First Season / Bride to Be

by Jane Ashford

  The ballroom was more crowded than she had expected, and the hum of talk and glitter of evening dress abruptly reminded Anabel that she loved parties. She had scarcely attended one since her husband died, at first because she was in mourning and then because she had somehow gotten out of the habit. Now she felt a rising excitement. London parties must be quite different from the dinners and small assemblies of the country. She had told her mother that she hadn’t minded missing her long-ago debut, but she remembered now that this wasn’t entirely true. She had pined a little for the balls and routs and Venetian breakfasts until she became so contented with Ralph and the children.

  “Lady Wyndham,” said a voice behind her. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

  Anabel turned and greeted a woman she had met some time ago at a house party. “Mrs. Brandon, how pleasant to see you again.” She would have an easier time now than she would have had at eighteen, she realized. There were one or two familiar faces in the room.

  When they had exchanged commonplace news, Mrs. Brandon added, “You must come and meet my daughter. It is her first appearance in society, and she is naturally a bit uneasy. She will be so happy to see an acquaintance.”

  Glancing around, Anabel saw that her mother and Georgina were lingering near the door, the former scanning the crowd and the latter looking remarkably sulky. “I should be delighted,” she replied, and allowed herself to be led to the other side of the broad chamber.

  It was evident at once that Julia Brandon had no memory of meeting her and that she was by no means pleased to see either of them. A tall, Junoesque brunette, as Mrs. Brandon must have been before putting on flesh, Julia was talking to a gentleman when they came up, and her irritation at the interruption was almost as clear as her mother’s anxiety. Anabel surveyed him with interest and some amusement. What about the man inspired such disparate emotions in mother and daughter?

  Part of the answer was obvious immediately. He was extremely handsome. Julia Brandon’s height had made her companion’s less evident from a distance. Now, looking up, Anabel felt dwarfed. The two women outstripped her own moderate inches, but the man was taller still, and he held himself with a consummate assurance. His hair and coloring were dark, and he was blessed with the fine shoulders and well-molded legs to set off the high Corinthian mode he affected. Though Anabel had never lived in town, even she could recognize the elegance of his dark blue coat and fawn pantaloons, the one chaste fob dangling at the front of a severely unostentatious waistcoat. Here was an example of the nonpareils she had only heard of. Anabel was suddenly acutely aware of the outmoded cut of her evening dress. Her mother had assured her that it was fine enough for this early ball, but she wished now that some of the London gowns she had ordered had arrived to replace her old blue satin.

  Raising her eyes, she looked into the man’s face. The high cheekbones, broad forehead, and dark arched brows matched the rest of his appearance. His mouth looked haughty, she thought. And then she met his gaze.

  Anabel felt a shock run through her, from her throat to the pit of her stomach, leaving her shaken and absolutely astonished.

  The man’s eyes were a curious pale green, and they reflected a masterful and complex personality. That was clear at a glance. But why should they affect her so strongly?

  Mrs. Brandon had murmured her daughter’s name and Anabel’s. Now she added, “Sir Charles Norbury,” in a voice thick with disapproval and concern. She had moved close to Julia’s side, and her stance made it clear that nothing would move her until she could coax the girl away.

  Anabel saw in Norbury’s eyes an appreciation of the situation that matched her own. A silent current of amusement passed between them. “Wyndham,” he said. “I knew a Julian Wyndham at Oxford.”

  “My husband’s cousin,” replied Anabel.

  “Ah.” There was a subtle shift in his gaze.

  “My dear Lady Wyndham,” exclaimed Mrs. Brandon. “I did not even mention your sad loss. I beg your pardon. It was such a shock, Sir Ralph going off that way. Julia was much affected, weren’t you, dear?”

  Julia, whose entire attention remained on Norbury, didn’t appear to hear.

  “You are very kind,” replied Anabel. “It has been three years now, and so we are over it, as much as we ever shall be.” Mrs. Brandon nodded sympathetically, and Anabel was a little surprised to realize that this now-familiar platitude was quite true. In the country, with her family and surrounded by objects that recalled Ralph, she had not really felt the fading of grief. Here it was clearer.

  “Oh, Julia, there is Maria Kingsley, and her daughter, I believe. Come, we must speak to them.” She took Julia’s arm and urged her away. “You will excuse us?”

  Their murmured responses, and Julia’s frown, were swept aside in Mrs. Brandon’s determined retreat. Anabel wondered again why she was so eager to get away.

  “My fault, I’m afraid,” said Sir Charles Norbury.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The abrupt departure. I’m not considered a proper companion for young girls just out of the schoolroom.” He smiled, teeth startlingly white against his dark skin. “Thank God.”

  Anabel couldn’t help smiling back, though she was startled by his apparent reading of her thoughts and by his remarks.

  “Why not?” she couldn’t resist asking.

  He laughed a little. “I’ll leave it to others to malign my character, I think. Will you dance?”

  The ball had opened in a rather disorganized way as they talked, and now a new set was forming. Anabel, intrigued, nodded and put a hand on his arm. She was a little disconcerted to find that it was a waltz.

