Timeless Regency Collection: A Midwinter Ball

by Heidi Ashworth

  “Where have you been? I must have you in my sight throughout the evening.”

  Ella took Lady Benton’s gloved hand and squeezed it gently. “All is well. Though I am a little tired. How much longer must we stay?”

  “Until the end, of course. This is your first ball, and to be a guest of the Duke’s is no trifle.”

  She was, quite suddenly, very tired. Perhaps the night air had not been good for her. Good or not, she’d no time to dwell on it as she soon made the acquaintance of one Lord Lewes. He seemed closer to her age and less stuffy than many of the others in attendance. Mr. Woodward did not ask her to dance again, nor did she discover the mysterious man who had been spying upon her—if there really was such a person.

  Chapter Seven

  “Lady Ella, wake up.” A cold hand touched Ella’s shoulder and she rolled away from it. “Lady Eleanora, please.”

  “I wish to be called Ella.” She pulled the pillow over her head. It couldn’t be time to rise already. It seemed she’d scarcely gone to bed.

  “Do you also wish for a morning ride?” an exasperated voice demanded. “If so, you must get up. Mr. Darling is downstairs, waiting to take you to Hyde Park.”

  It took only a second for the words to register before Ella flung off the covers and bounded from the bed, startling Lucy so that she jumped back.

  “Mr. Darling said he would take me for a ride—on a horse?”

  “Unless they’ve camels here too,” Lucy said, shaking her head as she walked to the clothespress. “I didn’t know you were going riding or I’d have readied your outfit.”

  “I didn’t know either.” Ella hurried behind the screen, already pulling her nightgown over her head as she went. “I said that I wanted to go riding, but he never said a word about taking me.” She tossed the gown over the side of the screen and hopped about, freezing and impatient. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “A little after seven.” Lucy appeared with Ella’s riding habit. “I fear this made-over garment is not at all fashionable enough for London.”

  “Fashion does not help one to stay seated upon a horse.” Ella waited for Lucy to finish lacing her stays, then thrust her shivering arms through the sleeves of her blouse as quickly as she could. She wasn’t certain if it was the cold or the excitement of being able to go riding causing her gooseflesh. “Mr. Darling knows I am coming? He is still waiting?” she asked, impatient with the time it took to don her skirt and jacket and put on her stockings and shoes.

  At last, she was dressed and practically flew across the room toward the door.

  “Your hair,” Lucy wailed.

  “Why must you always fuss over it?” Ella ran her hand down the back of her hair, still plaited from the previous night. “I slept but a few hours. It can’t be that messy.”

  “Let me brush it and tie it in a ribbon, at least,” Lucy said.

  “Hurry then.” Ella didn’t bother returning to the dressing table, but quickly undid the plaiting herself while Lucy fetched the brush and ribbon. Two strokes of the brush and Ella pronounced it satisfactory and snatched up the ribbon to tie it herself. She was still finishing as she ran down the stairs.

  Mr. Darling watched her approach, an unreadable expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry you had to wait,” Ella said, breathless with excitement. “I would have been ready had I known you were going to take me.”

  “You did say you wished to ride.” Mr. Darling lifted his head to stare at some point past her, as if to avoid looking at her directly. “And you also said you would be leaving after last night’s ball, so I thought it best to take you today—before you return home.”

  “Thank you.” Ella finished with the ribbon and clasped her hands together in front of her. “I am ready now.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Mr. Darling bit his lip.

  “Is there a problem?” Ella looked longingly toward the front doors.

  “Only with your jacket.” He stared the opposite direction.

  Ella frowned and placed her hands on her hips, annoyed and slightly hurt at his criticism. “I know it is not stylish in the least, but I’ve not had a new riding habit made since before my mother died four years ago.”

  “I am not speaking of the style, but of the buttons.” Mr. Darling’s voice was quiet, terse—and embarrassed.

