by Mary Balogh
And he remembered, too, his regret at having solicited her hand for the set, his reluctance to touch her. He remembered his unexpected meeting with her on the beach and the flood of memories encountering her there of all places had brought to mind. Of course, those memories had not depended upon his coming face-to-face with her. He had walked about the cove long before she came into sight and had even stood still there, remembering. Remembering meeting her there for the first time alone and realizing that she had grown from a child he had scarcely noticed into a tall, willowy, darkly alluring young woman. He had only recently begun to notice young women. He had remembered other meetings with her after that: infrequent, contrived meetings, not all of them in the cove. But it was in the cove he had kissed her for the first time. By that time, he had been at university and had learned enough about kissing—and about more than kissing—to become quite blasé about the whole business. But one touch of Moira’s lips had sent his temperature soaring.
He had not reacted to her, though, as he had to the few Oxford barmaids with whom he had had dealings. It had not been an entirely physical thing—or so he had told himself, perhaps to assuage the guilt of having arranged a private meeting with a lady and of having stolen a kiss from her. He had fallen in love with her.
And then, while memory was still rampant in him, while he was still feeling rather sad for that long-ago idealistic, romantic boy, Nelson had found her just beyond the cove. And despite her drab gray cloak and bonnet, she had looked again for a few minutes like the Moira of old—her cheeks and nose flushed rosy with the cold, her eyes wide with alarm, her whole body rigid with terror and then with anger at Nelson and him and at herself for showing such weakness, he suspected. He had had sleepless moments since then over the memory that he had almost stepped close enough to take her into his arms to comfort her and assure her that Nelson would never harm her.
And yet he would have her at least within the circle of his arms during one set of waltzes at the ball. The thought was a disquieting one. As was the thought of dodging Miss Wishart and the concerted efforts of a number of his relatives and hers to throw them together.
On the whole, he thought ruefully, he might have done considerably better to have stayed in London to enjoy the Christmas festivities with Eden and Nat. He should not have made such a momentous decision while too foxed to think straight. They were doubtless enjoying themselves without a care in the world.
* * *
FOR a while on the day of the ball Moira had hopes of avoiding it after all. First there was the letter that arrived for Sir Edwin Baillie from the eldest of his sisters. She wrote to congratulate her brother on his betrothal and to express the pleasure she and her mama and sisters felt at the prospect of welcoming Miss Hayes as a far closer relative than she had been before. She wrote to wish her brother and his betrothed—and Lady Hayes, of course—the compliments of the season. And she wrote rather than her mama because Mama was feeling slightly under the weather, having still not quite shaken the chill that had threatened when dear Edwin left. But he was not to feel alarmed. Christobel was confident that another day or two of quiet rest would restore her mother to full health once more.
Sir Edwin was beside himself with anxiety. His mother must be very sick indeed if she found herself unable even to write a letter to her son and her soon-to-be daughter-in-law—if Miss Hayes would pardon such a familiar reference to herself. It was inexpressibly kind of Lady Hayes to try comforting him with the assurance that his sister would surely inform him of any serious decline in his mother’s health, but he knew how tenderhearted his sisters were and how stouthearted his mother was. None of them would wish to drag him unnecessarily from the felicity of basking in the happiness of the early days of his betrothal.
He must return home without delay, he decided at one moment. He would have his bags packed and have his carriage prepared. Indeed, he would not even wait for his bags to be packed. But the next moment he decided that he must remain for at least one more day. He could not possibly disappoint Miss Hayes and Lady Hayes by being unavailable to escort them to Dunbarton in the coming evening. And if he could not escort them, then who would? They would be doomed to remain at home. Besides—and perhaps of more importance when he remembered to set personal inclinations aside—he could not possibly disappoint his lordship, the Earl of Haverford, who had forgiven the Hayes family and himself as head of that family, albeit he bore a different name, and who would be eager to demonstrate the generosity of his restored friendship for all his family and neighbors to behold.
