He pounded against the wall, until a painting hanging above him rattled perilously. He had been having those lustful thoughts about Mrs. Chase! Mrs. Chase, of all people. The woman who wore ugly caps, and trumpeted the rules to all and sundry. She would not know a free moment, a spontaneous act, if they reached up and snatched one of those caps off her head.
And yet she was beautiful tonight, in her fashionable gown, her chic coiffure. She almost appeared like a normal female. Yet what he had forgotten was that beneath that pale green satin beat the heart of a true rule-follower.
But she had not been thinking of the rules when they stood there, so close together in the near darkness. And neither had he, despite their words to each other about manners and etiquette. He had thought only of tasting her kiss, breathing in the scent of her.
Her lips were surprisingly lush and pink when not pinched together disapprovingly. Her eyes were wide and wondering, so young for just that moment.
There was more to her than what she showed the world. She went to great pains to appear cool, prim, proper, always so very in control. And she was quite successful—even he had seen only that façade. Now he suspected there was something else, something hidden there. Perhaps so hidden that not even she herself could see it.
And that was what drew him to her, he realized. He wanted to discover her hidden heart, the free soul she buried beneath her manners and her ugly gowns. He had glimpsed her for the merest instant tonight, he had even held her, felt the trembling inside of her.
Then she was snatched away, and he had watched the veil of her propriety fall over her again. There was a hectic red flush on her fair cheeks, the freckles she tried to hide standing out in golden relief. She would not even look at him, and seemed appalled at her friend’s invitation to him to call.
It was deeply saddening to see. He wanted to go after her, to catch her in his arms and demand that she give him back the woman he had seen so fleetingly. But he had not, of course. That would only have driven Mrs. Chase further away, made her retreat deeper beneath her careful façade.
Now that he had glimpsed her inner secrets, he wanted to know more of her. He had to know.
He would accept the Duchess of Wayland’s invitation to call. Very soon, before Mrs. Chase had time to scurry back behind the high walls of her school.
Perhaps he would even go tomorrow.
Michael pushed himself away from the wall, and straightened his coat and his cravat (not pink tonight, but sky blue—much like Mrs. Chase’s eyes). As he turned away, he glimpsed a flash of something pale against the dark carpet runner. He bent down and picked up a fan. A pale green satin fan, edged in white lace and scattered with tiny, glittering beads.
Mrs. Chase’s fan. She must have dropped it when they were standing here together. The soft pleats still smelled of her perfume.
Michael tucked it inside his coat. Now he had the perfect excuse to call at the Wayland house, if the duchess’s invitation was not enough.
With a smile, he strolled to the staircase leading to the ballroom. Halfway up, he became aware of an odd noise from the party, a rush of wild laughter, a crash, a shriek. He hurried his steps, along with the other stragglers from the ball who lingered on the stairs—and stopped abruptly in the doorway.
He could scarcely believe what he was seeing!
Chapter Ten
“When dancing, a proper distance must be kept between partners at all times.”
—A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter Three
R osalind could hardly believe what she was seeing. The ball was not quite the crush it had been when Rosalind left; no doubt many people had gone on to other soirees or home to their beds. But there were many people remaining, and several of them—nay, most of them—were riveted on one spectacle.
Rosalind froze as she stepped into the ballroom. This could not be happening. This was just a nightmare. Obviously, she had not yet awakened from her dream-scene in the corridor with Lord Morley. Her face, her hands, her whole being froze with the hot-icy feel of sheer humiliation.
Sprawled out flat in the middle of the parquet dance floor was Allen, dressed in a most outlandish Pierrot costume. The loose black and white satin of his baggy pantaloons and tunic spread about him in a shimmering puddle, and his black velvet cap fell drunkenly over his eyes. He slowly sat up, pushing the cap back, and the observers gathered in a ring around him stepped back—all but a large, buxom matron in purple satin, who menaced Allen with her reticule, and a petite, sobbing miss.
Laughter and titters rose as an inexorable tidal wave through the crowd, audible even over the lovely music that still played.
