by Megan Daniel
‘What, with Devlin here? Can’t miss, m’dear. Famous bit of luck, that. Fancy him turning up here just at the right moment, when no one even knew he was back in England. Your reputation as a hostess is assured.”
“Well, I hope you are right.” She now saw Lord Devlin, who had just entered the room with Sir Algernon Pett Nearly every eye in the room noticed his entrance as well and followed his progress as the pair strolled around the room. Sarah happily returned her attention to the dance, her fears for a moment laid to rest After having bowed over what he considered an overabundance of trembling female hands, though considerably less than half the room had been covered, Devlin pulled up in a corner with Sir Algernon in tow. He retrieved two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and pushed one into his companion’s hand.
“Well, old man,” he said grimly. “Let us drink to my return in earnest to English Society. Tonight looks to be a real trial by fire.” He downed his champagne in one gulp.
“Oh, it wan’t be so bad, y’know,” said Sir Algernon. “Haven’t forgotten how to dance, have you, Dev?”
“Not forgotten, no,” replied Devlin, “but I fear the newer dances will have to do without me. The waltz reached America in the last year or so, but this quadrille I’ve been hearing about is a complete mystery to me.”
“Wish it were to me,” muttered Sir Algernon. “Dashed ridiculous dance. Bobbing about like a deuced jack-in-the-box! And in French, too! Grande ronde and pas de quatre! Think I’ll head for the card room when they strike it up.”
Mr. Symington approached in time to overhear the end of this minor diatribe. “Your only problem, Algy, is a complete lack of grace. The quadrille takes a certain flair. That won’t be a problem for Dev here.”
“Oh, I think I would prefer to watch you,” replied Devlin with a smile for his friend. “I always did like a good farce.”
“Ho! I’ll show you. I’ll get Cesca. She does it superbly.”
“Does she, now,” answered Devlin, his eyes moving automatically to where Lady Francesca was bowing gracefully to her partner. As she rose from her curtsy, he was struck with the full magnificence of her toilette. A Grecian tunic of celestial-blue tissue fell over a slip of deeper blue satin. French beading adorned the hem, and the whole presented an appearance of classical simplicity and absolute elegance. Her hair was dressed in the Sappho, and the silver cords wrapping it vied unsuccessfully with the burnished gold which nature had bestowed on the young lady. She was far and away the loveliest woman in the room.
The first thought that went through Lord Devlin’s mind at sight of her was: What a pair we would have made! And to think that he had lost the chance at her that fate had so kindly thrown into his lap five years ago. Well, of course, “lost” was not really the right word. He had given her up of his own accord, knowing how wrong they would be for each other. It was generosity as much as anything, he had told himself then. He could not bring himself to cage such a magnificent bird. But in retrospect, which usually tends toward a bit more honesty, he admitted that he had been afraid for himself as well. Such a creature could have engulfed him completely, and he, green young man that he was, would have thought the world well lost for her. He had been very young.
And then of course she had rejected him as well. She had never once sought him out after that little scene in the garden, to ask him to stay. Obviously she had not wanted him to do so. The idea still rankled. “Yes,” he said at last to his friends. “I am sure Lady Francesca dances the quadrille exceptionally. She is most accomplished.”
“Dashed right! Cesca’s a trump, y’know. Can always count on her.”
Devlin had pulled his eyes away from the vision, only to encounter a much less pleasing sight. Roxanna Gordon had entered the Orangery and was surveying the room with a purposeful stare.
“Well,” said Devlin, “they are striking up a waltz, and that I can do. And if I don’t find a partner double quick, I’ll be cornered by Mrs. Gordon. She is eyeing me already. I can feel it.”
“Better run, if the Widow’s got her cap set for you. It’s rumored she always gets her man. Mind, there are plenty who wouldn’t mind being got by her. A pretty piece of baggage.”
“I’d mind,” said Devlin. “I would most definitely mind.” Out of a comer of his eye he could see Mrs. Gordon making her way toward him, and he looked wildly around for escape. “I am off, and none too soon. Tell Diana to save me a waltz, Algy.” And he beat a hasty retreat toward Mrs. Pennington and her tulle- draped daughter.
