by Mary Balogh
“There is Lady Palmer,” Lorraine said, smiling. “She informed me that her brother will be here this evening—Lord Fenner, that is. I wonder if he has arrived yet.”
Edward looked down at her with interest. He wondered if there was any significance in her mentioning Fenner, whom he knew as a pleasant enough man, a few years his senior.
“It may take you an hour or two to find out even after passing along the receiving line,” he said. “It looks as if this ball is going to be a squeeze to end squeezes.”
“Well, of course it is,” she said. “Who could resist an invitation to a ball at Dudley House? The Duke of Tresham never hosts balls.”
Except tonight, Edward thought ruefully, for his sister, with whom Edward was going to have to dance. He wished suddenly that he had thought of persuading his mother to sit at the pianoforte in the drawing room at home while he practiced steps with Lorraine or one of his sisters. But being rusty on the steps of all the most common dances was not his problem. Having two left feet was, and no amount of practice could rectify that.
The receiving line was short. Lady Palmer was at the near side of it with Tresham next to her. The young lady beyond him was presumably Lady Angeline Dudley, but Edward could not see her clearly, partly because Tresham stood in the way, and partly because almost every lady ahead of him had nodding plumes in her hair.
He bowed to Lady Palmer and agreed that yes, indeed, they were fortunate to have such a fine evening for the ball considering the rain that had fallen fitfully all morning. His mother smiled and nodded and made a few polite comments of her own, and Lorraine smiled warmly and congratulated Lady Palmer on what already showed the unmistakable promise of being a grand success of an evening.
Edward inclined his head more stiffly to Tresham, who returned the gesture and spoke briefly and courteously to the two ladies. Amazingly, neither Edward’s mother nor Lorraine seemed to harbor any particular grudge against the man with whom Maurice had been racing when he died. And perhaps they were right. If it had not been Tresham, it would have been someone else. And Tresham had not directly caused the upset. He had overtaken Maurice just before a sharp bend in the road a moment or two earlier and had been safely around the bend and the obstacle beyond it before that obstacle—a large hay cart—and Maurice’s curricle met right on the blindest part of the curve.
Tresham turned to his right, and Edward and the two ladies turned to their left and an avenue of sight opened up.
“May I present my sister, Lady Angeline Dudley?” Tresham said.
Oh, good Lord!
Edward’s eyes had alit upon her and hers upon him long before her brother had completed the brief introductions.
She was looking perfectly respectable tonight. She was dressed in a white gown of simple, modest design, which nevertheless hugged her tall, shapely frame in a thoroughly becoming manner. She was standing upright, with perfectly correct posture. She was smiling politely—and then with heightened color in her cheeks and an extra sparkle in her dark eyes.
She looked more beautiful than ever, though there was nothing delicate about either her features or her coloring.
Edward was appalled.
He bowed to her, and she curtsied to all three of them, though she was looking at him—quite fixedly.
“Lady Angeline,” he murmured.
Do not say it, he implored her silently.
Perhaps she needed no urging, though she had definitely been about to speak to him both at the Rose and Crown and in Hyde Park this morning.
“Lord Heyward.”
But of course, he thought. He had passed Tresham ten minutes away from that inn. Tresham in a carriage, which must be rare indeed. Tresham headed away from London just when everyone else was headed toward it. Tresham on the way to meet his sister at the Rose and Crown. The evidence had been there staring him in the face, including the fact that brother and sister looked remarkably alike. He had not made the connection.
Now he was doomed to dance with her, a lady who did not know how to behave. A Dudley, in fact.
She was smiling at his mother now and talking with her. The line was stalling behind them. It was time to move into the ballroom.
“I shall look forward to leading you into the first set, Lady Angeline,” he said.
Her smile was dazzling. She had perfect teeth.
“Oh,” she said, “and I shall look forward to it too, Lord Heyward.”
“It is a pity,” his mother said as they stepped into the ballroom, “that she favors her father’s side of the family rather than her mother’s.”
“Maybe not, Mother,” Lorraine said. “Looking as she does, she is less likely to find herself compared with the late Duchess of Tresham. That can only be to her advantage, even if the duchess was a rare beauty. And she is not unhandsome. What do you think, Edward?”
“I think she is the most beautiful creature I have ever set eyes upon,” he said and then felt remarkably foolish and chagrined. He had not meant the words the way they had sounded. He did not feel any admiration for the girl. Quite the contrary. It had been a quite objective remark, which had come out making him sound like a lovestruck mooncalf.
Both ladies were looking at him with interest.
“She certainly is striking,” his mother said. “And charming. She has a vitality not always apparent in girls new to the ton. And she was obviously pleased to meet you, Edward. She could scarcely keep her eyes off you. You are looking remarkably distinguished this evening. Is he not, Lorraine?”
“Edward always looks distinguished,” Lorraine said, smiling fondly at him.
Edward sighed inwardly. One hour. One hour from now the ball would have begun and the first set would be over. Then he could relax.
Why did one hour seem like an eternity?
