by Tessa Candle
Lydia opened her lips and forced herself to say, slowly and clearly, “I was introduced to Lady Aldley at a dinner party last week. Her ladyship mentioned you are recently returned from Paris. I hope you had a pleasant journey, my lord.” It was a little banal, but it was something.
“Yes, thank you. The weather was very fine for the crossing. Have you ever been to Paris?”
“No, my lord, but I should very much like to. My father has told me stories about it. He says he has eaten the best meals of his life there.”
“I can well believe it. I could say as much, myself. The French understand the proper enjoyment of food in a way we English only play at.”
“Careful, Lord Aldley,” Lady Goodram cautioned, “or she will think you are not a patriot.”
“No, indeed, Lady Goodram.” Lydia hated the nervous sound to her laugh. “I should never presume to judge his lordship's love of England. And anyway, I have often thought that the things we truly love, we love in spite of those little flaws of which we are well aware, or perhaps even because of them. It is possible that a patriot who finds himself enamoured of French food, might miss certain English meals, though they be inferior fare, and I dare add even though they be quite dreadful, indeed.
His eyes locked on hers, and she thought she might faint, so she turned to look at the urn of flowers behind her mother.
“My daughter exaggerates for your amusement, my lord.” Lydia's mother felt obliged to defend her domestic management. “We keep a very good cook, and I shall vouch for it: she has never had a meal that could fairly be called dreadful in all her young days.”
Lydia remained silent, but could not help the little mischievous smile that played across her lips. She had no idea of its effect on Lord Aldley.
He moved a step closer to her, almost as though a cord around his waist had suddenly been tugged. “If you are not engaged for the first dance, Miss Norwood, might I have the pleasure of standing up with you?”
Lydia's heart sunk through her stomach. She had not a single name on her fan. Her mother would be disappointed.
But on the other hand, he was really the only man she wished to dance with, and judging by the look on Mrs. Norwood's face, she was most pleased to hear Lydia reply, “You do me a great honour, my lord. I am not engaged for the first, and should be delighted to dance with you.”
She wrote his name on her fan with her pretty little ivory-coloured pencil, only just restraining herself from encircling it with hearts and cupids.
Lord Aldley smiled broadly, showing his slightly crooked teeth, which Lydia decided were the new standard for perfection. She hoped he might be about to say something more to her, but then his expression suddenly cooled, and she was alarmed that she had done something wrong, until she realized he was looking toward the doorway behind her.
“I hope you will excuse me, Lady Goodram, ladies. I see someone I must speak to.” And he was gone.
Lydia felt as if all the air and light had left the room with him. She shook her head and tried to steady herself.
“Well, Miss Norwood.” Miss Dervish smiled slyly from behind her cards. “I believe we may pronounce this ball a grand success for you.”
“We may, indeed,” affirmed Lady Goodram. “I was about to chide you for sitting in here instead of circulating with the young folk and filling your dance card. I can see I need not have worried.”
“Stop, I beg of you, or my face will never return to a normal colour.” Lydia could not stop smiling, but wished to change the subject. “What of you, Miss Dervish? Your card is already filled, I suppose?”
“Yes, I have been very lucky.” It was Miss Dervish's turn to blush. But Lydia noted, with a pang of jealousy, that Miss Dervish's flush was like a kiss of rose petals upon her cheek.
“I should venture to say that it has less to do with luck, and more to do with your incomparable beauty.” Mrs. Norwood would not be so honest as to explicitly rank Miss Dervish's beauty before that of her own daughter, though it was undeniably true. But she was not an entirely unjust judge of personal appearance. “And you must have the most fashionable head of hair in London.”
“You are very kind, Mrs. Norwood. But I think at least some of the young men here prefer red hair and green eyes.” Miss Dervish was very likeable, really, in spite of her perfection.
“Perhaps, but do you not think you should go fill your dance card a bit more, Lydia? Everyone here is not quite as handsome as Lord Aldley, to be sure, but still very agreeable and of impeccable character. You shall be quite safe.” Lady Goodram squinted at the gold face of the Comtoise clock stationed between the champagne-brocade-curtained windows. “And there is not an hour until the music starts. Your mother and I shall finish this game, and join you.”