Moira reminded him that Lady Hayes had decided not to attend the ball and assured him that for her part, she would prefer to see him relieve his anxieties by returning home to his mother. Besides, she was not a girl to crave the pleasure of a mere ball.
For which hopeful little speech she was rewarded by having both her hands seized in a fierce clasp. Such generosity of spirit in Miss Hayes, such selfless concern for the health of her future mother-in-law, such tender concern for his own sensibilities, such a willingness to be deprived of a treat left him speechless indeed. How could he respond to such gentle devotion except by demonstrating a matching selflessness? He would escort Miss Hayes to the ball, he would make merry there just as if his heart were not heavy within him, and he would postpone his return home until tomorrow.
Moira smiled and thanked him.
But hope was not entirely dead. Christmas Day had been a cloudy, gloomy day. The clouds seemed even lower and grayer on the morning of the ball, and before noon thin flakes of snow began to float downward, enough to powder the dry ground and the grass and raise Moira’s hopes. If it thickened and fell more heavily, travel could become difficult and dangerous, perhaps quite impossible. The ball would have to be canceled or at least confined to a mere dance for the houseguests at Dunbarton.
But the snow stopped altogether soon after noon and did not resume even though Moira paced frequently to the window to peer outward and upward and will the clouds to drop their heavy load. It seemed that she was doomed to attend a grand ball. And to waltz at it with the Earl of Haverford.
And so she dressed later in a new peach-colored evening gown, its sheer muslin overdress revealing the sheen of satin beneath. It was not a remarkably fussy dress. She was six-and-twenty after all. The hem was simply ruched and there were no ruffles. The high waist was caught beneath her bosom with a silk sash. The neckline was low but certainly not as low as fashion allowed. The sleeves were short and puffed. She had her hair dressed in curls and ringlets but would allow nothing too elaborate. She chose not to wear either a turban or plumes. She had always valued simplicity in dress.
“You look very well, dear,” her mother said before she left her dressing room.
“The color is not too bright?” Moira asked somewhat anxiously. They had only recently left off their mourning for her father. Her eyes had become attuned to black and gray. “I do not look too girlish, Mama?”
“You look like the beautiful woman you are,” her mother said.
Moira smiled and hugged her. It was an exaggeration, of course. She had never been beautiful, even as a girl. But she felt good and she felt in an almost festive mood despite her dashed hopes earlier in the day. Would he think she looked beautiful or at least well enough? Would he think that she dressed too brightly or too girlishly? Would he look at her with admiration? With scorn? Or with no interest at all?
“I am sure Sir Edwin will be very pleased indeed,” Lady Hayes said.
Moira’s eyes widened. Sir Edwin? Yes, of course, Sir Edwin. It was he she had been thinking of. Of course it was he she had meant. Some of her exhilaration disappeared.
“He has a good heart, Moira,” her mother said. “He means well.”
“Yes,” Moira said, smiling cheerfully. “I am fully sensible of my good fortune, Mama.”
Her mother’s smile was rather rueful—and warm with affection.
* * *
THE ballroom at Dunbarton Hall, though rather small in comparison with some of the grander ballrooms that entertained the ton during the Season in London, was nevertheless splendidly decorated with gold leaf and paintings and chandeliers, and its size had been artfully enhanced by a coved ceiling and by huge mirrors along one long wall.
For the Christmas ball it had been festively decked out with holly and ivy and pine boughs, and with bells and red silk ribbons and bows. An orchestra had been hired at great expense, and the earl’s cook, with extra hired help from Tawmouth, had succeeded in preparing a veritable banquet to fill one anteroom for the whole of the evening and the dining room for supper. Almost everyone who had been invited, neighbors from miles around, had accepted their invitations.
