two lovely ladies if at all possible.” Georgiana blushed prettily, Kitty boldly flashing her own devastating dimples in his direction.
“Subtle, Mr. Falke,” Miss Vernor laughed. “This is my dear friend Miss Georgiana Darcy and her sister-in-law Miss Katherine Bennet. Ladies, Mr. Anthony Falke of Haddison Manor in Chapel-en-le-Frith.”
“That is in the High Peak District, Miss Bennet, which I am grieved to overhear you have not been so fortunate as to see.”
“As am I, Mr. Falke. Luckily my sister, Mrs. Darcy, wil
l be residing in Derbyshire for many years to come, so perhaps someday I will be fortunate enough to travel.”
“Let us pray this is so.” He smiled again, turning to Georgiana. “Miss Darcy, the pleasure to make your acquaintance is profound. My father speaks highly of Mr. Darcy. I have had the pleasure of meeting your esteemed brother on two occasions. My congratulations on the new addition to your family.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He turned again to Kitty. “Miss Bennet, may I have the honor of the first dance?”
“I do believe Miss Bennet has promised the first dance to me.” A surprised Kitty glanced upward into the face of Colonel Fitzwilliam, her gloved hand automatically clasping the larger one offered. “She has promised me only one, however, so perhaps the second set will be gifted to you, Mr. Falke, if you ask so appropriately once again. Miss Bennet?”
She hesitated for another second, Richard gravely observing with only the hint of a smile.
“I will happily wait upon Miss Bennet’s pleasure. As long as my name appears upon her dance card at least once I shall be satisfied.”
Kitty gazed into Mr. Falke’s undeterred eyes, her coquettish nature rising to the fore. “The second set is yours, Mr. Falke, if you wish it.” He bowed gallantly, dimples making another brief appearance before moving away.
“Well, well! These evenings always start with a dazzle.” George stood behind Georgiana, grinning as he extended one hand. “Miss Darcy, you promised to dance with your decrepit uncle first so as not to shame me later in the evening when my ancient brain can no longer recall the steps. Gentlemen, I regret I must steal my niece away. Shall give you all time to reconnoiter and plan further attacks. Draw straws amongst yourselves for the hand of the assembled ladies. Miss Vernor, Miss Hughes, quite charming. I am breathless in the sight of all this beauty.” He bowed politely. “Miss Darcy, shall we?”
“Uncle,” Georgiana whispered as they maneuvered toward the dance floor, “I have quite a good memory and am sure that neither Kitty nor I promised our dances! Is this a plot of my oppressive brother’s to keep me from enjoying the company of other gentlemen?”
George laughed. “Not at all my dear! This is a scheme devised by the good Colonel and me with the opposite effect, which would likely aggravate your oppressive brother.” She looked at him suspiciously. “You see, every eye will be on you and Miss Kitty. You are two of the surprises of the night. The mystery girls who have sparked the interest of every eligible male in the room. We are two of them, so understand how these emotions work. You are a Darcy, which instantly excites them, plus you are beautiful. Miss Kitty is an enigma, also beautiful, and the sister of Mrs. Darcy, who created such a wave last year. Now they will observe you with increased engrossment as you both glide so elegantly about the floor. By the time you reach the edges after this set, you will have every man engaging you. You, my sweet, and Miss Kitty will not sit down for the rest of the evening, I can assure you.”
They took their places in line, Georgiana blushing adorably. George bowed, Richard doing the same toward Kitty from their location three couples away. The notes of the allemande began, the partners stepping to meet each other, as George continued, “Of course, this likely would have been the case without our interference, and so it was most probably a ploy concocted out of selfishness so that the Colonel and I could dance with two of the prettiest ladies in the house.”
Georgiana laughed, a musical sound reaching the ears of many a spellbound lad standing nearby as George had presumed. “You, Uncle, are a tease and a fibber. I think this ploy was to heighten your own intrigue amongst the eligible women! You snared partners who could not refuse so that the scrutinizing ladies will see how debonair and graceful you two are. No one will refuse either of you from here on out!”
George grinned, laying one bony finger alongside his nose. “Entirely too clever for your own good, Miss Darcy. Since we now understand each other, let us show these people how it is done!”
Whether the tactic had any bearing whatsoever, who knows? Dancing partners were in abundance for all folks involved. George and Richard did sit out for a set or two as the night progressed. Kitty and Georgiana did not.
***
The arrival of Lord Blaisdale occurred while the girls were dancing the second set: Georgiana with Mr. Avery Hughes and Kitty with Mr. Falke. Therefore, they missed the spectacle.
The aristocratic trio consisting of Lord Mather; his betrothed, the Lady Sybil Clay-Powell; and her brother, Lord Blaisdale; entered the glittering foyer of Melcourt Hall without overt fanfare, but the clustered guests paused as surely as if a trumpet had sounded. Although Lord Mather as a near neighbor was the invited guest, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the presence of the higher ranked and well-known Earl of Blaisdale was the star attraction.
