An Exquisite Marriage

by Darcie Wilde

  “I’m . . . well,” she said brightly. “Everyone is being so kind. I’ve had three invitations to call, and look.” She held up her dance card. “I’ve only two waltzes left!”

  “It’s marvelous!” Adele cried. In her daring dress of red and cream with its low waist and full skirt, Adele looked like a queen from another age. “I’ve danced every dance, and I’ve had to turn down at least three gentlemen. I’m practically dizzy!”

  “All this over a new dress,” murmured Madelene, fingering her straight skirt of champagne silk and sparkling beadwork.

  “It’s not the dress. It’s the young lady in it.” Miss Sewell glided up behind them. The morning after they held their confidential talk in the Windford library, Miss Sewell had accepted the task of being the girls’ chaperone for the season. Helene didn’t know how they would ever begin to repay her. Without her help, none of this would have been possible. Adele might fret that they were only being observed so they could be turned into material for a new fashionable novel, but Helene did not believe it.

  “Well, I never would have dared to even try change if it wasn’t for the three of you,” Adele said.

  “Just us?” smiled Miss Sewell. “Are you sure we shouldn’t be sharing the credit with someone else?” She let her lazy and knowing gaze drift to the balcony, where a tall young man with very black hair and impeccable evening dress leaned indolently against a pillar and watched them.

  Adele blushed a shade of red almost as deep as the color of her skirt panels.

  “We have all worked together,” said Helene. “And we are making a fine impression. But this is only the opening of the season,” she went on, to herself as much as to her friends. “We will have to solidify this success, and that will take a great deal more work.”

  Adele rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, we all know that, but for tonight, Helene, let’s . . . Oh Lord.” Adele blanched. “Here comes Patience, and Marcus.”

  “Courage,” murmured Miss Sewell, but for a moment, Helene could not tell whether she was talking to Adele or Helene herself.

  “This is what you’ve been up to!” cried Lady Patience. Adele’s younger sister had dressed with her customary flare, in a very fine gown of pale blue and white with tiers of beaded lace about the hem. Her gloves had been dyed to match. The splendid effect, though, was rather spoiled by her planting both hands on her hips and glowering at her sister. “Wait until Aunt Kearsely sees that dress!”

  “Hello, Lady Patience, Lord Windford,” said Helene. “Lord Windford, you know Miss Sewell, do you not?”

  “How do you do?” Miss Sewell made her curtsy. “How lovely to see you again, Lady Patience. What a beautiful gown you have. You must tell me the name of your modiste.”

  Helene glanced at Lord Windford. His mouth twitched. He was trying to frown, she thought. But Miss Sewell’s adroit deflection of Patience’s little rant was evidently making that difficult.

  As Helene studied the Duke of Windford’s expressive face, she was aware of a sort of sparkling warmth spreading down through her body. Odd. Yes, she’d thought of him several times over the course of the little season. Yes, she’d hoped for a chance to speak with him again. And yes, she was quite aware he was a handsome man. She’d known that since her meeting with him in his library.

  This time, though, Helene was acutely aware of Windford’s deep-set blue eyes, and the way his dark golden hair suited his bronzed complexion. She’d seen the duke in evening dress before and thought it looked very well on him. Now, she noted how his height and broad shoulders made the plain black coat look distinguished, and how his legs had an excellent shape that was both highlighted and complimented by white silk breeches and stockings.

  Helene quickly directed her gaze to the wider ballroom before anyone could notice she was staring at Lord Windford’s legs. Because of this, she was the first of the little conversational grouping to see Mr. Chute sauntering through the crowd. A dandy of the Brummel school, his black coat was immaculate, and his cravat was a fantasy of spotless white waves and folds.

  “Windford!” Mr. Chute cried. “How d’ye do? Pretty little party, ain’t it? But I’ve got a word for you. Let me down, you have.”

  Lord Windford arched his brows. “I have? How?”

  “You haven’t introduced me to your charming sister.”

