by Mary Balogh
4
MARGARET almost laughed, though more with hysteria than with amusement. /What/ had he said?
And /what/ had she answered?
Gracious heaven, he was a total stranger, and not a very reputable-looking one at that. Was anyone observing them? Whatever would they /think/?
His hands had loosened their hold on her arms though they still remained there. She could have broken away quite easily and hurried on her way out of the ballroom. Instead she looked up at him and waited to see what he would say next.
He had pursed his lips, and his very dark eyes – surely they could not be literally black? – gazed steadily and boldly back at her.
He appeared to be quite alone. Some instinct told Margaret that he was not the sort of man with whom she ought to be talking, especially without a formal introduction. But here she was standing very close to him, her hands splayed on his chest, his clasping the bare flesh of her upper arms between her sleeves and her gloves. And they had been standing thus for more seconds than any ordinary collision ought to have occasioned. They ought to have sprung apart, both embarrassed and both apologizing profusely.
Oh, goodness.
She pushed at his chest again and, when he still did not release his hold on her arms, she dropped her own to her sides. Her back prickled.
Half the /ton/ was somewhere behind her. Including her family. And including Crispin Dew. And the Marquess of Allingham. "I am afraid it does," the stranger said at last in answer to her question. "If I dash off immediately in pursuit of a special license, you see, and then someone to perform the ceremony, this particular set will surely be over by the time I return. And someone else will have discovered you and eloped to Scotland with you and left me clutching a useless document. If we are to both dance and marry, it must be done in that order, I am afraid – much as I am flattered by your eagerness to proceed to the nuptials without further delay." How very outrageous he was, whoever he might be. Margaret ought not to have laughed – she ought to have been offended by the levity of his words, absurd and quick-witted though they were.
But she laughed. /He/ did not. He gazed intently at her and dropped his hands to his sides at last. "Dance with me now," he said, "and tomorrow morning I will procure that special license. It is a promise." It was a strange joke. Yet he showed no sign of finding it amusing.
Margaret found herself shivering slightly despite the fact that the smile lingered on her face.
She really ought to run from him as fast as her feet would carry her and keep the whole width or length of the ballroom between them for the rest of the evening. Her own words had been very indiscreet. /Does it have to/ /be in that order/? Had she really spoken them aloud? But his answer, alas, proved that she had.
Who on earth /was/ he? She had never set eyes on him before tonight. She was sure of that.
She did not run. "Thank you, sir," she said instead. "I /will/ dance with you." It would be better to do that than run away simply because the Marquess of Allingham, whose hand she had refused three separate times, had chosen to betroth himself to someone else. And because Crispin was at the ball, and she had told him she was betrothed.
The stranger inclined his head and offered his arm to lead her out to join the other dancers. It surprised Margaret to discover that the dancing had still not begun. That collision and the bizarre exchange of words that had followed it must all have happened within a minute or two at the longest.
The arm beneath her hand was very solid indeed, she noticed. She also noticed as she walked beside him that her initial impression of his physique had not been mistaken. His black evening coat molded a powerful frame like a second skin. His long legs looked equally well muscled. He was taller than she by several inches, though she was a tall woman. And then there was that harsh, dark, almost ugly face.
It struck her that he might be a frightening adversary. "It occurs to me," he said, "that if I am to be granted a special license tomorrow, I ought to know the name of my bride. And her place of residence. It would be mildly irritating to pry myself away from my bed at some ungodly hour of the morning only to have my application denied on account of my inability to name my bride or explain where she lives." Oh, the absurd man. He was going to continue with the joke, though his grim face had not relaxed into even the suggestion of a smile. "I suppose it would," she agreed.
The orchestra struck up with a lively country dance tune at that moment, and after a short spell of dancing together they moved away from each other in order to perform a series of steps with the couple adjacent to them. When they came together again, it was with the same couple, and there was no chance for private conversation, absurd or otherwise.
This was really very improper, Margaret thought. As he had just reminded her, he did not know her and she did not know him. Yet they were dancing with each other. How on earth would she explain the lapse to Vanessa and Katherine? Or to Stephen? She had always been a stickler for the social niceties.
