by Anne Gracie
Kate laughed, complained they made her feel rather like the main ingredient in a strange and exotic stew, and admitted her complexion had improved under their ministrations. But it was still a terrible waste of good food.
And then there had been the shopping, a positively sinful orgy of it, in Kate's eyes, but "the merest necessities' as far as her female mentors were concerned. Kate tried to remain sensible and practical, but the fizzing excitement that rose in her at the sight of the exquisite, dashing outfits that Lady Cahill and Amelia had bullied her into purchasing was irresistible to a girl who had had very little opportunity to indulge in fashionable feminine frivolity.
Kate's head had been spinning at the end of that first day, which had begun at the silk warehouses. Delicate and lovely fabrics were draped, compared, contrasted, swathed, discussed, discarded and selected, mostly without reference to Kate, who was far too easily pleased, according to her companions. Then it was off to see Amelia's modiste, Madame Fanchot, who, well primed as to the state of mademoiselle's finances, went into professional Gallic raptures about mademoiselle's face, her figure, her air of je ne c'est quoi, then flew into genuine raptures when Kate responded to her in fluent French. Then there were hours spent poring over issues of La Belle Assemblee and Ackerman's Repository, with dozens and dozens of plates, all of the most elegant outfits.
In the end Kate had spinelessly allowed Madame Fanchot, Amelia and Lady Cahill to decide everything and left to them the meticulous planning and endless discussion which went into every choice. For her part, Kate could not have cared less whether, for instance, the lemon muslin was cut to drape so, enhancing the lovely line of mademoiselle's shoulders and neckline, or like so, to enhance her bustline, or like so, to give her height. Her only contribution to that discussion had been to suggest that perhaps the neckline was rather too low, a suggestion that was ignored by all three ladies as too nonsensical even to warrant a response.
So now Kate stared at her reflection, exposing more of her chest than she had ever done in her life. She became aware of her maid still holding out the artificial flowers, awaiting her response, and smiled apologetically.
“I think not, Dora. To be quite honest, I am terrified that it would fall out of my hair." The maid bridled, assuring her that such a thing was quite impossible.
Kate interrupted the flow. “It is just that my head feels so strange and light since my new crop, and I cannot but feel that something is missing, so although I am sure you would place the flowers most securely you do understand how I feel, don't you?"
Dora relented after a moment and said that of course she did, and miss looked very elegant and lovely and would be sure to be a success again tonight.
Kate wrinkled her nose. Yes, of course, "success' was what was important. How could she have forgotten? She had tried not to let herself think of other things, or wonder what might be happening at Sevenoakes. That was one benefit of such hectic socialising—one didn't have time to brood. Tonight, for example, she was going to a ball and it would be surprising if she had time to think of Jack even once.
Jack leant against an elegant column, arms folded, a black frown on his face, staring, glaring, unable to tear himself away. It had been Francis's idea to come to this ball on the evening of their arrival in London and Jack had regretted it the moment he'd arrived and clapped eyes on Kate, utterly transformed from the shabby little starveling he had first met. She was dancing, her head thrown back, mischievously laughing up into the eyes of a fellow Jack had been to school with, and knew to be titled, rich and eligible.
"Blast it!" he exclaimed to Francis. "What the devil is she doing dancing with that fellow Fenchurch? And in such a dress!" Jack could hardly take his eyes off the creamy curves revealed by the fashionable low-cut neckline of Kate's dress, and neither, he noticed, could Kate's partner. Nor a number of other so-called gentlemen.
Francis glanced from his friend's black frown to Kate's laughing visage and back again. He controlled his twitching mouth and said innocently, "Nice chap, Fenchurch. Kate would do well to encourage his advances. Couldn't do better, in fact."
"Fellow's a complete bounder!" snarled Jack.
“Good heavens, is he?'' said Francis placidly. “How very shocking. News to me, I must say. Always thought he was a friend of yours, old man. A bounder? Well, well. I must say, I am surprised. Still, he's a dashing-looking chap, and there is the title. I dare say that accounts for his popularity with the ladies."
