Shenanigans in Berkeley Square

by Vivian Roycroft

  What had she been thinking?

  On second thought, no, she couldn’t spend the entire evening in the retiring room. Guests would be coming and going there all night. They’d see her, see her gown, and she’d become a laughingstock, the gossip whispered behind fluttering fans across the ballroom: Miss Coralie Busche wore a truly dreadful gown and she can’t bring herself to even come downstairs. Exactly the sort of tidbit to find its way into the gossip columns. No, she had no choice but to brazen it out. With luck, no one would take a second glance her way.

  After all, very few people ever did.

  One step. She could take one step. Coralie forced her foot forward, out of the shadows, onto the exposed gallery above the ballroom. The last couples were whirling down the lines, the first dance nearly complete. In the crush of changing partners, she’d not be noticed. Convincing herself to walk down the stairs was not impossible, no matter how imposing the staircase, with its blazing scarlet runner and white marble insets on each tread.

  A last deep breath. She squared her shoulders. Took the next step. No heads turned her way. She’d be safe. Breathing more easily, her muscles relaxing, Coralie lowered her slipper down the first stair.

  And a head turned.

  Vexing man.

  The Duke of Cumberland stood on the edge of the crowd watching the dancing, resplendent in a midnight blue swallowtail coat with brilliant buttons that gleamed in the chandeliers’ crystal-scattered light. His face lifted; his stare fastened upon her, their gazes meshing across the ballroom as if they were the only two people there.

  Another mistake, and she couldn’t have made a more dreadful one; even the gown paled into insignificance beside that move. It was the lady’s prerogative to determine the degree of any acquaintance, and so she should not have noticed his presence, should not have admitted to the introduction by looking back. If only she’d let her gaze pass over him, pretending he didn’t exist, and slipped down the staircase without glancing in his direction again. But like the gown, it was too late now. She’d have to suffer his acquaintance and his stare in silence.

  And stare it could only be called, an arrested, concentrated fixation that focused on her to the exclusion of everyone else present. Even across the ballroom’s broad length, it was impossible to miss the way his face lit, his pale eyes glowed, his already erect stance straightened further. No one could deny he was a handsome man — dark hair brushing his collar with gentle waves, pale eyes against the healthy tan of an outdoorsman, a courtly, attentive manner comfortable in any gathering, no matter how refined.

  Handsome, yes. With excellent taste, if not the genteel manners of good breeding. And wealthy, powerful…

  Her pulse quickened.

  Surely he wasn’t serious. He couldn’t possibly be.

  Of course not. Dukes married highly-born ladies with suitable dowries, especially royal dukes, and everyone whispered His Grace owned that beyond-noble distinction. And that meant no, he couldn’t be serious. But no longer could she convince herself that he merely toyed with her; some curious motive lay beneath his deliberate attentions. As to what his motive might be, well, she couldn’t begin to guess.

  An elegantly dressed lady standing near His Grace turned her copper-curled head and traced his stare. Her gaze paused on Coralie, fastened, and her eyes widened. Then she nudged the gentleman beside her, the one wearing an unfortunate clashing maroon tailcoat. The lady gave him a smile and a wink, and he turned, too.

  She couldn’t hide in the retiring room. It was too late to turn back. Too. Late. But it took all her willpower to force her foot down the next stair.

  The bustle of turning heads and peering eyes swept through the ballroom’s crowd as the dance’s last notes died away, replaced by hushed murmurs and whispers. They rippled through the massive room and then they too faded to silence. Or perhaps they were merely drowned out by the mortification in her thoughts, the pounding blood in her ears. At the first titter, she’d officially die. One more step. Coralie settled her foot with care; at least she could display some grace and save herself the ultimate humiliation of tumbling down the stairs in front of everyone who mattered.

  More heads turned, tilting up, stares fixing on her, the rippling wave of attention crossing the dance floor and spreading to the refreshment tables. Even the musicians froze. But in the crowd’s center, a stronger movement caught her eye. A midnight blue tailcoat; the subtle gleam of buttons too elegant to be gilt. His Grace slipped between the throng, toward the lower landing, where she’d step off the stairs onto the main floor.

