A Convenient Engagement

by Kimberly Bell

  The Conduitts’ ballroom was heavenly. Hannah had never seen so many lights in one place, each one casting a warm glow over twinkling, shining surfaces. And the gowns! Silks and brocades shimmered in a rainbow of colors. The wide skirts and jeweled accoutrements swirled and sparkled as if in a dream.

  “Lady Fairfax, how wonderful to see you! I cannot tell you how pleased I was to hear you were coming.” Catherine’s voice was polite but lacked the warmth Hannah was used to. Not a friend, then. “Allow me to introduce you to my dear friend Miss Howard. Hannah, this is Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Montrose.”

  At Catherine’s request, Hannah stood with the hostess just inside the ballroom door. As guests were announced and came to greet Catherine, Hannah was introduced to the new arrivals. It was cleverly done on the older woman’s part. Some might have considered snubbing Hannah if she were elsewhere, but to ignore the hostess on entry would be an abominable breach in manners.

  “Your Grace,” Hannah said, dropping a low curtsy.

  The dowager pursed her lips distastefully, nodding her head in greeting. “I’ve heard about you. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you dressed so boldly.”

  Hannah’s gown was a dark gold brocade in a Persian pattern of crawling leaves and vines. Attached engageantes extended the sleeves in sweeping falls of gold brocade that were lined on the inside with a deep crimson silk. The split front revealed an underskirt of the same silk, and matching crimson fabric served as the backdrop for the amber flower stomacher. Hannah had never felt so confident, so elegant. Madame Baudette had promised her a masterpiece, and Hannah considered the promise delivered upon.

  “Boldly? Oh heavens. I thought that might be the case, but Rhone insisted richer shades flatter me.” It wasn’t quite a lie. Rhone had expressed a preference for deeper tones in her wardrobe. “One does try to be pleasing to one’s future husband. It is quite vexing to learn that he was mistaken.” Hannah pitched her voice toward humility, and the dowager’s expression softened.

  “Of course, you must do as he says. You’re quite right. Perhaps he just doesn’t know better; men never seem to. I’ll speak to him at once.” The dowager duchess nodded again and moved off, presumably in search of Rhone.

  Jane and Mathilda had spent hours with her this morning, explaining the art of saying what you didn’t mean and depicting strategies for the different types of disapproval she might meet with. It was thrilling to watch it succeed so marvelously.

  “Nicely done,” Catherine murmured.

  “Do you think Rhone will mind terribly?”

  “Not at all. I just regret not being there when she finds him.”

  Hannah’s answering grin stayed on her face through the next set of introductions to a Lord Snowden and his sister, Miss Snowden.

  “Watch out for those two,” Catherine said after they had moved on. “They’re vicious gossips.”

  “No wonder they were so pleased to meet me.”

  The pair had practically smothered Hannah with their excitement when they heard her name. She had no doubt they would be coming to call on her at the first possible opportunity.

  “What a crush.” Mr. Conduitt pushed his way through to Catherine’s side and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “You were right to open the doors and extend the seating into the garden. I don’t think everyone would have fit otherwise.”

  “There’s no hope for it; the evening is a success,” Catherine said, smiling. “How are you managing?”

  Earlier in the evening, Catherine had confided to Hannah that her husband was not overly fond of crowds. Their entertainments were usually kept relatively small as a result.

  “I’ll get by. Don’t worry about me.” He looked up as the next guest was announced. “Oh hell. It’s Lord Maxwell. Will you think me a coward if I flee the field?”

  “Go. I’ll cover your retreat, captain.” Catherine’s eyes twinkled as she watched her husband’s departure.

  “Miss Barton!” the new arrival boomed. “Was that your husband I saw running the other way?”

  “If it was, you must know I’m Mrs. Conduitt now, Lord Maxwell.” Catherine’s tone was almost as playful as it had been with her husband.

  “Knowing it doesn’t require me to like it, Kitty. You should have married me. I asked you often enough.”

