by Jane Ashford
“She never comes to London,” was the acerbic reply. “It is easy to care nothing for society’s opinion when you don’t get within a hundred miles of it.”
Emily acknowledged the truth of that. But she still couldn’t reconcile the Richard Sheldon she had met with the man her aunt was describing. “B-baron Warrington was quite civil to all of us.”
The duchess turned and focused her gaze on Emily. “Why?”
“What?”
“Did he need help from you?”
“He…he wanted to borrow a horse.”
“Hah.” Aunt Julia looked triumphant. “You see.”
“But aunt…”
The duchess’s attention had shifted. “He has been away for an age,” she murmured. “Where, I wonder? If there was anything disreputable about it…”
“Aunt!”
“Warrington has no scruples. So we can’t afford any.”
The waltz ended. The baron escorted his partner off the floor. He was dressed in the height of fashion now, Emily noted, and he looked irritated.
“The best defense is a frontal assault,” muttered Aunt Julia. She appeared to be running calculations in her head. “Come. You will have to renew your acquaintance. I have met his mother,” she announced in more normal tones.
“Perhaps later,” Emily ventured, her feelings wildly mixed. “He is probably already…”
“Nonsense. Come.”
She had no choice but to follow her aunt across the floor. Richard Sheldon had gone to stand beside an older woman who somewhat resembled him. He looked very handsome, but there were a number of very handsome men in the crowded ballroom. He stood out like a hawk among roosters. What was it that made him so different? It was something in his stance, Emily decided, in the way his hands hung at his sides and his body moved inside his clothes.
“Lady Fielding,” said her aunt, very much the duchess. “How do you do?”
The woman standing next to Richard looked surprised, and then very pleased, to be addressed. “Very well, thank you, duchess. You know my son, Richard?”
“Warrington, isn’t it?” replied Emily’s aunt. “I believe you are acquainted with my boy Philip.” There was no trace of concern in her aunt’s expression or tone, Emily noted.
Richard nodded. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her, Emily thought. He was staring as if he were a hawk indeed. Her aunt had assured her she looked lovely. Her ball gown was finer than any garment she had ever owned, of pale blue satin overlaid with white gauze and trimmed with blue ribbons. A matching ribbon threaded through her hair, which had been sculpted into an intricate mass of curls. It had taken almost an hour to achieve the style, and the wisps and ringlets that the fashionable haircutter had teased out around her forehead and cheeks tickled and made her want to brush them back, which she had been strictly forbidden to do.
“May I introduce my niece, Emily Crane,” said Aunt Julia grandly. “I am presenting her this season.”
“Indeed?” Lady Fielding gave Emily a polite smile. “I hope you are enjoying yourself.”
Before Emily could speak, her aunt said, “This is her first ball. She knows very few people in London as yet.”
Lady Fielding looked at her son. So did the duchess.
Richard gave a small bow. “Would you care to dance?” he said.
Emily’s eyes flew to her aunt, expecting some excuse for a refusal. After what she had said about Mr. Sheldon, she couldn’t send Emily off alone with him.
But the duchess merely smiled benignly.
What was she up to? What did she expect her to do? They were all looking at her. She stammered out an acceptance. Richard took possession of her hand as if he owned it and swept her out to join the country-dance just forming.
The transformation was amazing, Richard thought as they began the first figure. The pretty young woman he had met in the country had been polished into a fashionable beauty in an amazingly short space of time.
They moved down the line of dancers and turned at the end, holding up their arms for the next couple to pass under.
Emily outshone most of the other women in the room—which wasn’t really surprising if the duchess of Welford had taken her in hand.
“I didn’t realize you were coming up to London,” he said as they turned.
“It was decided later.”
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad being stuck here in town after all. Up to now, beset by his mother’s anxiety whenever he was out of her sight, he had despaired. The simple act of replenishing his wardrobe—a task that had once occupied all his faculties—had rubbed him raw. The fact that all his old things were too tight in the chest and arms, which he once would have seen as a marvelous opportunity to rig himself out in the very latest mode, now was merely an annoyance. Emily Crane promised a refreshing break from the irritations of society.
He looked down at her, remembering the feel of her slender body against his, her calm acceptance of the oddest events. That memory was more vivid than anything that had ever happened to him in rooms like this. Her eyes were downcast. He ought to speak Richard realized. “Your mother remained in contact with her sister?”
She threw him a quick glance, looking almost frightened, then nodded.
“I wouldn’t have thought they would get on. It’s hard to imagine people more different.”
This earned him another glance, but no reply.
“One of the leading hostesses of the ton and a woman who doesn’t care a whit for society,” he elaborated, thinking that he might not have been clear. “It’s amazing to think that they grew up in the same household.”
He expected that Emily would expand on this interesting conundrum, but she only nodded, her expression stiff.
“I wouldn’t have thought your father would send you to stay with a duchess,” he added, smiling to show he meant it as a small joke.