  Ella glanced down and at once realized the problem. The top two buttons were undone already, creating a swell of gaping fabric at her chest, revealing the shirt beneath. “Oh.” Bother. Annoyed at the delay, she fixed the buttons, then stood straight and tall—the only way she could stand in the overly snug garment. “Now I am ready.”

  Without looking at her to see if she was indeed put together this time, Mr. Darling offered her his left arm, and they exited the back way. He led her through the carriage house out to the small stable, where the most magnificent horse she had ever seen was waiting.

  “Oh, but he’s gorgeous.” She took a step toward the majestic black stallion, then paused, glancing back at Mr. Darling for permission.

  “Go ahead,” he urged, nodding his head toward the open stall. “Stoutheart will let you know if he wants you to touch him or not.”

  Ella didn’t need a second invitation. She walked forward, her hand outstretched, palm up. Stoutheart sniffed it, then nickered softly. Ella reached up, stroking her fingers down the sleek hairs of his nose. “What is he, sixteen hands? It must feel grand to sit atop him.”

  “Nearly seventeen, and it does feel rather grand to seat him.” Mr. Darling offered her a smile at last.

  “Quite large for a blood horse, is he not?” Ella asked. “Was he bred from a Turkoman or an Arabian?”

  “Arabian.”

  “I thought so,” she said, secretly pleased at the surprise and respect in his voice. “Arabians are better known for their ability to form a cooperative relationship with humans.” And if this one is specially trained . . . She recalled the conversation between Lord Benton and Mr. Darling, during which they had discussed Stoutheart. “You’re friendly, aren’t you?” she said, petting his nose once again.

  Stoutheart must have understood and approved of her praise as well, for he lowered his head to her. She rested her cheek against it for a second and sighed blissfully. “And I hear you are equally smart and fast too.”

  “If you wish to ride—truly ride, not just promenade around the park—then we had best be off.” Mr. Darling stepped forward to lead Stoutheart from the stall. “The early morning hours in the park are reserved for the grooms to exercise the animals, and for those who wish to ride at a pace above a trot.”

  “How one can ride here is even dictated?” Ella said, indignant at such an idea. She followed him from the stable.

  “Everything in London is dictated,” Mr. Darling said. “I should think you would have discovered that at last night’s ball. Did any gentleman ask you to dance more than twice? Were you ever allowed out of my sister’s sight? If you longed for a drink or a bit of fresh air, were you able to serve yourself punch or walk out on the balcony?”

  Instead of answering, Ella made a pretense of examining the sidesaddle of the horse waiting for her in the yard. It was a fine Irish Hunter of perhaps fifteen hands, beautiful as well, though not nearly the animal Stoutheart was.

  “Silly rules,” she said, not mentioning the fact that she had broken some of them last night. Who would have thought it a faux pas to ladle your own punch? There had been no servants at the table, and no gentleman had recently offered, and she had been thirsty. Lady Benton had been appalled. “And an impractical society.” With the groom’s assistance, she mounted, settled her right leg over the pommel, and took up the reins.

  “You do not look the least silly seated thus,” Mr. Darling observed, the glow of approval in his gaze.

  “Thank you.” Ella smiled as she appreciated his good form as well. She watched as he mounted, using only his left hand to pull himself up. When he was seated, his left hand lifted his right and placed it carefully i
n a strap connected to his jacket. She caught the almost imperceptible movement of his legs, and Stoutheart started forward. The longer reins lay slack in the palm of Mr. Darling’s left hand, giving Ella the impression that he did not need them at all to guide his horse.

  They rode in silence until they reached the corner of the park and the beginning of Rotten Row, a somewhat narrow sand covered thoroughfare, with a low fence on either side. For someone used to the freedom of hills to roam, the path held little promise. Disappointment must have shown on her face, for Mr. Darling sought to console her.

  “Many of the grooms will have finished by now, so there should be ample room to run, and the row continues for over a mile. Do your best to ignore the fence and enjoy the trees and the Serpentine River running along beside. Who knows—you might even be able to make another leaf wish.”

