by Allison Lane
The gentlemen were worse. Corinthians. Dandies. Fops. All were alien beings in their formal clothes and impeccable manners, intimidating her with their self-possession while flustering her with insincere compliments and meaningless flirtation. Framing a reply that did not sound hopelessly conceited was impossible.
“Lord Atwater,” she murmured as that gentleman was introduced. “So nice of you to come.” She had discovered that if she avoided looking into people’s faces, she could utter greetings without stammering.
“At last, a beauty worthy of notice,” he said warmly, touching his lips to her gloved hand. “Your face is a blazing light shining into the darkest corners. Such exquisite loveliness casts all others into shadow.” His words were so pat on her thoughts that she nearly choked. Tongue-tied, she ignored him and turned to the next arrival.
London was not her milieu. She hated its shallowness and the way intelligent people changed when they entered its portals. Even Hart and Andrew sounded brainless here, though both were reasonable men. And that disturbed her. If everyone donned masks in public, how was she to see past the surface? Unlike most girls, she did not view marriage as either a duty or a business arrangement. She wanted a partnership with her husband. And friendship. Love was unlikely, of course – she banished a spurt of envy for the love Andrew and Sylvia shared – but she could not compromise beyond friendship. Yet discovering a kindred spirit meant she had to know the real character of any suitors.
Her mother’s jostling reminded her that she was supposed to greet all arrivals. “Mr. Garwood.”
If only she could set aside her fears and doubts – at least for tonight. She had been wrong to think that anyone attending Hart’s illustrious gathering would be interested in her. Yet even that realization failed to relax her, for new fears now joined the old. She had not previously grasped the size of the ton. Hundreds of people already thronged the ballroom, with more arriving every minute. Not all were eligible gentlemen, of course, though dozens might be. And dozens more would skip this ball. How could she find the best one for her in only two months?
“Mr. Brummell.” Her voice quavered, her composure threatening to disintegrate as the dandy made his way along the receiving line. He was another who terrified her. The dark jacket he had popularized set off his coloring to perfection. As usual, his dreaded quizzing glass hung close to hand. Lady Forley had already overwhelmed her with warnings of what his approval would mean.
He can make or break your Season with a single lift of his brow, she had moaned yet again as their carriage pulled up to Hartleigh House. You must make a good impression. He sets fashion, so his regard is vital. Flatter him. Amuse him. Flirt if you can manage it – though why you are so inept at such an essential skill I will never know. Do you want to fail?
Angela shuddered now as he looked her up and down. At least her clothes were all right. Once Jeanette had delivered the ball gown, even Lady Forley had ceased harping about patronizing such an inexpensive modiste. But who knew how Brummell would react?
At close quarters, he was daunting, his legendary disdain obvious in the eyes she forced herself to meet. Somehow she managed an exchange of comments, though she had no idea what she said. But it must have been all right, for he actually smiled before sauntering toward the ballroom. Her shoulders sagged in relief. With luck she need never speak to him again. He didn’t dance.
Encountering the Beau and his ilk was yet another aspect of sharing this ball that she had not considered until it was too late. Hart was a powerful figure in both social and government circles. Thus his guest list encompassed the highest in the land – every Almack’s patroness; most dukes and marquesses; the heir to nearly every title in the upper aristocracy; many government leaders. And the Prince Regent.
Her knees tried to buckle. Pull yourself together! Somehow she responded to Lady Jersey without making a cake of herself. How did other girls cope with the stress? Or did they enjoy socializing so much that they suffered no stress?
Few of them shared her problems. At two-and-twenty, she was much older than other new arrivals. Cassie had often sworn that age would give her the poise to enjoy the Season.
Hah!
All it gave her was the experience to know how many disasters lurked in the wings. The constant fear sapped her vitality, leaving her aloof and utterly colorless, reducing her chances of success. God knew she didn’t expect to be called a diamond, but acquiring a reputation for insipidity boded ill for the future.
“It is time to begin the dancing,” announced Cassie.
Andrew reluctantly tore his eyes from Sylvia – beside whom he had stood for the past hour – to place Angela on his arm. The action was so obviously a duty that she laughed – and relaxed.
“You’ll get your chance soon,” she reminded him. Hart was leading Sylvia out for the opening set.
“I know, Angie.” His eyes had already returned to Sylvia. “But why could we not have wed at Christmas? This waiting is driving me crazy. Five months before he would allow a betrothal and another five until the wedding.”
“You are nearly there.” She squeezed his arm to force his attention back to her. “Don’t drool so publicly, or God knows what rumors will start.”
“You’re right, but somehow I’ll make Hart pay for putting me through this. He certainly called a different tune with his own bride. They married just two days after their betrothal.”
“Three. But can you blame him?” They stepped into the first pattern. “Cassie had been out for five years and was in mourning. Sylvia is only seventeen and deserves a Season before settling down.”
“I just wish it was over.”
She laughed. “In the meantime, you can concentrate on seeing me off your hands. And then we must consider how to move Mother to the dower house so you can have the privacy you so obviously crave.”
He actually blushed.