The ballroom would be filled, Kenneth thought, surveying the empty room while most of the ladies were still abovestairs putting the finishing touches to their toilettes and most of the gentlemen were in the drawing room fortifying themselves for the ordeal ahead with the earl’s brandy or port. He was tempted to join them there. But the orchestra members came upstairs from the kitchen, where they had been eating their dinner, and he spent some time discussing with their leader the evening’s program. And then footmen and maids were bringing up the food and the punch bowls for the anteroom, and he strolled inside to observe the effects of their work. But his presence was not needed. His butler was supervising with cool competence.
In spite of himself he found that he was looking forward to the evening. It was not every day one had the chance to host a grand ball for one’s family, friends, and neighbors. He was becoming fond of them all. He was beginning to enjoy his position. Life as it had been lived for the past eight years was beginning to recede into memory.
And then his mother, looking magnificently regal in a purple silk gown with a matching plumed turban, appeared in the ballroom to announce that the first of the guests were approaching along the driveway, and Helen and Ainsleigh were not far behind her with several of the other houseguests. They had come, Kenneth guessed, so that they might be on hand to observe each new arrival. These first guests were early.
Kenneth took up his position outside the ballroom doors with his mother and waited for the guests to appear on the staircase. They were Sir Edwin Baillie and Moira Hayes. He felt his mother stiffen and wished that they had not been the first to arrive. Later, they might have blended more easily with other guests.
She was looking quite beautiful, he thought unwillingly. Her peach-colored gown looked stunning with her dark hair and eyes, and she had had the good sense to allow simplicity to state its own case. Most of the ladies already in the ballroom—including Juliana Wishart—seemed almost to be in competition with one another to see who could deck themselves out in the most frills and bows and ruffles and curls and ringlets. Moira Hayes was also quite noticeably—and unashamedly, it seemed—taller than her escort.
Lady Hayes sent her regrets, Sir Edwin explained after bowing over Lady Haverford’s hand and congratulating himself on being a close neighbor and—dared he be so familiar?—friend of her son. Lady Hayes was too recently out of mourning for the late Sir Basil Hayes to feel easy about partaking of such enjoyment as she felt convinced the evening’s entertainment would offer. She hoped that she might call upon her ladyship in the near future.
Lady Hayes, Kenneth thought even before glancing at Moira’s face, had doubtless expressed no such hope, and his mother’s marble expression was discouraging, to say the least. She made no verbal reply, but merely inclined her head graciously. Sir Edwin appeared not to notice anything amiss. He thanked her profusely.
Moira Hayes curtsied to Lady Haverford. She kept her chin up as she did so and her expression bland. His mother, Kenneth noticed, though she nodded again, did not acknowledge her guest in words or look directly into her face. The feud was not over, as far as she was concerned—or as far as Lady Hayes was concerned, apparently. It was an awkward moment, smoothed over by the good manners of both ladies.
“Miss Hayes.” Kenneth took her gloved hand in his and raised it to his lips. It was the first time he had touched her in longer than eight years. He did not, as he half expected, feel currents of awareness sizzle along his arm to lodge in his heart. He merely had a sudden and quite unwelcome image of Baillie touching her—in bed. He wondered if the man would make a speech as he bedded her for the first time but could draw no real amusement from the conviction that the answer was surely yes.
“My lord,” she said, and her eyes traveled all along her arm to his lips and up to his eyes. In any other woman he would have called it a practiced and coquettish look. But her eyes were cool and very direct on his. There was not even a suggestion of fluttering eyelids. There never had been. Moira had never been a flirt.
“I trust, Miss Hayes,” he said, “that you will remember you are to waltz with me?”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said.
And since no other guest had yet arrived, he strolled into the ballroom with her and Baillie to walk about the room with them, introducing them to his houseguests. Although he offered his own arm, he noticed that she took Baillie’s even before that gentleman offered it. He half smiled. Ah, but she would waltz with him.
He was surprised by the satisfaction that came with the thought. An almost vengeful satisfaction.
