by Jane Ashford
As she recovered her composure, she leaned back in the chair and breathed deeply again. Her refuge was snug; the draperies brushed her left arm, and her right was almost against the cool windowpanes. She could see the back garden dimly, and the sounds of the ball were perfectly clear, though she was no longer, she felt, really a part of it. Her confidence growing, she pushed open a tiny slit in the curtains and watched the dancers whirl by. A guilty thrill ran through her. This surreptitious security was very appealing. She needn’t worry whether people were staring and commenting on her social ineptitude, yet she could still do her duty to Susan.
Sheepishly content, Georgina watched one set give way to another, and another. The night waned, and she regretfully acknowledged that it was time to leave her hiding place and rejoin the crowd. Susan and William would be looking for her soon. She would, however, remember this scheme, she assured herself; next time, she might even try to bring a novel.
The last set struck up, a waltz, and Georgina rose and prepared to emerge. But before she could do so, the curtain was pulled back slightly and Baron Ellerton leaned inside. “Will you dance?” he asked, as if there was nothing peculiar in finding a partner behind the draperies.
Georgina flushed scarlet, unable to answer for embarrassment. But the baron took her silence for assent and pulled her hand through his arm. Georgina walked onto the floor in a daze and followed his lead mechanically as he swung her into the set. Then, swallowing to ease her dry throat, she stammered, “I…I dropped my bracelet. I was searching for it.”
Ellerton glanced at her silver-gilt ornament. “And you found it. My congratulations.”
From his tone, Georgina could tell that he knew her excuse was a lie. She ventured an upward glance and saw that his blue eyes were dancing, but with mirth, not mockery. “Did you see me go in?” she asked in a small voice.
“Some time ago,” he agreed, letting the smile he had been restraining appear. “I didn’t wish to disturb you, but as this was the last set, I suspected you would be coming out.”
Georgina gazed over his shoulder, flushing again. “What a fool you must think me. I…I just wished to sit quietly for a moment.”
“Or a bit longer,” he suggested mischievously.
She clenched her jaw. To appear ridiculous was bad enough, but to be unmasked by this man, who seemed never to make a false step or an awkward remark, was too much. His good opinion, she realized, would have meant more than the whole ton’s. She wished she’d never come to London.
“I beg your pardon,” he added. “I shouldn’t tease you. I know precisely how you feel.”
She raised her eyes, embarrassment forgotten in astonishment.
Ellerton smiled again. “It that so surprising? Many people here must wish for a quiet retreat, at times. They simply haven’t the courage to admit it, far less to act on the feeling.” He gazed down at her with a mixture of amusement and admiration. “You acted on the impulse.”
Georgina was not certain this was a compliment. “You’re making fun of me,” she accused.
“Not at all.” He paused, then added, “Well, perhaps a little. If you could have seen your furtive look as you disappeared through the curtains.” His smile encouraged her to share the joke. Slowly, reluctantly, Georgina began to smile also. The picture he painted was ridiculous.
“What do you suppose the servants will think when they find your chair?” he wondered.
Georgina laughed aloud.
“That’s better.” He guided her through an effortless turn. Georgina was abruptly conscious of his arm firm about her waist and his hand warm in hers. He was really very close. Her shaky composure disappeared again.
He seemed to sense her withdrawal. “I imagine they will put it down to an assignation,” he continued. “A lovestruck swain awaiting his inamorata. Clandestinely, of course.”
This did nothing to restore Georgina’s poise—quite the reverse, in fact.
“Yes,” he went on, “they will concoct a torrid history, I’m certain. I can almost hear them.”
So could Georgina, with a vividness that made her wish for the first time in her life for a less lively imagination. The fact that she was enfolded in this man’s embrace only made it worse. Couldn’t he see how improper this talk was? Venturing a look, and meeting gleaming blue eyes, Georgina indignantly concluded that he did see—exactly. Some of her uneasiness dissolved in anger. “I don’t find it so easy to think like a servant,” she retorted.
“Good, very good,” he replied. “A distinct hit.”
She blinked at him.
“One is forced to extreme measures to break through your reserve, Miss Goring.”
“My…reserve?” She was amazed. She had never thought of herself as reserved, merely awkward.
“What do you call it? You clearly have an interesting personality, but it is very difficult to reach. I thought you’d be more approachable if I caught you coming out of your hiding place.”
“But you… Why should you care?” As soon as she spoke, Georgina wished the words away. She sounded hopeless. Not the sort of wit that the distinguished Baron Ellerton would find engaging.
He smiled again. “It’s not often one encounters an unusual character.” He indicated the dancers around them. “By and large, the ton is dull—the same gossip year after year, though the names change, the same round of parties and flirtations. And yet I’m something of a connoisseur of character. I’m always on the lookout for a refreshing view, a new outlook. I believe you have one.” He didn’t add that he also found her distinctively lovely. He didn’t want her to think he was mouthing empty compliments, as did so many of the town bucks.
