“My mother says exactly the same thing,” said Sarah. She turned to her friend. “I know it is shocking to say, Mary, but sometimes I wish that I was like Fanny. How blessed would it be to just be left to one’s own devices?”
Mary finished her éclair. “You do not mean that, Sarah. You do not truly wish to be like Fanny Pickford, who is destined to be an old maid.” She eyed Sarah thoughtfully. “Do you not want a husband and a home and a family of your own one day?”
Sarah sighed deeply. “It is not that I desire spinsterhood, dear one. It is just that I cannot for the life of me work out why all the young ladies are like bees in a bottle about the gentlemen.” She took a deep breath, “They are all so dull and boring! Imagine having to live with one and endure their frightful countenance forever?”
Mary laughed. “You are shocking. But you only say that because you have not met the right one yet, Sarah. My mama told me that when that happens it is like the sun peeking out from behind darkened clouds.” She sounded wistful.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Do not tell me you have bought into that fairy story as well, Mary. Have you yet met any gentleman who makes you feel such a thing?”
“Well, no,” admitted Mary, picking up a slice of ginger cake. “But that is not to say that it will not happen, my dear. I do have hope.”
Sarah sighed again. “I believe that romantic love is just a myth that we are told to make us submit to our destinies,” she mused. “Most matches are pragmatic, Mary. Most of our friends and acquaintances will eventually choose a husband because he can support them well or because he can raise their status in society. Not for love, whatever that is.”
Mary glanced closely at her friend. “I believe in love, dearest. I believe it is possible. I have seen love matches and know it to be true…”
“Infatuation,” interrupted Sarah, waving a hand dismissively. “I have heard of it and seen young ladies in the fierce grip of it. But those same young ladies look rather less pleased after years of putting up with the object of their affection. Especially when they have been turned into a brood mare as well.”
“Sarah!” Mary looked shocked. “It is the natural way, for us to become mothers. It is the ultimate joy in life. What else is there, after all?”
Sarah shrugged. She didn’t have an answer for her friend. It wasn’t as if a young lady could do anything else with her life. There was only one choice: marriage and children. A spinster was a despised thing, existing on the fringes of other people’s lives, and with no control over her own life at all. It wasn’t as if a spinster could make her way in the world like a bachelor could. There was one rule for gentlemen and quite another for ladies.
“I know,” she said despairingly. “I know you are right, Mary. It is just that it irritates me that I am being forced to choose a mate from such an uninspiring pool. I have danced with just about all the eligible gentlemen here this evening and they are so insipid. They make polite conversation about suitable topics and do not even listen to my replies.” She took a deep breath, “All they want is a good society marriage. A pretty lady as a wife on their arm who should also be endowed with a suitable fortune. None of them truly see or hear me.”
Mary blinked rapidly. “Perhaps your expectations are too high, dearest. Or perhaps you have just not met the right gentleman yet…”
“What does it matter?” burst out Sarah. “The sand has reached the bottom of the hourglass and my time is up. My parents insist that I must choose a suitor.” She glanced at the crowd milling beyond them. “The ball is nearly over and every single gentleman I have danced with thus far is lacking in some way or other. I do not want any of them as a suitor and yet I must pick one of them.”
“The night is not over yet, dearest,” said Mary, patting her arm. “You have not danced with Lord Frankland yet…he is rather dashing…”
“He likes his own reflection just a little too much,” scoffed Sarah. “Have you not seen him preening himself in front of any window when he has a chance?”
Mary giggled. “What of Mr. Lumley? Amy Worthington says that he is a skilled conversationalist.”
Sarah rolled her eyes again. “A gentleman who drones on about his horses and his hounds. I am almost falling to sleep just thinking about him.”
“Lord Cavell?”
“A poser,” declared Sarah stoutly. “I declare that he would not look amiss amongst the finest dandies on Bond Street in London.”
“Sarah, you are wicked,” giggled Mary. “You are very harsh on the poor gentlemen.”
Sarah shrugged. “I am only telling the truth, dear Mary. You would not consider any of them, would you?”
Mary shook her head. “But then, I do not have your beauty and charm, Sarah,” she said. “The gentlemen do not buzz around me like bees around a honeypot as they do you. Even if I was inclined towards any of them, I think they would barely notice me.”
“You do yourself a disservice, Mary,” said Sarah, frowning. “You are perfectly lovely and very amiable. It is only your confidence in yourself that needs work, my dear friend.”
Mary blushed, staring down at the plate. Sarah resisted reaching across and taking her friend’s hand in her own. She knew that it would only embarrass Mary.