  Toward her.

  No. He couldn’t possibly be serious. Not a duke, some said a royal duke. But his stare never wavered from her. He seemed entranced, his smile lighting his expression, lighting the space around him. Admiring, approving, not derisive, and her next step came more easily, her next breath more deeply. More heads turned, and more, until it seemed everyone watched her descending the stairs.

  Everyone stared at her, without a single censorious expression in view.

  The ballroom faded around her, as if the evening fog were invading the Forester home. Silence stretched an admonishing hand over the crowd, filling the space between the faceless, staring heads and the vaulted ceiling, and suddenly it all vanished. Only she remained within an ethereal, hushed cocoon, gliding down that imposing staircase, one gloved hand slipping down the cherry wood balustrade, her slippers soundless on the scarlet runner. The gold crepe flowed about her like liquid metal, the chandeliers’ candlelight glittering and sparking from her overskirt.

  Only her and the Duke of Cumberland, who stood waiting at the foot of the stairs.

  A known connoisseur of exquisite taste.

  He stared as if she, and her silly gown, were the last words in fashion for the season.

  She’d become a perfect and perfectly beautiful moment.

  * * * *

  “Five thousand pounds.” Hortense’s voice was flat, expressionless.

  Rainier decided he’d ignore her. That was the safest action he could take, considering the way his blood pounded through him like liquid fire. If he didn’t, the night watch would be hauling him away for a murder committed in full view of the Foresters’ entire guest list. Possibly defensible. Possibly not.

  He managed to close his jaw, but it was a fight. He had to look like a fool; he couldn’t drag his gaze away from the stunningly beautiful woman descending the main staircase. But then, surely he wasn’t the only one doing so. Surely every man in the place, and more than half the women, too — the fashion-conscious half — surely they too stared at that glittering, gorgeous image.

  He’d never seen anything — anyone — so elegant, so incredibly beautiful. She flowed down the stairs as gracefully as a fawn, her eyes lowered modestly to the landing, once or twice lifting to the watching crowd. That amazing gown rippled around and behind her, the hem rising when she stepped down then falling in a swirl when her resting leg began its descent. The flickering candlelight didn’t hide the becoming flush that tinted her smooth cheeks.

  “Dressed like that,” Lucia’s envious voice said from the void behind him, “you’d think she’s aiming for Cumberland.”

  For one horrified moment even Rainier’s blood froze. Hopefully no one else had heard that spiteful comment in the general hush.

  Uncaring, Hortense tittered. “Indeed, sister. And she’s likely to get him. But not to the altar!”

  Rainier stiffened. Changelings. That was the only possible excuse for their execrable behavior. They could not possibly share a genealogy with him, there could be no true ties of blood between those harridans and him — his real sisters had been stolen at birth and replaced with something from a dark mythology. Gnomes, perhaps.

  “Well.” Hortense drew the word out into a purr. “It seems she’s already got Cumberland. Now we’ll see how long he keeps her.”

  Too tall for gnomes. More likely trolls.

  He knew better than to permit Hortense to kindle his temper, an
d usually he had no trouble holding her lurid influence at bay. But with that purring spite in her voice, she’d irritated him with her first words. Yet nothing had changed, in all honesty, and the depth of his blossoming anger surprised him. It almost seemed as if — yes, as if he felt protective of the elegant beauty descending the staircase.

  Which of course was total nonsense.

  And because of his sisters’ distraction, he’d missed Cumberland’s move. The duke already stood on the landing, a few empty yards around him on the scarlet carpeting as the crowd drew back, making room for the next scene in the little drama. Rainier’s competitive drive prickled at the sight.