Hart and Andrew exchanged partners for the next set.
“You are beautiful tonight, Angela,” he said as he led her into a cotillion.
She sighed. “I hope that is not Spanish coin, for I am nearly falling apart with nerves.” Admitting that to a man she had known all her life was easy.
“They do not show, so you needn’t worry. Nerves are expected at one’s first London ball, but you will manage admirably.”
“Did you have to invite the Regent?” The words burst out without warning, and she stiffened.
He laughed. “I did indeed, but you needn’t worry there, either. He will undoubtedly dance with you, but the set will be short, and if you can keep from giggling at how he creaks, you will do fine.”
A chuckle escaped. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” It had worked. Her fluid grace returned as they moved into the figure.
“Of course.” He grinned. “Not one of these people is perfect, Angie. If you feel intimidated, simply list your partner’s flaws and you will relax. Sylvia is just as terrified as you are.”
“Really? She has been so confident since we arrived.”
“Cassie is also very nervous.”
“Now that I don’t believe! This is her sixth Season. How can she have any fears?”
“It may be her sixth Season, but it is her first as a matron in charge of planning entertainments and responsible for bringing out another young lady. The fact that she is increasing makes it worse, for she feels conspicuous and tires far too easily.”
“Oh, Hart, I had no idea,” she exclaimed in chagrin. “And I have been hanging on her arm for support and advice.”
They finished the figure and moved into the next change. “You have done no harm, for she honestly enjoys your company. I merely want you to realize that you are not the only one with anxieties. I have plenty of my own, if you must know, for Cassie cannot stay in town for the entire Season. She will try, of course, but at some point I will have to put my foot down and take her home.”
“What will happen to Sylvia?” Concern for her friends had nearly banished her own fears – which wa
s undoubtedly why he was baring his personal problems. Perhaps he recognized how Lady Forley’s complaints had affected her.
“My sister Barbara will arrive in about a month, and my stepmother a fortnight later. Sylvia will stay with one of them. Cassie understands. And she will have more than enough to do preparing for the wedding.”
By the time the set concluded, Angela was actually enjoying herself. Lady Forley had also relaxed and was sparkling now that her old friends were complimenting the arrangements. If anything, hanging on Hart’s impressive coattails had improved their consequence.
“Lord Atwater has requested the next dance.” Lady Forley’s excitement contrasted sharply with the ennui displayed by most other guests.
Angela smiled and accepted his arm, though she had only the haziest recollection of his arrival. How could she have missed so handsome a gentleman? His light blue coat fit tightly to show off his athleticism. Blond hair curled around his face, brightening his deep blue eyes.
She had heard his name often during morning calls and had the impression that he was about thirty. But his face belied that age, retaining the innocence and wonder of youth, a knee-weakening dimple appearing whenever he smiled.
Her tension returned ten-fold. He was society’s darling, inciting worshipful adoration from even the highest sticklers. How was she to converse with a paragon? Concentrating on people’s faults only worked if you could identify them. But she knew nothing about London gentlemen beyond surface impressions. Lord Atwater’s surface made her nervous. So much was riding on this Season. Only success would lead to a home and family of her own.
“How truly blessed I am to escort the most beautiful angel to grace London in many Seasons,” he declared as they joined a set.
“You exaggerate, my lord.”
“Fustian! You are too modest.” He bestowed a heated gaze that silenced her. “I like that,” he added seductively.
She grimaced. Fault number one: insincerity.
He quizzed her on her family and other connections whenever the movements of the country dance brought them together, but that was expected. Perhaps he sought a wife, just as she was looking for a husband. She didn’t enjoy feeling like a mare at a horse auction, but she shrugged the irritation aside. How else could one get acquainted in so short a time? And why did she care, anyway? An earl who held society in the palm of his hand would reach up the social scale for his wife, not down.
Feeling gauche, rustic, and inadequate, she retreated behind a cloak of shy dignity. The change increased the warmth of his adoring glances. His compliments grew more effusive. Only then did she suspect a different motive for his interest. Did he think to pursue some other arrangement with her? Perhaps he was a libertine instead of a suitor. She shivered.
His dimple immediately flashed, deepening when she again shivered. Surely he didn’t think she was encouraging him!
Perhaps he felt her trepidation, for he abruptly abandoned personal remarks, though his tone still implied intimacy. “The most extraordinary event occurred in the park yesterday.”
“Really?” Which of the half dozen park stories was he about to repeat?
“Indeed.” He chuckled suddenly, his smile one he must have used to great effect on other girls. “I never thought to see such a sight. You may know that Lord Shelford is one of the most accomplished horsemen in the ton, a member of the Four-in-Hand Club and rider extraordinaire.”
She nodded silently, resigned to playing her part. The tale was humorous enough. She had laughed the first time she’d heard it, but a dozen repetitions during last night’s rout and today’s calls had stripped it of its charm.
“Never did I expect anything to fluster him. But at the height of the fashionable hour, his eyes lit on a newcomer to London, a veritable vision of beauty – though not so lovely as you, my dear – delicate face, blonde curls, pouting rosebud mouth. His jaw dropped into his cravat. Jerking his mount to a halt, he froze in amazement. Such a stupor! And this from a gentleman who has long declared he would never wed.”