  Patience pulled herself up and prepared to be flirtatious, but only for a moment, because Mr. Chute turned unmistakably toward Lady Adele.

  Adele smiled. Adele curtsied. Adele accepted Mr. Chute’s invitation for this dance and sailed away.

  Patience stomped one slippered foot and did not so much sail away as stalk in the manner of a disappointed cat.

  Fans were very convenient items, mused Helene. They were most useful, for instance, when one needed to hide an entirely inappropriate smile. Lord Windford, being a gentleman, was reduced to scrubbing at his face.

  Deborah Sewell did not bother with either gesture, neither did she seem inclined to worry overmuch about her duties as chaperone.

  “Oh, there is my friend Mister Collins,” she said breezily. “Madelene, I particularly wanted to introduce you to him. If you’ll excuse us, Your Grace? Lady Helene?” Miss Sewell gave the briefest of curtsies, took Madelene’s arm, and breezed away, leaving Helene standing alone with Lord Windford.

  Hmm. I will need to have a word with Miss Sewell.

  “We are deserted, it seems,” remarked Windford.

  “So it seems.” Helene fluttered her so-useful her fan to cover the brief silence. “How are you enjoying yourself, Lord Windford?”

  “Not half as well as you and Adele, but rather more than Patience, I think.” He paused. “This transformation is your doing?”

  “Adele’s transformation is Adele’s doing. I trust, however, you will not disapprove.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether I do or not.”

  “Why not? You’re her brother.”

  He shrugged. “Managing the females of my household is my aunt’s business. I rely on her to look out for them. I have enough other concerns.”

  “Of course,” Helene replied in her very driest tones. “You must look after your estate’s business and leave the dresses and so forth to the flighty females?”

  Windford let his gaze drift, the universal signal among the haut ton for disapproval. “Lady Helene, I think we had best drop that subject, don’t you?”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Helene curtsied. “Just as you say. Shall I talk about the dresses, as it is my approved role?”

  He lowered his frowning blue gaze toward her. “Perhaps you should. Those you seem to know something about.”

  It was a direct hit, but Helene was not ready to concede the point. “Did you know there are some truly complex geometries involved in the design of a skirt? For instance . . .”

  Helene never had the opportunity to finish. Instead, Lord Windford leaned close and murmured in her ear, “Lady Helene, I find I must ask for a favor. Would you dance with me?”

  The brush of his breath against her ear was causing a remarkable series of flutterings in the vicinity of her stomach. It took Helene a moment to regain her breath and glance about the room. It took less than a heartbeat to pick out Mrs. Pollerton, who was attempting to make a beeline through the crowd.

  “Please,” he whispered urgently. “Save my life.”

  He was so disconcertingly close that Helene could see the candlelight caught in his deep blue eyes. She meant to answer; she was sure she did. What happened, though, was she mutely held out her hand. This made him smile and tuck her hand into the crook of his arm.

  Her heart thumped unsteadily.

  How deeply provoking.

  ***

  This might have been a bad idea.

  Marcus struggled to keep that thought from showing in his expression as he led Lady Helene onto the dance floor. Her
expression had gone from defiant to decidedly mulish.

  He lifted his arms to the proper frame and let her step between them, as was polite. She laid her hand on his shoulder and rested her other arm on his. Her expression remained bland, even bored. Doubtlessly he would pay for his earlier remarks with an entire dance filled with sniping commentary, and possibly stepped-on toes. Well, sniping with Lady Helene would be better than ten minutes of another woman’s blushes and giggles.

  That, Marcus realized, was not only true, it was rather profoundly disturbing.

  The music rose. Marcus caught the rhythm and prepared to have to wrench Lady Helene about. Given her reputation, she probably was one of those girls who always tried to lead. But he was wrong. Lady Helene fell lightly into step with him and turned easily. She did not glance down at their feet as uncertain and unpracticed dancers did. Indeed, she did not look away at all. Not that she was exactly looking at him. As the music wrapped around them, her eyes grew distant. Her face softened, her form . . . her form relaxed as they moved and they turned.

