Belle of the ball

by Donna Lea Simpson

  And it was working. The modest looks she threw his way, the way she was always just on the periphery of the crowd around him, it was drawing his eye more and more to her, and she knew with a certainty borne of experience that he would soon single her out. Did she want that? She supposed she must. What other option did she have?

  Always in the past she had done such things, the flirtatious glances, the demure coquetry, to test her skills, to ensure that the allure was still there and working for her. Men had been drawn and then released; it was like fishing when she was a child. She didn't even like fish— at least, not to eat—but catching them had been fun. Faith, her cousin, the same age as her almost, had never understood why she wanted to let the fish go after catching them.

  And she had released many a gentleman fish, only to see them swim almost directly into the nets of another fisherwoman. Lord Sweetan, her would-be fiancée from the previous year, was already engaged. He was said to be in London, but they had not yet chanced to be at the same event. She could only be glad; their last interview had not been pleasant. She drifted over to the chaperone's area and joined her mother. Lady Swinley was magnificent in dark plum satin—last year's dress, just as Arabella's was—and wore an ostrich plume in her turban.

  Just as she was about to speak to her mother, someone touched her elbow and she whirled, her heart thudding. It was Lord Pelimore, and she felt foolish for the hope that had leaped into her heart. She knew he was not coming that night; had not Eveleen already told her that?

  "Miss Swinley," the aging peer said, with a bow, "I do not often dance, as you know, but if there is a space on your card free, I would be most pleased if you would sit one out with me."

  Lady Swinley's eyes shone with triumph, and she said, "My daughter would be delighted, sir. Your gracious condescension has undone her, thus her silence. In fact, her next dance is free." She nudged Arabella with her elbow.

  "Uh, yes, my lord. As a matter of fact, I do have this dance free, the only free one on my card, I fear." It would not do to look too available. No man desired what no other man wanted. They were competitive beasts, like dogs eyeing a bone. Each wanted the choice bits, and the choice bits must be what everyone else wanted. My, but she was utilizing animal metaphors of late! She smiled and curtsied, and Lord Pelimore took her arm and escorted her to a seating area in an alcove behind a marble pillar, out of sight of most of the crowd. Arabella felt faintly uneasy, but the gentleman released her arm and sat wearily down. It appeared all he wanted was some peace and quiet.

  "Hot in here," he said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. He blew his nose in it, then retrieved his snuff case, offered her some, and when she refused, took a great snort himself. He sneezed repeatedly and blew his nose once more before putting away the handkerchief. His nose was a little bulbous, and threaded with red veins.

  Snapping open her fan and waving it languidly to hide her repulsion, Arabella murmured, "Yes, it is a trifle warm."

  "How those young gels do giggle," he said, critically, gazing at a gaggle of seventeen-year-old girls, all in white as befitted them so early in their first Season.

  And I suppose I am ancient, Arabella thought crossly, suddenly feeling old. She was three-and-twenty, and being courted by a man old enough to be her grandfather.

  There was silence for a moment, and when Arabella stole a glance sideways it was to find Pelimore staring at her. She smiled.

  "Won't beat about the bush, m'girl. Not getting any younger. Not that I'm as old as that Lord Oakmont. Friend of m'father's, b'lieve it or not. Have you heard the news?"

  Bewildered, Arabella shook her head.

  Pelimore pulled at his breeches and shifted uneasily on the marble bench. "Oakmont," he continued, "he's ninety-four, I b'lieve. Going to stick his spoon in the wall any day, it's said. Frantic search for the heir. Some great-nephew has come forth. Don't want that to happen to me. Been thinking about that ever since m'son Jamie up and died last year. Thirty-eight, and he dies b'fore his pa. Ain't right. Not at all. So, I'm in the market." He gazed at her with squinted eyes, as he would size up a prize bit of horseflesh. He nodded once. "I'm in the market for a wife, y'see."

