“As it would be mine,” Max said, “save for one thing. Lady Glastonbury, will you dance with me?”
“Your sister?” Claire asked, as she accepted his hand.
“Cosgrove has finally arrived, with some excuse about his mother’s sapphires or some nonsense.”
“Max!” Claire stopped short and he turned to her in surprise. “He will propose to her tonight. Why else would he require jewelry? Oh, this is delightful.”
Max did not look happy about this business. He pulled her onto the floor.
“Surely you are not displeased about this outcome? You have known all along whom she wanted. Jamie adores her,” Claire said.
“Yes, there is that. But I was rather thinking about my own circumstances. I asked you to marry me several times, and each place was more ignoble than the last. Did I go about it all wrong? Did I deprive you of the great moment?”
Claire was spared her answer for the music started just then, and gave her several moments to think about it. But when the last tone of the violin sounded, and Max’s guests politely applauded, she knew what to say.
“They have all been great moments, Max, from my bed of roses to the field near Brook Hall. But perhaps the greatest has not yet happened.” Claire pulled off her gloves. “Do you think you will be very tired this night, after the ball?”
“You will be here in my house tonight, am I correct?”
“Yes. We thought it would be so much more convenient, after the ball.”
“And so it will be. You can expect me. And I will be sure to bring diamonds.”
“Roses would be sufficient,” she promised.
***
Mrs. Adelaide Brooks stood on the edge of the dance floor, sipping a glass of lemonade.
“I have not seen you dance at all, my friend,” Claire said, approaching her. “Has Mr. Brooks quite abandoned you?”
“My dear husband is lecturing some poor young men on the migration paths of Bedouins in the Orient. I cannot imagine how they started on the subject, but you understand how it was necessary for me to immediately escape their company.” Mrs. Brooks sighed. “I have heard it all before.”
Claire would pity the woman if she did not appreciate how excellent a marriage she shared with her husband. Their lives seemed dedicated to the service of others, and to the love and respect they shared for each other. They were an admirable example for the many young—and some not so young—couples in Middlebrook House this evening.
“Surely Mr. Brooks will not mind if you dance with another gentleman?” Claire said. “I would be happy to introduce you to a suitable partner.”
Mrs. Brooks placed her empty glass on the tray of a passing servant. “I am quite content watching others exert themselves. And besides, one never knows what might come of an introduction made at a ball.”
Claire looked curiously at her friend, wondering if she still wished for her niece to make a good match in London society.
“This party is most certainly a wonderful celebration of Lady Camille’s entrance into a world of which she knew little before she came to town, but I suspect she is being polite to her various partners tonight. She will almost certainly have James Cosgrove, whom she has loved for so many years, and for which outcome she need not have left Middlebury at all. The happy result would have been the same, you see, and none of us needed have disrupted our lives in the planning and purchasing and preparations for this night.” When Mrs. Brooks said nothing, Claire thought she might have misunderstood the lady’s intent. “And, of course, you and I met at the Armadale’s ball, and that has had happy consequences as well. Indeed, I sent a note to Mrs. Maybelle this afternoon, to tell her I intend to visit the girls on Monday next, to resume our readings together. I believe my rewards in doing this deed might be even greater than what the orphans enjoy.”
“I am glad to hear it. I thought it would be so for you,” Mrs. Brooks said.
They watched the dancers for several minutes. Camille and Jamie were part of a foursome, and his hand remained on her shoulder, guiding her through the steps. Marissa moved en rapport with her solemn husband, looking at him as if he were the only man in all the world. And then there was Maxwell Brooks, the Marquis Wentworth, host to all these many happy people, and himself partner to Lady Armadale. He looked over the lady’s shoulder and winked at Claire or Mrs. Brooks, or perhaps at them both.
Claire turned to her companion. “But you did not even know me then. You had Lady Fayreweather’s recommendation, to be sure, but friends are often partial to their friends’ capabilities. How could you be sure I would be an able reader to a group of young girls? And then, simply on Mrs. Maybelle’s good word, a suitable companion to your niece?”
Adelaide Brooks reached for Claire’s hand, and brought it to her lips. Claire, surprised and touched by the gesture, looked into her friend’s eyes, seeing only affection and gratitude there.
“I am delighted it has been so satisfying for the orphans and for you. I am proud my niece is a great success in London, and will marry a man who loves her as dearly as she loves him,” said Mrs. Brooks. “But surely you do not think all these plans came to fruition on the basis of a brief introduction at a crowded and noisy ball. I knew of Lady Claire Glastonbury for some time, and of her reputation for goodness and understanding.”
Claire blushed. “I am certain I never did anything to . . .”
“I also knew she had been wounded in ways that are not always visible, by a husband who did not return her affection.”
Claire felt a little flicker of indignation. “Mrs. Brooks, I assure you, I have always been most discrete in matters of my personal life. It is no one’s business but my own.”
“You need not have ever said a word. There are others who can see what is not articulated, who understand what is never said. You are capable of that as well, so you must know what I mean.” Mrs. Brooks released her hand, but remained close. “And I understand how one who has experienced unhappiness shares a certain empathy with those similarly wounded.”