6
A FEW of Kenneth’s closer relatives raised their eyebrows when Moira’s name was mentioned, but all were polite. None lived close enough to have ever been personally involved in the feud. There was certainly no lack of conversation with Sir Edwin Baillie only too eager to inform everyone that he was the baronet of Penwith Manor, they were to understand, only three miles distant from Dunbarton, and he might feel disgruntled at being outranked by so close a neighbor—he smiled about each group so that everyone might realize that he was having his little joke—were that neighbor not also a friend.
Somehow, Kenneth discovered, before they had completed the circle of the room and before the arrival of any other guest had necessitated his return to his duties at the door, he had become escort to Juliana Wishart, who desired to promenade about the room, one of his aunts informed him in that young lady’s blushing hearing, but could persuade no other lady to accompany her. He had bowed and responded with the obvious gallantry, of course. His aunt had looked charmed.
And then they came to his sister, who had her back to them as they approached.
“Helen? Michael?” he said. “May I present Miss Moira Hayes and Sir Edwin Baillie? Sir Edwin has inherited Penwith Manor. My sister and brother-in-law, Viscount and Viscountess Ainsleigh,” he added for the benefit of his guests.
Sir Edwin bowed low and launched into speech while Moira curtsied and Ainsleigh smiled. Helen, disdain in her face, focused her gaze upon Juliana.
“My dear Miss Wishart,” she said, cutting off Sir Edwin in the middle of a sentence, “how ravishingly elegant you look this evening. You must tell me who your modiste is. It is so difficult to find one these days worthy of one’s patronage. Of course, you are so exquisitely small. I do so admire ladies of small stature. Will you take a turn about the room with me? The air is stuffy in here, I do declare.”
And she took Juliana’s arm and made off with her, commenting quite distinctly as she went that she also much admired Juliana’s blond hair and blue eyes. “I truly pity dark women,” she said. “Blond women are so much more delicate and feminine.”
Sir Edwin picked up his sentence where he had left it off, and Ainsleigh, after looking somewhat startled, smiled more charmingly and drew Moira into the conversation as soon as he was able.
Kenneth reflected with some chagrin that his sister had reacted as his mother had but with lamentably worse manners. It was remarkably unfair of Helen to take out her bitterness on Moira, he thought. It would make more sense for her to turn it against him. But Moira had the misfortune to be Sean Hayes’s sister. He had learned one
thing already this evening, though, even if he had not understood it before the invitations were sent out. It would be as well to keep his distance from the family at Penwith, at least while his mother and sister were at Dunbarton. And it would suit him admirably to do so, after this evening. This evening he owed Moira Hayes the courtesy of a host.
A glance at the doorway showed him that more guests were arriving. He excused himself and hurried in the direction of the ballroom doors.
* * *
MOIRA had never before attended a ball for which a whole orchestra had been engaged. And she had never before attended one in surroundings more splendid than the rather austere Tawmouth assembly rooms. She had never before been at a ball when more than ten couples at a time could take to the floor.
The Dunbarton ball was undoubtedly the most glittering entertainment she had ever attended or would ever attend. She did not lack for partners since Sir Edwin led her into the opening set, Viscount Ainsleigh had asked for the second, and various neighbors were as gallant as they usually were at the assemblies and made sure that she did not have to sit out a single set.
She wished she were anywhere else on earth but where she actually was. She had never in her life felt more acutely uncomfortable. She might have coped with the embarrassment of being in company with Sir Edwin both during the long stretch of time between their almost indecently early arrival and the beginning of the dancing and between each set—he was not evil, after all, and not quite vulgar. And being in company with him, both in public and in private, was something to which she was going to have to accustom herself. It was something that required a little fortitude and a great deal of a sense of the ridiculous. But it was far more difficult to disregard the well-bred snub the Countess of Haverford had dealt her or the open and quite ill-bred one given her by Helen.
Helen had once fancied herself in love with Sean. Perhaps she really had been. But her plans to elope with him had been thwarted; she had been hurt and embarrassed and disgraced, even if not publicly. And so, hatred for the Hayes family had become a personal thing with her. Or so it seemed to Moira. She had not seen Helen since it all happened. She did not even know if Helen had ended up hating Sean.