by Mary Balogh
This was often her favorite part of any ball, this eager anticipation of music and dance and feasting and forgetting the cares of everyday life. How very privileged she was to be here and to belong in these surroundings and with these people, Jessica thought as she flicked open her fan and plied it slowly before her face.
And how very old she felt.
There were a number of people she had not seen before, mostly young girls making their first appearance in London society, gowned almost exclusively in white, and some fresh-faced young gentlemen newly down from Oxford or Cambridge or up from the country. One such gentleman was Peter Wayne, Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas’s middle son, who was across the ballroom with his older brother, Boris, trying unsuccessfully to look like a jaded veteran. She smiled and lifted a hand in greeting as she caught his eye. He grinned back, forgetting his chosen role for a moment. She met the glance of one of the young girls and thought she read envy in her expression. Well, that was cheering. Perhaps she did not look quite like a fossil after all.
Sir Bevin Romley reminded her that he had reserved the second set with her, to the loud complaints of those gentlemen who had not. Mr. Dean asked for and was granted the third set. Compliments meanwhile were being lavished upon her, many of them deliberately outrageous and provocative of laughter from the other men, and sharp retorts from her. Comments were being made also about other guests, some of them kind, some not, some witty, some not. She did not contribute any of her own.
It was all very familiar and really rather endearing. She might just as easily be a wallflower at her age and must be very thankful she was not.
Was one of these gentlemen going to be her husband? Oh, she really could not imagine it. She liked all of them to varying degrees and for varying reasons. But there was none she liked more than all the others. Sadly.
She laughed lightly at something that had just been said, fanning her face as she did so and glancing toward the door to see if the flow of new arrivals had slowed. There was still a trickle of guests moving along the receiving line.
And there was one man between Jessica and the door, his shoulder propped against a pillar, his eyes gazing very directly at her. He was not a member of her usual court. Indeed, he was a stranger. He did not immediately look away, as most people would when discovered staring. Neither did he move.
Jessica raised her eyebrows and fanned her face a little faster. He was an extremely good-looking gentleman, tall, broad shouldered, slender hipped, long legged, and elegantly and fashionably clad in black and white, his tailed evening coat looking rather as though he must have been poured into it, his neckcloth very white and arranged in a perfect, intricate fall. His silk breeches and stockings hugged shapely legs. His curly brown hair was short and expertly styled to look fashionably disheveled. His features were more harsh than perfectly handsome, perhaps, and his complexion was sun bronzed. But it was an attractive face nevertheless. Everything about him was attractive, in fact. Jessica felt an unexpected frisson of awareness and interest.
But his manners were not all they should be. He was still staring at her. Or, rather, he was gazing lazily, as though he had been doing it for some time. His whole posture was lazy, in fact, or perhaps relaxed was the more appropriate word. And informal. One did not lean one’s shoulder against pillars at ton events. Jessica raised her chin and looked haughtily back at him, just as another gentleman approached him and he looked away and straightened up to give the other man his attention.
Strangely, bizarrely, it was only at that moment that Jessica recognized him—the man who had been staring at her, that was. He was the man from the inn. The one she had taken for a cit, a member of the middle classes, with his overlong hair and unfashionable, ill-fitting clothes and inelegance of manner. He had looked at her boldly then too, from her head to her feet, with an expression that had bordered upon the contemptuous. And he had been ungracious about vacating the private parlor for her use. He had spoken openly in her hearing about the money he had paid for it. He had made her a mocking half bow.
She must have been mistaken on that occasion. No mere cit would have received an invitation to a ton ball. Not even if he was a wealthy man. But how very rude of him to have stared at her as he had just now, even if he had been as surprised to see her here as she was to see him. Who on earth was he?
“Jessica?” Her mother was approaching, and Jessica turned her attention back to the scene immediately before her. Mama was bringing someone to introduce to her.
