"Ah, the second waltz, if I may, and might I ask for the supper dance as well?" asked Wrotham, scribbling his name in both spaces before she could refuse, had she been so inclined.
Instead, she smiled her assent, and he bowed and turned away quickly to do some thinking of his own.
What had possessed him to claim two dances? he wondered. There were undoubtedly many here that would see it as showing a most particular interest, Lady Penrose included. Glancing across to where Charles was hovering over Celeste, he hoped that his friend would limit himself to two dances, or he'd find the announcement in the papers before he knew it. Catching his eye, he beckoned to Ellerby, who came willingly enough, though his face was glum.
"Dash it all, Ed, I told you we should have come sooner!" he said accusingly. "Miss Wheaton's waltzes were already taken and I nearly had to fight Naseby for the supper dance— and that's the only one I got, too!"
Wrotham shook his head sympathetically. "Poor Charles! Undoubtedly she'll tire of all those pretty fellows soon enough and see your true worth. No point rushing your fences, after all."
Ellerby agreed dubiously, making Wrotham feel like a hypocrite, for wasn't that just what he himself was doing? Instead of thinking, as he had promised himself he would do, Wrotham distracted himself from Miss Wheaton by signing the dance cards of several other young ladies, including two dances with Miss Heatherton and two with Lady Alice Gresham, hoping thereby to throw Lady Penrose off the scent. He had no mind to be subjected to her match-making again if he could help it.
The musicians struck up the first dance and Jonas led Deirdre out, determined to undo the damage done yesterday as speedily as possible. Miss Wheaton's "Dreams of July" had proved to him, beyond any doubt, that she could, indeed, compose poetry. As his wife and mentor, she could teach him to create such verse, such beauty.
"Miss Wheaton," he said, almost as soon as the dance began, "please allow me to apologize again for my behaviour yesterday. Your comments were perfectly valid and, as I had asked for honesty, I had no shadow of a right to take offence."
"I... I'm sorry too, Jonas," she replied, delighting him with her use of his Christian name. "I was perhaps more frank than was necessary. And... what thought you of my work? Please do be honest." She looked up at him expectantly, almost fearfully.
Jonas hastened to reassure her. "I must beg your pardon also for the things I said pertaining to your poetry. I see I was... quite wrong. Do you suppose," he concluded humbly, "that you could see your way clear to helping me to improve mine?"
Deirdre smiled, relieved and flattered. This was the first time anyone outside her family had seen her poetry, and though she had given him copies of two of her best poems, Mr. Flinder had every reason to be critical. However, it appeared he had liked it!
"Certainly, Jonas," she replied. "It is always a pleasure to discuss poetry with a fellow enthusiast." Her smile faltered as another thought occurred to her: what would it be like to be married to a man who hated poetry, to be never able to discuss it again?
Surely, deliberately pursuing such a course was unthinkable.
Her conflicting feelings stole much of the pleasure she should have felt at her waltz with Lord Wrotham a short time later. They also made her appear aloof and mysterious and all the more alluring, though Deirdre was of course unaware of this. Instead, she was trying to analyse precisely what it was about this man that made her breathing and heart rate accelerate so alarmingly whenever he was close to her.
"You look very serious," commented Lord Wrotham as she pondered. "What are you thinking about?"
Deirdre's eyes flew to his face in alarm. "I... ah, I was just thinking how grand this house is and— and how many people there are here, all under one roof," she managed to say, since the truth obviously would not do at all.
"Yes, in spite of the size of this ballroom, Lady Millbanke always manages to fill it beyond capacity," he replied. "Are you too warm? Would you care for a breath of air, or perhaps a glass of ratafia?" There was genuine concern in his face.
Embarrassed that he should think her so faint-spirited, Deirdre gave him a brilliant smile that made him blink as though dazzled. The idea of stepping outside into the cool night air alone with him was far too tempting to contemplate, she realized with regret. "No, my lord, I am fine. It would be a shame to miss any of my first real ball, don't you agree?"