Jack grunted. There was nothing particularly dashing that he could see in the tall Viscount's regular even features, thickly curling blond hair and tall, muscular physique. Fellow was addicted to sports, that was all. Damn it, what the deuce was he saying to make her blush like that? Jack found he was clenching his fists and thrust them into his pockets to hide the fact.
"Stand up straight, boy, and stop lounging all over the wall like a looby! How many times have I told you to get your hands out of your pockets? Not that I can see how on earth you can have pockets in such indecently tight garments."
Jack sighed. "Good evening, Grandmama." He turned to face her. He bowed, and she ran her eyes over him assessingly. A marked improvement from the last time she'd seen him.
“Have you seen my little protégée?'' she said, grinning. Jack grunted.
"Looks charming, doesn't she? Gel's done me proud. I wish her mother could see her." She raised her lorgnette and peered short-sightedly at the dancers. "Who's she dancing with now? Eh, Jack?"
"Fenchurch."
Lady Cahill smiled. He hadn't even turned to look. And what was more, she thought delightedly, he was so taken up with Kate's activities that he had forgotten to be sensitive about his altered appearance, his shattered cheek and his limp.
"Fenchurch? Ah, yes, fine, big, handsome chap, ain't he? Not that that signifies. All her beaux seem to be. Gel's mighty popular—her dance card was full before she'd been here ten minutes. I doubt she could give you even a country dance, Jack. You could ask her, though."
He snorted.
Lady Cahill smothered a chuckle and continued. "Oh, look, the dance is finished and see how they rush to procure her a chair and refreshments. Can't leave the girl for a moment but she's surrounded by admirers. Taken very well, Maria's girl. But, there Jack, you're not interested in an old woman's ramblings. Tell me, what has brought my favourite grandson to London?"
Her favourite grandson mumbled something inaudible and stumped away, scowling. Kate was undoubtedly a social success. And he was unaccountably infuriated. He'd rushed up to London in a state of high anxiety, ready to rescue a poor little waif from social ostracism and humiliation. He'd found her apparently in the highest of spirits, with any number of fellows underfoot, making complete cakes of themselves over her! Her dance card too full to allow him even a country dance! He snorted again. He had no intention of joining the ranks of her admirers, begging for a moment of her attention! He retreated behind another pillar and scowled at her from there.
Kate saw him arrive. For a moment her heart seemed to stop. He looked worn and tired and the broad shoulders of his plain dark coat glittered from the hundreds of candles that lit the ballroom. He had come in the rain. His hair too was damp and clung to his brow in dark wild curls. She longed to run across the room and fling herself into his arms. She longed for him to stride out across the ballroom floor and sweep her into his embrace. She longed to kiss him.
She continued through the cotillion mechanically, finding in the performance of the stately measure the control she needed. Her heart was ablaze with excitement. Why had he come? How long would it be before he noticed her? Would he like the way she looked now? Would he ask her to dance? Oh, how she had missed him!
She forced herself not to look at him, not trusting herself to do so. She responded to Viscount Fenchurch's sallies, laughing and smiling automatically, having no idea of what he was saying. The dance would finish soon and then Jack would come over to her. Unable to restrain herself any longer,
she used the movement of the dance to dart another quick shy glance at him.
And froze. He was staring right at her. His gaze scorched her. . .and she froze. There was nothing but the strongest condemnation in his face. He was staring right at her as if he despised her. Her steps and smile faltered, and as she stumbled her partner gathered her smoothly up, concern in his handsome face. Kate recovered herself and continued.
The dance felt like the longest one in history. Somehow she got through it, smiling blindly at her partner whenever his face swam into view. She had thought she had come to terms with the pain of Jack's condemnation, but the sight of him had been so unexpected, her response so joyful, that his obvious disgust had slid through her icy armour like a hot knife through butter, straight into her heart. Again.
