by Carola Dunn
"Penny is married,” Thea pointed out.
"But Penny is only twenty-one."
"Between the two of us we combine matrimony and sufficient years. You need only go when Penny does not."
Her mother's relief was so gratifying that for a moment Thea almost forgot her own qualms.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"I told you so,” Meg hissed as she and Thea waited behind Jason and Penny to reach their hostess. “Lady Turner is only calling it an informal hop because Maria has not been presented yet. It is a proper ball. Are you not glad you are wearing your best gown?” She glanced down complacently at her own dress, of white lace opening over a white sarcenet slip garnished with pink silk roses to match the rosebuds in her hair.
Thea had let Penny persuade her to make a change from her favourite blue. Her gown was yellow, a soft shade deeper than jonquil, less bright than canary. She knew it suited her, but dismay at the crush in the confined entrance hall overwhelmed her pleasure. Bejewelled matrons bemoaned the horrid squeeze; girls in white or pastels whispered and giggled; soberly clad gentlemen begged each other's pardon as they tried to protect their ladies’ gowns from the crowd.
Fixing her gaze on Penny's moss green satin, Thea managed another step forward. “Half the ton must be here,” she murmured.
Meg shook her head. “Heavens, no. It is quite a small house, hired for the Season. They have no garden at all. The ballroom is as large as the rest of the house put together, but I cannot imagine where they will put everyone. Maria said they invited two hundred people."
Two hundred! How was Lord Hazlewood ever to find her among so many? Though he had already requested a dance, she would never be bold enough to seek him out. However, tall as he was, he would be easily found by those hopeful ladies daring enough to pursue him. In fact, she saw him now, as they turned a corner and reached the open doors of the ballroom. He was standing just beyond the group clustered about the receiving line, his fair head bent to listen to his companion.
The crowd parted for a moment and Thea recognized the beautiful Lady Daphne, her hand on the marquis's arm. Shaken by an emotion she refused to acknowledge, Thea turned her head away. She had no right to be jealous.
Had jealousy been possible, she would have found much cause for suffering it that evening. Lord Hazlewood was too great a matrimonial prize for his long and resolute bachelorhood to deter the ambitious. No sooner had he left one young lady with her chaperon after a dance than he was besieged by prospective partners.
Lady Daphne stood up with him, and Maria Turner, the latter with the advantage of being both his hostess's daughter and his cousin's friend's sister. He waltzed with Mrs. Wilmington, the dashing, voluptuous widow he had snubbed in the Park—how had she coerced him into it? Thea wondered. She did not recognize two other damsels he led onto the floor.
Somehow he found Meg, surrounded by her own admirers, when the time came for the country dance she had promised him. He flashed Thea a smile as he neatly abstracted her sister from the group. She stopped worrying that he would forget her or search for her in vain, and started worrying that she would make a muddle of the newly learned waltz.
In the meantime, she danced a quadrille with Lord Stewart, grateful for his discreet reminders of the complicated figures. Will DeVine, resplendent in crimson velvet, requested a country dance. So did Sir Gideon Turner, who confided that he was desperately in love with Miss Megan.
"Ready to blow my brains out,” he assured her solemnly.
"Don't do that!” she said in alarm, then recalled that his sister had told Meg he was given to impassioned attachments. “Meg may not favour you at present, but I doubt she will be ready to make up her mind before she has enjoyed the splendours of her Season in the spring. Though I am sure nothing could be finer than this ball,” she added hastily.
"Promised Maria I'd do it up well. My only sister, you know, and she's not a bad chit. For a sister."
Thea was glad Meg did not favour him. He seemed a singularly brainless young man.
When Thea was not dancing, she stayed with Penny. Jason made a point of introducing his many friends and acquaintances to them. Thea was impressed by Penny's ability to converse with all and sundry despite never having met them before. She listened carefully, hoping to learn the knack, but decided the first requisite was a self-confidence she did not possess.
She did not understand how Penny could meet strangers with such tranquillity, yet be so unsure of herself when it came to her relationship with Jason. If love was to blame for so much unhappiness, Thea reflected, perhaps she was a widgeon to yearn for love.