Emily made a choking sound.
What was wrong with her? She hadn’t seemed at all shy when he met her before, certainly not tongue-tied or missish. “What do you think of London?” he asked, confident that she would have an original perspective.
“It is very interesting. My aunt took me to see the pictures at the Royal Academy.”
“Indeed? An odd choice of amusements.”
She gazed up at him, her blue eyes wary.
“Paintings are hardly a novelty in your life, growing up, as you did, with artists. Your aunt might have chosen something less familiar.” She was acting as if he spoke a language that she scarcely comprehended; and as if she weren’t very happy to be dancing with him.
“What did you think of them?” he inquired, a bit curtly.
“Of…?”
“The paintings at the Royal Academy. I assume your father’s work is more…animated than what the Academy hangs?”
Emily bit her lower lip.
What had happened to her? Or perhaps he had been mistaken in his first impression. He had been rather groggy. Tonight, she was as boring as any deb—more so. “Which pictures, precisely, did you like?” He heard the sarcasm in his voice.
“The portrait of the Duke of Wellington was very fine.”
“So everyone says.”
“Yes, well, they say the likeness is—”
“Striking. So I have been told. Repeatedly.”
The snub made her flush.
Richard felt a twinge of regret, immediately submerged by impatience. He had a strong desire to walk away. It took a considerable effort of self-control to keep dancing.
“You…you haven’t been to see the show?”
“No. I’ve been rather busy.” Richard’s mind wandered back to his own concerns. Busy trying to reassure his mother and separate her from Herr Schelling, busy fending off his friends’ assumptions that he would be resuming his old life as if he had never been away. They were all fools,
he thought, looking around the ballroom. What would they do if their luxurious life were suddenly snatched away?
He realized that Emily had said something. “What?”
She flinched slightly. “I wondered if you are in town for the whole season?”
“I hope not.”
She looked surprised at his vehemence.
“You are, I suppose?”
Emily nodded.
“My felicitations.”
Her chin came up at this, but it was a pale shadow of the spirit he thought he had seen in the country.
“My aunt has been very generous,” she declared.
“Has she?”
Emily blinked at him.
“What else has she to do? Gossip?”
This elicited a look so timorous that he lost all desire to converse with her. Clearly, he had mistaken her character.
They completed a figure of the dance in silence.
“I trust you are fully recovered?” said Emily then.
“Recovered?” he echoed.
“From the…the incident on the road.”
“Ah.” Couldn’t she dare the word attack? “Of course.”
“And you have not had any further…?”
Richard waited, but she didn’t finish the sentence. “What?” he asked finally.
“Nothing.”
Nothing was the word for it, Richard concluded. She had nothing more in her head than any of the other wide-eyed young debs. He had never had much interest in such creatures, and he had absolutely none now. The music ended; and with relief, Richard returned Emily to the duchess and left her there.
* * *
Emily watched him walk away, feeling rather low. Baron Warrington was quite a different creature from the man she had met at home. He was cold and sarcastic. He spoke as if he were setting traps. She had tried to behave as her aunt had instructed, to show him that she could be at ease in society, where he seemed so perfectly at home. But she had been thrown off by the fear that he meant to gossip about her parents to all his London acquaintances. Would he turn the details of her home into anecdotes for the sniggers of the ton? She had experienced that kind of snide mockery often enough in her life, and she didn’t like it in the least.
“Did you enjoy the dance?” asked the duchess sharply.
“Not particularly.”
“Emily.”
A young lady does not have strong opinions, Emily remembered, especially negative ones. “I…I mean, yes, aunt, it was very pleasant.”
Her aunt nodded like a governess acknowledging a correct answer. “Was he rude to you?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was just…rather sarcastic.”
“He is well known for that.”
She had totally mistaken his character in their brief earlier meeting. Her aunt did seem to know best about these unfamiliar creatures—the denizens of society.
“We will call on Lady Fielding tomorrow,” declared the duchess.
Emily gaped at her.
“We must lose no time in cultivating the acquaintance.”
“But aunt, I don’t really want…” She could do without further setdowns from Richard Sheldon.
Aunt Julia waved this aside. “If Warrington is seen to spend time with you, escort you here and there, it will be far more difficult for him to spread scandalous stories about your family.”
“I don’t think he will wish to escort me anywhere.”
“His wishes are irrelevant.”
“But…”
Her aunt silenced her with a gesture. “You needn’t be concerned about this. That is why a girl has a sponsor in society—to manage such things.”
Her cousin George, Aunt Julia’s second son, joined them. He had been drafted as Emily’s official escort this evening. Large, blond, and good-natured, he closely resembled his father the duke, who had greeted Emily’s arrival in his house with absent courtesy. She had a strong suspicion that the duke, and all three sons of the household, viewed her chiefly as an amusement for Aunt Julia, as if she had suddenly taken up horticulture or knitting.
“That Anne is queer as Dick’s hatband,” said George. He had been dancing with the daughter of the house, whose presentation ball this was.