The man from the inn was forgotten. For standing before her, dazzling in a dull gold evening coat with sparkling gold waistcoat, lace foaming at his neck and over the backs of his hands in this age of far more sober evening attire and darker colors, was the man of Jessica’s long-dead dreams. He was handsome beyond belief—of slightly more than average height and perfectly proportioned build, with handsome facial features that included slumberous eyes of a decided blue and very white, even teeth, which were fully on display now in a wide smile. Even his thick hair was perfect, though red-haired men had never figured in the romantic dreams of her girlhood. They ought to have.
“Jessica,” her mother said. “Mr. Rochford has applied to me for an introduction to you. My daughter, Lady Jessica Archer, sir.”
“Charmed, Lady Jessica,” the gentleman said, making her an elegant bow while not removing his eyes from hers.
Oh, and so was she. Charmed, that was. Fortunately, she did not say so aloud. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Rochford,” she said, inclining her head to him. She did not curtsy to any man below the age of fifty or below the rank of earl.
Her court had fallen silent about her. She was hardly aware of it.
“Mr. Rochford is heir to the earldom of Lyndale,” her mother informed her. “Or soon will be, after his father succeeds to the title later this summer.”
Jessica raised her eyebrows in inquiry.
“My cousin, the present earl, has not taken up his title in the almost seven years since the demise of the late earl and his son,” Mr. Rochford explained. “He disappeared before that unfortunate event and has not been heard from since despite an exhaustive search. It has been very distressing to my father, who was dearly fond of him. Alas, the present earl is about to be declared officially dead. Both my father and I will be brokenhearted, but . . . Well, as the saying goes, life must go on.”
Ah. It was one consequence of being later than usual to London, Jessica supposed, that she had missed this tidbit of news—and really quite a sensational one. It was rather a romantic story too—for Mr. Rochford and his father, anyway. Not so much for the dead earl, she supposed. So this veritable Adonis standing before her and still smiling was about to be an earl’s heir, was he? And he was looking at her as though she were the fulfillment of all his dreams. She hoped her own interest in him was not so apparent. She fanned her cheeks slowly.
“I am sorry for your loss, sir,” she said.
“Thank you.” He bowed to her again. “Her Grace, the dowager duchess, your mother, has informed me that you have already granted the first two sets of dances to other gentlemen, who I trust are fully aware of their great good fortune. May I beg for the third?”
Dash it, Jessica thought. “That too is spoken for,” she told him. “And the set after that is a waltz, which I have promised to Lord Jennings.”
“Perhaps I will challenge him to pistols at dawn,” he said with another wide smile as his sleepy blue eyes continued to gaze into her own. “Better yet, I will beg for the fifth set.”
It would be the supper dance, she believed. Perfect. That would mean she would also sit with him at supper.
“I shall be happy to reserve it for you, sir,” she said with an inclination of the head, and this time she noticed that her court did not erupt with the usual grumbles but maintained what might have been a sullen silence.
By then the receiving line was breaking up as the
last trickle of new arrivals moved into the ballroom, and Mr. Gladdley was stepping up beside Jessica and pointedly clearing his throat.
“The dancing is about to begin,” Jessica’s mother said, and Mr. Rochford, with a final bow, moved away. Mr. Gladdley crooked his arm for Jessica’s hand, and she placed it inside his elbow.
The gentleman from the inn was joining the end of one of the lines of dancers with a thin girl who looked not a day over sixteen. He was regarding his partner with what could only be called a proprietary smile. Then he looked up, caught Jessica’s eye, and gave her a curt nod.
Mr. Rochford was also leading out one of the white-clad new debutantes, who was blushing and looking nervous and very much in need of reassurance while he smiled and gazed at Jessica. But he dipped his head at last to say something that drew a grateful, worshipful glance from his partner.
Well, Jessica thought as the orchestra struck a chord and the dancing began, this Season was already showing considerable promise.