  Stoutheart took off at a gallop before Ella could decipher whether or not Mr. Darling had been serious or mocking her. But it mattered little. Her only wish at the moment was to keep up with him—a tall order. But she leaned forward, pressed her leg and the crop into her horse’s side and commanded him to go.

  The fence was soon forgotten, as was the ribbon in her hair that fluttered free behind, loosing her curls. Ella raced on, always a full length behind Mr. Darling, yet happy with the wind at her face and the familiar feeling of a horse beneath her. They covered the distance quickly, and London’s limitations were soon forgotten, left behind in the joy of riding. When they reached the end of the row, Mr. Darling slowed, turned Stoutheart, and found Ella right behind him.

  “Well done,” he said, and this time she was certain of the admiration in his voice.

  “It is I who should be saying that.” She inclined her head toward the reins, still slack in his hands. “How do you do it? How do you direct your horse without the use of your hands?”

  “I have the use of one if I need it,” Mr. Darling reminded her. “But Stoutheart has been specially trained. In addition to forming relationships with their humans, Arabians are quick to learn and like to please. He responds to cues from my body, a slight pressure from my knee, the movement of each finger—every nuance of motion means something to him. It requires great care and focus when riding. If I were to become casual with my movements, I might find myself thrown over the fence and into the river.”

  Ella laughed at the picture that brought to mind. “You are too fine a rider to ever allow that to happen,” she predicted. “I see now why Lord Benton named you the best.”

  “Yes, well—” Mr. Darling cleared his throat. “I suppose it is good to be best at something. Shall we make our way back—slower now. I’m afraid the hour for racing is over.” Without waiting for her to answer, he started Stoutheart forward again, this time at an easy trot.

  Ella followed and considered Mr. Darling’s choice of words and the way he had received—or not received—her compliment.

  “I think there is nothing I would rather be best at than riding,” she declared.

  “You are quite good at it,” Mr. Darling conceded. “In fact, I have never met a woman so adept.”

  “Thank you,” Ella said, hoping to exemplify to him the way one ought to receive a compliment. “And you are extraordinarily skilled at riding as well, doing—I daresay—what no other man in all of London can.”

  “No other man in London has to ride the way that I do,” he said, with more than a tinge of bitterness in his voice.

  Ella guided her horse closer to his. “This bothers you? Your hand bothers you?”

  His head snapped around to look at her. “Of course it does. It would trouble you too, if you had only one hand with which to do things. You cannot deny noticing my inability.”

  “Today, I have noted only your ability,” Ella said. “I imagine that riding was important enough to you that you figured out a way to accomplish it. I should similarly imagine that if other activities were equally important, you would also discover a way to participate in those.”

  He gave a short, harsh laugh. “You don’t think that I’ve tried? It has taken me the better part of five years to learn to function at this level of normalcy.”

  Ella pulled on the reins and stopped abruptly. “Five years? Do you mean that you were not born with this condition?”

  Mr. Darling guided Stoutheart to a stop as well and turned him so that he faced Ella and took up much of the path. “Of course I was not born this way. Had I been, my mother probably would have left me for dead.”

  “I should hope not,” Ella said, horrified at the idea of a mother abandoning her child simply because one of his arms was malformed. But she knew it happened, as she also guessed that society must unfairly judge a man different from most, as Mr. Darling was. “How did your arm become as it is?”

  Mr. Darling closed his eyes as if pained. “I expected you to ask me sooner—in the carriage, or the other night in the parlor.”

  “I did not think there was anything to ask,” Ella said, nonplussed that he had worried over his condition and what she might think of it. “I assumed it was something you were born with—as I was born with brown eyes instead of the lovely shade of blue yours are. We are none of us perfect, you know.”

  “Do not attempt to compare eye color with a limb that does not function.”

  “I’m not,” Ella said defensively. “I wasn’t.”

  “And there is nothing at all wrong with brown eyes,” Mr. Darling said. “Yours are quite expressive.”