So she was an object of curiosity, thought Georgina resentfully. An oddity, whose strange behavior had piqued his interest. And perhaps, though he didn’t say so, he pitied her as well. He must know that she didn’t fit in in London. Perhaps he habitually befriended the awkward. She scorned his charity. “You’re quite mistaken,” she answered in a light tone. “I have no views whatsoever.”
He was surprised at the coldness in her voice. Obviously she had misunderstood him. Gazing at her delicately etched features, Ellerton felt, for perhaps the first time in his life, at a loss. Observing and savoring the foibles of his fellow human beings was one of the joys of the baron’s life. It did indeed, as he had said, prevent the boredom that an intelligent and thoughtful man might otherwise have felt in society. And he had thought that in Georgina he’d someone who shared his predilection, and had the necessary sharpness to practice it.
The combination of this possibility with her beauty and distinguished manner entranced him. He had not been flirting; he had been trying to share something important. He’d thought his tone showed this, forgetting to make allowance for Georgina’s far narrower experience in society.
Now he had to make amends. With another woman, he would have known how. But precisely the qualities that drew him to Georgina made it impossible for him to predict her response. She was unique in his experience and, he realized, increasingly important to him. Feeling as clumsy as he had at sixteen, he groped for words. “I have offended you somehow. I beg your pardon.”
Georgina looked up, startled. Her gray eyes met his vivid blue ones and held.
“I do not see exactly how,” he added with a wry smile. “But I am very sorry. You are deucedly easy to offend.”
“I am no such thing!” she protested, shocked at the accusation. Georgina thought of herself as unusually even-tempered and understanding.
“Yet I seem to repeatedly do so,” he replied. “It does not happen with others.”
“You are one of the haut ton,” said Georgina, “and I come from quite another circle. Our habits are, er, very different.”
“Mine being beneath contempt?”
“I didn’t say…”
“It was obvious from your tone. So you despise me
for my mode of living?”
“No!” Georgina was appalled. “It is rather you who…” She broke off abruptly.
He looked inquiring, and a little angry.
“London society despises all who choose to live otherwise,” added Georgina carefully. “I have seen it over and over.”
“And this is what you think of me?” His tone was curt.
“No. You have been… You do not seem… Oh, why can I never say what I mean?”
This last came out as a wail, and Ellerton’s expression softened slightly. “We both seem to be having difficulty, Miss Goring. But may I at least assure you that I meant no offense?”
She met his eyes again. The sounds of conversation and music about them seemed to recede, and Georgina was acutely conscious of his embrace. Her heart pounded. Slowly she nodded.
“Perhaps I have gone a bit too fast,” he continued. “Could we start again as friends?”
“Friends?” The word seemed to echo in Georgina’s ears, and she was not certain whether she felt glad or sorry. It seemed a pallid offer, yet his eyes suggested much more.
“On the way to becoming friends,” he amended. “Never a bad beginning.”
Hesitantly she nodded again. Ellerton smiled, and after a moment she did, too. Something seemed to tremble in the balance; then, to Georgina’s intense disappointment, the music ended, and she was forced to step out of his arms.
In the next instant, Susan was upon them, looking thunderous, and Georgina’s only thought was to get her away before the girl said something outrageous. She practically dragged her cousin out of earshot, and she was by no means certain the baron didn’t hear Susan say, “You danced with him!”
Their ride home was unpleasant as Susan deplored this development and interrogated Georgina about what he had said and why he had stood up with her. Georgina refused to be drawn, however, finally forcing Susan to ominous silence. But though she retained her outward composure, Georgina’s thoughts were far from tranquil.
Six
The following morning Tony and William went together to a tailor recommended by Sir Thomas Bentham, and by dint of Tony’s insistence, and rather more money than either had thought of spending, contrived to receive their new clothing in a very few days. Thus, when a much-talked-of new play opened in the following week, the young men were able to attend decked out in their new finery. The females of their households were also present, in the first row of boxes, and had a full view of their sartorial splendor below.
“Well, I think Tony looks ridiculous,” declared Susan when she had examined them both. Despite all Georgina could say, the four young people had fallen into using first names. “William looks fine, but Tony…” She shrugged and shook her head.
Georgina surveyed the two young men. Their taste had taken them in different directions. William had followed the Corinthian mode; he wore a dark blue coat and buff pantaloons with a plain waistcoat. His shirt points were moderate, and his neckcloth a fairly simple choice admirably executed. Georgina had complimented him on his appearance earlier in the evening.
Tony, on the other hand, had been seduced by the fashion of the dandies. His bottle-green coat was stiffened and padded into a kind of torture device, or so it seemed to Georgina. His waistcoat was a rainbow of color, adorned by a profusion of fobs. She knew he couldn’t turn his head in his starched collar, for she had seen him rotate his whole body to look behind when William pointed out an acquaintance. Yet he looked pleased with himself, and Georgina thought that was probably the important thing. “He is striking,” she replied mildly.
Susan laughed. “One cannot miss him,” she agreed derisively.