She gazed warmly at the slightly younger woman. She had been best friends with Lady Mary Marcus since they were girls, growing up on neighbouring estates. When they were little, they would ride their ponies together and host grand tea parties for their collections of dolls and bears. Mary was always the shyer of the pair, trailing in Sarah’s shadow, but their affection for each other had only deepened over time.
Two years ago, tragedy had struck her dear friend’s life. Her parents had been killed in a carriage accident, making Mary an orphan. It was only because her only sibling James was older and had reached his majority, inheriting the earldom of Tolmere from his late father, that she had stayed in her own home and not been farmed out to a distant relative. James was unconventional and allowed Mary a great deal of freedom. Her friend had no pressure on her to secure a marriage like Sarah did.
Sarah smiled slightly. She liked James. He was like the older brother that she had never had, teasing her mercilessly whenever he saw her. And Lord Tolmere also had the courage to live his life exactly as he wished, even if he was an earl. He filled Tolmere Manor with bohemians and artists from London and seemed in no hurry to take a wife. In fact, Sarah could not recall him ever courting a young lady at all.
“You are the sweetest friend, Sarah,” said Mary, colouring slightly. “You only say such a thing because you like me. But I do despair that I shall never make a good match. James does not push me like Mama would have done if she was still with us and sometimes, I feel like a boat with no rudder…”
Sarah’s heart tightened. “Mama loves you like another daughter, Mary. If you ever need advice from an older lady about anything, I know she would be more than happy to guide you.”
Mary smiled faintly. “I esteem Lady Rubyton. But she is busy with you, Sarah. She does not have time to advise me on gowns and etiquette.”
“Fiddlesticks,” said Sarah briskly. “You must come and stay more often, Mary. Mama will delight in taking you under her wing.” Her face darkened. “She will probably think you a far more docile study in how to be a proper lady than I.”
Mary opened her mouth to protest, but Sarah gripped her arm tightly, shaking her head.
“Do not breathe a word,” she whispered, her eyes fixed to the crowd. “Mama is on the warpath. She must have noticed that I am not on the dancefloor.”
Her mother was pushing through the crowd, her face full of thunder. She was dragging a gentleman in her wake. Sarah’s heart sank. It was Lord Maxwell, the next gentleman on her dance card. A man of eight and thirty with a balding pate and bulging eyes. Lord Maxwell also had an unfortunate habit of laughing inanely at everything, even if it wasn’t funny in the slightest.
“By Jove’s beard,” swore Sarah, hastily putting on her slippers, �
�it seems our idyll is over, Mary. I must dance with the dreadful Lord Maxwell.”
“He is not so very bad,” declared Mary unconvincingly.
Sarah sighed heavily. She did not even bother to contradict her friend. They both knew the truth. If only this night would end, she thought fervently.
She was already on her feet, walking towards her mother and the gentleman like a condemned prisoner towards the noose when there was a sudden shushing of the crowd. The host, Lord Clifford, was addressing the guests.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, a smile playing on his lips. “Our evening has almost reached its conclusion. But before you all depart, Lady Clifford and I have a surprise in store.” His eyes twinkled. “We believe it a fun finale to the night, dear guests. We hope you think so, too.”
He held up his hand. He was clutching a white masquerade mask. The crowd spontaneously started clapping.
Sarah turned excitedly to Mary. “A masquerade! Oh, what fun!”
“There are enough masks for all,” smiled Lord Clifford. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, take one and become someone else entirely. Become whoever you wish to be.” He paused dramatically, his eyes twinkling wickedly. “At least for the next dance.”
Sarah gripped Mary’s hand, veering right, away from where her mother and Lord Maxwell were standing.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Let us get masks. This is the only exciting part of the evening. And I shall not waste it dancing with Lord Maxwell, to be sure.”
Chapter 3
Ten minutes prior to Lord Clifford’s surprise announcement, Arthur Colton, the Viscount Nordarken, was sipping his champagne as he gazed around the ballroom with eyes frosted over with boredom. It was always like this when he socialised on his infrequent visits to Bath to visit his father. He was rather more used to the constant buzz of London society.
He turned to his friend, Captain John Morgan, who was standing by his side, sipping his own champagne.
“How on earth do you endure it, Morgan?” he muttered, shaking his head ruefully. “It is all so very tedious.”
Captain Morgan smiled slightly. “Are you already yearning for the sparkle of London, my friend? You have only been in the district for two days.”
“Two days too long,” declared Arthur, draining his champagne. “Can you remind me again of why I let you drag me to this infernal ball in the sticks? It does not even have the allure of being held in Bath.” He took a deep breath, “At least in that venerable city we might have skulked away to end the night at a club.”
Captain Morgan sighed heavily. “You are very difficult to please nowadays, Lord Nordarken. I declare that London has given you the attention span of a gnat. The Clifford Midsummer ball is one of the prime events of the season.” His eyes narrowed. “Why are you not sampling all of the lovely young ladies on offer? I thought you would have been filling dance cards left, right and centre.”