Lydia rejoined the young ladies in the main room, and did not catch sight of Lord Aldley again, but used her pretty pencil to fill two more names into her dance card fan, one a brother to Miss Stokes, the other a Mr. Frobisher, who was a cousin to Miss Ferrel.
“You are having good luck, Miss Norwood,” Miss Ferrel told her.
“It is merely thanks to you ladies. I only wish I had brothers and cousins to introduce you to.”
“That is not necessary for my part, I assure you.” Miss Dreydon seemed out of sorts.
“I am sorry, Miss Dreydon, I meant no offence by it.” Lydia thought she had made yet another faux pas.
“I am sure she did not take offence, Miss Norwood.” Miss Ferrel smoothed things over. “But we are to understand, as Miss Dreydon has recently informed us, that she prefers not to dance.”
Miss Dreydon nodded. “I find no enjoyment in it, and should greatly prefer having an opportunity to converse with my society, rather than dance with them.”
Even if it sounded rather like sour grapes, Lydia was not entirely unsympathetic with the sentiment—though they disliked balls for opposite reasons. Lydia greatly enjoyed dancing, but she would prefer not to go to London balls at all.
They were too grand for her, and she thanked the heavens that her mother could not abide the questionable company at public balls. But she smiled inwardly. She could be persuaded to attend a great many balls, if she knew Lord Aldley would attend. Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Mortimer.
“Miss Norwood! I am glad to see you here.” He was dressed impeccably, and in his best looks.
“Thank you, Mr. Mortimer. I hope you are well.”
“Indeed I am. And greatly looking forward to dancing with you, if you would oblige me for the fourth.” His eyes sparkled.
“I am engaged to dance the fourth with Mr. Stokes.”
“I should have known you would be popular. My loss for not arriving earlier. Well, then, what of the fifth?”
“It would be my pleasure to dance the fifth with you, sir.”
“Do I ask too much to beg an introduction to these lovely ladies?” Mr. Mortimer gestured to the little group.
Lydia was unsure, she gave an inquisitive look to Miss Ferrel, who smiled and nodded. She introduced him to the three.
“Mr. Mortimer, there you are.” Lydia's mother approached with Lady Goodram and Miss Dervish.
As Lady Goodram introduced everyone, Lydia could not help but notice Mr. Mortimer's long gaze at Miss Dervish, almost as though in disbelief. She could well understand his feeling. She, herself, had not yet grown accustomed to this perfect face. Miss Stokes also seemed quite overwhelmed.
“Well, ladies, Mr. Mortimer, I must take my leave for now, as there are a few guests I must go speak to. I hope I shall see you all dancing soon.” Lady Goodram quit their little group.
Mrs. Norwood took Lydia's arm and pulled her aside to view the dances on her fan.
“Hmm. Very good, dear. Has Lord Aldley been back to talk with you?”
“No, and I have not seen him.”
“If he should ask you to dance a second time, do not hesitate to alter your card to accommodate him, for he is an earl, and these others are of little consequence.�
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“But, Mama, would that not be very rude? I do not wish to cause a scene and embarrass or offend any of Lady Goodram's guests.”
“Much better embarrass a few young men than slight an earl, my dear. You must make the most of this, you know. You will not have so many opportunities to fall into such society. We are not of the fashionable set, and aside from a few gentlemen friends of your father's and the Delacroixs, Lady Goodram is our only real society connection outside of,” Mrs. Norwood's voice hushed to a whisper, “the nouveau riche.”
“But what is so very wrong with being nouveau riche, Mama?” It all seemed rather stupid to Lydia.
“It would take too long to explain it—but it is very important that you pretend to know, and disassociate yourself from that caste as much as may be possible. In fact, do not even mention the term. No, take my advice, darling girl: do what ever it takes to dance a second dance with Lord Aldley, if he should ask. And whatever you do, be inviting and sweet to him when you dance the first.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And also, my dear, I do not mean to alarm you, but be on the look out, for I just overheard something between Lady Goodram and one of the servants, and I believe there is an uninvited—” her whispering was cut off.