THE NEXT HALF hour, Angeline thought as the long line of guests gradually became a trickle and finally stopped altogether. The orchestra members on the dais were beginning to tune their instruments as though they fully intended to use them soon. The next half hour was going to be the most fateful, the most wonderful of her entire life. It was, in fact, going to be the beginning of the rest of her life.
The blissful beginning.
When Tresham had turned sideways in the line and the two ladies had done likewise and Angeline had been able to see the gentleman who was with them …
Well. There were simply no words.
And when she had heard the echo of the names the majordomo had recited a moment before and she had realized that this was the Earl of Heyward, with whom she was to dance the opening set …
Well.
There were simply no thoughts.
Except that suddenly she had had one—a thought, that was—and had almost suffered a heart attack as a result.
“The Countess of Heyward?” she had asked Tresham, a hint of a squeak in her voice just before he turned back to greet the next guests in line. “I am to dance the opening set of my come-out ball with a married man?”
The possibility that he was married had never once crossed her mind.
“The countess is his sister-in-law,” he had explained. “She was married to his brother, the late Heyward and one devil of a fine fellow.”
Of course. She had known that. Rosalie had arranged the opening set with the widowed Countess of Heyward.
Then another thought had struck her.
A dry old stick?
But Tresham was greeting someone else and was about to introduce her. Oh, goodness, there were so many new faces to memorize and so many names to put with those faces. She stopped even trying.
He was the Earl of Heyward.
Single.
And she was going to dance off into the rest of her life with him.
Into happily-ever-after, even though she had never believed in such a ridiculous notion.
Suddenly she did.
And the next half hour was to be all hers.
All theirs.
He came striding toward her as soon as s
he stepped inside the ballroom, Tresham on her right, Cousin Rosalie on her left, a look of firm purpose on his face as though this was a very serious moment. As though it was something that mattered to him.
As perhaps it was.
Angeline stopped herself only just in time from clasping her hands to her bosom. It had not escaped her attention, focused though she was on the Earl of Heyward, that simply everyone in the ballroom was looking at her. Of course everyone was. It was not even conceited to believe so. This was her ball, and she would lead off the first set. Besides, she was the most eligible young lady in London this year. She was the sister of the Duke of Tresham.
The Earl of Heyward stopped in front of her, inclined his head to both Rosalie and Tresham, and then fixed his eyes upon her. His beautifully blue eyes.
“This is my set, I believe, Lady Angeline,” he said.
He was holding out a hand toward her, palm down.
She felt as though she must just have run five miles against a stiff wind. She smiled and decided not to open her fan. The last thing she needed was more breeze.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you, my lord.”
And she placed her hand on the back of his—it was firm and warm—and stepped out onto the empty dance floor with him.
Their very first touch.
There was a sigh of something from the spectators, and the orchestra ceased its tuning.
Angeline’s stomach felt as though it was suddenly inhabited by a whole swarm of fluttering butterflies. Of nervousness? Of excitement? Both?
He led her to a spot close to the orchestra dais and left her there while he took his place a short distance away.
It was the signal for other couples to come and join them, to form the long lines of dancers for the first set, the ladies on one side, the gentlemen on the other.
Angeline gazed across at Lord Heyward, and he looked steadily back.
He was neatly, fashionably dressed. But there was no excess—no high shirt points threatening to pierce his eyeballs, no creaking corsets, no profusion of fobs and chains, no elaborately embroidered waistcoat, no haircut with its own name, like a Brutus, for example.
And no smile.
Meeting her, dancing with her, was serious business to him, then.
He was not a frivolous man.
He was probably the polar opposite of Tresham. And of Ferdinand. And her father. All of whom she loved, or had loved, to distraction. But none of them would ever be her husband. Neither would any man remotely like them. She had some sense of self-preservation.
She was going to marry someone like the Earl of Heyward.
No, correction.
She was going to marry the Earl of Heyward.
He might not know it yet, but he would.
They were a little too far apart to converse comfortably. And she did not wish to shout inanities across at him, though several couples beyond them were doing just that.
He held his peace too.
And then the orchestra played a decisive chord and the chatter died. The butterflies in her stomach did not, but fluttered to renewed life. She curtsied in the line of ladies. He bowed in the line of gentlemen. And the music began and they were off, performing the intricate steps of a lively country dance. Before she knew it, Angeline found that it was their turn—they were the lead couple, after all—to twirl down the set between the lines of clapping dancers.
The butterflies had disappeared without a trace.
She was so happy she thought she might well burst.
But awareness returned soon enough. And with it came a realization that first amazed her and then touched her.
Lord Heyward danced with careful precision and rather wooden grace. Actually, the grace was quite minimal. Even nonexistent. His timing was a little off, as though he waited to see what everyone else was doing before he did it himself. And occasionally there was a definite hesitation.
The poor man could not dance. Or rather, he could, but dancing was not something that came naturally to him or gave him any enjoyment whatsoever. His face was blank of expression, but there was a certain tension behind the blankness, and Angeline guessed that he was concentrating hard upon not disgracing himself.