  No, he’d not step back and give Cumberland a free rein. The interest he felt, as if an invisible cord yanked him toward her — and those incredible eyes — could not be ignored, even if it proved to be a mistake. Rainier abandoned his changeling sisters and pushed through the crowd, sidestepping when a matronly chaperone blustered into his path, using a judicious elbow when a gentleman floundered in front of him. And as the entranced spell wore off, as she descended the last few stairs, as the guests awoke from their appreciative tableau, rushed to friends, and leaned together whispering, he had to sidestep and prod again and again, until finally he squeezed through a crowd of excited débutantes onto the landing and opened his mouth to ask the only question that mattered—

  “Thank you, your grace,” Coralie said. The most beautiful shade of rose deepened the color in her cheeks and her eyes flashed sparks in the candlelight. “Of course I’d love to dance with you.”

  Cumberland smiled and proffered his arm. “My dear Miss Busche, I’m yours to command.”

  Rainier was too late.

  Chapter Eight

  Friday, October 22, 1813 (continued)

  She’d danced at balls before. Coralie smiled as the music carried her through the steps, her slippers surely floating inches above the bouncy hardwood floor. But never like this.

  His Grace lifted their joined hands and she twirled beneath the arch they formed. Around the ballroom, heads still turned in their direction, stares and whispers following as they crossed arms and skipped down the line. The false columns along the walls stretched up, sharp white outlines to this delightful new world, and the scarlet and cherry wood caisson ceiling soared. It felt like a children’s tale, something magical and dreamy, where an unknown nobody attracted the prince’s eye and danced with him through the night, until midnight when the clock struck and—

  Not that she wanted everything to unravel. And she wasn’t quite a nobody, although at times she certainly felt that way. But there were rumors about the Duke of Cumberland being a foreign prince. And of course — if that rumor carried a single iota of truth — princes married princesses, usually in arranged matches of political importance. They never married silly chits who sewed their own gowns and then obsessed over them until their nerves were frazzled.

  And besides, one of those turning heads wore the face she saw in her dreams.

  Mr. Rainier had finally noticed her. And if the stunned, riveted expression on his face was any guide, he’d not forget her soon.

  She and the duke separated at the line’s end, danced back to their positions, and settled into place as the next couple whirled away.

  His Grace smiled and gave her a nod, as if approving of her dancing. “You were listening to that conversation in the coffee house, were you not?”

  She’d been caught and couldn’t escape the guilt. But the duke’s appreciative attention hadn’t soured; instead, his smile acquired a mischievous edge. Her interest quickened. Would he admit he’d been on the wrong end of the debate?

  “I was,” she admitted. “Horrible behavior, I know.”

  He shrugged. The buttons on his swallowtail coat brightened as his broad, lithe shoulders lifted, then faded back to a gentle gleam when they lowered. “Perfectly normal curiosity, I’d call it. But did you spot the flaw in Mr. Rainier’s theory, that good breeding can be donned along with tasteful and fashionable clothing?”

  No, he hadn’t changed his mind. But she could no longer consider him vexing. He’d gotten her noticed by Mr. Rainier and for that she’d be forever grateful. Besides, something in his attentive, appreciative stare made her feel as if she were the only woman in the ballroom, the center of his world, and her heart beat a stronger tattoo in response. “Do please enlighten me, your grace.”

  His smile remained. But the laughter and even the appreciation faded from his eyes. “Good fashion may be determined from how a person dresses, and good taste from the books one reads, the music one sings or plays, the sketches one draws. But good breeding isn’t what a person wears, or dances, or reads, or quotes. Good breeding is what a person does.”

  His sudden seriousness surprised Coralie. She’d taken the entire long conversation, stretching from the Trent coffee house to the present moment, as a sort of game without cards, or a problem set by her governess in the schoolroom — more theoretical than practical. But judging by the concern sharpening his pale eyes, the duke ascribed more importance to the subject than that.

  The sudden change in perspective left her uncertain what to say. The couple beside them reached across, joined hands, and danced away, leaving them standing alone in the midst of the whirling ballroom.

  “What a person does,” she repeated.

