When she’d first come to London, so many years before, Maggie had never worn anything half so daring. But as Fred had taken pains to point out, she wasn’t a young girl anymore. She was a woman of six-and-twenty. A veritable artifact. Surely no one could object if her ball gown clung to her curves, antiquated as those curves must be.
As she stepped into the entry hall, she felt numerous sets of eyes upon her. Her pulse quickened. Was Lord St. Clare here? It was difficult to tell in such a crush.
Jane caught hold of Maggie’s hand. “Stay close.”
Maggie was grateful for the security of her friend’s grasp. Jane and her aunt Harriet were each in possession of one of George’s arms, but Maggie had no such support.
She passed through the receiving line and into the ballroom. A sea of faces greeted her, both familiar and unfamiliar. It had been many years since she’d last appeared at such a grand event. Beasley Park was a long way from Chiswick, and even if Maggie had been in London for more than a flying visit, her health wouldn’t have permitted attendance. Crowded ballrooms were anathema to invalids, and dancing was all but out of the question.
“Heavens.” The plumes on Aunt Harriet’s fashionable turban quivered as she looked about the crowded room. “So many people.”
“We shall find you a comfortable chair, Aunt,” George said.
Jane craned her neck. Her own modest dress—a dove-gray creation, trimmed with a pattern of seed pearls—made her look every bit the mature, elegant lady. “There, George. I see Lady Featherstone and Mrs. Herron by the window. You’ll wish to sit with them, won’t you, Aunt?”
“Mrs. Herron?” Aunt Harriet brightened. “Oh yes. Do take me to her, my love.”
After leaving his elderly aunt with her friends, George offered his free arm to Maggie. The orchestra was tuning up for the first dance. A country dance, by the sound of it. “Miss Honeywell? May I have the honor?”
Jane opened her mouth to object only to shut it again. She’d promised not to be too much of a mother hen this evening. Not that she hadn’t clucked aplenty during the days since Dr. Hart’s visit, warning Maggie to take things slowly.
Maggie supposed she had been pushing herself. But her health wasn’t so easily recovered. It was going to take time. More time than she had at her disposal during this particular visit. “Best not,” she said. “I must save my strength.”
“How about you, m’dear?” he asked Jane.
Jane hesitated. “I don’t like to leave Margaret on her own.”
“Nonsense,” Maggie said, urging her friend off. “I’ll not permit you to play nursemaid.”
Jane departed with George to line up at the center of the ballroom. Maggie remained at the edge of the floor. The music commenced with a swell of violins, and the dance began. Maggie stood to watch awhile. As she did so, her excitement over the evening was briefly dampened by a weight of self-pity.
Before the influenza, she’d loved to dance. Indeed, in her memory, her come-out season was one long string of country dances, cotillions, and scotch reels. The music had sung in her veins, and as she’d had no particular attachment to anyone, dancing had been the chief pleasure of every ball she’d attended.
She only regretted that she’d never waltzed. During her youth, it hadn’t yet been deemed respectable. It was a close dance—scandalously close. Some claimed it was akin to embracing on the dance floor. Maggie had hoped she might experience it this evening. That is, if the right gentleman came along.
Had St. Clare had the courtesy to call on her in Green Street in the past three days, she’d have given him advance warning of her desire. But he’d been noticeably absent since that afternoon in the Trumbles’ garden. To hear Fred tell it, St. Clare was too busy paying court to Miss Steele to trouble himself with Maggie.
And perhaps he was.
The very thought of it caused Maggie pain, but there was nothing to be gained by hiding her head in the sand. She forced herself to be realistic. Had she not surprised St. Clare that night in Grosvenor Square—had she not met him so totally by chance—would he ever have sought her out? Would he ever have returned to Beasley Park to find her?
“Wait for me, Maggie,” Nicholas had said all those years ago. “No matter how long it takes, I will come back for you.”
But Nicholas hadn’t come back. Not for her.