  “You haven’t been up to London before,” said Norbury when they were circling the floor together.

  “No. We always preferred the country.” It seemed to Anabel that he was disturbingly close. She had waltzed at local assemblies countless times, but somehow this was different. Norbury’s arm about her waist and firm clasp of her hand seemed to make it a new experience, and she felt foolishly younger than her years.

  “Really?” He treated it as a joke, and Anabel was too preoccupied with her own odd sensations to correct him. “But you must have spent at least one season here. Perhaps we even met? Yes, I must have danced with you. My taste has always been impeccable.” He smiled down at her, his light green eyes glinting.

  “No. I married out of the schoolroom.” She felt it a clumsy reply, and was again amazed at herself. What was making her so inept? Ralph had always called her a wit.

  “That accounts for it, then.” Sir Charles was still smiling.

  “For what?”

  “You are quite the youngest and loveliest widow I have ever encountered, Lady Wyndham.”

  “Widow,” she echoed distastefully. “How I hate that word. It makes one think of…”

  “Precisely. But you confound all the clichés delightfully.”

  Anabel had never met anyone who anticipated her in this way. It had always been she who surprised and amused her circle, her conversation that set the standard. She was slightly stung at being interrupted, but even more she was interested and challenged. “And you? Do you not go to Jackson’s, and Manton’s Gallery, and White’s, and the Daffy Club?”

  “Not?” There was an arrested look, and a shade of puzzlement, in his eyes.

  “Clichés.” She left him to work it out, which he soon did, throwing back his head in a laugh so genuine and wholehearted that several nearby couples turned to look.

  “A leveler, Lady Wyndham! Or perhaps I should say a telling comment, not wishing to betray my lamentable lack of originality. How dare you hide in the country all this time when you might have enlivened the desert of society with such home thrusts?”

  “Ungallant, sir. Not all this time,” she answered, looking demure.

  He didn’t laugh again, but the spark of delight remained in his e
yes. “I most humbly beg your pardon.” He guided her in a sudden turn, his arm tensing around her, and Anabel drew in her breath. This was the most stimulating conversation she could remember.

  “You are here for the season, I hope,” he added. “Have you taken a house?”

  “No, I am staying with my mother, Lady Goring.”

  “Ah. Yes, we are acquainted. I hope you will allow me to call upon you there?”

  Anabel inclined her head.

  “In fact, as this is your first extended visit to London, perhaps you would allow me to show you some of our landmarks. The park at the fashionable hour is well worth seeing. Will you go driving with me tomorrow?”

  “In a high-perch phaeton?” she asked.

  He laughed again. “In anything you like, my dear Lady Wyndham. A Roman chariot, a stagecoach complete with yard of tin.”

  She smiled speculatively up at him, then shook her head. “I should like to ride in a phaeton.”

  “Letting me off so easily?”

  “Oh, no. I shouldn’t like being stared at in a stagecoach on Rotten Row.”

  “But that is the chief object in London—being stared at.”

  “In a particular way. Not with ridicule.”

  “Indeed. But many do not see the distinction.” The music ended, and Sir Charles looked disappointed. “Tomorrow, then?”

  Anabel nodded, and they drew apart with the end of the set. She felt both glad and sorry that it was over. It had been exhilarating but also a little overwhelming. She looked around for her mother and discovered her standing in the doorway that led to the refreshment room. Norbury offered his arm. “May I get you something?”

  They walked across to Lady Goring, who greeted them with raised eyebrows and turned to join their progress. “I have hardly seen anyone,” she replied to Anabel’s question. “I have spent most of the evening in here.” She sounded so irritated that Anabel and Norbury exchanged a glance. But Anabel had a suspicion of the cause, confirmed when she saw Georgina standing close to the buffet table, alone.

  They joined her, and Anabel made introductions. Neither Sir Charles nor Georgina appeared enthusiastic about meeting.

  “Georgina, darling,” said Lady Goring. “You really must come into the ballroom. Everyone is still dancing.” Her voice was oversweet, and her eyes rested on the plate of lobster patties and meringues in Georgina’s hand.

  Georgina shrugged and took a bite of meringue.

  Anabel struggled with a smile. She looked at Norbury to see if he shared her amusement, but he was eyeing Georgina with a mixture of weariness and disgust. His mouth had turned down, and his lowered lids eloquently expressed contempt. Anabel felt uneasy about what he might say.

  “Georgina,” said Lady Goring again, sharply. “This is a ball, not a dinner party. No one else is—”

  Anabel felt she had to intervene. “How are the meringues?” she asked, then grimaced. That was hardly the question to ease the situation.

  Georgina looked at her. “All right.”

  This effectively halted the conversation. Lady Goring had become aware of her audience. Sir Charles looked bored. “If you will excuse me,” he said, “I see Allingham.” With a careless nod, he walked away.

  “You had an ample dinner only two hours ago,” Lady Goring said to Georgina more quietly. “I wonder you can eat anything.”

  “I am excessively fond of meringues,” responded the girl defiantly, taking another bite.

  “Excessively indeed.” Lady Goring was uncharacteristically cutting.