  Hannah tried to reconcile the thought of her tiny, soft-spoken hostess and this mountain of a man joined in matrimony. She found herself quite glad Catherine had chosen the more reserved Mr. Conduitt.

  “Indeed you did, and I was flattered beyond measure every time. Lord Maxwell, may I introduce you to my dear friend Miss Howard?”

  “Have I ever turned down the opportunity to know a beautiful woman?” He turned to Hannah and executed a rough bow. “I must say, Miss Howard, you have the finest bosom in all of England.”

  Hannah was speechless.

  “Bertram!” Catherine scolded. “Miss Howard is engaged to marry Lord Rhone.”

  “I can see why. That bauble she’s got pinned to her chest is a fine piece of workmanship, and she’s the perfect setting for it.”

  Ruby eardrops were the only visible jewelry besides the stomacher, the simplicity allowing Rhone’s gift to stand out against the crimson silk. Betsy had artfully secured Hannah’s hair up in a series of twists and curls, woven through with strands of fine gold chain, to leave her décolletage uninterrupted.

  “A man goes to all that trouble to buy a woman beautiful jewelry, and then it just ends up lost in a sea of flesh on most chits. Your bosom is a perfect showcase,” he said as if it were a matter of fact.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Hannah said, finding her voice. “I will pass on your appreciation to my fiancé.”

  The big man stared at her for a moment before letting out a booming laugh, startling everyone in hearing distance. “This one’s got spunk, Kitty. I like her.”

  “As well you should.”

  The sound of Rhone’s voice just over Hannah’s shoulder sent a rush of warmth through her.

  “Rhone. I never thought I’d see the day you got yourself leg shackled.” Lord Maxwell slapped a giant palm on Gavan’s shoulder.

  “For the right woman, anything is possible.” Rhone deftly shifted Hannah around to his other side, leaving her safely out of trampling range.

  “You’re right about that.” He shot a glance at Catherine. “At the risk of getting fleeced down to my socks, would you care to join me at a card table? Kitty’s got to have one around here somewhere.”

  “Perhaps later. Right now, I believe I owe Miss Howard a dance. I did see a game set up in the library, though.” He tilted a wicked grin at the larger man. “Davenport’s half in it already, desperate for someone to lead him down the road to ruin.”

  Lord Maxwell made his excuses and headed off in the direction of the library.

  “Perhaps I should check on Lord Davenport,” Catherine said, peering after him.

  “You know Bertie won’t keep it, Catherine. He’ll send it to Dav’s sister after the man’s stewed a bit, to make sure nobody starves. Someone is going to take advantage of him if Bertie doesn’t.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  A footman came and whispered in Catherine’s ear, and she excused herself to deal with an issue that required her attention. Hannah found herself alone with Rhone—as alone as one could be in such a crowded room—for the first time that evening.

  Suddenly, she was nervous. She had never seen him so formally put together, and he looked every inch the powerful earl.

  “I’ve never seen you in a wig before.”

  “It itches like the devil, but Bennett informs me dark hair would ruin the ensemble.”

  His vain response relaxed her. That was the Rhone she knew.

  He was right about the colors. There wasn’t a scrap of black or brown on him. He was gold from head to
toe, broken up only by an exotic white flower embroidery on his greatcoat, and the white of his cravat and stockings.

  “It’s a shame I have no white and you have no crimson, or we might claim we matched.”

  “Ahh!” he said, holding up a finger. He twitched the bottom of his greatcoat aside to reveal a deep red silk waistcoat, replete with the same exotic flowers sewn in gold.

  “Do you plan everything?” she accused.

  “Me? The irresponsible Earl of Rhone? Surely not. You must be thinking of some other, maniacally organized, slightly less handsome man. Enough about my coat. Miss Howard,” Gavan said, bowing formally, “may I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  “You may.” She let him put her hand in the corner of his elbow to lead her onto the floor.

  “How strong is your ankle feeling?”

  “On the Allemande, quite fit.” Knowing the first suite of music would be for the Allemande, Hannah had practiced it the most.