"You are thoughtful, Miss Kilmore."
With a startled gasp she looked up at Roderick. He smiled at her and her heart quivered. Widgeon or no, she wanted more from the marquis than his friendship, precious as that was. Yet he must never guess, for if he came to consider her just another of the females who pursued him, her misery would equal Penny's.
He held out his hand to her. “It is time for our waltz, ma'am.” As she rose and went with him to take their places, he said softly, “You are a trifle down pin, I think. Is this evening a great trial to you, Thea?"
"I find large numbers of people bewildering,” she admitted.
"Nothing could be more natural after the solitude of the moors."
But how could she remain down pin or bewildered when his hand was at her waist, her hand in his firm clasp? She gave him a joyful smile as the music started and he guided her into the dance.
"Actually, so large a crowd is easier than a lesser company,” she said to explain her sudden change of spirits, “since no one notices if I am tongue-tied."
"True. There is scarce space for the ladies to observe each other's gowns. The Turners’ ball will certainly win the accolade of being described as a shocking squeeze."
"Accolade? How odd. The other advantage of a ball, I have discovered, is that during a country dance one spends little time with one's partner. It is only the waltz that is troublesome, for one is expected to do two difficult things at once—converse and mind one's steps."
"You seem to be managing remarkably well with both."
She realized that, swept along by his strong arm, she was indeed whirling about the floor without sparing a thought for her feet. He was a superb dancer, confident and graceful, as she had noticed when watching him earlier. However, his earlier partners had all been too short for him, forcing him to conform to their shorter steps, to bow his head to speak to them. For the first time in her life, Thea felt her height gave her a worthwhile advantage. If only they could waltz forever.
Roderick's blue eyes lit with rueful amusement. “I should not have spoken, since my words appear to have silenced you."
"Oh no, I was silently congratulating myself, since to do so aloud would be odiously conceited."
He laughed. “If there is one adjective I should never think to apply to you, it is conceited. Since you are in a mood to be pleased with yourself, let me say that yellow becomes you to admiration."
"You said that of my lavender dress."
"Are you accusing me of repeating myself? No punishment can be too dire for a gentleman so unoriginal as to offer the same compliment twice to a lady. The only possible explanation is that the admiration is owed to the wearer, who would grace any colour she chose."
Pink-cheeked, she retorted, “I see you are determined to make me conceited, sir. Pray let us talk of something sensible."
"By all means. What do you reckon are my chances of winning a wager that Princess Charlotte will be brought to bed of a girl?"
"Precisely one in two. But I said sensible! Have you really made so idiotic a wager?"
"No, but I wager half the gentlemen in this room have. At the clubs, it is quite the thing to bet on flies crawling on the wall, or raindrops running down the window-pane, or whether the next member to enter will wear a blue coat or a brown."
"And gentlemen are supposed to be the more-intelligent sex! Even Meg is wiser. At
the Duchess of Trent's card party, she refused to play for more than penny points, though Penny was staking her. She said she kept thinking of all the ribbons and romantic novels she might buy with those shillings."
"Penny points at the Trents'?” The marquis grinned. “I wish I had seen it. And what did you do?"
"I sat and watched the whist players, pretending I wished to learn. Jason warned us that there is often deep play at the Trents'."
"Your brother was never a gamester, for all his other misdemeanours. Oh Lord, I beg your pardon—I ought not to have said that."
"I'm glad you did. I had not considered the possibility, but how shocking if he were to gamble away Penny's fortune."
"If he had been frequenting the gambling tables, I should have heard of it, no doubt. There is one less thing for you to tease yourself about."
Thea looked at him uncertainly. He had sounded almost irritated. “You must think me a peagoose to worry so much about my family."
"Not at all. I only wish..."
But what Lord Hazlewood wished was never voiced, as the music ended and they found themselves beside his cousin and Meg.
"Shall we go in to supper together, coz?” Mr. DeVine suggested. “If you have no objection, Miss Kilmore. I can count on Rod to keep the hordes at bay, you see. I cannot think what possessed me to present my friends to Miss Megan."