Claire would not deny the truth of this, for she knew it to be so.
“There was another introduction made that evening, as I recall,” Mrs. Brooks went on. “Though it may not have seemed auspicious to others, I sensed my dearest hopes might soon be realized.”
Claire put her hand on her stomach, sensing some of hers were soon to be realized as well. “Surely you are not speaking of my introduction to Wentworth. He could not back away quickly enough to escape me. And it was very much the same when we met again in the woods at Brookside Cottage.”
“Oh no, dear lady. I saw the way it was with him the moment he laid eyes on you, dancing with Lord Cheviot. And then, the look in your own eyes when you were brought forward to meet him. I knew how it would end.” Mrs. Brooks clasped her hands together, perfectly satisfied. “That is his mother’s cameo, you know.”
Claire did not know, but was not surprised. In truth, she was not surprised about anything Adelaide Brooks just revealed, for all those months ago it truly seemed as if the path of her placid, lonely life had taken a fateful turn. She nodded thoughtfully, and smiled.
“Mrs. Brooks, do you mean to tell me that your guiding hand was responsible for delivering a young widow from her boring and utterly unsatisfying existence?”
“No, my soon-to-be niece. I give you and Maxwell much credit for that.” She glanced down to where Claire’s hand rested on her still-firm stomach. “But I believe I can guarantee your life will never be boring again.”
Keep reading for a special excerpt from another Regency Romance
by Sharon Sobel
LADY LARKSPUR DECLINES
Available now from InterMix
Over the plump white shoulder of her oldest and dearest friend, Lady Larkspur noted the entrance of yet another single gentleman into their lofty compa
ny. Too tall for her taste and tanned beyond what might be called fashionable, the stranger nevertheless looked like the sort of man who would have once intrigued her sufficiently to require an introduction.
But no longer. Happily, Lark was beyond such girlish concerns now, and on this evening required only the presence of her own dear Hindley Moore.
“He is very late, Lark,” whispered Miss Janet Tavish into her ear, “but he will not come any sooner by your watching for him.”
“You are right, of course,” Lady Larkspur answered, even as she remained vigilant. The newcomer passed off his greatcoat to one of the waiting servants and ran long, thin fingers through his dark hair. He turned, and as he scanned the festive crush, Lark imagined his eyes lingered a moment too long upon herself. They were very light, almost certainly blue, and seemed a little out of character with his saturnine features.
She quickly looked away, only to meet the bemused, knowing expression on Janet’s own sweet face.
“Who is it, then?” Janet smiled.
“Who might it be but Mr. Moore?” Lark shot back, more irritably than her good friend deserved. “I thought I saw him enter, but it appears I am mistaken.”
“Of course,” Janet agreed, as always. She reached up to straighten the lace at Lark’s breast, an act of intimacy surely forgivable among old friends. “But in all these months, I never saw you look upon your beloved with such an expression on your face.”
Lark glanced back at the stranger, silently ordering her lips and eyes to feign perfect indifference. Lord Southard, her brother-in-law and host of this evening’s ball, had already engaged him in conversation. They laughed at some private joke, and the stranger clapped John companionably on the shoulder. Really, this was impossible! Who was he?
“I surely do not know what you mean, Janet. Between Hindley and myself there are special—”
“Is he already arrived, Lark?” interrupted a voice at her shoulder. Lady Larkspur did not have to turn to know her oldest sister now joined them, and she did not have to ask who “he” might be. Truly, this began to prove very tiresome.
“He is not yet here, Del,” Janet answered for her. “And I fear if he does not come soon to claim his lady, she will likely be seduced into dancing with another.”
“How can you say such a thing!” Lark protested. “Hindley and I have an understanding so perfect and delightful, I would never be induced to look upon another. To dance with someone else would be a punishment.”
“Your loyalty is admirable, dear sister. I only hope the gentleman deserves it.”
Several moments passed in silence, as each of the women managed to look upon anything but the face of one of the others. They all knew of Hindley Moore’s long association with a certain Miss Eleanor Davenport of Oxford, and of how that lady had disappointed him when her betrothal to another was announced six months ago. Almost immediately, Mr. Moore turned his attention to Lady Larkspur, the only remaining unattached daughter of Lord and Lady Leicester’s five children and one possessed of a very persuasive dowry. Lark, who at twenty-four had already stood as bridesmaid to three younger sisters, welcomed Mr. Moore’s advances with a happiness that might have been born from a certain desperation.
“I believe he does,” Lark said quietly, finally meeting her sister Delphinium’s interested gaze.
“I am happy for you, dear Lark. I wish you happiness ever equal to what I share with John.” Del smiled as she looked across the company to her husband and raised her hand in a sign of greeting. “But I fear my guests have become impatient for the music to begin, and we ought not wait any longer. Father intended to announce your betrothal to Mr. Moore before you stepped out for the first dance, but it must be deferred until his arrival. I am sure he will be along soon. Shall we plan to raise a toast when we break for dinner?”