And St. Clare showed no sign that he’d ever intended to. Rather the opposite. He was settled here in London. Settled, and looking for a bride. She’d thought that bride was to be her, but now…
Well. What did it matter anyway? She was as unable to marry him as he was unwilling to marry her. There was no point in repining.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering if all of her questions about Nicholas had had some small part in driving St. Clare away. If she hadn’t pressed him so relentlessly, would he have returned to her side? Or would he have grown bored with her regardless?
A depressing thought.
Unfurling the painted fan that hung at her wrist, Maggie wafted her face. More guests had arrived, and the ballroom was becoming stuffy. She made her away along the edge of the floor, toward the doors that led out to the terrace.
“Margaret,” a familiar voice called out.
It wasn’t the voice she’d been hoping to hear.
Steeling herself, she stopped and turned. “Fred. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
He stood in front of her, garbed in fashionable evening dress. Too fashionable. His neckcloth was folded in a fantastical design, and his ivory satin waistcoat shimmered like a jewel. It suited his brawny frame not at all.
There was no sign of the sling he’d worn on his arm during their last encounter. No concession to his recent bullet wound at all, save a certain stiffness in the way he carried himself.
“Naturally I’m here. You said you’d be attending. Though not to dance, I trust. You can’t mean to exert yourself.”
“I may dance,” she said. “The waltz is, I understand, not terribly fatiguing.”
Fred’s face tightened. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he gestured to a gentleman behind him. Like Fred, the man was extravagantly attired—high shirt points, an even higher neckcloth, and a black coat and knee breeches cut so snugly he minced when he walked. “Miss Honeywell, may I present Mr. Lionel Beresford. Beresford, Miss Honeywell.”
“Beresford?” Maggie inquired as the man bowed over her gloved hand. “Are you any relation to Lords Allendale and St. Clare?”
“Distantly, ma’am. Distantly.” Mr. Beresford released her hand, affecting an air of fashionable boredom. “I claim the honor of calling the earl my uncle, and Lord St. Clare—a relative only recently brought to my attention—my cousin.”
“We met at Tattersall’s,” Fred said. “Beresford likes a bit of hunting. I’ve invited him to come and enjoy the shooting down at Beasley Park.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Have you.”
Fred already acted as if Beasley was his own, making decisions about the estate that should rightly have been left to her, but inviting guests down to stay was a new level of presumed ownership.
“Is Letchford Hall not a more appropriate place to entertain your guests?” she asked.
Located next door to Beasley Park, Sir Roderick’s estate was equally as grand and had the added benefit of being Fred’s actual home.
“Not with the renovations. There’s plaster and stonework everywhere. Isn’t safe for company. Besides”—Fred turned back to Lionel—“you can’t beat Beasley for hunting and shooting. The best in the West Country, that’s what I always say. You may bring your mother, too,” he added magnanimously. “Miss Honeywell could do with a bit of female company.”
“Obliged to you, sir.” Mr. Beresford gestured to someone in the crowd. “There’s Madre now. Allow me to introduce you, ma’am.”
There was no way Maggie could politely refuse
. She permitted Fred to escort her back through the crowd to a row of chairs populated with elderly ladies and wallflowers. Mrs. Beresford sat among them, a thin, bird-like woman with unsettlingly sharp eyes. She regarded Maggie with a thin smile as Mr. Beresford made the introductions.
“You’re not dancing, Miss Honeywell?” she asked. “A shame to have dressed in such a singular gown and not dance. To be sure, the design looks quite French.” She tittered. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it on any of the young ladies of my acquaintance.”
“Miss Honeywell cannot dance,” Fred replied. “She’s an invalid.”
Maggie’s fingers clenched so hard on the ivory handle of her fan, she feared she might crack it in half. “How droll you are, Fred. Indeed, Mrs. Beresford, I can dance. I’m merely conserving my energy for the waltz.” She inclined her head. “Good evening.”
Turning sharply, she made her way back through the clusters of elegantly clad ladies and gentlemen that lined the ballroom. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I beg your pardon.”