  A compliment? “Will you tell me how it happened?” Ella asked, softer this time. “Your arm does not bother me in the least, but it is apparent that it troubles you. Perhaps if you talk

  about—”

  “Speaking of it will not make it better,” Mr. Darling said. “I know. I have spoken of it to countless physicians. I have even spoken to it—to my arm itself—in an attempt to command it to move. And just last week, I was foolish enough to wish on a leaf for its recovery.”

  “Leaf wishes are not foolish,” Ella insisted. At least one had come true recently. She had wished for company and had wished to travel. And here she was, out riding in London with a fine gentleman. No matter that she had been imagining her father and the pyramids when she made that wish.

  “We should go.” Mr. Darling tilted his hand ever so slightly, and Stoutheart turned around once more. “There will be gossip enough already.”

  “Who is to gossip?” Ella asked. “No one is awake at this hour. And if they were, what is there to say? That we were out riding together?”

  “They will say that Lady Eleanora Whitticomb was seen in the presence of a cripple.”

  “Or,” she countered, glancing down at her jacket that had come undone once more, “they may say that Mr. Darling was seen in the presence of a woman whose riding habit hasn’t fit properly in three years.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked. “A scandal for sure.”

  “Of the worst kind.” The subtle shift of his mood relieved her. She would not ask him again the circumstance relating to his arm, but neither would she feel sorry for him.

  From the corner of her eye, she studied Mr. Darling as they rode. Anyone who could ride so well was not in need of pity.

  Chapter Eight

  When they reached the stables, the groom came out to help Ella dismount, but she waved him back inside with her hand, a quick shake of her head, and a finger to her lips. He retreated, leaving her to watch Mr. Darling dismount and hand Stoutheart off to the groom who had come to attend him.

  Mr. Darling started toward the house, then paused as he realized that Ella was still seated upon her horse. “Was there not a man come out to attend you?” he asked, glancing toward the stable doors.

  Ella shrugged. “I sent him away. I would prefer to have you help me.”

  Mr. Darling frowned. “Lest you have forgotten in the last half hour, I have not two hands with which to catch you.”

  “You have one.” Ella delicately swung her leg over the pommel so she sat completely sideways. “A
nd one shall do just fine. In case you have forgotten in the last half hour, I have quite good balance.”

  Mr. Darling gave an audible sigh, then stepped forward and held his left hand up to her. “If I drop you or you fall, it is not my fault.”

  Ella took his hand, gripping it securely, then leaned forward and slid from the horse. She landed perhaps a little harder than usual, but certainly on her feet and with no harm done.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Mr. Darling did not release her at once, and the pressure of his warm fingers upon her chilled ones felt unexpectedly pleasant. He looked down upon her, a questioning vulnerability in his gaze that made her wonder at his thoughts while hers felt suddenly peculiar.

  “I lost the use of my arm five years ago,” he said quietly. “I was second for Henry the night of the duel. It was my sister’s honor he was defending, and I should have been the one out front. But he made sure to get me foxed enough that I didn’t overly protest when he left me behind in the woods.” Mr. Darling lowered their hands but still kept hold of Ella’s. If anything, it seemed his grip tightened, as if he were holding on to her for support as he shared his tale. She gave it, covering his hand with her other.

  “Go on,” she coaxed.

  “Sir Crayton—the infamous, knighted pirate—had somehow gained admittance to Almack’s. And he had taken a fancy to my sister and lured her to another room. I was dancing, and Gregory as well, though he was only biding his time until he could ask Ann to dance again. But Henry saw Crayton forcing Ann to come with him. Henry followed and stopped Crayton before any real harm was done. Then he called him out for his actions.”

  “Why was it not Lord Benton—Gregory—Henry’s brother, who defended your sister’s honor? If it was she whom he cared for?”

  “He intended to, but Henry gave him the wrong time and place of meeting. As the oldest, Henry felt it his responsibility to go. We all knew Crayton’s reputation, knew that the chance of anyone coming out of a duel with him alive wasn’t good.”