  Anabel couldn’t bear any more. “Mama, I think Mrs. Rivington was looking for you. She wanted to ask you something.”

  “Me? What could she possibly…”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps you should go and see.”

  Her mother eyed her suspiciously, then sighed. “Very well, Anabel, I shall go. But I must say first that I am not pleased by your choice of a partner.”

  “My…”

  “Norbury, my dear. I didn’t know you had met him.”

  “I was introduced here.”

  “I see. Well, it is too bad, but I suppose you can avoid him in future.”

  “Why?”

  Casting a meaningful glance at Georgina, Lady Goring turned to go. “We will discuss it later.”

  Anabel frowned at her back. Really, her mother was becoming more managing rather than less so with age. She had been almost unkind to Georgina, and now she evidently thought to dictate her own friendships. She would have to realize that Anabel was no longer a schoolroom miss. She turned back to Georgina, who was finishing a meringue. Their eyes met.

  “You don’t have to stay here with me,” said Georgina. “I am quite happy alone.”

  Nonplussed, Anabel watched her pick up another confection.

  “I prefer it, actually,” added the other.

  “At a ball?” Anabel could not help but ask.

  Georgina shrugged. “I don’t care for balls. I hate crowds of people.”

  “But…the season.”

  “I shall hate it. I knew I would. I never wanted to come to London, but Papa insisted. We were quite happy at home together, and then last year he suddenly began to talk of London and of writing my aunt. He wouldn’t listen to me at all.”

  Anabel noticed incipient tears in the girl’s eyes. “I’m sure he thought it would be best for you.”

  “How could he? He knows I loathed the assemblies and evening parties he made me go to at home. He hates them too. He never goes out. We are just alike, Papa and I.” The tears threatened to overflow, and she blinked them back furiously.

  “What do you do at home?” asked Anabel gently.

  “We read. We both love books. And we have very good dinners. Our cook is French. And no one tells me that I should look better in my ball gown if I did not eat my dinner. And no one is forced to dance with me when he does not wish to.” Georgina sniffed and ate another meringue.

  “Perhaps your father was thinking of the future,” offered Anabel. She was feeling a great deal of sympathy for her cousin and wanted to comfort her.

  “I am his only heir,” replied Georgina bluntly. “I will have the house and an adequate income. He has told me.”

  “Well…but you should have a family of your own and…”

  “Why? I don’t want one.” The girl sounded both defiant and unhappy.

  Anabel did not know just what to say to her. On the one hand, her mother was right. If Georgina would do something about her appearance, she would no doubt have a pleasanter time in London. But she realized now that what she had taken for sullen stubbornness in Georgina was in reality a mask for bewilderment and hurt. Perhaps some young man had been rude to her this evening, and certainly Lady Goring’s criticisms had wounded her. She was striking back by refusing to change, and she had some justification. Anabel did not know what she could do for her, but kindness was surely better than further humiliation. “What sort of books do you like?” she asked.

  Georgina’s gray eyes brightened a little. “Novels. Do you read them?”

  “I have little time for reading, I’m afraid. I seem to be always busy with the children.”

  She nodded, accepting this. “Are you glad you came to London?” she asked. “You like it here, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes. I do enjoy parties.” Anabel felt almost apologetic.

  “You are pretty. Everyone likes you.”

  She laughed. “Hardly.”

  Georgina shrugged again. “That man you were dancing with does, and he didn’t even want to look at me.”

  So she had noticed Norbury’s reaction. Anabel had hoped she had not. She tried to think of some reassuring answer.

  “It’s all right. I don’t care. I am perfectly happy the way I am.” Georgina picked up another meringue.

  But Anabel, watching
her, knew that it wasn’t true, and she wondered again what she could do for her touchy young cousin. The girl couldn’t be pushed; that was clear. Was there some more subtle means of aid? No thoughts occurred to Anabel, and the musicians were striking up another waltz in the ballroom, drawing her irresistibly away. Dancing again had been wonderful.

  “Go ahead,” said Georgina.

  Anabel hesitated, then turned toward the music. She would think about her cousin tomorrow.

  Three

  Anabel enjoyed herself hugely at the ball, and as a consequence slept luxuriously late the following morning, waking barely in time to dress for her appointment with Sir Charles Norbury. Thus, she was not downstairs to receive a morning caller who asked for her with some impatience. Indeed, no one was about, and the footman left the gentleman in the drawing room to go in search of Lady Goring.

  The man paced the elegant room in long, swift strides, obviously preoccupied. Once, thinking he heard a sound, he stopped and turned quickly. But no one was there. He was dressed in well-tailored traveling clothes, though not in the height of fashion, and there was something very appealing in his ruddy blond complexion and alert blue eyes. He was just above medium height and just past thirty years of age, and his handsome face fell naturally into lines that suggested laughter.

  Still pacing, this time he did not hear the faint noise from the doorway. But it was followed almost immediately by a shriek that brought him swinging around.

  “Uncle Christopher!” A diminutive figure hurled itself across the carpet and onto his chest, nearly knocking the breath out of him. “You’re back, you’re back!”