Meg giggled.
"Is it time for supper?” Thea asked. “I should like to go with you, but perhaps Lord Hazlewood has arranged to take someone else in."
"That waltz was the supper dance, Thea,” said her knowledgeable sister. “You go with your partner to supper."
So, as usual, Roderick had arranged matters for her comfort. She had felt the tiniest bit hurt that he had not danced with her earlier, but it was so that she would not have to sit through supper with an uncongenial partner, or none. Though she had to be grateful for his chivalrous forethought, she wished wistfully that he did not regard her merely as an object for his compassion.
She took his arm and all four proceeded to the supper-room.
The Turners’ drawing-room and dining-room had been thrown into one for supper. Will had bribed a footman to reserve one of the tables set up in the drawing-room, a tiny table in a corner, barely large enough for four. He ushered Meg to the chair in the corner, telling her laughingly, “So that none of my rivals can approach you."
Before sitting down, Thea scanned the room. “I want to be sure that Penny has found a place,” she explained to the marquis. “I cannot see her. Can you, sir?"
He turned from holding her chair and glanced around. “No. Would you like me to ... Ah, there she is. With Kilmore and the Montmorencys."
"Thank you.” She smiled at him as she took her seat. She could not regret his compassionate chivalry since it embraced Penny, too, who had real need of it.
There was no room for a buffet, so footmen with trays darted between the tables. Meg exclaimed in delight over lobster patties, truffled chicken timbales, chocolate wafers and raspberry ices. Her small appetite was soon satisfied, though, despite her exertions on the dance floor. While the others ate, she studied their fellow guests with a lively interest, commenting on a charming headdress here, an intricately tied cravat there.
"And that gentleman's waistcoat far outshines yours, Mr. DeVine,” she teased. “Peacock blue, with spangles and ... Thea, I believe it is that man who was so rude to us at the Haycock. Do you remember? Ilminster, his name was. He took us for ... for women of easy virtue."
"Ilminster insulted you?” Will half rose, his face matching his crimson coat, his knife clenched in his fist. “I'll horsewhip him!"
"You can't do that.” Roderick laid a restraining hand on his cousin's arm.
"Then I shall call him out!"
"Pray do not,” Thea begged.
"You might be hurt,” said Meg, round-eyed.
"Sit down,” the marquis commanded, and his cousin subsided. “You will draw everyone's attention, which is precisely why you will not challenge the earl. Do you want the entire beau monde whispering that Miss Kilmore and Miss Megan were mistaken for ... er ... ladies of easy virtue? You know such things cannot be kept quiet."
"Of course not, but how can you be so deucedly calm and collected about it? Forcing his attentions on innocent females!"
"Believe me, if it were not for the certainty of gossip, I should call out the scoundrel myself.” The iron in his quiet, controlled voice and the fire in his eyes confirmed his words.
Thea blenched. Suppose he changed his mind, decided scandal could somehow be avoided? “Lord Ilminster was in his cups at the time,” she said, attempting to excuse his behaviour. “I doubt he was able to ... to force his attentions on anyone. Meg told him, ‘Unhand me, sirrah,’ and we left without harm."
Will gave a shout of laughter. Roderick grinned. “Did you really say that, Miss Megan?” he asked. “I once heard the line in a melodrama at The Haymarket, though I never supposed it might be pronounced anywhere but on the stage."
Meg twinkled at him. “Heroines in novels say it all the time. The villain generally leaves, uttering dire threats."
"I trust you will not rely on its efficacy, however. Real villains are rarely foiled by words not backed by the certainty of punishment."
"But you mean to let the infamous earl escape without punishment,” Will complained.
"I shall give him the cut direct,” said the marquis dispassionately, “and you will drop a quiet word in your friend Sir Gideon's ear to the effect that I do not care to frequent a house where Ilminster may be encountered. He will tell his mother, and if I am not mistaken, the earl will soon find himself persona non grata in respectable Society."