“I am sure the announcement will be as well received then as now,” Lark said graciously, though she truly would have preferred to stand up with Hindley for every set. Now, in his absence, she would be obliged to remain against the wall with the matrons and the girls unlucky enough to have no partner.
“I am sure of it,” repeated Del with an air of finality. “And now I see John signaling for me to join him. I hope I have the endurance for this long evening.”
Lark glanced down at the smooth, flowing lines of Del’s pale blue gown, doubting if anyone present, save their immediate family and a few close friends, knew she was increasing. Two little girls already slept upstairs, and John and Del entertained high hopes for the birth of an heir—as surely as Lark’s own parents once had before the births of their five daughters.
With a knowing smile, Lark followed Del’s gaze in John’s direction. He still stood with the dark stranger, their heads bowed together in some serious discussion. The newcomer broke away first, raising his brow in a gesture of surprise and looking over the company. Before his eyes could once again settle upon her, Lark reclaimed her sister’s attention.
“But first—name the gentleman who engages John so completely. I am sure I have never seen him before.”
Janet started to laugh, but was quickly stopped by Lark’s deft little kick to her ankle.
Del stood silently, perhaps asking herself the same question.
“Why, he is very handsome, is he not?” she asked.
“It cannot possibly matter, unless we wish to direct him to our good friend Janet Tavish.”
“I am not at all—” Janet began, undoubtedly to remind the sisters of her affection for the local curate.
But Del interrupted. “He must be Mr. Queensman. He and John were in the Americas together during one of the conflicts, but I do not believe they have seen each other in many years.”
“He is a soldier, then?” Lark asked a little too readily.
“No, he is not—at least not in the usual sense. He is a physician, and he accompanied the troops on their campaign. When John went down near the fort at Lake Champlain, I believe Mr. Queensman attended him. They became friends at that time.”
“How fortuitous for John. Must we thank Mr. Queensman for saving his life?” asked Lark, a little tartly.
Del looked at her in surprise. “I most certainly shall. But it will not be my only reason for greeting the gentleman with warmth. Quite by coincidence, he is also somewhat related to us.”
Now it was Lark who was surprised. Surely she had never heard his name before, and she was often admired for her remarkable memory. But soon she nodded her head with a growing sense of recognition.
“Is he yet another beggar?” she asked disdainfully. “Someone who imagines he stands in line to Father’s title if none of us manage to produce a son?”
Such hopefuls occasionally presented themselves at Leicester Park, full of mighty expectations and little thread on which to hang them.
Del must have been impatient to go to her husband, but she remained long enough to put her sister in her place.
“I do not believe he needs to beg, dear Lark. If there are no little boys to carry on the name, the title and estates go to Lord Raeborn, as well you know. But he is very elderly and himself has no direct heirs. His closest relative, by a common grandfather, is apparently Mr. Queensman. Father explained it to John, who then passed it on to me, and now I to you. It is very unlikely it should ever come to it,” Del said, patting her flat stomach. “But a man possessed of such expectations could hardly be dismissed as a beggar. You will be pleasant to him, I hope, if he dares to speak to you?”
“I doubt he will have the opportunity,” Lark said pertly. “I expect to spend all my time with Mr. Moore.”
“Once he arrives,” Del reminded her, and retreated before Lark could think of a suitable answer.
***
Mr. Benedict Queensman of Brighton surveyed the large crowd already assembled at Southard’s ball, wondering if he would be able to r
ecognize his cousin after the lapse of almost ten years. Then, as a young man of twenty-one, he had been present at Raeborn’s marriage to a lady young enough to be his granddaughter, and was happily reminded by the enthusiastic—if elderly—groom of the likelihood that a tiny heir might supplant him in whatever expectations he dared to harbor. Ben wished his relative all the best and comforted his own dear mother, assuring her his expectations were, as always, very slight. In addition, he pointed out that the purpose of his current rigorous studies was to train to do something useful in his life, rather than going to waste in the elevated, idle life of a gentleman.
As he stood with his friend John, on the threshold of a glittering society event, he recalled the youthful idealism of those days long past, and how the trials of war and illness and deprivation might have done much to change his point of view. But, curiously, they had not.
He wished himself away from London, finished with the affairs of business and family that had brought him here two weeks before, and back with his patients and his experiments at the small hospital to which he dedicated all his time and energy. He was needed there.
Here, even in the home of his old friend, he was just another eligible dancing partner for a young lady’s pleasure. And such pleasure might turn to aloofness once someone reported to her suddenly curious mama that Mr. Queensman had a shop, of sorts, in Brighton and almost never took residence at his London townhouse.
“You must learn to smile more, Ben.” John clapped him cheerfully on the back. “Or else my guests will think you far above them, and Del will begin to worry about the success of her party. And I will not have her fret, for she hopes to deliver another package to the family in six months’ time.”
Ben looked at his friend’s face and marveled at the great happiness etched there. He had a sudden vision of those same features when first he had seen them, on a distant battlefield, and knew it was for such rewards that he would never tire of being a physician.
“My best wishes, John,” he said with genuine pleasure. “If you would but introduce me to your lady, I might congratulate her as well.”
Sharon Sobel Page 29