Rosalind rubbed her gloved hand over her eyes, but it did not make the surreal scene disappear. Another young man, whom Rosalind did not know, went to help haul Allen to his feet. This man, too, wore a costume, the garb of a Roman centurion with a clanking brass breastplate.
She turned to Georgina, who was trying, not very successfully, to hide her smile behind her fan.
“What happened here?” Rosalind demanded.
Georgina lowered her fan, and used it to tap thoughtfully at her chin. “I am afraid I could not say exactly. I was over there, talking with some friends, when we became aware of some, er, disturbance. People running about, girls shrieking. Then—this.” Her voice ended on a tiny hiccup that sounded suspiciously like a giggle.
Rosalind sighed. She could not really blame Georgina for laughing. It did look so oddly comical. Yet, somehow, she could not quite laugh herself. Not with her cheeks burning and her head pounding. There was probably no chance she could just pretend not to know Allen. Everyone in the ton knew everything about everyone else—even such insignificant sprigs as Allen and Rosalind.
As Rosalind turned and prepared to wade into the fray, Georgina’s sister-in-law Emily rushed up to them. Her china blue eyes sparkled with excitement. She was in her third Season now, but had obviously never seen anything like this at the many, many balls she attended!
“Oh, Georgie!” she cried. “Isn’t it just too funny? And I was right there when it happened!” Then her gaze fell on Rosalind, and some of the sparkle faded. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Chase. I did forget that Mr. Lucas is your brother.”
“That is quite all right, Lady Emily,” Rosalind said. “But what exactly did happen here?”
Emily glanced back over to Pierrot and the Roman, who had now been joined by Louis XIV in powdered wig and high-heeled shoes. The matron in purple still shouted incoherently at them, and swiped at Allen with her beaded reticule. “Well, I was dancing with Mr. Elliott, and we were very near Miss Anderson and her partner, Lord St. Regis. Miss Anderson is Lady Anderson’s daughter, you know.” Emily gestured toward the matron and the sobbing young lady hidden in her shadow. “It was all quite ordinary. Then, all of a sudden, Miss Anderson screamed! And Lord St. Regis hit poor Mr. Lucas.”
Rosalind was completely bewildered. “But what was Allen doing here at all? He was not invited to this ball, and even if he was this is not a fancy-dress event.” The cabbage-head was not even supposed to be in London, but hard at his studies at Cambridge.
“I do not know,” Emily said. “Miss Anderson was saying he just grabbed her and kissed her! And when he was on the floor, having been planted a facer by Lord St. Regis, Lady Anderson came up and hit him with her reticule. I have heard that she carries a very large vinaigrette in that reticule.” She lowered her voice confidingly, and added, “I do believe, Mrs. Chase, that Mr. Lucas is quite foxed. He smelled rather—pungent.”
Foxed. Oh, wonderful. That was just what this situation required. Not just an idiot, but a drunken idiot.
“Thank you for that information, Lady Emily,” Rosalind said. Her tone was surprisingly calm, considering the roiling turmoil in her heart. She curled her hands into fists, and marched across the ballroom, Georgina and Emily hurrying behind her.
Fortunately, before they reached the violent scene Georgina’s husband, Alexander, the Duke of Wayland, joined
them. He had apparently just returned from his farming conversation, and seen his wife and sister being drawn into a scandalous scene. He took Georgina’s arm, and whispered, “What have you done now, Georgie?”
Georgina looked at him indignantly. “Why do you assume that just because there is a disturbance I had something to do with it?”
He grinned at her. “Because, my love, you usually do.”
She laughed. “Well, I did naught to cause it this time. It is poor Rosie’s brother.”
Alexander looked to Allen, and his handsome face darkened as Lady Anderson landed another blow on Allen’s head. “So I see. Well, ladies, shall we discover what can be done?”
The gathered crowd parted for the duke and duchess, allowing them to walk unimpeded to Allen’s side. As Alexander spoke quietly to the red-faced Lady Anderson, Rosalind turned to her brother.