  Gavan took her hand and positioned them for the opening steps. She looked sideways at him, arrayed in gold like a crown prince, so handsome and lean. There were no words for how she felt right then, just a rising joy that wanted to burst free at any moment. Then the music started. Suddenly, Gavan was spinning and twirling her in time to the violins. With all the lights and brightly colored dresses, it was far more dizzying than it had been in her practice and infinitely more wonderful.

  Master Fiorelli was a lovely dance instructor, but the effect of being held just inside the cage of a man’s arms was far different when the arms were Rhone’s. Throughout the dance their hands never left each other, and many times in the midst of a turn she could feel his breath on the sensitive skin of her neck. Hannah had not previously considered how sensual the activity might be, with the right partner. When it ended—far too soon—she was flushed with excitement.

  Rhone led her off the floor, making way for the next set of couples. His superior height had allowed him to locate Mathilda and Jane seated near a long bank of windows opposite the musicians, and he made a path through the crush to their position.

  “Ladies”—he released Hannah’s hand with a squeeze—“I must commend you on your preparations. My fiancée is an exceptionally accomplished dancer.”

  “Oh, Hannah, you looked radiant!” Jane gushed, clapping her hands together.

  “Truly, you did, dear. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought you were in your sixth Season, not your first.”

  Hannah basked in the compliments. She added them to the other glorious joys of the evening and stashed them away to take out and relive later.

  “And now, if you will excuse me, somewhere in the vicinity is a Scotsman terrifying your countrymen with his opinions. It is my duty to rescue them.” Gavan sketched them a perfect bow and moved off through the crowd.

  * * *

  Gavan had expected Hannah to look lovely, radiant, even. She seemed to ignite from the inside when she was happy, and tonight she was blazing. But what he had not expected was to be so unwilling to share her with the rest of the ballroom. Every time her laughter drew another lord’s attention, he wanted to drag her back to St. James’s Square. He wanted to go back to the last two weeks when her smiles were just for him, so after they’d finished dancing, he made an excuse and ran from her.

  It was a valid excuse. It took very little to get his Highland-born cousin to engage in an argument about the validity of the Stuart claim to the throne. Surrounded by Catherine’s politically minded friends, it was bound to occur by the end of the evening if it hadn’t started already. The fact that he couldn’t care less if Ewan screamed himself purple over the Scottish succession was irrelevant. What no one needed to know was that he had fled his fiancée’s side to avoid throwing her over his shoulder and absconding with her into the night.

  When Gavan finally ran his prey to ground, Ewan looked equally relieved to see him. He was trapped in a corner with a group of women not commonly known for their fidelity. A collection of thwarted pouts followed the Scot as he excused himself and cut a path to Gavan.

  “Where have ye been?”

  “Dancing with Hannah. I see you have developed quite a following.” Gavan fluttered his fingers at the pack of women eyeing Ewan like a meal.

  “It isnae right,” Ewan said. “Every one of them is married. Can ye believe that?”

  Gavan more than believed it. He knew a few of those women quite well.

  “The hypocrisy of this place is incredible,” Ewan said, outraged. “They willnae use one another’s Christian names because it’s too familiar, but they’ll have a tumble in an alcove without a second thought to it.”

  “I don’t remember you carrying such ire for promiscuous women when we were at the French court.”

  His cousin was in full tirade now. “It’s nae the promiscuity. It’s the lies. The French dinnae pretend to be anything other than what they are. This place is rotten to the core. No wonder ye’ve turned out how ye did. It’s indecent.”

  Gavan decided to divert his cousin’s outrage in a more advantageous direction. “What is indecent is your gross neglect of familial duty.”

  “Eh?” Ewan was shooting judgmental glares at his admirers.

  “My fiancée is being ogled by every rapscallion with a half-decent tailor. Meanwhile my kinsman, who ought to be scaring them off with his savage ways, is flirting with married women.”

  If Gavan could convince Ewan to intimidate Hannah’s admirers, she wouldn’t have to know Gavan was behind it. If she even noticed Ewan’s efforts, Gavan could blame it on his cousin’s interfering nature.