Lord Wrotham inclined his head in assent, conscious of a pang of disappointment. He had been hoping for a chance to speak with her privately— more privately than was possible during a waltz, at any rate—to discover more about this fascinating young lady's character. With an inaudible sigh, he realized he had received some information already; Miss Wheaton evidently preferred the glitter of a ballroom to quiet conversation.
Having told the Marquis that she felt perfectly well, Deirdre almost immediately became aware that it was uncomfortably warm in the ballroom, packed as it was with fashionable humanity. Were all balls to be like this? She hoped not, for there were apparently a great many still ahead for her this Season.
Deirdre was just gathering her courage to open the subject of poetry again —she had to discover if he really detested it— when the music ended. Mr. Barclay was there to claim her for the next set before she could leave the dance floor, and the chance for private conversation was over for the moment.
"Until later, Miss Wheaton," said Lord Wrotham with a sweeping bow, and he was gone. Rallying her smile and her energy, she commenced the cotillion with Mr. Barclay.
* * *
When Mr. Flinder claimed his second dance of the evening, he was, if anything, even more solicitous than he had been before. "I find I suffer every moment I am away from your side, dear Miss Wheaton," he said soulfully as he led her out to the dance. "Are you certain you will not grant me another set after supper?"
But Lady Penrose had made the seriousness of a third dance with any one gentleman very clear to her daughters, and Deirdre had no wish to commit herself in that manner— not yet, at any rate. Would she have declined had Lord Wrotham asked the same question? Alas, she honestly didn't know.
As the strains of a country dance sounded, Mr. Flinder grimaced in disgust. He had advanced a certain sum to the orchestra leader to have a waltz played for this set, but the arrangement had either been forgotten or disregarded. "You are looking a trifle fatigued, my dear," he said suddenly to Deirdre. "Would you care to sit this one out and discuss poetry some more, instead?"
Deirdre agreed at once, for in truth, dancing was not her favourite way to spend an evening and the conversation of most of her partners had been maddeningly insipid, consisting largely of compliments to herself or of tales designed to impress her with the narrator's athletic or equestrian prowess. She had discovered a lamentable tendency in herself to compose bits of verse instead of attending strictly to their stories, though she dared to hope no one else had perceived it.
Procuring a glass of champagne for each of them, Mr. Flinder led Deirdre over to a settee placed so that its occupants could observe the dancers while resting themselves. Deirdre sipped her champagne dubiously, never having tasted it before, and set it aside after only the briefest trial.
"I recently read an interesting comparison of Sidney and Spenser," Mr. Flinder informed her, seating himself a hair closer than she would have preferred. He continued, offering, she soon perceived, the author's opinion as his own. Deirdre was obliged to disagree in some particulars, which seemed to disconcert her companion, making her wonder if he ever thought for himself or merely absorbed the opinions of others. Still, it was pleasant to cease whirling about the floor for a few moments, to discuss her favourite topic.
They had just progressed to the nature of inspiration, Mr. Flinder's theories indicating that he had read some of the same books Deirdre had, when the set ended. "I have promised the next dance to Mr. Throckwaite," she said apologetically as she rose. "Perhaps we may continue our discussion at another time."
"I shall live for that mome
nt," Mr. Flinder promised her, bowing elaborately as the aforementioned Mr. Throckwaite came forward. Deirdre smiled uncertainly, unsure how to take Mr. Flinders's excessive gallantry, before accompanying her next partner to the floor.
Mr. Throckwaite's chosen topic was his thoroughbred hunters and his skill in riding them, in which Deirdre feigned an interest, her mind wandering back to her waltz with Lord Wrotham. To be sure, the Marquis had not flattered her unduly, nor tried to puff himself off as the best this or that in England, but his conversation had not been precisely literary, either. In spite of that, she could not say that she found him the least bit boring.
By the time Lord Wrotham claimed Deirdre for the supper dance, she had managed to subdue her contradictory emotions somewhat. She was eighteen, in London for the Season, at her very first ball, with a man she was strongly attracted to. This was surely no time to be in the doldrums! Determined to enjoy the remainder of the evening, she smiled and chatted gaily when the movements of the dance brought her and the Marquis together, and went in to supper on his arm with a heart a great deal lighter than it had been earlier in the evening.