The dance finished, but before she could excuse herself and seek solitude in which to deal with her desolation the band struck up again and she found herself being whisked back on to the floor. Pride alone carried her through it, and if her partner found her to be a little inattentive and distraite he found nothing amiss with the dazzling smiles she flashed him.
By the time the second dance drew to a close, Kate's temper was rising. Jack had continued to prop himself against the wall, glaring at her throughout the dance, black fury and total disapproval on his face.
How dared he follow her here and stand there sneering at her? It was his fault she was here in the first place. She hadn't wanted to come to London. And if she had made her entree to society under false colours, as he obviously believed, then it was his grandmother who'd made her do it. And he had delivered her to his grandmother, so he was as much at fault as anyone. How dared he look at her like that?
Kate's anger enabled her to sweep through the next dance in glittering style and to parry the flirtatious compliments of her small court of admirers with wit and panache. For the next hour she danced, flirted, smilingly declined an offer of marriage and added a dozen new members to her circle of male admirers, all in the most furious of tempers and under the scorching long-distance glare of Mr Jack Carstairs.
Jack forced himself to stay for an hour or so longer, seeking out all the most beautiful women. She would not think he had no female admirers! Look at her—responding to the gallantries of the biggest collection of rakes and downright gudgeons he had ever seen—and they called themselves his friends!
Finally, unable to stand the sight any more, Jack left, mining abruptly from the sight of her, pushing his way through the glittering throngs of people.
Kate watched as he disappeared out into the night. He hadn't even looked at her for the last half-hour. Suddenly she realised she had the vilest headache. She sought out Lady Cahill and asked to be taken home.
"Mr Carstairs called again this morning, Lady Cahill," announced the butler, an edge of disapproval in his voice.
The old lady frowned. "And I gather from your tone, Fitcher, that Miss Farleigh was 'out' to him again."
Fitcher assented with a dignified half-bow.
"The foolish child! I suppose I will have to talk to her about it. Ask her to step down for a moment, will you?"
"Now, missy, I'd like to know why my grandson has been haunting this house for the last week or so but not, apparently, finding anyone home, and I do not refer to myself."
Kate flushed. "I've been so busy. . ." Her voice trailed off under Lady Cahill's sardonic gaze. "Well, if you must know, I have no wish to speak to him."
A well-plucked eyebrow rose.
Kate's voice warmed in indignation. "Well, and why should I subject myself to more of his tyranny?"
"Tyranny?"
"Yes, ma'am. As if it is not impossible enough having him glaring and glowering—and gnashing his teeth at me from across every room I enter, whether it is at Almack's, or a concert or a private ball. He is making me—and himself— ridiculous. I wish he would return to Leicestershire and leave me alone. He has nothing to say to me that I have not heard before. . .or, if he has, I do not wish to hear it, for I know what it will be."
"You think so, eh?"
"Yes, ma'am." He despises me.
"As I understand it, you have barely spoken with my grandson since leaving Leicestershire."
Kate flushed again. "There has been no need," she said in a low voice. "He made it perfectly clear then what he thought of me. And his behaviour since then only reinforces it."
Jack's behaviour made a horrid kind of sense to Kate—he thought she was some sort of immoral lightskirt, and he was there to prevent her from disgracing his grandmother. That was why he glared at her every time she so much as looked or smiled at a man, no matter who the man. He didn't trust her an inch, that was obvious!
The old lady observed the tense way her young protégée fiddled with the fringe of her shawl.
"And there is no possibility that you could be mistaken? Young men, and young women too, often say foolish things that they do not mean, especially when they are in love."
"In love! No, indeed, ma'am, you are quite, quite mistaken there!" The fringe tore in Kate's fingers. Unaware, she moved restlessly around the room.