  “I wasnae flirting! And what do ye mean ‘ogled’? Surely, you’re overreacting.”

  “Unsavory knaves are eyeing her and making lascivious comments about her bosom.”

  “Her bosom? Miss Howard’s a lovely lass, but she doesnae have much in the way of—”

  “Her bosom! It happened—I swear it.” Gavan’s raised voice drew the attention of a few of their neighbors, but a gimlet eye convinced them to eavesdrop elsewhere.

  Ewan assessed him for a moment, weighing Gavan’s credibility. When he found no subterfuge, he began eyeing the ballroom with overt suspicion. “What sort of den of iniquity is this?”

  “The worst sort. A London crush.”

  Ewan scanned the prospective battlefield. “Which blackguard should we make an example of first?”

  “Not we. You.”

  “What! Ye cannae pass this off. She’s yer woman, nae mine.”

  “I must. We’re under exceptional scrutiny and it’s not done.”

  The discussion was cut short by a woman bearing down on them like a frigate preparing to fire.

  “Your Grace.” Gavan bowed. “I don’t believe you met my cousin, Mr. Dalreoch. Ewan, you are fortunate, indeed, to be making the acquaintance of the Duchess of Montrose.”

  “Dowager Duchess,” she corrected.

  “Apologies for the error, Your Grace. My memory finds it difficult to reconcile itself to the loss of your husband. He was much beloved.” The late Duke of Montrose had been a jolly old reprobate, and Gavan had enjoyed his company. Their son, the current duke, was an insufferably straitlaced bore.

  The dowager duchess’s expression softened slightly at the memory of her late husband, before firming up again. “I had occasion to meet your fiancée earlier this evening.”

  “Isn’t she lovely?” Gavan liberated a flute from a passing footman.

  “You are doing her a great injustice by taking advantage of her obedient nature.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you say ‘obedient’? Are you sure you met the right woman?”

  “This is not the time for your jests, young man.” The frigate leveled her cannons at him and let fire. “I have been informed that you are responsible for the inappropriate color of her ensemble tonight.”

  “Inap
propriate? I think she looks rather ravishing.” Gavan allowed his eyes to search for Hannah in the crowd and found her back on the dance floor. Radiant.

  The Dowager Frigate scowled. “Surely she would be just as fetching in more subdued tones. Perhaps soft peach or lilac.”

  Gavan tried to imagine it. “Oh no. Fetching, certainly, but equally so? Not at all.”

  “Lord Rhone,” the dowager said firmly. “It isn’t done. Unmarried women cannot go around with such boldness.”

  “Besides, I look ridiculous in pastels,” Gavan continued. “We can’t go around clashing with each other.”

  “Yer Grace,” Ewan interrupted. “Ye know a bit about how to go about with the fancy folk, dinnae ye?”

  Gavan, mid sip of champagne, almost choked on it.

  “Of course.” Offense colored the dowager’s curt response.

  “Some of these ladies seem to have a great deal of admirers. Shouldnae the men be with their women, keeping these scoundrels at bay?”

  “Heavens, no. That wouldn’t do at all. A man may—and should—dance with his wife once or twice during the evening, but certainly no more than that. He absolutely should not lurk about her person.”

  “But scoundrels—”

  “A woman’s success is largely determined by the number of admirers she has. It would be horribly improper for a husband to impede her popularity.”

  “I told you,” Gavan mumbled in an aside to his cousin.

  “Aye. It will have to be me, then. We cannae have these Englishmen pawing at yer wife.”

  The Dowager Duchess of Montrose looked at the two of them expectantly.

  “My cousin was just reminding me that I am late for an appointment at the card tables.”

  “I see. Before you go, about Miss Howard’s wardrobe . . .”

  “Your Grace, look at her.” Gavan gestured to Hannah, who was doing her best impression of a celestial body of light. “Can you remember ever being that joyful?”

  Hannah’s guileless laugh floated over to them as her dance partner led her in an exuberant turn. The dowager’s face shifted alarmingly close to wistfulness.