  He nodded. “And I assure you, that’s far more important than whether Blake wrote a better verse than Scott or Wordsworth.”

  A lifting of the music, trilling notes signaling a change, and without thinking Coralie reached for his hands, following the musical guidance. The Duke of Cumberland met her halfway, the appreciation returning to his widening smile, and they danced down the line arm in arm while she wondered what on earth he actually meant. Surely there was some hidden meaning within his words.

  * * * *

  The crowd parted before them — as well they should — allowing His Grace to escort Coralie back to her chaperone. Her gloved hand rested on his elbow, light as an angel’s touch, but the wrinkle tightening her forehead brought a much weightier gravitas to her expression. His words, it seemed, had hit home. For the rest of the dance, she’d responded to his pleasantries with distraction, his witticisms with blank smiles, even when he’d complimented her imaginative use of the golden crepe.

  Now, as they wended their way through the crowd to Lady de Lisle’s encampment, Coralie stole sidelong glances at him every few steps. But the one time he returned her look, her gaze flashed away immediately, as if she could catch some horrible disease through a shared moment.

  Good. She needed to think it through. There was nothing inherently wrong with a relationship quickly formed through intellectual debates and discussions, even overheard ones. But there was much wrong with shallow intellectual preening that had no strong foundation embedded in life’s realities. At that moment, delightful Coralie had sounder philosophical notions than Rainier, perhaps courtesy of her mature and clever elder brother. The problem was, she didn’t realize that and could easily shrug off her foundation built on bedrock for Rainier’s built on sand. And who knew what it would take to convince Rainier to rethink his Romantic sensibilities?

  If His Grace could spare Coralie future disillusionment through a bit of guidance, he had a duty to do so, especially as he’d broken their distant status quo in favor of something more personal.

  Lady de Lisle had camped in a seating area near the corner between the refreshment tables and the door leading to the back gardens, a conversational distance away from the musicians and their happy noise. A wise choice for a chaperone, as none of her charges could escape custody without being visible. Her violet gown and chestnut hair, both set off by deep red roses, showed in flashes as the crowd ebbed and flowed, then suddenly the human sea parted and there she sat in all her matronly, delightful glory. A line of small orange trees in scarlet tubs bloomed along the wall behind her, small green fruit dotting their boughs, and the crisp, delicate citrus scent flooded the area.
Miss Deborah Kringle and young Miss Violetta de Lisle, it seemed, had found partners, but Miss Lissie McTaggart, beautiful in cerulean silk and white candytuft, hovered awkwardly to one side. And beside her—

  Before His Grace could finish formulating the thought, Rainier abandoned his lovely companion and stepped forward. “Miss Busche, good evening. May I have the next dance?”

  Excitement flashed in Miss McTaggart’s eyes, quickly there and quickly gone. Being left by Rainier, it seemed, wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Wise girl, that one, even as her excitement faded to winsome disappointment and the candytuft drooped behind her delicate curved ear. Perhaps her excitement was more for her friend than for her own good fortune. Thoughtful as well as spirited, Lissie was; it was the second time he’d seen her relinquish a possible claim on a young man for a friend with a stronger one.

  Lady de Lisle’s glance was more shrewd, flickering over His Grace and the two young ladies in her charge before settling on Coralie, and Coralie’s charming gown, with a more appreciative expression than was her norm. Well, that was a relief. At least he hadn’t tainted the girl by dancing with her; some chaperones considered him capable of ruining a young lady merely by standing in her company. Not that he’d ever have expected Lady de Lisle to be so narrow minded; she’d seen his shenanigans in action before and the young lady involved in that game had turned out well enough, so the chaperone had no reason for complaint.

  And as for Miss Coralie, she of the bewitching, glowing smile…

  Upon Rainier’s request, the wrinkle vanished from her forehead like magic. Her eyes widened into enchantment, and the fabulous golden crepe overskirt quivered around her like molten metal in the candlelight. But her voice didn’t waver. “Thank you, Mr. Rainier. I’d be delighted.”