Francesca saw his retreat from the Widow and grinned in amusement. She had been pursued by gentlemen of every stamp ever since her come-out, and more than once she had turned tail and run from the tedious boredom of their repeated entreaties. Only once had her flight been precipitated by fear of the strength of her own emotions.
Before her mind had long to dwell on that morbid recollection, her hand was solicited by Colonel Tranch, a decent-looking young officer of a rather woeful expression and not much to say for himself. He would be, she thought, a totally inoffensive partner. She nodded pleasantly, glided into the circle of his arms, and they waltzed off.
When the music ended, Devlin, having safely deposited the silent and furiously blushing Miss Pennington back beside her beaming Mama, and suffering that lady’s effusions on everything from the cut of his coat to her daughter’s abilities on the harp, continued to do his duty, to the delight of nearly every woman in the room, including his hostess. He moved from one young lady to the next, from a country dance to a boulanger and back to the waltz, carefully avoiding the vicinity of Mrs. Gordon. At one point he and Francesca chanced to be near each other on the floor.
“I trust you are enjoying the evening, Devlin?”
“To be sure,” he replied. “I hope you will put me down for the quadrille.”
“The quadrille?” she remarked with a raised brow. “If you truly wish it, of course I will.”
“I do.” He smiled back and turned on to his next partner. Francesca joined a set on Mr. Dalton’s arm. She had assumed that Devlin would offer the civility of a dance, but she was frankly surprised at his choice. She had simply assumed he would request a waltz. She refused, however, to recognize the stab of disappointment that went through her for what it was. Instead she turned a dazzling smile on Mr. Dalton as they went down the dance.
He wondered at it, since he had felt quite certain she had not been listening to a word he had been saying.
Devlin felt the evening begin to drag; Francesca thought it an eternity till the quadrille was heard. The moment did, however, arrive at last, as even the most eagerly awaited or anxiously dreaded moments have a habit of doing. Lord Devlin and Mr. Symington reached Francesca at the same moment.
“Well, Dev,” said Mr. Symington. “Now you shall see. C’mon, Cesca. We’ll show this bleater some dancing!”
She laughed as she replied, “Well, I am sure we might, Graham, but I am engaged to Lord Devlin for this dance.”
“Dev? Nonsense! Fellow can’t dance the quadrille. He’d be all over your slippers. They don’t do it in America, y’know.”
“I feel sure Lord Devlin would not have asked me to stand up with him if that were true.” She smiled at her promised partner.
“But he’s right, you know,” said Devlin easily. “Never even seen the silly dance. I wouldn’t subject you to my fumblings.”
“Then why did you ask me?” she demanded, annoyance beginning to bubble up in her as it so often did in his company, along with other, less easily identified emotions.
“Because I wanted your company,” he said truthfully. “Why else does a gentleman ask a lady to save him a dance. If you’ve no objection, we can sit in that alcove over there and watch Graham and the others trip over their feet”
“Unfair, Dev!” protested Mr. Symington. “Get someone else to natter at Cesca’s the best quadrille dancer in the room. You can sit with her during the waltz!”
“But I shall be dancing then,” he explai
ned with a patient smile. “Take yourself off, Graham. Can’t you see when you’re not wanted?” He took Francesca’s elbow and began to turn her away.
“Tell him, Cesca!” demanded Mr. Symington with a laugh.
She looked at her partner, and gave her friend a shrug. “I’m afraid I am promised to him, you know. Go dance with Letty. She told me herself that she has been practicing the quadrille all summer just so that she may dance it with you.”
The young man seemed much struck by this information, true or not. “Did she, by God?” His eyes went to Miss Hollys, smiling shyly in his direction from not far away. “Well, I’ll do it.” And he strode purposefully off in her direction.
Devlin guided Francesca to the relative privacy of the alcove without further ado, their progress followed avidly by several pairs of eyes, both jealous and questioning. Their scrutiny was not lost on Francesca.