Seated with Celeste and Lord Ellerby for supper, Deirdre had her first chance to form an opinion of this friend of Lord Wrotham's who seemed so taken with her sister, and found him to her liking. He was friendly and outspoken, but without the affectation which marred the speech of so many of the fashionable gentlemen she had met in Town thus far. Though he was clearly besotted with Celeste, he did not go so far as to fawn on her as some of her admirers did; certainly, Deirdre preferred him to the smooth-tongued Sir Malcolm.
"Well, Miss Wheaton," said Ellerby to Deirdre as she took her seat, "you and your sister seem to have taken London by storm. Enjoying your first Season?"
"So far, yes," she allowed. "Everyone has been very kind to us."
"Yes, indeed," agreed Celeste, unable to remain out of the conversation. "Why, Lord Ellerby has offered to take me to a balloon ascension tomorrow. Is that not sweet of him?" She bestowed a melting smile upon the smitten gentleman, rendering him quite speechless.
"That should be very interesting," Deirdre said. A few moments later, with sudden inspiration, she asked Lord Ellerby a question of her own. "Tell me, my lord, what think you of Lord Byron's poetry?" She had still not brought herself to reopen the subject with Lord Wrotham, but thought this might be a safe way of discovering more about his views.
"They say it's quite good, though I've read almost none of it myself," responded Ellerby readily enough. "I daresay it's the romantical stuff you ladies usually like."
"Have you never been inspired to write a verse to anyone?" asked Celeste suggestively. More than one of her admirers, Deirdre knew, had been so moved by her beauty, which Celeste clearly found immensely flattering, though she had never subjected their offerings to Deirdre's critical eye.
"Me? Egad, no!" exclaimed Ellerby with a laugh. "But if I did," he continued quickly, at Celeste's visible disappointment, "it would be between you and me, Miss Wheaton. I'd hate to think of the dressing down I'd get were Wrotham to catch me at it!"
Deirdre glanced at the Marquis in curiosity and alarm, to see him nodding in agreement. "I pray you, Charles, if you ever feel so inclined, to spare me your efforts!" He spoke with a smile, but something in his tone told Deirdre he was perfectly serious.
"No fear of that, Ed, I assure you!" Ellerby rejoined with a laugh, apparently taking no offence.
The conversation turned to other topics, but Deirdre's pleasure in the evening had flown. It was true, then, she thought, beyond any shadow of a doubt. Lord Wrotham detested poetry. She had almost managed to convince herself that she had misinterpreted what he had said the other morning, but obviously she had not. Looking sidelong at him as he exchanged bantering comments with his friend, she found him handsomer than ever. But surely, mere good looks and a pleasant nature could not make up for a total lack of literary appreciation in a man?
As she prepared for bed a few hours later, Deirdre nearly resolved to abandon her plan to attract the Marquis. It seemed to be working all too well, especially given what her mother had said about his previous lack of interest in any lady. Her mama, in fact, seemed to consider it all but settled that he would offer for Deirdre before the Season was out.
"You do not seem to realize the significance of his dancing twice with you, Didi. And the supper dance! I do not collect that he has ever so honoured anyone before— not even Althea, whom he certainly must have admired. Why, at the few balls he attended that Season, he invariably left before supper was served. Whatever you are doing, Didi, pray continue to do so. It appears to be most effective! "
Too effective, she thought glumly. What was worse, the more she was in Lord Wrotham's company, the more willing she was to give up her poetry for the wretched man! Surely that would result in a life of misery for her, once the first bloom of love (if it was love) had worn off. And it would be dishonest, as well, to accept him— all the time assuming her mother was right, and that he did intend to offer for her— without revealing such an important facet of her character.
She would undoubtedly be happier, in the long run, to marry someone like Jonas Flinder, who at least admired her poetry and would encourage her to pursue it. With her help, no doubt his poetry would improve as well, and she could look forward to long evenings discussing Milton and Wordsworth to her heart's content. Why, he even looked far more like a poet than did Lord Wrotham. Yes, marriage to Jonas would surely be her wisest course. So resolved, she drifted discontentedly off to sleep.