Do not hit him, she told herself sternly. Be calm. Remember the rules. Surely there is one about not pummeling gentlemen in public places. Even foolish younger brothers.
“Rosie!” Allen cried. For one instant, relief flashed across his face. Perhaps, Rosalind thought, he supposed his big sister had come yet again to his rescue. But the relief was quickly replaced by chagrin, and then bluster. “What the deuce are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” Rosalind said, trying to keep her voice quiet. She was all too aware of the many people watching them with avid interest—including parents of some of her pupils. “You are meant to be at university, not gallivanting about London making an absolute fool of yourself—and of me.”
“Ah, Rosie, you are making too much of it,” Allen insisted. He sighed, releasing a wave of that “pungent” odor Lady Emily had mentioned. He pulled off his battered cap and twisted it between his hands. “It is nothing. A mere wager.”
“A what?” Rosalind’s voice rose dangerously as she felt her temper slipping out of her control. She felt a soft touch on her arm, and glanced over to see Georgina’s reassuring smile.
“Lady Portman says we may speak privately in her library,” Georgina said. “Perhaps that would be better than staying here? Alex and Emily will smooth things over with the others.”
Rosalind turned to Alexander. Indeed, he had already smoothed the ruffled purple feathers of Lady Anderson and her sobbing daughter. The indignant matron was even smiling, and much of the crowd was wandering away as the spectacle faded.
“Ah, young men,” Alexander said to the general gathering, with a handsome, rueful smile. “What can one do?”
There was a knowing ripple of laughter, and Rosalind began to think—to hope—that all might not be lost after all. A faint ray of relief pierced the gloom of her anger and humiliation. But it did not entirely eradicate them—they still simmered in the depths of her mind.
She and Allen would not always have a duke to rescue them, and Allen had to come to understand that. Even if he understood so little else—like how precarious their livelihood was at the moment. She had this bank loan to pay, and not enough to pay it. The money from A Lady’s Rules that she had counted on was dwindling away. If pupils abandoned her school due to a scandal attached to her family, she and Allen would be entirely lost.
“Yes,” she said to Georgina. “We should retire to the library.” Then, not giving Allen a chance to argue, Rosalind took one of his arms and Georgina the other, and they marched him out of the ballroom. Behind them, the music resumed, and Alexander led Lady Anderson into the dance.
Rosalind was still not entirely certain what had just happened here, but she was quite sure it had something to do with Lord Morley.
When Michael returned to the ballroom, many of the guests had departed. But there were still a great many people dancing, sitting in the white brocade chairs lining the dance floor, and taking turns about the room. Everything appeared just as a ball ought to—except for the two men huddled in the shadows by the door.
Mr. Gilmore and Lord Carteret, dressed incongruously as a Roman centurion and a fop from the last century.
“Morley!” Gilmore cried, his voice hoarse with relief. “You are here.”
“Yes,” Michael answered, as they pulled him into the shadows with them. “I am here. What, though, are you two doing here? And dressed like that?”
“It is that wager,” Carteret said, flicking at the deep lace of his cuff. “We thought Lucas would see he cannot win if we brought him here tonight. So we made a sort of secondary wager.”
Carteret seemed faintly amused by the whole thing, while Gilmore looked pale and shaken. Michael glanced from one to the other of them, a strange, sick feeling growing in his stomach. Something had obviously happened while he was lingering with Mrs. Chase in the dark corridor, something involving that very lady’s brother.
Something else she could hate him for. Because he knew, deep down, that she would surely blame him for whatever trouble young Lucas had wreaked tonight.
He swept a quick glance over the ballroom, and did not see Mrs. Chase, Mr. Lucas, or the Duchess of Wayland anywhere. Lady Emily, though, stood not very far away, watching their little group with far too much shrewdness for such a young miss. Michael gave her a rakish grin, hoping she would blush and turn away. She just laughed, but she did leave, crossing the room to her brother’s side. The duke was talking with a very buxom lady in bright purple satin, whom Michael recognized as Lady Anderson, mother of the prettiest debutante this Season.