  Marcus felt himself begin to relax as well. It had been a very long time since dancing had been anything but a chore. The two of them, though, moved together naturally, smoothly. She responded to the slightest change of pressure from his hand. With such a partner, he could let himself enjoy the music and the motion and forget the rigors of navigating the dance floor.

  “We have upset Mrs. Pollerton,” murmured Helene.

  “Good.”

  “Normally, I might agree, but I’m afraid I need her.”

  “You need her?” Marcus’s eyebrows lifted. “What for?”

  “She’s on the Committee for the Improvement of Conditions for Mothers and Infants. I was particularly hoping to talk with her about the importance of education for the mothers as well as for their children.”

  “And why should our dancing interfere with that?”

  Helene’s smile suggested she was charmed by his naiveté. “If I become a rival to her daughter, she’s hardly likely to listen to what I have to say.”

  “One dance and either you or she will think there’s rivalry?”

  “I do not think it. I observe it,” replied Lady Helene. “There is a natural order to the workings of a ballroom. I have taken care to familiarize myself with it.” She looked up into his face. “And you are about to remark on what a strange girl I am.”

  “I was, but now I don’t believe I will give you the satisfaction.”

  She fixed her amber gaze on him. He’d never seen eyes like hers—they were gold and brown and silver, all mixed together into a color that was unique. They were lively, intense, and shining. She had so much life in her. So much energy. He could feel it now, as they turned and they stepped.

  How had she been left alone for so long?

  Perhaps it was because those eyes saw too much. Because while Marcus was losing himself in the unexpected beauty of her, she had, apparently, been studying him.

  “Something’s gone wrong with you,” she murmured. “Something’s been wrong for a long time, hasn’t it?”

  Where had that come from, and what answer could there be? None, of course. So Marcus kept silent. It was, after all, hardly a polite remark, or a suitable one. Etiquette demanded he ignore it.

  Helene sighed. “When we are finished, will you go dance with Miss Pollerton?”

  “I danced with you to avoid Miss Pollerton,” he reminded her peevishly.

  “I’m sorry your plan did not come to fruition. You will have to try a better one next time. I suggest the billiards room, or the card room.”

  “Her mother’s a nuisance.”

  He expected a stern admonishment, but Lady Helene just shrugged. “She is doing her duty. If her daughter does not marry well, Mrs. Pollerton has failed her, and she does not intend to fail.”

  “You sound almost sympathetic.”

  “We are all prisoners of society,” she said, and for the first time her voice was soft, and a little sad. “I do not blame another inmate.”

  He should change the subject and he knew it. There was some unexpressed hurt beneath those words, but at the same time it was such a curious thing to say, Marcus found he could not let it go. “But you are here, working for a triumphant season while you are criticizing society itself. Some would call that hypocrisy.”

  “Nothing will change for these girls and their mamas if society itself does not change. I have come to learn that I cannot change anything by making enemies. Therefore, I must make friends.”

  “You sound like a politician, not a hostess.”

  “What makes you think there’s a difference?”

  The music softened and then fell silent. Marcus shook his head, defeated. “You are very strange.”

  “We’ve already agreed upon that point. Go dance with Miss Pollerton, Your Grace. You will be doing the women and infants a great favor.”

  “I feel like I’m being patted on the head and sent out to play.”

  In response, Helene reached up and patted him on the head.

  ***

  Helene watched Lord Windford walk up to Miss Pollerton and bow. The brief satisfaction she felt to see him carrying out her request was wiped away as an unfamiliar chill wound through her stomach.

  She was sorry to have to deploy the weapon of maternal dismissal. It was stunningly effective. A man might see all manner of barbed commentary as a challenge. But being made to feel childish? There was no man of the ton who would stand for that. Lord Windford would not care to repeat their waltz now. Which was regrettable, but, of course it was absolutely necessary.