Georgina sighed and went back to watching the arrivals. Susan had been more difficult than ever in recent days, and she was weary enough of her carping to make no effort at conversation. Her own concerns were more than enough to occupy her. Whatever Georgina had expected from this Season, it had not included inner turmoil. She’d been braced for a variety of problems, but so far, none of these had gone beyond her competence. Treacherously, the attack had come from within. Her own emotions had risen to trouble her, and she was helpless before this unexpected revolution. Susan’s pranks paled beside it. Indeed, there were moments when Georgina remembered her fears for Susan with a kind of nostalgia. If only they were her principal worry, she thought at such times. Then, a certain handsome male face would form in her mind, and she would smile foolishly.
For her part, Susan Wyndham was feeling dissatisfied and rebellious. London was not nearly meeting her expectations. She’d envisioned herself as a reigning toast, surrounded by scores of admirers, the indispensable center of a glittering group. And she’d been certain this success would materialize as soon as she began to go about in society. Instead, she found she was merely one among many young ladies being presented. No one seemed to notice her special qualities. In particular Baron Ellerton, whom she had impulsively fastened upon as the object of her ambitions, paid her no heed whatever. No matter what she did to attract his attention, he either ignored or circumvented her. For Susan, this was a novel state of affairs. Her family had an exaggerated respect for her temper, and they’d allowed her more of her own way than was usual. Indeed, she was accustomed to being the center of attention, the one deferred to in making plans and decisions. She’d never considered that this was the result of her rages. She’d simply assumed it was the normal state of affairs. Now, in a much larger circle, among strangers, she found everything changed. No one deferred, not even William. He was out on his own most of the time, scarcely ever asking her if she wished to come or what she would like to do. And Georgina—here Susan’s train of thought stumbled—Georgina was an odd case. She didn’t exactly oppose Susan’s will, but neither did she subordinate herself to it. It was almost as if she lived in some quite different world, in which Susan was irrelevant.
Naturally, this idea did nothing to improve Susan’s mood. Something, she decided, had to be done. She would not endure a whole season as merely one of the masses. But when she tried to think what to do, she was at a stand. Though various schemes occurred to her, even she knew them to be outrageous. She had no desire to create a scandal—merely to make her mark.
Looking across the now crowded theater, Susan saw Marianne MacClain enter a box with her mother and Sir Thomas Bentham. She felt a pang of envy. Though she never would admit it, she admired Marianne; this was the chief reason for her insistence on their rivalry. It was a way of saying they were alike without the humiliating admission that Susan merely wished it was so. Marianne seemed so at ease among the ton, and she had an established place in it, of some consequence. All knew her as the girl who had refused a brilliant match. Susan would have given much for such a distinction. But she would not have said this aloud for worlds.
Susan straightened in her chair as Marianne, settled, began to look about the theater, nodding to acquaintances. Susan pretended to have been gazing in quite a different direction, and then to notice her, and bow. She saw William and Tony do likewise, with much more enthusiasm, and Marianne’s gentle smile at their changed appearance. Once again, she was racked by jealousy. It was Marianne’s ability to laugh at circumstances that filled her with blind rage that impressed Susan the most. Though her family would have been surprised to hear it, Susan wasn’t proud of her temper. Sometimes she felt it was hardly even part of her; rather, it was like an inexorable tide descending from outside. Often she said and did things she regretted bitterly later, so bitterly that she refused to acknowledge the fact to anyone. It was less humbling to pretend she’d meant it all. But occasionally, as now, she faced the truth. Indeed, such moments had come far more often since she arrived in London.
The play began, interrupting Susan’s train of thought. And since she’d never seen a play before, she found the spectacle too enthralling to interrupt with gloomy speculations. She sat forward in her chair, arms on the edge of the box, and gave th
e stage her rapt attention.
Tony was equally fascinated. Indeed, at the first interval, William had some trouble rousing him to visit the boxes. He had to shake his shoulder sharply, as mere words failed to reach him, saying, “Here, what’s the matter with you? Are you ill?”
Tony surfaced with a jerk. “What?”
“I asked if you were ill,” repeated William. “I’ve been talking to you for five minutes, and you just stood there looking like a mooncalf. Is it that little blond playing the daughter?” He grinned.
Tony bridled, indignant and embarrassed at once. “Nonsense. I was thinking, that’s all. Are we going up to the boxes, or not?” He turned away before William could answer, but the latter, seeing his mood, had already chosen silence.
This restraint seemed to mollify Tony, for at the foot of the stairs he asked in a normal tone, “Where to?”
“I ought to pay my respects to Lady Bentham,” replied William.
“You mean Marianne,” corrected Tony, not averse to getting a little of his own back. “Oh, very well.”
Lady Bentham’s box already held two visitors, young men whom William eyed with suspicion. But they departed soon after, and the newcomers were free to take the extra chairs and await compliments on their new finery.
Lady Bentham asked whether they liked the play.
They agreed that it was vastly entertaining.
Sir Thomas wondered if this was their first visit to a London theater.
They acknowledged the fact.
Lady Bentham declared that she liked plays above all things, and her husband, in what Tony thought a disgustingly besotted voice, said that this was because she was so sensitive. With this, the Benthams retired into their customary absorption with each other, and Marianne burst out laughing.