  Arabella fidgeted in her chair. It almost sounded like he was going to make her an offer right then and there! She should be grateful for this blunt approach, since she wanted no sweet words from the elderly man, but she was not ready for the proposal yet. Desperately wanting to put off the moment, she picked up the subject, settling her skirts around her and fiddling with her fan. "That is the Earl of Oakmont, I believe, of whom you speak. I had not heard that he was on his deathbed. Poor man."

  "Oldest peer livin' it's said. Too damned old, if you ask me. Outlived everyone else. My da, now he died at a sensible age. Sixty-eight, he was. That were thirty years ago.

  "Really," Arabella said, faintly. Thirty years ago. And Lord Pelimore would not have been a young man even then.

  "Oakmont's great-newie's come forward, like I said. Been in India all this time, I hear Nabob, now; rich in his own right and brown as a nut, so they say."

  "Someone has seen the Oakmont heir?" Arabella said.

  "Lady Jacobs had it from some fella who knew some other fella what was in the solicitor's office what handles old Lord Oakmont's estate. Guess they're doin' all the checks ta make sure the fella is who he says he is. Disappeared for some years, doncha know. Can't be lax about that kind of thing. Primogeniture, an' all that. Rights of inheritance—mighty important. Which brings me back around to my own dilemma, you see—"

  "Is the nephew an older man, have you heard?" Arabella asked, gripping her fan tightly, not wanting to hear, yet, about his dilemma. Perhaps this nut brown Croesus, Oakmont's heir, would be not past middle age and on the lookout for a wife. Perhaps there was still time to find a more acceptable husband—more acceptable to her stomach if not to her purse. She felt quite queasy at having to entertain a proposal from the gentleman beside her. Her cousin. True, had explained a little about the intimacy of the marriage bed, and the thought of lying with this old man and allowing such familiarities was repulsive to her. She would have to submit to it, she supposed, and yet . . . and yet—

  "Can't be too old," Lord Pelimore said. "Not like me."

  Arabella, caught off guard by his unusual self-deprecation, relied on her social instincts at that moment, and burst out, "Oh, but. Lord Pelimore, you are not old! Why, you cannot be a day over . . . over forty, surely!"

  She heard a snort of disbelief, and from behind the pillar strolled Mr. Marcus Westhaven, looking very much at his ease and as handsome as ever in unrelieved black.

  Six

  "What do you want, young man? Private conversation, doncha know?" Pelimore's voice was querulous as he glared at Westhaven, who lounged against the pillar as if he had nothing better to do.

  He had heard that ridiculous piece of flattery; Arabella could see it in the merriment in his gray eyes. The reluctant joy she felt at his presence was tempered by the knowledge that he must think her a mercenary flirt. After all, it must be obvious to anyone who happened to observe what was going on between her and the baron; everyone knew he was on the lookout for a wife. But what did she care what Mr. Westhaven thought? He was nothing to her. She tossed her head haughtily.

  "Lord Pelimore, may I present Mr Marcus Westhaven?"

  "Westhaven, Westhaven ... I know I have heard that name lately, but where?" Pelimore, his thick eyebrows beetling over his dark eyes, stared up at Westhaven.

  "I am sure I do not know, sir," he replied, politely. He turned his smoky gaze toward Arabella and bowed low. "This dance is just ending. Miss Swinley."

  His voice was rich and low, and she felt a thrill shiver through her down to the toes of her elegant silver slippers.

  "May I see your dance card?" he asked, holding her gaze with his.

  Arabella flushed and hid it in the folds of her dress. She had implied to Lord Pelimore that it was quite full, when in fact it was almost empty. She felt the humiliation of th
at sharply, especially now, with Marcus West-haven. "I ... I must have lost it somewhere."

  "Why no, I think it is still on your wrist, along with your fan. I see it peeping out of the skirt of your elegant gown." Westhaven leaned over and plucked it out of the folds of her lavender dress, pulling her wrist as an unwilling hostage, encircled as it was by the ribbon attaching the card. "Ah, what luck." He took her little pencil and wrote in his name, with a flourish. "There. Walk with me, Miss Swinley."