“Mrs. Norwood, Miss Norwood, Miss Dervish.” It was Lord Aldley who had appeared at Lydia's elbow. “I am sorry to have left so suddenly, earlier. I am only lately returned to town, and there is always one thing or another to which I must attend. I hope that I may be properly settled in within a week, so that I might have five minutes conversation without some interruption.”
They all assured him there was nothing at all to forgive. Lydia tried to smile reassuringly at Miss Stokes, who looked as though she were about to faint when Lord Aldley asked Mrs. Norwood to introduce him to the little party.
Poor Miss Stokes would simply have to throw away her frayed gloves after this night. But Lydia's own feelings were hardly calm, either. Miss Ferrel, who was closer, took the girl's arm and steadied her.
The first strains of the orchestra warming up filled the ball room. The milling groups of people cleared the floor, and its highly polished surface gleamed with promise in the candle light, like a great magic mirror.
The earl offered Lydia his arm and led her to the floor, and she felt foolishly like a princess in a fairytale. His muscles were firm against her arm, and made her feel inexplicably safe, and at the same time in great peril—of what she could not say, but it was exhilarating and she did not entirely dislike the feeling.
“I hope you are enjoying your evening, Miss Norwood.” Lord Aldley took his place for the quadrille, and the music transported Lydia into the pure enjoyment of dance.
“Yes, thank you, my lord.” She steadied herself, and focused her thoughts on the topics of conversation that she had formulated, in case there should be uncomfortable lapses. “I meant to enquire earlier, how things were in Paris, now that Napoleon is tucked safely away, again. Is it the same?”
“I am not as old as I look. I do not know, aside from what I have read, how it was before Bonaparte, or before the revolution— which my mother calls that recent unpleasantness in France, when she can bring herself to refer to it at all.”
Lydia laughed with him, but not for too long. It was his mother, after all.
“But,” he continued, “I imagine that it cannot be the same. It can never be the same, perhaps. But that may be forcing too philosophical a turn to the conversation.”
“You mean, my lord, like Heraclitus's river, or the ship of Theseus, I suppose.” Lydia relaxed at bit as the conversation became more about interest and less an act of social display.
“Yes, just so.” His face betrayed a brief look of surprise. “Order is restored—or at least royalty is restored, for I should not say that Napoleonic rule lacked order—in a way Paris is restored. But is it the same Paris?”
“From what I have heard of the city, it is so full of life and dynamic, I should think it was ever-changing. One might argue that Paris was never the same Paris twice, but in that way change is so essential to her nature that as long as she is changing, she will always be the same Paris, no matter what besets her.” Lydia stopped herself, reflecting she might be running on too much in a way that, her mother advised her, made an unfavourable impression upon men. “But, now I am being too philosophical. And anyway, I have never seen la Ville Lumière. I apologise, my lord, for running on.”
His eyes held a dreamy expression. “Please do not apologise. You may be furnishing me with the most sensible conversation I shall have all evening, apart from Lady Goodram's, of course. I hope you will get a chance to see Paris. It has many diversions, and beyond that, if you get to see beneath the surface, I believe you will find it fascinating.”
“I hope that I shall. Are you a traveller, in general, my lord?”
“Well, I have been to York.” He maintained a serious expression, but she was sure he must be joking, so she permitted herself to look down a moment and laugh a little.
“No, do not do that.”
“I beg your lordship's pardon,” she blushed, “I should not have laughed, I know, but I—”
“I mean do not look down. You may laugh as much as you like, you have a very pretty way of laughing, only pray do not turn your eyes away from me. I only have a few more moments to look at them before I must return you to your friends. Do not deprive me of their full enjoyment.” Lord Aldley's lips curled.
Her heart was beating fast, and she knew that her face must be turning about the same colour as her hair. “Oh.” It was all she could say, but she obliged him by meeting his gaze.