She raised her brows to show the expected surprise.
“Exactly. Never have I witnessed a man so suddenly besotted. It was obvious that he had forgotten all else, for when a passing horse jostled his own, it unseated him.”
“How embarrassing.”
“Too true. But the cream of the jest is that the young lady is already betrothed – to Shelford’s own cousin.”
She gasped, hating herself for reacting like a pea-brained widgeon, but he expected a response, and she could think of no other.
“Yes. His very own cousin. He will be the butt of jokes at family gatherings for years.”
She refused to giggle, though most girls did at this point. Fortunately the dance separated them so she did not have to come up with an alternate response.
Atwater was treating her like an idiot. Everyone had heard this tale by now, so why did he expect her to behave as if it were new? Yet in all fairness, she couldn’t blame only him. Half the dancers were chuckling over the same tale, just as they had done during both previous sets.
The Black Marquess would never indulge in such inanity.
She stumbled. How could she guess the behavior of a man with whom she had exchanged not one word? And why would she assume that he was so different? He had frequented society gatherings for several years before becoming an outcast, so logically, his conversation would be just as insipid as Atwater’s.
No, it’s not. That man would never be insipid.
Angela quickly stifled that inner voice, refusing to argue the subject. But banishing the image of dark, brooding eyes proved more difficult. She had glimpsed him again that very morning, though his back had been turned so he had not seen her. Why could she not forget his face? It had intruded on her dreams more than once in the past week.
Suppressing further thought, she flashed a false smile as the dance brought her back to Atwater’s side. Calling attention to her wandering mind could only cause trouble.
Sir Alan Kenwood led her out for the next set, immediately announcing that he needed a wife. Despite his businesslike tone, she found him quite amiable. And his presence proved that her earlier fears were unfounded. The guest list included numerous gentlemen at and even below her own station. She should have known that Hart would remember her.
Subsequent sets were equally entertaining – a pulse-fluttering reel with Captain Harrington; a light-hearted country set with Lord Rathbone; a minuet with Lord Hartford, whose own retelling of Shelford’s embarrassment was genuinely funny; and the dreaded set with the Regent.
Yet even that went better than she had feared. The prince was light on his feet for someone of his girth, though Hart was right about the creaking. His corsets occasionally drowned out conversation. But he smiled as he concluded their abbreviated set. Even Brummell smiled at her this night. And she had not a single set free, though she had to sit out the two waltzes.
Mr. Garwood partnered her for one of those. He was the first gentleman she had met in two weeks who seemed genuine. His evening clothes were loose enough to don without assistance. His appearance was average. And he spared her from insincere flattery. They joined several other couples who were likewise barred from dancing.
“I can’t believe Lord Atwater is already looking for a second wife,” exclaimed Miss Sanderson, watching the earl twirl a partner around the floor. “His first is barely in her grave.”
“What tale is this?” asked Angela. “I had not heard of the lady’s demise.” Actually, she had not heard that he had been married, though losing a wife was all too common.
“He married Miss Sherbrooke last Season, putting on a great show of eternal love and devotion, though if true, I cannot see how he could be here. She died of a miscarriage barely six weeks ago.”
“But one can hardly blame him,” protested Mr. Harley. “He must produce a son as soon as possible. His current heir is the most odious man I have ever met and unscrupulous enough to scheme for an inheritance. But you
are mistaken about his emotional attachment. Though he liked her well enough, I saw no evidence of anything stronger.”
“You can be sure that no one will censure him for appearing in town so soon,” added Garwood. “The gossips all dote on him, treating him like a favorite nephew and ignoring any wrong-doing. He nearly came to blows with Oaksford last Season when the man corrected one of his misstatements, but Lady Debenham just shook her head, tut-tutting as though he had dropped a biscuit rather than nearly precipitated a brawl in her drawing room.”
“Very true,” agreed Harley. “Lady Beatrice is the same. It will be interesting to see whom he chooses this time.”
Garwood nodded, then turned to Angela. “Are you enjoying the Season?”
“So far, though I do miss the country.”
“Both are enjoyable,” he said lightly. “The country stales after a time, yet town frivolity cannot sustain the spirit forever. Balancing both keeps life intriguing.”
“You sound a wise man.” She made no attempt to sound flirtatious.
“Shall we stroll until this set is ended?” He offered his arm.
They chatted contentedly, comparing his estate to Forley Court. She encouraged him to do much of the talking, heartened to find that she agreed with most of his statements. He was the most relaxing partner of the evening.
The remnants of her nervousness disappeared during the next set. Unlike the intimidating gentlemen who might be seeking a wife, her new partner, Mr. Crawford, was barely down from school and appeared even more nervous than she had been. In trying to set him at his ease, she forgot her own problems. But it was not an easy task, for he had little head for wine. The punch he had already consumed left him rather boisterous. Midway through a pattern, he stepped on her hem, tearing her gown.