“Slang, George,” admonished her aunt.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. But she is a bit much.”
The countess of Holburn’s daughter Anne was tall and sturdy with dark hair and somewhat prominent green eyes. She had an almost insolent air, and when they were introduced, she had concentrated all her attention on George, scarcely glancing at Emily or her aunt.
“You will clearly outshine her,” said the duchess, scanning the room critically. “I haven’t seen Maundseley’s girl since she was ten. Have you, George? You know her brother.”
“Bad skin,” replied her son.
“Ah,” said the duchess with obvious satisfaction. “And the Wetherby chit seems frightened of her own shadow. No threat there.”
“You make the Season sound like some sort of contest, Aunt,” Emily ventured.
“Not at all,” was the airy response. The duchess didn’t shift her gaze from the crowd.
George caught the eye of a servant and provided them all with champagne. Remembering her instructions, Emily merely sipped.
A few minutes later, when her aunt was diverted by an acquaintance, Emily looked up at George. He seemed very much at home in this setting. “Do you know Lord Warrington?” she asked him.
“Eh?” He started as if one of the gilt chairs had spoken to him. “Warrington? Of course.” He seemed miffed at the suggestion that he might not know someone.
“What sort of man is he?”
George goggled at her.
It probably was the sort of question she wasn’t supposed to ask, but she didn’t care. Fixing her cousin with a steady gaze, she waited.
“Er…he’s…” George frowned in unaccustomed concentration. “Got a deuced sharp tongue. Modish; up to every rig and row in town.” His gaze sharpened suddenly. “You ain’t setting your cap in that direction, are you, because…”
“No.” She gave him a look that made his mouth snap shut. “Is Lord Warrington a great gossip?”
“Fellows don’t gossip,” George protested. At her raised eyebrows, he added, “Know all the on dits, of course. Warrington tells a dashed good story. A wit, you know. I remember one time he was…” He flushed and stopped abruptly.
“At others’ expense?”
George didn’t seem to understand what she meant, but his account agreed with his mother’s. Emily felt a lowering of her spirits.
“Ah, here is Beatrice with a partner for you,” declared the duchess. “Young Hanford, I believe. Very good.”
The countess stopped in front of them, facing her aunt. Emily had a sudden image of two duelists extending their pistols, preparing to fire. The air seemed to quiver as the two women smiled at each other.
Emily took the hand of the smiling young man, and moved into the dance. And into the small hours of the morning, this process went on. Either the countess or Aunt Julia would approach with a gentleman in tow, present him, and then send them out onto the floor. Their appearance varied, but all of them were the honorable this or lord that, and they all seemed to say the same things to her. And to expect the same responses. The one time she ventured to stray from the accepted subject, her partner looked down with such a startled expression that Emily subsided, afraid she had made a terrible gaff.
How had Cinderella really felt at the ball? she wondered on the way home. How would she have liked hours of fittings for her new finery, instead of having it conjured up in a moment by her fairy godmother? And what had she found to talk about with Prince Charming?
Four
“Y
ou have a fitting for your new riding habit at eleven,” said the duchess the following morning at the breakfast table. “Henry’s chosen you a horse.” She ticked off two items on a long list that lay beside her plate. “Tonight is the Wetherbys’ rout party. We’ll call on Lady Fielding in the afternoon.”
“Perhaps another day would be better,” ventured Emily.
Her aunt shook her head. “On the contrary. It is vital that we move quickly, before he has time to…” She waved her hand, indicating disaster.
“I don’t think… That is, couldn’t we wait…?”
Her aunt looked at Emily with raised eyebrows. “I thought you had decided to be presented?”
Puzzled, Emily nodded.
“You yourself decided?”
What did she mean by that?
“Making one’s entrance into society is a delicate process. Particularly when you have certain…disadvantages.”
Emily frowned at her.
“That is not a criticism, merely a statement of fact. I know the system intimately and am expert in working it. I thought you had accepted my guidance.”
“Yes, but…”
“Good. I do have your best interests at heart, you know.”
She did, Emily thought. She had opened her home; she had spent a great deal of money on Emily with apparent pleasure. She was totally engrossed in advancing her niece’s interests. And this was familiar territory for her, alien as it seemed to Emily. She reminded herself that she did want a more settled life. Aunt Julia was trying to get it for her.
* * *
This reasoning did nothing to calm Emily’s nerves as they drove the short distance to Lady Fielding’s house. Richard probably wouldn’t even be there. Of course he wouldn’t be there. Undoubtedly he had his own chambers elsewhere. Reassured, she relaxed in the seat.
When they pulled up, however, they found another carriage waiting. They had barely stepped down when Richard emerged from the front door with his mother on his arm.
“We appear to have called at an inopportune time,” commented the duchess.
“No, no. We were just going to the park,” said Lady Fielding. “Take the carriage back to the stables, Ben. Please come in, duchess.”