The way he was looking at her must mean something. There was a silent connection that passed between them without words, palpable but fleeting, like breath frozen in winter air. For the second time this evening, she felt utterly betrayed by her physicality—a charge shot through her line of symmetry, and her nipples seemed to be humming their own little country tune.
It was the end of the dance. Without breaking his gaze into her eyes, he took her arm, and said, “Alas, I must return you, and stop embarrassing you so by staring at your eyes, or I shall embarrass myself by falling over my own feet.”
Lydia smiled nervously, and the moment passed. She felt slightly shaky as they made their way back to her little party.
“I must go fulfil my obligations to dance with some other ladies. But as you dance like an angel, I am compelled to ask for the fifth. Please agree to it.” Lord Aldley's blue eyes and beautiful voice were mesmerizing.
For a moment Lydia might have promised him anything. “My Lord,” she paused, and found no matter how much her mother would want her to, no matter how much she did not want to risk driving Lord Aldley away, she could not embarrass Mr. Mortimer. “I am not engaged for the sixth dance.”
He chuckled. “Very well. Even better, the sixth is to be a waltz—one of the advantages of Lady Goodram's balls. The lady is fond of a waltz, whereas my mother considers them yet another dangerous revolutionary practice from the continent—she is quite unmovable on the point. I shall be happy to dance the sixth with you, except that it means I must wait that much longer. But,” he returned her to her mother's side and bowed over her hand, “I shall eagerly look forward to it.”
He strode off across the room to lead the Duke's daughter to the floor, and he looked extremely good doing it. She did not even know that lady's name—for she had missed the announcement. But whomever she was, in that moment Lydia could not help hating the sight of her.
She was luckily prevented from staring too long by the arrival of Miss Ferrel's cousin, Mr. Frobisher. She wondered, as she danced with the quiet, droopy-eyed young man, if he might be a little sickly, for he was rather pale and thin.
She thought it just as well that he was taciturn, for it gave her leave to focus on her own thoughts, and try to catch glimpses of Lord Aldley, when she might. She saw Miss Dervish dancing with a handsome young man whose hair was almost white bl
ond. He contrasted so strikingly with that darkling Mr. Delacroix.
Delacroix. How thoroughly thoughts of Lord Aldley had driven her memory of the horrible encounter from her mind. Her mother had been trying to say something about an uninvited person when Lord Aldley's arrival interrupted her. If she had meant to warn Lydia about an intruder, then he must have been discovered. Hopefully Delacroix had by now been made to leave.
She wished never to see him again, but he would be hard to avoid if she remained friends with Miss Delacroix. She could give no explanation of her desire to avoid Mr. Delacroix without confessing what had happened. It was not the sort of thing that one spoke of. Her father could not defend her honour, and nor would she want him to try. There was no harm done, unless word of it should get out.
“Am I such a bad dance partner?” Mr. Frobisher finally asked.
“No. Not at all, sir.” Lydia was surprised at the question. “You do very well.”
“It is just that your face was very serious, just now, almost disapproving. I thought perhaps I had trod upon your foot.” His droopy eyes were quite in earnest, but his lip twitched.
“No, indeed.” Lydia shook her head. “I must apologize, my mind was wandering to less agreeable things. I beg your pardon, sir.”
“Not at all. You are such a good dancer that you can focus on other things while you dance. You have quite the advantage over me.”
“It is the one aspect of my training that I enjoyed,” Lydia confessed. “We all have our natural inclinations, I suppose. I must prefer, for example, that no one look too closely at my needle work, or ask me to play the pianoforte. My efforts in those arts are an affront to the senses.” Lydia assumed a theatrical look of terror.
He laughed, and suddenly his face did not look so sickly. “You know, most young ladies take pains to exaggerate their accomplishments. It is refreshing to meet one who frankly disavows her own abilities.”
“Should I seem more typical of my sex if I owned that I am rather good at riding horses, and have a reasonable command of a couple of foreign languages? Not that I mean to boast, but my penmanship is also not entirely horrid. However, lest you think me of an artistic bent, I should just warn you that drawing and painting are entirely out of the question.”