The music swelled as the dance came to a close, the orchestra playing so loudly that she could hardly think.
“Margaret.” Fred caught hold of her arm—the same arm he’d clenched so brutally during his last visit to Green Street.
She couldn’t conceal a wince.
He dropped his hand. “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t charge off alone.” His gaze flicked down the length of her in disapproval. “Not dressed like that.”
“I’m not alone. I came here with Miss Trumble, and with her brother and aunt.”
“None of whom are anywhere to be found.”
“Here I am!” Jane hurried, breathless, from the dance floor. “Is everything all right?”
Maggie had never been more relieved to see her friend. “Fred is objecting to my lack of a chaperone.”
Jane laughed. “Nonsense. She has three chaperones altogether. My brother has just gone to fetch us some punch, and then we’ll be rejoining my aunt.”
“Exactly so,” Maggie said. “I don’t need you hovering over me all night, Fred. You’ll only cause a scene.”
Fred glowered. “Very well. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Margaret, make no mistake.” He strode away to rejoin his friend.
“What was that about?” Jane asked.
“Possessiveness,” Maggie said. “And worse. He’s befriended a distant relation of Lord. St. Clare’s.”
“Oh?” Jane shot Maggie a look. “What mischief can he be up to?”
“I don’t know. But Fred never forgets a slight. I wouldn’t put it past him to be brewing some manner of trouble for the viscount.”
Jane sighed. “Men and their petty grievances. How tedious they can be.” She linked her arm through Maggie’s. “Come. Let’s find George.”
The evening continued in a flurry of music and dancing. More people arrived, and the ballroom was soon packed full to bursting. It was hot under the flickering lights of the crystal chandeliers, the air heavy with the cloying fragrance of perfume, pomade, and perspiration. One could scarcely draw breath. Indeed, midway through the evening—in a sure sign that Lady Parkhurst’s ball was a success—a woman dancing the scotch reel fell into a dead faint from the lack of circulation.
Maggie felt a trifle light-headed herself. She hated to think how much worse it would be if she was dancing.
But she didn’t dance.
Not even when the waltz was finally played. It was the supper dance—a dance coveted by any gentleman with aspirations toward a deeper familiarity with his lady. And not only because the waltz was an intimate undertaking, but because afterward he would have the privilege of dining with his partner. Of sitting beside her for an hour or more.
Maggie stood near to Aunt Harriet’s chair, watching the dancers swirl about the room. It was then that she saw him.
John Beresford, Viscount St. Clare.
Clothed in an elegant black-and-white evening ensemble, he was waltzing with Miss Steele. All but embracing her as they swirled to the music.
Maggie’s breath stopped.
When had he arrived? She hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t heard any talk to indicate he was present. He must have come just before the dance began. Which meant he’d likely reserved it with Miss Steele ahead of time. An agreement the pair of them had come to at a prior engagement, perhaps, or during the course of one of their drives in the park.
Maggie rested a hand at her midriff, willing herself to breathe, even as her heart clenched with hurt and jealousy. She was ashamed to admit to the latter. She had no formal claim on St. Clare. He’d said he intended to court her, it was true, but he’d made her no promises. Had sworn her no oaths. Only Nicholas had done so, and that had been too many years ago to count. He’d been little more than a lad then. What had he known of the world? What had he known of women?
Across the ballroom, St. Clare looked as experienced as any world-weary rake. He smiled down at Miss Steele as they danced. She was talking to him. Flirting with him, more like. Garbed in a shimmering silver dress, she fairly glowed in the candlelight. Twinkling like a diamond. Young and pretty and vigorous.
Maggie had been so once.
But not now.
She felt a sudden flush of embarrassment at her daring blue dress. She should have taken a page from Jane’s book, dressing in a modest ball gown more appropriate to her years.
Jane herself looked elegant and graceful, waltzing with Lord Irvine, an elderly widowed gentleman. She was closer to Maggie than St. Clare was. Close enough to flash her a beaming smile.