* * *
Mr. Flinder came to call the next morning while the ladies were still at breakfast, conveying his respects, via the butler, to Miss Deirdre Wheaton.
"Run along, dear, if you've finished," said Lady Penrose. "Celeste and I will join you in a moment. No doubt he wishes to discuss poetry with you yet again. I vow, I don't know what you see in the man!" Now that Lord Wrotham was a prospect, it was clear that Mr. Flinder no longer figured into her ladyship's plans for her daughter.
Deirdre rose and went to the parlour, where Jonas awaited her.
"I cannot believe my good fortune in thus seeing you alone!" he exclaimed when she entered. Coming forward, he took both of her hands in his. "I must seize the opportunity kind Fate has given me. Miss Wheaton ... Didi... I have been unable to think of anything but you these two days past. You are the woman I have always dreamed of. Will you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?"
* * *
CHAPTER 9
For several seconds, Deirdre was bereft of speech. How could Jonas possibly have known of the decision she had made only the night before? He could not, of course, yet here he was, putting her resolve to the test at the first opportunity. Examining her feelings, she discovered few she had expected to feel at her first proposal of marriage. There was surprise, of course, but instead of the elation, the excitement, the joy an incipient bride should surely feel, she experienced a sinking feeling tinged with fear.
Some of this must have shown in her face, for Jonas spoke again before she was near to composing an answer. "I have caught you unawares, my dear, and must apologize. I had intended to go more slowly, to let you know my intentions and gauge your own feelings. But being confronted by your beauty, and seeing you unexpectedly alone, I dared to state my love for you boldly."
Love. That, Deirdre knew suddenly, was the problem, the one factor she had not entered into her equations the night before. Life with Jonas might hold much that was pleasant, but she did not love him. Looking at him now, with his gaudy chartreuse waistcoat and froths of lace, she somehow knew that she never would.
"Jonas, I…" she began hesitantly, hating herself for what she must say. Had she not encouraged him last night, however innocently?
"No, no, my sweet, I see that you were not prepared for this," he interrupted, stepping back and striking what was no doubt intended to be an heroic pose, but which on him looked rather silly. "I shall not press you for an answer jus
t yet. Now that you know my feelings, my wishes, you may consider my offer at your leisure and give me your decision when you will." He stole a sideways look to see how he was affecting her and Deirdre had to smile.
"Very well, Jonas," she replied, gratefully taking the chance for delay he had offered her, even while knowing she was craven to do so. "I will consider your offer and give you my answer once I have done so."
"You… you won't take too long to decide, will you?" asked Jonas pleadingly, dropping his pose.
"I'll let you know within a few days, Jonas, I promise. I pray you not ask me to rush this decision."
Lady Penrose and Celeste entered the room just then, to Deirdre's relief, and the subject was perforce abandoned for the moment. Jonas greeted the other ladies before turning back to Deirdre with a literary question, only his eyes betraying what had gone before. Deirdre answered his question with alacrity, trying to forget the disturbing interlude and desirous of concealing any hint of it from her mother.
As soon as he took his leave, the ladies prepared to go out, for Lady Penrose had informed her daughters at breakfast that it was high time they made some calls of their own. They spent the morning, therefore, visiting various highly placed Society matrons and cementing the connections which were so crucial to social success in London. They ended at Mrs. Jameson's house, and found Lady Thumble already there, visiting her sister and nephew with little Theodore.
"Why, we have quite a family gathering, do we not?" exclaimed Althea as they entered. "Celeste, come help me to keep the boys from fighting over this ball and tell me about your successes; you are quite the reigning belle, I perceive!"
Celeste complied readily, seating herself without ceremony on the floor between her two nephews and taking up the ball herself. Deirdre, meanwhile, took a chair near Beata while Lady Penrose positioned herself on the sofa near the group on the floor, where she could best observe her four favourite young people in the world.
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