Lady Cahill heaved herself off the sofa. “My dear, foolish child, when you are as old as I am, you will learn that young men, particularly young men of my grandson's cut, do not generally make cakes of themselves following a young lady around only to glare at them from a distance, unless their emotions are very strongly engaged. And only one emotion prompts that sort of behaviour."
She held up a hand to forestall Kate's reply. "No, that's quite enough. The subject is becoming tedious and fatiguing. I beg you will think about what I have said, but we will speak no more of it now. I intend to repose myself for a few hours before I ready myself for the ball tonight."
She paused at the doorway and looked back. "I expect you will find that my grandson will be present at the ball tonight—Wellington is guest of honour. It is to be his last social appearance before returning to the Peninsula."
Chapter Seventeen
"Good God, how has that young woman managed to insinuate herself amongst decent people? Do our host and hostess not know she is a traitress and a whore?''
The penetrating voice was overheard by dozens in the tightly packed ballroom. As one, heads turned.
“Who do I mean? Why, that Farleigh chit, of course. Look at her, dancing as if she had not a care in the world, the shameless hussy. And at a ball in honour of our brave and gallant Marquis of Wellington; the gall of the woman!"
The voice lowered itself slightly, and continued to a gathering crowd, avid for gossip.
"That little tart betrayed our brave soldiers to the French, lived with a Frenchman as his mistress! I know, for my husband was one of the officers that captured her. Her father would be turning in his grave—he was a man of the cloth, you know. Mind you, I always wondered why he never looked at her—he must have known. . ."
The crowd pressed closer.
Something was wrong. Kate knew it. So many looks, sideways glances, whispered comments followed by significant stares.
"Miss Farleigh, our dance, I believe." An elegant young fribble bowed over her hand and led her into the next set.
"Have you heard, Miss Farleigh? 'Tis monstrous exciting. Apparently some little whore has been passing herself off as a lady, when all the time she played spy for old Boney and whored for his officers. And she's here tonight!' Her partner glanced around the room, speculating.
Kate glanced away, a sick feeling in her stomach. Let me just finish this dance, she prayed silently, then I can leave inconspicuously.
But it was not to be. As they moved through the stately steps of the cotillion she noticed her partner eagerly whispering his news to the others in the set. At one point he faltered, stopped and stared at Kate, aghast. He turned back to his source, whispered something and resumed the steps.
Only now he would not look her in the eye. His fingers did not so much touch hers as gesture disdainfully in her direction. The dance c
ontinued. Kate felt the ice surround her. No one looked at her. No one touched her. No one spoke to her.
Bitterness rose in Kate like bile. She had known how it would be. This was the reason she had never wanted to appear in society ever again. Had she been allowed to go her own way, she would not be experiencing this. Again.
"Ceddy, please escort me to my mama. I cannot think she would wish me to associate with a traitress!" Nose held high, a young lady abandoned the set in mid-movement.
In seconds, the ordered progress of the dance collapsed, as each of the ladies in Kate's set marched righteously off the dance floor, escorted by their partner. Kate looked at her partner in mute appeal. If he would only escort her from the floor, she would be able to leave with a shred of dignity.
His face twisted in contempt. "My brother was injured at Salamanca!" he snarled, and stalked away.
Kate stood in the middle of the dance floor, frozen. She knew she had to move, to get away from all of the eyes, from the whispering and pointing. From the hate. The loathing. The avid speculation. But she couldn't move.
Around her she felt the rest of the dancers faltering, the rising hum of gossip and conjecture. The music petered out in mid-tune as the last of the couples left the floor. It had the effect of focusing all attention on Kate. She felt the crowd gathering into a dense barrier, the seething, greedy stares of bored aristocrats, eager for sensation to alleviate their safe, pampered, dull lives.
Lions and Christians.
The thought gave Kate the strength she needed to move. She turned, seeking Lady Cahill with her eyes, but there was no sign of her. Kate moved slowly towards the circle of watchers, trying to ignore the barrage of eyes upon her, probing, malicious, scornful.