But she discovered that she did not much care. She was almost enjoying herself. The marquess's announcement – and his assumption that she already knew – had seriously discomposed her. So had the appearance of Crispin.
But here she was dancing and smiling anyway. And there was something definitely amusing about the joke the stranger had set in motion.
How many ladies could boast of meeting a total stranger and being asked to dance with him and marry him – all in one breath?
Her smile widened. "/Might/ I be permitted," the stranger asked her when they were dancing exclusively with each other again, "to know the name of my prospective bride?" She was tempted to withhold it. But that would be pointless. He could quite easily discover it for himself after they had finished dancing. "I am Margaret Huxtable," she told him, "sister of the Earl of Merton." "Ah, excellent," he said. "It is important to marry someone of impeccable lineage – important to one's family anyway." "Absolutely, sir," she agreed. "And you are…?" But she had to wait another couple of minutes while the pattern of the dance drew other couples within earshot again. "Duncan Pennethorne, Earl of Sheringford," he said without preamble when they were alone again. "The title, I must warn you before you get too excited about marrying it, is a courtesy one and therefore of no real value whatsoever except that it sounds good – and except that it is an indicator that a more real and illustrious title is to follow if and when the incumbent should predecease me. The Marquess of Claverbrook, my grandfather, may well not do so even though he is eighty – or will be in two weeks' time – and fifty years my senior." He had offered a great deal more information than she had asked for. But it was surprising she had not met him before. And yet… /the Earl of Sheringford/. Something tugged at the corners of her memory, but she could not pull it into focus. She had the impression that it was something not too pleasant. Something scandalous. "And where," he asked, "may I come to claim you tomorrow, Miss Huxtable, marriage license in hand?" She hesitated again. But it would take him only a moment after he had left her to discover it for himself. "At Merton House on Berkeley Square," she said.
But the joke had continued long enough. As soon as the set was at an end, she decided, she must put as much distance between herself and the Earl of Sheringford as she possibly could. She did not want to encourage him to continue to be as bold and familiar with her as he had been thus far.
She must make some discreet inquiries about him. There was /something/ there in her memory.
Crispin, she could see, was talking with Vanessa and Elliott. It still seemed unreal, seeing him again like this after so many unhappy years.
She had not expected ever to see him again after his marriage. She had expected him, she supposed, to settle in Spain with his wife after the wars were over. Or at Rundle Park. "Miss Huxtable," the Earl of Sheringford asked her, bringing her attention back to him, "why were you fleeing the ballroom in a panic?" It was a thoroughly impertinent question. Did he know nothing of good manners? "I was not /fleeing/," she told him. "And I was not in a panic." "Two bounc
ers in a single sentence," he said.
She looked at him with all the hauteur she could muster. "You are impertinent, my lord," she said. "Oh, always," he agreed. "Why waste time on tedious courtesies? Was he worth the panic?" She opened her mouth to deliver a sharp retort. But then she closed it and simply shook her head instead. "Was that a /no/?" he asked her. "Or a /you-are-impossible/ gesture?" "The latter," she said curtly before they were separated again.
A short while later the orchestra paused before beginning another tune in the same set. But Lord Sheringford appeared to have had enough. He took Margaret's hand from her side without a by-your-leave, set it on his sleeve, and led her off the floor and into a small, semicircular alcove close to the doors, where a comfortable-looking sofa was temporarily unoccupied. "It is impossible," he said as Margaret seated herself hesitantly and he took the seat beside her, "to hold a sustained conversation while dancing. Dancing has to be the most ridiculous social activity ever invented." "It is something I particularly enjoy," she said. "And one is not /expected/ to hold a lengthy conversation while dancing. There is a time and place for that." "What did he do," he asked her, "to throw you into such a panic?" "I have not admitted," she said, "that there even /is/ any such gentleman or that there /was/ any such incident." She picked up her fan from her wrist, flicked it open, and plied it to her overheated face.