Four
Gabriel had come to the Parley ball alone, though he had been invited to join Bertie Vickers and a group of his friends for dinner at White’s Club before proceeding here with them later. But he had not wanted to be late arriving. Rather, he had wanted a chance to look about at his leisure. This was not just entertainment for him, after all. He needed a wife—or, rather, the Earl of Lyndale needed a countess—and what better place was there to look than the first grand ton ball of the Season? Lady Vickers had suggested a few young ladies she knew to be both eligible and available. She had promised to make sure Bertie introduced him to any that were at the ball, since she was unable to be there herself.
In addition to that main motive, though, Gabriel had hoped the ball would afford him a chance to catch a glimpse of Anthony Rochford, his second cousin once removed, if he remembered the relationship correctly.
Coming here alone had not been a comfortable thing to do, since he recognized only one or two men and no women. He was half hoping Lady Jessica Archer would be here. It would be interesting to see her again, to assess whether she was as perfect for his needs as she had seemed at their first brief meeting—and whether it might be possible to like her a little better than he had then. He was not even sure that she had come to London, however.
Numerous young girls had arrived even before he had, Gabriel saw—and girls seemed a more appropriate word than women. He must be getting old if he found them so alarmingly young. And all of them, almost without exception, were dressed in virginal white, as was Miss Parley, who looked all bright and flushed and pretty standing between her mother and father in the receiving line, greeting her guests. All of them looked pretty to him, though some were admittedly lovelier than others. All of them looked hopeful and eager, though a few tried to hide the fact behind unconvincing expressions of ennui. He felt an unexpected tenderness for them all and the dreams and aspirations they had brought to a London Season and what was undoubtedly their first grand ton ball. An almost avuncular tenderness.
He must be getting old.
A young debutante would certainly not do for his purpose, though all the young ladies Lady Vickers had suggested were in their first Season and almost certainly no older than seventeen or eighteen. He had been older than that when he went to America, for the love of God. A lifetime ago.
And then his eyes came to rest upon one particular woman. She was wearing a gown of vivid rose pink, startlingly noticeable even though she was half hidden within a cluster of men—or perhaps because of that. The men were all talking and laughing, but it was very clear that it was being done for the benefit of the woman and was designed to draw her looks and her smiles. She was very definitely the focus of their admiring attention. They were all vying to outdo one another. What popinjays, Gabriel thought. Did they have no pride? Then one of the men moved slightly to his right at the same moment as another moved slightly to his left, and Gabriel had a clearer line of vision to the woman herself.
She was of average height, slender, graceful, elegant, beautiful. Not pretty, but beautiful. She was definitely not a girl. Neither was she clad in virginal white but in that rich rose he had noticed first about her. It was a low-cut gown, short sleeved, high waisted, the Grecian lines of the skirt hugging her hips and slim legs and yet flowing about her at the same time. It was undeniably the handiwork of a skilled—and expensive—dressmaker. Her dark hair was piled high and arranged in intricate curls on her head, with a few tendrils of ringlets over her temples and along her neck. She was fanning her face slowly with a lacy fan, looking half amused, half bored.
Lady Jessica Archer.
She was every bit as exquisite as he remembered her. More so, in fact. And every bit as haughty too. She was doing nothing deliberately to attract the men clustered about her. There was no sign in her manner of flirtation or teasing. There were no provocative glances or enticing smiles. Yet she was doing nothing to discourage them either. It was as though she considered herself entitled as by right to their adulation. She would condescend to stand there and listen, her manner seemed to say, but she would not favor any one of them with particular attention. She would certainly not display any need to attract them. Yet she must be several years older than all the pretty, eager, anxious girls in white. Did she feel no urgency to attract an eligible husband? Apparently not.
But why should she? She was a duke’s daughter.
She was aristocratic hauteur itself.
She was perfect.