  With a look of apology to Lord Pelimore, Arabella stood and put her arm through Westhaven's. In truth, she could think of nothing she would like more than to walk with him and talk with him—infuriating man though he was—but at what cost? She had been close to a proposal, she thought, even though she had been trying to avoid it. She must have been mad; she should have encouraged Pelimore, should have allowed him his say. Then she would now be engaged and could relax for the rest of the Season with the security of betrothal. What had she been about, discouraging the man she felt that inevitably she must marry? Lud, but she was so confused! It was almost as if her mind and her heart worked independently, battling over what she should do and what she wanted to do.

  Her mother would be furious if she heard that Lord Pelimore had been interrupted in the middle of an "interesting conversation," and by a nobody like Mr Marcus Westhaven. Well, Arabella rationalized, if Pelimore was close to a proposal, he would not give up merely because of this. It never hurt the gentlemen to have to chase a lady; it was all part of the sport, as much as her own flirtatious ways were. And her mother need never know, after all. All would be well. And in the meantime, she might as well enjoy this half-hour with Mr. West-haven.

  She walked away, gazing up at his stern profile, the hard line of his jaw jutting aggressively forward. From her angle she could see the silky sheen of his long hair and wondered if it felt like silk to the touch. Absurd thought, but still, her fingers twitched with longing. She tightened her hold on his arm.

  If only he were rich, she thought, with a deep sigh of regret. If only.

  Marcus stayed silent at first as he strolled the ballroom with Arabella Swinley on his arm, conquering the unreasoning anger he felt. For some reason it infuriated him to hear a bright, vivacious, intelligent girl like Arabella Swinley making up to that old relic. Lord Pelimore. He knew the truth, had heard the gossip. Pelimore was looking for a wife to bear him an heir because he couldn't stand his nephew, who stood to inherit the title and estate after the death of the baron's only son.

  But did he have to choose the best and the brightest of London belles for such a mundane chore as filling his nursery? Let him choose some other girl, not this flower, this blooming, lovely English rose! And speaking of flowers—He guided her to a private nook and released her arm. He gazed down at her. "Did you receive my flowers?"

  Stiffly, she said, "That little basket? Yes."

  Snob, he thought fiercely. He was wasting his time on her, and she did not deserve his consideration. "That 'little basket,' as you so slightingly call it, was handmade of birch bark by a native girl of seven, and given to me before I left as a precious gift! She is the daughter of my friend, George Two Feathers, and I cherish it" He heard die grating anger in his own voice, but didn't give a damn about how he sounded. What had possessed him to give Mary's sweet gift to someone who could not appreciate its value?

  She had the grace to look abashed and her cheeks flamed red. She glanced around their private alcove, avoiding his eyes. Her lips trembled, and she stuttered, "I d—do like it, Mr. Westhaven, I ... I p—p—put it on my b—bedside table."

  He swallowed hard. What was it about her that made him want to shake her and then kiss her? Why did he bother with her at all? And yet he could not seem to stay away; something about her drew him. He softened his voice, and said, "I picked the buttercups myself, you know. Their color reminded me of your hair, how it would look in the sunlight." He reached up and touched one ringlet, winding the glossy curl around his finger. Touching it to his lips, he inhaled the fragrance that drifted from her.

  Nervously she shied away from his touch, avoiding his gaze, and with a shake of her head, pulled her curl from his grasp. If only they were not in so very public a place, he thought, if only! He would show her she need not shy away from him, need not fear his lips and his hands. A little shocked at the direction his mind would take when he saw her innocent blush, he folded his hands together and glanced around. The temptation was strong to find out if the rose blush on her cheeks was warm to the touch, but though in a nook, they were still in the ballroom, with people parading past every few seconds. He reined in his wandering thoughts.

  "They are the very flowers I used to gather with my cousins," Miss Swinley said, her voice faint and breathless. She calmed down, took a deep breath, and spoke again. "I lived at the vicarage, their home, for much of my childhood, and we would go fishing, and swimming and gather flowers. My cousin is a great herbalist and knows the names of everything. In fact she saved her husband's life—he was not her husband then, but they married soon after—with an herbal infusion of white willow when he fell ill with the—" She stopped, her green eyes wide, and looked up in confusion. "Oh, I am babbling. I do apologize, Mr. Westhaven."