Arthur pondered this question, his eyes sweeping over the assembly. His friend was not lying – there were many pretty looking young ladies in attendance. He was vaguely acquainted with a few of them from his other visits to the area over the years ever since his father, the Earl of Halwell, had decided quite abruptly to buy a townhouse and spend most of his time in this area. The Earl had declared that he was heartily sick of London and that the waters of Bath would be beneficial in managing his rheumatism.
Arthur had hardly questioned his father’s decision. It meant that the enormous house on Grosvenor Square in London could become his very own bachelor pad. He spent his time attending a dizzying array of social engagements, even when the official season was over and the ton deserted the city in droves. He had a very exciting life there indeed. So exciting, in fact, that perhaps it had spoiled him for any other place in England.
He took another glass of champagne from a passing servant. “There are some tolerable young ladies in attendance,” he stated thoughtfully, “but they all have the look of the fresh-faced milkmaid about them. I am used to rather more sophisticated ladies in London, my friend.”
“You are harsh on our local ladies, indeed,” laughed Captain Morgan.
Arthur shrugged. “I just say it as I find it, Morgan. I run in far more cosmopolitan circles, and the ladies are so very beautiful and chic that these country ladies seem insufferably boring by comparison.” He sipped his champagne. “It is not just the look of them, my friend. When I try to make conversation with any of them, they titter like sparrows and drone on about their infernal gowns and papa’s horses. They do not have any of the conversational skills of the London ladies in my acquaintance, who can quite comfortably talk of art, literature and even philosophy.”
Captain Morgan shrugged helplessly. “What can I say? The young ladies of this district are not taught to be cultured free-thinkers, my friend. Their parents would never allow such a thing. They are taught to know their place and to quickly secure a matrimonial match. It is hardly their fault they are not familiar with a wide range of topics and quite frankly most of the gentlemen in this district are quite happy with that.”
“I do not blame them for it,” said Arthur, shrugging as well. “It just leaves me cold, that is all. They are all so very proper and conventional.”
“Very good qualities in a wife though, would you not agree?” Captain Morgan gazed steadily at his friend. “I know that your father is pressuring you ever so slightly to settle down, and a country lady might be just the ticket.”
Arthur grimaced. “My father might be dropping hints about matrimony with the subtlety of a hammer, my friend, but that does not mean that I am ready for such a thing.” He grinned. “Anything I can get in the marital bed I can get through other means. Why pay for the cow when the milk is free-flowing?”
Captain Morgan laughed outright. “You are a cad, Nordarken! I think any young lady must tremble for her virtue around you, my friend.”
Arthur laughed as well. “I am always a gentleman, Morgan. Any lady who comes to my bed does so completely willingly. I do not seduce trembling maidens who might turn and rue the fact afterwards.” He paused. “I never have, and I never will.”
“Lord Nordarken.” A female voice, high and fluttery.
He turned around hastily. A middle-aged lady was standing there, gripping the arm of a younger one probably in her late teens or early twenties. They were obviously mother and daughter. They had the same aquiline noses and small, darting, hazel-coloured eyes. The younger one smiled, exposing a row of sharp, almost feline looking teeth.
He suppressed a shudder. They were not a handsome pair. But they were obviously well bred and wealthy, judging by the quality of their dress and accoutrements. Very expensive diamonds dangled from the lobes of the young lady and there was a veritable fortune of them hanging around her neck.
He bowed slightly. “Madam.”
“Pray, do you not remember me, My Lord?” continued the middle-aged lady, in the same breathless voice. “I am Lady Danvers. We were introduced at the Tomkins soiree a year ago. May I introduce my daughter, Penelope?”
“Oh, of course, Lady Danvers,” said Arthur quickly, trying to place the lady. He couldn’t recall ever having met her before. He turned to her daughter, bowing. “And Lady Penelope.”
“My Lord,” said Lady Penelope, sweeping into a curtsey.
“May I introduce my friend, Captain John Morgan,” continued Arthur. “Captain Morgan is currently on leave from active service in France.”
“A soldier,” said Lady Danvers, smiling benignly at Captain Morgan. “How perfectly exciting.”
There was an awkward pause. Both ladies were gazing at him expectantly.
Damnation,thought Arthur. They are wanting me to ask Lady Penelope to dance. How can I get out of it without causing offence?
But just at that moment, there was a rustle amongst the crowd, who were all turning towards the front of the room. Lord Clifford, the host for the evening, had stood up and was speaking. With relief, Arthur turned around as well. A repri
eve, at least for the moment.
Courting A Sinful Stranger: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 2