Gabriel propped his shoulder against a pillar that was conveniently next to him and settled in to watch her for a while. The dancing had not yet begun, Bertie had still not arrived, and he knew almost no one else, though Lady Parley had smiled upon him with particular graciousness as he passed along the receiving line earlier. Another eligible bachelor, her look had said. It was what her ball was all about, after all. She had a daughter to marry off.
He wondered how many of those men were seriously courting Lady Jessica Archer. If any of them held out any hope of landing her, they were fools. She obviously cared not a toss for any of them. Although she looked amiably enough at each in turn while they talked, she did not show any obvious partiality or any heightened awareness of any one of them. He wondered if they realized it. If they did, why did they remain? Did they not understand that they were making idiots of themselves? Or were most of them not serious about her and gathered about the lovely sister of the Duke of Netherby merely because it was the fashionable thing to do?
What fools.
And then, while she was smiling over something one of those men had said and fanning her face, she turned her head to look toward the receiving line, and in doing so saw him. Her eyes paused on him and held. She was assessing him. There was no sign of recognition on her face, a not-surprising fact, perhaps, as he had only very recently stepped off the boat the last time she saw him and had not yet subjected himself to the untender mercies of an expensive London tailor and boot maker and haberdasher and barber. Not to mention the tyrannical ministrations of a superior valet. Gabriel had hardly recognized himself by the time they were all done with him.
Perhaps he ought to have looked away. It would probably have been the polite thing to do. One did not stare at strangers. But he was interested to note that she did not look away from him or blush or appear in any way flustered. Indeed, she responded to his continued gaze exactly as he would have expected and rather as she had behaved at that inn. She lifted first her eyebrows and then her chin as though to ask him how he dared be so bold as to raise his eyes to Lady Jessica Archer.
He was the first to look away. Bertie Vickers had arrived and had come to gather Gabriel into the fold of his particular group of male friends. Though not for long.
“Come along, Gabe,” he said, slapping a hand on his shoulder after the flurry of greetings had ended. “There is a young lady I want you to meet.” He shrugged and pulled a face when his friends made jeering noises. “
M’mother presented me with a list this morning—the names of daughters and nieces and granddaughters and whatnot of all her acquaintances. She made me promise to present Gabe to any of them who are here tonight. Don’t look at me like that, Kerson—there’s a good fellow. Gabe is in search of a leg shackle but he don’t know anyone. He just came from America.”
Kerson winced. “I’ll say a prayer for you, Thorne, next time I go to church,” he said.
“Next Christmas, will that be, Kerson?” someone else said. “It will be too late for Thorne by then. He will be caught right and tight in parson’s mousetrap, and he will have Bertie to blame. I mean, to thank.”
“I shall keep it in mind,” Gabriel said with a grin. “Who is this young lady you want me to meet, Bertie?”
But someone else had joined the group of young men, and Bertie, distracted, was shaking him by the hand and exclaiming that he had not seen him in an age and a half, and where the devil had he been keeping himself?
Gabriel was not particularly interested in dancing, even though that was why he had come here. None of the young girls he had set eyes upon thus far attracted him. The only woman who did was surrounded by an army of devoted followers and did not need another idiot making a fool of himself over her.
He glanced across the room toward her while he waited for Bertie to finish slapping his long-lost friend’s back and having his own back slapped in return. Ah. It looked as though after all there might be room for another admirer in Lady Jessica Archer’s orbit. A man was being presented to her by an older lady of regal bearing, clad in royal blue. He had gone there to pay homage and was making her an elegant bow he must have practiced for hours before a looking glass. Someone ought to advise him to change his tailor or his valet or both. His gold evening coat, excellently cut and of a perfect fit, was a touch on the flamboyant side but might have passed muster if it had been worn with the right accompaniments. A waistcoat that was so covered with glittering gold sequins that it might have stood up on its own if set on the floor was not the right accompaniment. He had a thick head of dark red hair carefully shaped into the very Brutus style Gabriel himself had recently rejected.