“I shouldn’t have thought you would wish to be counted one of my flirts, my lord,” said Lady Francesca as they gained the alcove. “You are certain to be called one now.”
“Oh, I won’t mind being called one. Of course, I shouldn’t like to be one. I am certain you are terribly cruel to your ‘flirts.’ ”
“I am no such thing! Not at all. In fact, I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to discourage them.”
“And is not that cruel?” he asked with a teasing lilt.
“I should rather think it a kindness, since I don’t mean to have any of them.”
“Well, you cannot blame them, you know, for hankering after such an eligible young lady.”
You have put your finger right on the problem, you know. It is my ‘eligibility.’ I hope I am not vain, but I recognize that I am not a positive antidote.”
“Well, not quite,” he said with a grin.
And I am a considerable heiress. I have enough wit to know that young ladies who command large fortunes and who do not suffer from plainness are not in great supply.”
“It is a problem common to our age, I will admit.”
“I should have far more respect for my ‘flirts,’ as you call them, if they simply made it clear that they were looking for a rich and passable wife.”
“Well, I hope I am safe from any such suspicions. My fortune must be at least as large as your own, and, more importantly, I know only too well your attitude toward marriage. I believe the words were ‘I shall be no man’s slave,’ and said with great emphasis, if I recall correctly.”
“Your memory is remarkable, sir. No doubt they were my very words. And I seem to recall something rather similar from you. Something about ‘apron strings,’ was it not?”
Lord Devlin laughed heartily, causing several curious heads to turn their way. “Guilty, my lady. I cannot plead otherwise. And my opinion of domineering females has changed not a jot. Age, however, has given me cause to think twice about condemning the entire institution of marriage.”
Interest and surprise vied with each other in her eyes. “Has it? Well. I suppose it comes to all of us sooner or later. Perhaps it is what is meant by growing up.” Now interest sparkled in his eyes as well. This hardly sounded like the young lady he had known five years ago. She went on. “But do tell me in what way you have altered your opinion, Deviln.”
“I fancy a man can never be truly comfortable until he gets him a wife. It isn’t the institution of marriage itself that is the culprit I detest, but merely the ramshackle way most of us go about choosing a partner for life.”
“I couldn’t agree more, my lord. Those who are so foolish as to fall prey to romance and marry for love I feel deserving of their fate. But then do you favor a return to the old-fashioned method of marriages of convenience?”
“By no means! That is, not what has always been thought of as ‘convenient.’ I should find it very inconvenient indeed to be shackled to some harpy whose father’s estate just happened to march with mine or one who had inherited several woolen mills and herself had the face of a sheep. By marriage of convenience, I would mean my convenience, my comfort. Now, am I not horribly selfish?”
“Most assuredly, but then, I think most of us are when the veneer of elegant manners is stripped away.”
He studied her, trying to discover any trace of satire in her face, and could find none. She looked completely sincere, and he once again was struck by how closely her mind matched his own. “So young a cynic, my lady?”
“Oh, I do hope not. I despise cynicism. But I am a realist. I find it no bad thing to acknowledge our basic selfishness. We cannot love the world or help it if we cannot first love ourselves. But we stray from our point, sir. Have you given thought to just what sort of a wife would suit your notion of convenience? Someone sweetly docile, I should think, with never a word to say for herself,” she concluded with a very sweet smile.
“Precisely,” he agreed with a laugh. “And she must be strong enough to present me with a healthy heir, pretty enough not to embarrass me, wellborn enough to fit into my world, and stupid enough to let me make every decision affecting her life.”
“She sounds a hopeless bore to me.”
“I’m quite sure she will be. But then, there are ample means outside of marriage for relieving boredom.” The twinkle in his eye would have made a lesser maiden blush. As it was, Francesca felt an odd little lurch in her stomach but put it down to the smoked oysters she had consumed at dinner. “Ah, so she must be blind as well as stupid, I see, or at least exceedingly tolerant.”
“Of course,” he said affably. “Now, the only problem is to find her.”