Dressed in the sober black of mourning, the man was an imposing figure. Standing at an even six feet, burly built with a slight tendency toward heaviness, Lord Blaisdale had wholly inherited the traits of a Nordic ancestry. Thick hair so blonde as to be nearly white was worn long and tied with a ribbon in the back, narrow eyes a striking pale green spaced closely aside a broad nose, pale skin, high cheekbones, prominent eyebrow ridges, and full lips perpetually lifted with an expression of amusement or perhaps constant derision completed the picture of an icy northern origin. Yet the features combined beautifully, and to claim that he was merely handsome would be an understatement.
His sister was equally arresting. Not much shorter than her brother and every inch as Nordic in coloring and physical features, she was a beauty long sought after by dozens of suitors. Darcy knew her and had briefly considered her, but aside from the fact that she would likely not have returned the interest as his income was not up to the standards she desired, he found her to be cold and superior. Even then, always in fact, Darcy had sought a woman of passion and liveliness. Lady Sybil Clay-Powell did not possess those traits. It was Lord Mather who had finally won her hand, undoubtedly due to his supreme income and title. Unfortunately, the planned summer wedding had been postponed as a result of her father’s death.
The three of them entered in a stately fashion, all dressed in colors of mourning. Rules of mourning were vague other than the requirement for sober colors and minimal decoration to garments, only nominal entertaining for a period of at least six months and up to two years in the case of widows, and public appearances only if vitally important. Conventions of grief were often put aside out of necessity, such as the widow or widower who needed to remarry due to income essentials or for the care of parentless children. Hasty remarriages and renewal of social engagements may have been frowned upon and gossiped about, but were generally overlooked if the cause was legitimate and decorum maintained.
Therefore, the appearance of the Clay-Powells, whose father had now been deceased for eight months, was not fodder even for a minor rumble except for those inevitable old-fashioned folks who relish finding fault with just about anything. The excitement in mingling with persons of such luminosity outweighed any vague feelings of improper behavior and the aloof trio quickly found themselves surrounded by dozens.
Caroline Bingley sat on a settee in a parlor located away from direct view of the foyer amid a group of women conversing quietly. She affected a pose of detached indifference, but sitting serenely with a cluster of married women was not precisely to her taste. Caroline may have had snobbery perfected as an art form, but she did enjoy dancing, friendly gossip, and witty repartee with handsome gentlemen.
Providentially, just as she was about to yawn from boredom, she noticed a trio of ladies known to her from London society crossing a far hallway heading toward the ballroom. With a murmured excuse to Jane, she stood and gracefully steered toward the direction taken by her friends.
It was a ghostly impression of being watched that caused her steps to pause and she glanced over her shoulder toward the foyer.
Her breath caught at the pair of vivid green eyes fixed upon her. Suddenly as if in a
dream where the press of bodies disappeared into thin air, Caroline’s only awareness was of the regal presence bearing down upon her.
“Miss Bingley, what an absolutely exquisite delight it is to see you here. I had no idea I would be blessed by the miracle of your presence, but I am thrilled beyond comprehension.”
“Lord Blaisdale. Surely the pleasure is all mine.”
He smiled, the gesture the merest lift to the corners of his mouth, and bowed slightly as he raised her fingers to his cool lips. “I assure you, that is not the truth.”
His pale eyes boldly swept over her face, moving on brazenly to inventory the rest of her body. Caroline felt an unaccountable flare of heat rising, her mind both numb with shock and acutely aware.
She opened her mouth to speak, although words seemed to fail her. Fortunately for Caroline, the awkward encounter was interrupted.
“Caroline! What a wonder. We were hoping you were planning to attend!”
Lord Blaisdale released Caroline’s hand, the flicker of anger that crossed his features gone as rapidly as it came. Caroline jerked, turning to the speaker, one of her friends, Miss Fay Cross, who not surprisingly was gazing intently and with hope at Lord Blaisdale, as were the other two young ladies in her wake.
Lord Blaisdale smoothly excused himself, leaving Caroline to deal with a fount of questions she was unwilling and unable to answer. Attempting to ignore the tingling sensation of being watched and the bizarre currents his gaze roused did not aid the restoration of her haughty tranquility.
The man unnerved her. He always had. It was a feeling that in and of itself was unsettling and actually made her angry. Caroline prided herself on being in control of her emotions and never ruffled.
She first met Lord Blaisdale, then the Viscount Monthorpe, at a dinner party in Town four seasons ago. He was married at the time, thus dismissed and invisible as far as Caroline was concerned. She had heard of the Clay-Powell family, naturally, their wealth and power too vast to be ignored, but with the only son wedded he simply was not a topic of interest to the socially grasping women of the ton. That he was handsome could not be denied, but her gaze was riveted on Mr. Darcy to the point of nearly excluding everyone else, especially an unavailable man. The only reason he entered her consciousness at all was due to the pointed stares directed her way all evening.
In the Arms of Mr. Darcy Page 21