Michael turned back to Gilmore and Carteret. “Now tell me exactly why you three came here in costume.”
Carteret gave him a resentful scowl. “You are not our father, Morley, to be taking us to task.”
“Carteret…” Gilmore said nervously.
“But,” Carteret continued, “since you are our friend, we will tell you. We were at a masquerade at Vauxhall, with the loveliest little bits o’muslin you ever saw. There was a bit too much wine and brandy, too, and so we conceived the idea of coming here.”
Michael stared at them through narrowed eyes. “That cannot be the entire story.”
“It is almost the entire story!” Gilmore said. “Except that Carteret dared Lucas to steal a kiss from Miss Anderson, then dash away before he was caught. Miss Anderson is the Diamond of the Season, y’know.”
“It would have worked, too, if the chit hadn’t sent up such a fuss,” said Carteret. “Then Lord St. Regis and Miss Anderson’s mama laid Lucas low.”
Miss Anderson “sending up a fuss” was surely exactly what Carteret had been hoping for, Michael thought. Public humiliation was probably the only way Lucas was going to be persuaded he must follow the rules, and thus allow Carteret to win the silly wager. “Where is Lucas now?”
“His dragon sister and the Duchess of Wayland marched him out of here, quite smartishly,” said Gilmore. “And the duke calmed everyone down in here. Even Lady Anderson.”
“So you see?” Carteret said languidly. “There was no harm done.”
No harm done? Could these—these loobies truly be so very ignorant? Their prank had very nearly humiliated a young man and ruined his sister’s business. Michael knew very well how unforgiving people in Society could be if they felt they had been embarrassed, and these boys’ escapade had involved the loveliest debutante in London and her snobbish parents. Only the intervention of people as influential as the Waylands had saved the entire ridiculous situation. And now this smirking bacon-brain was prating about no harm done.
Michael could not stop himself from reaching out to grab Carteret by the lace of his cascading jabot—his anger blinded him, burned white-hot behind his eyes. Carteret’s eyes widened in shock, and he made ineffectual little jabs with his beringed hands as Gilmore, looking on, gave an incoherent cry.
“Don’t you realize what could have happened here tonight? Lucas’s sister was here. Her reputation was at risk as well as his, if your ‘harmless’ prank had not ended where it did. The Waylands saved all of your hides this time, but next time you will not be so fortunate, you brainless pups.”
Carteret’s face was turning red beneath his layer of rice powder, and his hands clawed ever more insistently at Michael’s arm. Michael loosened his grip, but still held onto the lace.
“You were the one who claimed we could break all the rules and still be accepted,” Carteret gasped. “Are you so quick to change your mind, just because Lucas got taken to task?”
Michael had never meant his words like this. Yes, following all of A Lady’s Rules was absurd, was soul-killing. But their behavior this evening, that of all three of them, had been beyond the pale. Michael himself would never do anything so rash, so ill thought out. He would never actually damage anyone.
Would he? Certain youthful indiscretions flashed through his mind, pranks every bit as ridiculous as the one this trio had tried tonight. Yet that had been long ago; he had learned from those mistakes, as one day these boys would have to learn from theirs. That sort of wild, pointless rule-breaking was far behind Michael.
Then another vision flowed through his mind—himself, pulling Lady Clarke close to him and putting his arm about her waist. All in this very ballroom, not three hours ago—and under the gaze of Mrs. Chase.
A heat that felt uncomfortably more like regret than his previous anger flowed through his veins. He released Carteret, who fell back a step and reached up to rub at his throat.
“You are far more dangerous than we are, Morley,” Carteret said weakly. “People pay far more attention to your infractions than they ever would to ours. And I think the ladies over there would agree with me.”
Michael, still trembling with the force of his anger and uncertainty, glanced back over his shoulder.
Mrs. Chase and the Duchess of Wayland stood in the doorway of the ballroom, with Allen Lucas nowhere in evidence. The duchess paid them no attention; her gaze was scanning over the crowd, no doubt looking for her husband.
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