Will shook his head admiringly. “Since Lady Turner—along with half of Society's hostesses—harbours hopes that you will cast the handkerchief in her daughter's direction, I have no doubt but you are right. Ilminster ran through his fortune years ago and cannot compare as a possible match."
"As though Maria would marry Lord Hazlewood for his fortune,” said Meg, filled with indignation. “Even if Lord Ilminster were twice as rich, she'd refuse him, because he is odious, and ugly, and wears dirty linen."
"And a flashy waistcoat,” pointed out the marquis, his gaze on Will's pale pink-and-white stripes.
"Oh, go to the ... ahem ... deuce, coz. Ah, people are returning to the ballroom. I'll go and have a word with Giddy. You know what he will say? ‘The Divine Will has spoken.’ And I'll tell him I'm backed by the Divine Rod...."
"Blasphemy,” said his cousin severely, then he smiled at Thea. “With luck, after tonight you will no longer run the risk of coming face to face with the infamous earl. I hope you are satisfied with my solution?"
"Most certainly, sir. How dreadful it would be if he recognized us.” Yet Thea wondered whether Lord Ilminster might not have preferred pistols at dawn to banishment from Polite Society. Will DeVine's wrath was violent, but Lord Hazlewood's was more to be feared, though he never allowed anger to ruffle his outward calm.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wearing black crape in mourning for Princess Charlotte, Meg looked tinier than ever as she stood at the drawing-room window. She held aside one sage-green curtain with its border of bright autumn leaves and peered out into the dark. For once, no one chided her. “What shall we do?” she demanded yet again.
"I don't know,” Penny wailed. “Tonight of all nights! I don't know if it will be worse to go without Jason or not to go at all."
"If I stay at home,” the dowager volunteered, “the balance of ladies and gentlemen will not be upset. Mrs. Trevelyan will just have to remove two covers."
"If it were anyone but the Trevelyans, Mama,” Thea reiterated patiently. Though her mother had not been told the full story, she knew enough to be aware that Alison Trevelyan had been singularly gracious to invite the Kilmores. How could Jason do this to his wife? “We shall be abominably late if we do not leave soon.” She began to fasten the buttons of her slate
-grey pelisse.
"I cannot face them without him.” Penny paced, green eyes huge in her pale face, charcoal silk swishing about her ankles. Her hair flamed above the sombre colour. “Yet if neither of us goes—"
"Here he is!” Meg cried. She dashed for the hall door. Penny and Thea at her heels.
Dunmow, as anxious as his ladies, was loitering in the hall. He opened the front door and Jason came in, shaking raindrops from his beaver. Far from being apologetic, his expression was jubilant.
"Penny, it's all settled at last,” he announced triumphantly. “Wait till I tell you—"
"Jason, we shall be late,” Meg interrupted. “You are not even changed for dinner."
"Are we dining out?"
"Jason, the Trevelyans!” Penny moaned.
"To perdition with the Trevelyans! I cannot explain to you in company...” He realized his wife's lips were trembling, her eyes filling. “The Trevelyans? Yes, I suppose we must go. You take the carriage, my dear, and leave at once."
"I cannot go in without you."
"Of course not. Dunmow, have my horse brought round by a mounted groom. Five minutes! Penny, wait on the comer of Green Street until I come. I shall catch you up, I promise.” He touched her cheek as he strode past to take the stairs two at a time.
He did not keep them waiting. Joining them in the carriage, he struggled out of his riding boots and put on evening pumps while Scargill drove the last few yards to the Trevelyans’ house.
"I am not quite my usual immaculate self,” he said, a laugh in his voice, “but I don't believe I smell of the stables after so short a ride. Come, Mama, let me help you down."
They were the last to arrive, but not so late as to cause comment. In fact, the only topic of conversation in the Trevelyans’ drawing-room was the sad death of Princess Charlotte in the early hours of that morning, after bearing a stillborn boy.
The gentlemen spoke gravely of the political situation. The loss of the Prince Regent's only child left his brothers as his sole heirs. The youngest was in his forties, and not one of them had legitimate offspring. What was to become of the throne?