And yet as the lead couple they were the ones most on display to the many guests who were not themselves dancing but were only watching—and storing tidbits of gossip to share in tomorrow’s drawing rooms.
Oh, poor Lord Heyward. He was not enjoying himself at all.
This was not the way to begin their … Their what? Relationship? Courtship? Happily-ever-after?
It was not the way to begin it, anyway, whatever it was.
The first dance of the set came to an end, and there was a brief pause before the second began. As soon as it did, Angeline realized that the rhythm was even faster than it had been before. Lord Heyward looked like a man who had been climbing the steps to the gallows until now but had suddenly emerged onto the flat platform and the trapdoor and noose itself.
There was really nothing else she could do, Angeline decided, except what she proceeded to do.
She turned her ankle and stumbled awkwardly.
Chapter 5
ANGELINE HAD ALWAYS been impulsive. She had always had a tendency to act before she thought, usually with less than desirable results. Her governesses had habitually, and unsuccessfully, attempted to teach her the wisdom of a lady’s always pausing to consider what she was about to say or do before actually saying or doing whatever it was.
She had done it again. Acted, that was, before thinking of the consequences of what she was about to do.
Her ankle was not damaged. It was a little sore, perhaps, but only with the sort of pain that diminished to nothing at all within minutes and was really not worth the bother of fussing over. But …
Well, this was her come-out ball. Worse, this was the opening set of her come-out ball. All eyes were upon her. That seemed to include even the eyes of her fellow dancers. And of the orchestra members. She had turned her ankle, though not the ankle belonging to the leg she had broken last year, and she had stumbled awkwardly, and she had gasped with pain, and …
Well, and the world gasped with her and converged upon her from all corners of the globe. The music stopped abruptly, and dancers and spectators came dashing, all presumably in the hope of catching her before she hit the floor.
The Earl of Heyward reached her first and wrapped an arm about her waist and held her firmly upright so that she could not possibly tumble to the floor even if that had been her intention, which it had not.
It was a distracting moment, or fraction of a moment. For he was all firm, muscled masculinity, and Angeline would have liked nothing better than to revel for at least a short while in the unfamiliar delight of being held in a man’s arms—well, almost in his arms, anyway. And not just any man’s arms. And what was that absolutely wonderful cologne that clung about his person?
But voices all about her were raised in alarm or concern or puzzlement.
“Lady Angeline!”
“You have hurt yourself.”
“She has hurt herself.”
“Set her down on the floor. Don’t try moving her.”
“Carry her over to the French windows for some air.”
“What happened?”
“Hand me my vinaigrette.”
“Send a servant to fetch a physician.”
“Did she faint?”
“The music was too fast. I said it was, did I not?”
“The floor is too highly polished.”
“Have you sprained your ankle?”
“Has she broken her ankle?”
“How dreadfully unfortunate.”
“Oh, the poor dear.”
“What happened?”
“Trip over your own toes, did you, Angie?” This last in the cheerful voice of Ferdinand.
And those were only a sampling of the myriad exclamations and comments Angeline heard. This, she thought, had not been one of the best ideas she had
ever conceived.
“Oh, dear,” she said, feeling the heat of a very genuine blush rise in her cheeks, “how very clumsy of me.”
“Not at all. Are you hurt?” Lord Heyward asked her with flattering concern.
“Hardly at all,” she said, laughing lightly.
But that was no answer, especially for a large audience, all of whose members were now hushed in an attempt to hear what she had to say. She winced as she set her foot back on the floor, and the guests winced with her.
“Well, perhaps just a little,” she said. “We had better sit out what remains of this set so that I will be able to dance for the rest of the evening. I am so sorry for causing such a fuss. Please ignore me.”
She smiled about at the gathered masses and rather wished it were possible to be sucked at will into a great hole.
“Thank you, Heyward. I shall take Angeline to a withdrawing room to rest for a while. The dancing may resume.”
It was Tresham, cool and black-eyed. In control. Taking charge.
Lord Heyward’s arm loosened about her waist but did not entirely drop away.
“Lady Angeline is my partner,” he said, sounding as cool as Tresham. “I shall help her to that love seat over there and sit with her, as is her wish. She may then decide if she is fit to dance the next set or if she would prefer to withdraw for a spell.”
It was an exchange that did not even nearly qualify as a confrontation, Angeline thought, looking with interest from her brother’s face to Lord Heyward’s. And yet … And yet there was something there, some ever so minor clash of wills. And, just as he had at the Rose and Crown, the earl won the day with quiet courtesy. Tresham stared back at him for a fraction of a second longer than was strictly necessary, raised his eyebrows, and turned to nod at the leader of the orchestra.
The whole incident had lasted for a maximum of two minutes, probably less. The earl offered his arm this time rather than just the back of his hand, Angeline linked hers through it and leaned upon him with just enough of her weight to look convincing, and he led her to the love seat he had indicated, which was wedged in next to the orchestra dais and was therefore somewhat isolated from the other seats in the ballroom.