  Marcus took Miss Pollerton’s hand and led her into the set forming for the quadrille. The poor girl was blushing an astonishing shade of pink, and if her mama puffed up any further she would burst.

  She had not expected Lord Windford to be a good dancer. He was Adele’s stiff, stubborn, withdrawn older brother. Yes, he had an excellent wit, and she enjoyed testing it, but she had not expected such grace, and such very precise control of his own body, not to mention an evident ear for the music and the willingness to pay attention to his partner.

  She had not expected to look into his face see it relaxed in enjoyment, or to discern such an intriguing spark in his blue eyes. She certainly did not suspect that spark might find an answer in her. She could still feel the exciting prickle beneath her silk gloves when his fingers closed gently around hers. The sensation had blended perfectly with the rhythm of the music. The mixture proved as pleasing as good wine and just as heady. But as Lord Windford danced and as his defenses lowered, she saw the sadness beneath the politesse, and the anger.

  It was the anger that convinced her that something was wrong. Something far beyond the mess of the estate, which, according to Adele, he had devoted a great deal of time and effort to undoing. Helene wanted to know what that something was. She wanted to poke and to prod and to pry until she found what it was, and she wanted to fix it. Some fundamental portion of her being rebelled at knowing Lord Windford to be sad.

  That was dangerous. She must never dance with him again. Ideally, she would never see him again, except from a distance. But since he was Adele’s brother, that would prove difficult. Still, it would be best if she moved out of sight now, perhaps to the retiring room or the upper levels, at least until she could make herself stop watching Marcus dance with Miss Pollerton. Really, the poor girl could benefit from a few lessons with a good instructor. Fortunately, she was such a featherweight it couldn’t hurt that much when she stepped on Marcus’s toes . . .

  “His lordship seems to have entirely captured your attention, Helene.”

  Helene started, and much to her annoyance, she began to blush. Miss Sewell had managed to saunter up beside her without her even noticing.

  “At New Year’s he proved himself to be a surprisingly intelligent gentleman,” she answered. “I under
stand he also has a keen mathematical bent. I’m surprised Adele never mentioned it when she talked about him.”

  “I expect Adele’s concern about her brother’s mathematical bent is mostly bound up in how he applies it to the household budget.” Miss Sewell paused, and Helene was uncomfortably aware of being watched. “He does dance very well.”

  “Those with a talent for maths frequently also have a deep appreciation for music. Perhaps I shall write a paper on the subject. It would, of course, require further study.”

  “So, I imagine, would Lord Windford.”

  Helene turned around and glowered at her chaperone. “Miss Sewell, I appreciate all that you have done for us, and I am sensible that we will ask a great deal more of you during this season, but you will not presume to tease me on that particular subject.”

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Helene.” Miss Sewell made a curtsy. “I meant no offense.”

  Helene’s throat tightened. She was being unfair, and childish, and she knew it, which helped nothing. Helene turned away from Miss Sewell’s searching eyes. “I should go find Madelene and make sure she’s still all right.”

  Helene moved away without waiting to hear what her chaperone might reply. She was not running away, she told herself. She really did need to find her friend. Madelene had made excellent progress during the months of the little season, but her anxious spells were still apt to come on suddenly. She should not be abandoned by her friends.

  That search, however, proved more complicated than Helene had anticipated. By now, Bassett’s Assembly rooms were full to the brim. While not anything like as exclusive as the Wednesday night gatherings at Almack’s, Mrs. Wrexford’s parties were much enjoyed and anticipated. Most of those who were invited did actually attend. Helene would be very busy making notes about the refreshments and the musicians later. She should also reserve a good hour to eavesdrop on the chaperones so she could hear what they said about how things had been arranged. The women who occupied the small chairs and sofas at the edges of the dance floor liked nothing better than to discuss every aspect of the gathering around them. That gossip would be extremely valuable for Helene’s plans for the rest of the season.