He watched her movements. He was seated slightly sideways, his elbow resting on the top of the sofa not far from her shoulder. She could feel the heat from his arm against the side of her neck. "Of course there were both," he said. "If the cause had been a burst seam, it would have revealed itself rather shockingly when you collided with me." She ought to just get up and walk away, Margaret thought. There was nothing to stop her, was there? But his persistent questions had revived the memory of her misery and panic, and some of the former returned. She had really had no chance to digest the fact that she would never be married to the Marquess of Allingham.
Lord Sheringford was a stranger. Sometimes it was easier to talk to strangers than to loved ones. She doubted she would ever pour out her heart to Stephen or either of her sisters. It had never been her way to burden them with her woes. Instead, she had always bottled up her emotions deep inside – at least all the negative ones. She had always been the eldest sister, the substitute parent. She had always had to be the strong one, the one upon whom they could all depend.
Talking to strangers was dangerous. But there was something quite unreal and bizarre about this whole evening so far. Margaret's normal caution and reticence deserted her. "I told a gentleman of my acquaintance yesterday," she said, "that I was betrothed. I expected that it would be true by tonight. But this evening I have discovered that the gentleman concerned is betrothed to someone else, and the first gentleman is here and will be expecting to meet my fiancГ©. Oh, dear, this all makes no sense whatsoever, does it?" "Strangely it does," he said. "The gentleman to whom you made this claim once hurt you?" She looked at him, rather startled. How could he possibly have discerned that? "What gives you that idea?" she asked him.
His eyes bored into hers as if they could lay bare all her secrets. "Why else would you be rash enough to tell him such a thing so prematurely?" he said with a shrug. "It was a boast. Why boast to him if you did not wish to thumb your nose at him? And why wish to thumb your nose at him if he had not hurt you at some time in the past? What did he do to you?" "He went away to war," she said, "while I stayed at home to raise my younger sisters and brother after our father died. We had an understanding before he left, though, and that sustained me through years that were often difficult, even bleak. And then word came through a letter to his mother that he had married in Spain." "Ah," he said. "This paragon of devotion is one of the scarlet-clad officers who are dazzling all the ladies, is he?" "Yes," she said. "And the man to whom you expected to be betrothed?" he asked. "He also has behaved toward you in a dastardly manner?" "I cannot in all conscience accuse him of that," she said. "He offered for me three times over the past five years. I refused all three times, though we were still friends and told each other at the end of last Season that we looked forward to meeting again this year. I arrived in town very recently and therefore neither saw the announcement of his engagement nor heard of it. I came here this evening, expecting … Well, never mind." She was beginning to feel very uneasy, not to mention ridiculous. What she had intended to be a very vague explanation of her earlier panic had turned into a rather detailed and very humiliating confession. "You waited too long in both instances," he said. "With both gentlemen.
Let it be a lesson to you." She fanned her cheeks more vigorously. She deserved that harsh and unsympathetic judgment. Though it was very typical of a man to take the part of other men. It must be /her/ fault that she had lost both Crispin and the Marquess of Allingham.
But he was perfectly right to think so, of course. She need not feel so indignant or so abject. She had not been abandoned by either man. She had made them wait too long.
It was humbling to see oneself through the eyes of a man. "And does the dashing, faithless officer know the identity of the gentleman to whom you expected to be betrothed this evening?" Lord Sheringford asked. "Oh, no," she said. "I was not /that/ indiscreet. Thank heaven." One must be thankful for small mercies, she thought. How truly dreadful it would have been if… "Then there is a simple solution to all your woes," the earl said. "You may introduce /me/ to your officer as your betrothed, and at the same time demonstrate to the other man that you were not waiting for him to offer for you yet again." Oh, he really was quite outrageous. Yet there was still no glimmer of humor in his eyes, as she saw when she turned her head sharply to look into them. "And what would you do tomorrow," she asked, "when you discovered my brother and brothers-in-law on your doorstep, demanding to know your true intentions? And what would /I/ do when I came face-to-face with Crispin tomorrow or the day after? Tell him that I had had a change of heart?" He shrugged. "I would inform your fierce relatives that my intentions are entirely honorable," he said. "And you could continue to thumb your nose at the officer." "I do thank you for the gallant offer," she said, laughing and wondering how he would react if she chose to take him seriously, poor man. "And I thank you for your company during this set. It has been amusing. But I must go now and – " She was given no chance to finish. The hand belonging to the arm that was propped against the back of the sofa moved to rest firmly on her shoulder, and his face dipped a little closer to hers. "One of the scarlet uniforms is approaching," he said, "draped about the person of a large red-haired officer. Doubtless your erstwhile lover." She did not turn her head to look. She closed her eyes briefly instead. "You had better do as I have suggested," Lord Sheringford said, "and present me as your betrothed. It will be far more satisfying for you than admitting the abject truth would be." "But you are not – " she said. "I can be," he said, interrupting, "if you wish and if you are prepared to marry me within the next fourteen days. But we can discuss the details at our leisure later." Was he /serious/? It was not possible. This was all quite bizarre. But there was no opportunity to question him. There was no time to think or consider. There was no time at all. His eyes had moved beyond her, and he was raising his eyebrows and looking like a man who was none too delighted at having his tГЄte-Г -tГЄte interrupted. It was a haughty, cold look.