Maggie forced a smile in return. A brighter smile than she thought herself capable of, given the circumstances. She wouldn’t have her friend worry over her. Jane had already wasted the first half of the evening in looking after Maggie’s comfort.
It was when she was smiling with such artificial brilliance that the twirling pattern of the dance brought St. Clare and Miss Steele closer. A dip and a swooping turn, and then his stormy gray gaze caught Maggie’s across the floor.
Their eyes locked for an electricity-charged instant. For that timeless moment, he looked stunned. Stricken to his core. Maggie saw the emotion in his eyes, as plain as anything. But as quickly as it manifested, it was gone, lost beneath an air of glacial reserve.
He waltzed Miss Steele past, his attention once again fixed firmly on his partner’s face. He even smiled at her, though there was nothing of warmth about his expression.
Maggie looked after him for the space of a heartbeat before forcibly turning her attention back to Jane. It wouldn’t do to publicly pine after the season’s most eligible bachelor. Not when the entire fashionable world knew that he’d recently fought a duel with Fred. It would only spark further gossip.
“Has Harold returned?” Aunt Harriet asked, blinking owlishly about the ballroom. “He promised to take me into supper.”
Harold Trumble was Jane’s father. Aunt Harriet frequently mistook the younger generation for those who had come before them.
Maggie didn’t bother to correct her. “He’s in the gaming room playing cards, ma’am. I’m certain he’ll be here soon.”
The final notes of the waltz sounded, with St. Clare and Miss Steele ending their dance at the far side of the ballroom. Maggie could no longer see them through the crush of people.
She didn’t want to see them.
Though she’d resolved to keep her countenance, she didn’t think her heart could bear to witness St. Clare escorting his comely young partner into supper.
“Aunt Harriet.” George appeared out of the crowd, a little short of breath. He came to stand in front of his aunt. “Are you ready to go down to supper.”
“Yes, yes. I’m famished.” Aunt Harriet took George’s arm.
“Miss Honeywell?” He offered his other arm to Maggie.
She shook her head. �
��Thank you, but I must have some fresh air. I feel a trifle light-headed.”
When Jane returned with her partner, she offered to accompany Maggie outside. “It will be no trouble at all.”
“Nonsense,” Maggie said. “I’m fine on my own.”
“But if you’re going out into the garden—”
“I won’t venture that far,” Maggie promised. “I’ll only step outside onto the terrace for a bit, and then I’ll come and join you. You’ll scarcely notice my absence.”
As her friends and the rest of the guests made for the dining room, Maggie pressed toward the opposite end of the ballroom. Glass-paned doors led out onto a wide stone terrace. A liveried footman opened one of them for her.
She passed through and kept walking until her hands found the cool edge of the railing. Lit by torches, the terrace looked out over an expansive tiered garden. No one else seemed to be about. Except for a few lingering servants tidying up in the ballroom, she was alone.
The evening air was cool on her exposed skin. Far cooler than it had been when they’d arrived. She leaned over the rail, breathing deeply. Her eyes closed on a sigh.
It had been foolish to come here. Foolish to imagine she was well enough to dance with anyone, let alone St. Clare. Perhaps Fred was right. It was time to go home to Beasley Park. Time to resume the normal course of her life.
London had been a welcome distraction from reality. It was full of energy and industry. Alive with entertainments. But it was no place to recover one’s health. It was too dusty and dirty, the air filled with smoke and damp with fog. What she needed was the fresh air of Beasley Park. She needed to walk in the countryside. Perhaps even to ride again, if she could convince Fred that it was safe for her to do so.
Fred.
The prospect of a life spent under his thumb depressed her spirits. It would be no life at all. But many women endured worse. Many carved out lives for themselves in spite of brutish, bullying husbands. She was more equipped than anyone to do so. With her temperament and backbone, she’d never permit Fred to break her spirit, or to get the better of her.
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