Francesca allowed her eyes to scan the room a short moment until they alighted on a cloud of pink tulle ruffles. “I think you have just been dancing with her,” she said dryly, unable to suppress a grin.
His gaze spun in the direction of hers. The cloud of tulle totally enveloped a young woman with indeterminate brown hair and a permanent blush. She was sitting uncomfortably on a chair and staring at the floor while an older woman beside her lectured her behind her fan.
The older woman caught Lord Devlin’s eye on them, smiled brilliantly, fluttered her fan, and nudged her daughter beside her. The young girl glanced up, flushed an even more fiery red, and looked quickly down again.
“Good God!” exclaimed Lord Devlin, a vaguely stricken note in his voice. “You can’t mean Miss . . . Miss... What the devil is her name?”
“Miss Pennington, Priscilla. She is a sweet little mouse who wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose. She would seem to fit your requirements in every particular, I should think. She is well enough born to be invited to Hockleigh, pretty in a nondescript sort of way, and she is very unlikely to contradict anything you choose to say, be it ever so outrageous. You may be as autocratic and despotic as you like with her, Pm sure.”
“I am not a despot! ”
“No? Well, then, you may be as indifferent to her as you like. I am certain she will not complain. Yes, I think you must certainly marry Priscilla Pennington.”
He forced his gaze back toward the object of this interesting discussion. It was clear from the variety of expressions flitting across his handsome face that he was having some difficulty bridging the gulf between elaborate theories and the reality of putting those theories into practice. Francesca smiled wryly at his discomfort, not even taking herself to task for producing the effect Mrs. Pennington looked up again, beamed a huge smile, and waved a slightly vulgar little wave.
“No, no,” huffed Devlin. “Can’t have such a dragon for a mother-in-law.”
“Oh, she really isn’t so bad,” said Francesca. “She is only very anxious to get Pris off her hands. She is a born squire’s wife and quite out of her element in the haut
ton, even though her birth gives her the entree. She wants nothing more than to retire permanently to the country to enjoy her chickens and her vegetable garden and her grandchildren. I feel sure that puffing off her daughters has been a sore trial for her.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Only two. And she did manage to snare an earl for Liza, her elder girl, and within a month of her come-out,
too. But then, Liza was a real dazzler. Priscilla was always lost in her shadow and didn’t ‘take’ in her first season.”
“Which earl?” asked Devlin, harking back to the first part of this discourse.
“Strotwood.”
“Strotwood, eh? Not a bad connection, I should think.” He looked at the girl with greater interest.
“Yes, such a brother-in-law might prove ‘convenient.’ ”
At this he had the grace to give her a rueful grin. “Well, of course I’m in no hurry to choose a bride. But I shall certainly dance with her again. I don’t recall that she stepped on my toes or disgraced herself in any way the last time we stood up together.”
“Oh, no. Pris would never call so much attention to herself.”
7
By the end of their very interesting discussion, both Lord Devlin and Lady Francesca had much to think about. But a ball offers little time for musings. For the next hour they each moved from partner to partner. Francesca smiled civilly to everyone, but her attention was as often as not following Devlin around the room. She noticed that despite Mrs. Gordon’s managing to snare him for a waltz and a quarter-hour’s flirtation in the comer, he got away from her to claim two more dances with Priscilla Pennington.
Even were she unaware of his motives, Francesca would have remarked such behavior. For any young lady to stand up more than twice in one evening with the same gentleman was practically tantamount to announcement of a betrothal. Ninety-nine percent of the young ladies at the ball would have been in alt to have been distinguished by Devlin in such a fashion. But Pris would be in agony, Francesca knew, to be made such an obvious focus of everyone’s attention. She was shy to a lamentable degree. Francesca knew a moment of misgiving, wondering if she had done the right thing by setting Devlin onto the girl. But she dismissed the thought at once. It was a great piece of luck for Pris, whether she saw it or not, that Devlin was looking for a wife of just her sort. And she could surely not be insensible to the man’s charm. What woman could be?