Margaret turned her head. "Crispin," she said. "Meg." He made her a bow. "I trust I am not interrupting anything important?" "Not at all." Her heart was thumping so hard in her chest that it deafened her despite the loudness of the music and of voices raised to converse above it. "My lord, do you have an acquaintance with Major Dew?
May I present the Earl of Sheringford, Crispin?" Crispin bowed again, and Lord Sheringford regarded him with raised eyebrows. "And this is the same Major Dew," he said, "with whom you once had an acquaintance, Maggie?" /Maggie/?
Oh, goodness! Margaret's vision was beginning to darken about the edges.
At the other extreme, she felt a quite inappro
priate urge to burst into laughter. She must be on the verge of hysteria again. "We were neighbors," she said. "We grew up together." "Ah, yes," Lord Sheringford said. "That was it. I knew I had heard the name before. A pleasure, Major. I hope you have not come to solicit Maggie's hand for the next dance, though. I am not finished with that hand myself yet, and the present set, you will observe, is not quite over." "Meg?" Crispin said, virtually ignoring the earl apart from the fact that his nostrils flared slightly. "Are you ready to be escorted back to your /family/? I shall certainly claim a dance later in the evening if I may." There were certain moments upon which the whole of the future course of one's life might turn. And almost inevitably they popped out at one without any warning at all, leaving one with no time to consider or engage in a reasoned debate with oneself. One had to make a split-second decision, and much depended upon it. Perhaps everything.
This was such a moment, and Margaret knew it with agonized clarity as she closed her fan. She could get to her feet now and go with Crispin, or she could stay and tell Crispin the truth, or she could stay and do what the earl had suggested – and deal with the consequences tomorrow.
Margaret was /never/ rash, even when forced to act upon the spur of the moment. But this was a different type of moment altogether. "Thank you, Crispin," she said. "I will be delighted to dance with you later. For now, though, I will remain with Lord Sheringford. The Marquess of Allingham will be along soon, I daresay, to claim me for the next set." And then a deep breath and the rest of the decision was made. "Lord Sheringford is my betrothed." The ballroom suddenly seemed unnaturally hot and airless. But she doubted she had enough control over her hands to open her fan again.
Crispin looked from her to the earl, poker-faced, and it seemed to Margaret that he knew the man or at least knew /of/ him, and did not like what he knew. He had offered to escort her back to her /family/, with emphasis upon the one word. "Your /betrothed/, Meg?" he said. "But Nessie and the Duke of Moreland do not know anything of it." He had just been talking with them. They had all seen her with the Earl of Sheringford. Perhaps Crispin had volunteered to come and wrest her away from him and escort her to safety. What did they all know of the earl that she did not? It must be something quite unsavory. "I told you yesterday, Crispin, that the betrothal has not yet been made public," she said. "It will be very soon, however," the earl said, squeezing her shoulder. "We have decided to wed within the next fortnight. When one has discovered the partner with whom one wishes to spend the rest of one's life, why wait, after all? Many a prospective match comes to grief because the couple – or one member of it – waits too long." It occurred to Margaret that he really might be serious.