  "No, don't apologize," he said, smiling and touching her shoulder with a brief caress. He felt her shiver. He was entranced, charmed against his will, and knew why he had not been able to get her out of his mind for the two days he had spent away from London on unavoidable business. When she talked of her childhood he caught glimpses of a sweet girl, unaffected and good-natured, the girl she may have been before London society changed her into an automaton, a performing doll. What a jumble of contradictions she was, part schemer, part dreamer—or was that just his desire for her coloring her character with charming traits? "What else did you do at your cousin's?" he said, wanting to draw her out.

  It seemed he had breached some wall in her, coming upon her so suddenly as he had. He had broken through, briefly, her stiff, social façade. For a quarter hour she spoke of the vicarage down in Cornwall, a memorable trip to Polperro when she was eleven, riding the vicarage pony, visiting the poor with her cousin, a vicar's daughter. She lost her self-consciousness after a while and chattered as happily as a child, with just occasional prompting from him. She was lively and animated, green eyes flashing, her hands in use when she talked of her first riding experience, which ended with her on her bottom in a thistle patch. He roared with laughter. He was completely at his ease with her.

  And he thought he was as happy as he had ever been in his life.

  He had come back to England with every expectation of enjoyment, but so far the trip had not proved as enjoyable as he had expected. He had looked up old friends only to find them stuffy and stultifying and full of annoying and wrong-headed assumptions about Canada that they would not allow him to correct. Somehow they presumed to know more about the country he had just come from than he who had spent the last eleven years there. Galling in the extreme.

  And the business he was there in England to resolve could not be called a happy one, by any means. He was not even sure how he felt about the inevitable outcome. So altogether, the visit to his homeland had so far not been an unqualified success. This moment, in a London ballroom with the Honorable Miss Swinley, was the happiest part of his trip "home" so far. He watched her lovely, joyful face, alight with mischief as she recalled pranks she had pulled and trouble she had caused as a child, with very little evidence of remorse. He thought he would have liked her as a child much better than her cousin. True, who sounded altogether too good.

  He took her arm and guided her out of the alcove, taking her on a stroll around the ballroom. The noise and heat were overpowering, but if it was the price he must pay for a half-hour with this girl, then he would gladly pay it.

  "How big is Canada, truly?" she asked, her eyebrows knotted together

  "What?" He had lost himself momentarily in her twinkling jade eyes, and could not think.


  "I have heard that it is huge—Canada, I mean—but I cannot fathom it. One country, so very large?"

  He reined in his wandering thoughts, and from there, the conversation revolved around him and his journeys. She asked him questions no one since his arrival had ever thought to ask. What did the natives live in? Did they truly wear nothing but feathers? Were they cannibals? Where had he traveled? What had he done? How long was he there? Did he travel the whole time, or did he set and live somewhere for a while? Were there any cities? What did he think would happen to Canada in the future? Would America ever try to take it over again?

  He was by turns amused, perplexed, and tantalized by glimpses of a questing curiosity within her, and he was charmed by how entranced she was by nature. He felt a powerful urge to dress her in breeches and steal her away to Canada, She would love it, he thought, never mind that she had grown up in society. She had the right personality—curious, active, unjudging. She was the first person he had met since he had been back in England who believed what he said about his Ojibwa friends, and he longed to take her to see George, and his daughter, Mary Two Feathers. Once she was past her shyness, little Mary had asked him questions, too, about the far-off land he had come from and the ocean journey there, about the terrifying creatures called lords and ladies, and about castles of stone. Put Mary and Miss Swinley together and they would talk non-stop. The picture was so vivid in his mind, he could see it, could see Miss Swinley in breeches, sitting by the fire as Mary asked her about far-off London.

  He shook himself out of his reverie. Of course, she was there in London to meet and marry a rich man, was she not? That thought chilled him to the marrow and deadened, for a minute, his pleasure. But he determined to enjoy the moment and let tomorrow take care of itself. What harm could there be in sitting with a pretty girl and talking for a half hour? No harm at all.