An Imperfect Proposal

by Hayley Ann Solomon

  As Amaryllis swept up the banisters, my lord’s eyes followed the shimmer of her gown, though he made no movement to catch up with her. His puzzlement changed to laughter as he saw the recipients of her bounty—hidden behind a china silk screen, but not well enough for his curious glance. He turned his back on the proceedings. If he knew nothing of them he could hardly be forced to object—and invited a particularly dazzling beauty—a Miss Paterson-Vermont—to partake of the supper dance.

  The evening was well advanced when the earl next caught sight of Miss Hastings. Her reticule sat innocently upon her lap as she tapped out the rhythms of Mr. Handel’s water music. She was alone, for her mama was once more busy with cards, and her circle of friends all seemed to be engaged with partners. Of an instance, he felt sorry for her. She was too innocent for flirtation, and too insipid for his tastes, which ran to more buxom beauties, especially of the Spanish kind.

  Still, she made a pretty picture in her shimmering gown, and her slippers were beguiling as they tapped away in tuneful harmony with the orchestra. They were a delicate pink and ribboned to her ankles, which he noted with satisfaction were more than satisfactory. (Amaryllis would have been mortified to realize she was revealing her ankles beneath the long, flowing fabric of her gown, but fortunately no one was at hand to tell her so.) As she looked up, she caught the eyes of the earl and could not help blushing, though why she had to behave like such a silly ninnyhammer she could not imagine.

  The earl smiled. She half thought there must be some more eligible young lady behind her, but she realized her mistake at once, for his eyes held her own and there could be no mistaking their interest.

  Of a sudden, Amaryllis felt shaky and tongue-tied. She hardly knew what to say, for he was advancing toward her . . . gracious! Had he seen her pilfering the sugar plums? But he did not look angry, he looked . . . he looked serene and amused.

  “Miss Hastings?”

  He was a hairbreadth away from her now, and looking down upon her with a gentle smile upon that handsome countenance.

  Amaryllis nodded, hardly daring to breathe, for Stephen, Lord Redding, was beyond her touch and she hardly knew what to say. Fortunately, she remembered her curtsy and my lord’s brows lifted infinitesimally at this unnecessary formality.

  “Would you care to dance? I know it has been very remiss of me not to fill out your card and if you are engaged . . .”

  “No, yes! I mean, no I am not engaged . . .”

  “And yes you would like to dance?” The smile was more pronounced, now, but still gentle.

  “Yes, please, your lordship.”

  Stephen nodded and took her arm. “We shall wait until the end of this set and then take up our places. Your gown is very fetching.”

  “Thank you!”

  Amaryllis thought she must be dreaming. The ballroom suddenly seemed brighter, as though a thousand tapers had been lit. Jewels and rhinestones sparkled liked a million shimmering raindrops, my lord’s gloved hand upon her arm was so warm it seemed to burn into her skin . . . but oh, that was just the start of these lively sensations. The next dance was the very waltz she had so yearned to put into practice.

  Her nerves beat so wildly she was convinced she would miss the steps, forget the beat, or miss a count. She moistened her lips nervously and counted softly under her breath until my lord laughed down at her and whispered that she must relax and allow him to lead her. His hand tightened about her waist, which was hardly conducive to any kind of relaxing. What is more, Amaryllis could not rid herself of the notion that he found her gauche, having to count her steps.

  She tensed, then relaxed as if to appear nonchalant, then finally, because she felt so unutterably exhilarated and perhaps a little because Miss Martha Caddington was watching them with a disagreeable pout of envy on her lips, she began to forget her worries and give herself up to the excitement of the dance.

  Her partner, sensing this sudden change, felt an unexpected wave of tenderness sweep through him. He wanted this little chit of a thing to have a splendid time, to have one memory at least that was not bittersweet.

  Lord Redding was more observant than society gave him credit for. He was accustomed to seeing Miss Hastings obligingly take the baggage carriage so her friends could ride unfettered outside. He was used to her making up a fourth at piquet when there was no one more interesting to take up the challenge.

  She always smiled sweetly and seemed grateful for any small attention, no matter how negligent or carelessly bestowed. He realized with a qualm that he himself was guilty of taking her for granted as her acquaintances seemed to do.

  Why, he wondered, had he not immediately inscribed his name on her dance card as he had with most of the other ladies invited as his guests? It would have been the most common of civilities, yet he had been discourteous, or negligent. He wondered why, and realized with a qualm that there was not a whisper of reproach in her bright eyes as they met his, for the veriest fraction of an instant.

  The dance was over sooner than Lord Redding expected, and he realized with annoyance that he could not linger, he had bespoken himself to Miss Ingles, and that lady was already regarding him anxiously from the sidelines. It would be ill-bred to leave her disappointed, so he made his bow to Amaryllis, hovered with her hand for a fraction of an instant upon his lips, then strode off in the direction of Miss Camilla Ingles.

  Camilla was entirely different from Amaryllis. As my lord approached, she feigned surprise that it was his dance already, and made a great show of consulting her card as if she had forgotten that the earl had inscribed his name there. Normally his lordship was amused by such wiles, but this evening he found the behavior slightly distasteful. Fortunately for Miss Ingles, his good manners showed none of his sudden annoyance.

  Indeed, when she flirted with him—Camilla was determined to fix the earl’s interest this Season—he responded agreeably, so Camilla was able to catch the eye of her good friend Martha Caddington in a rather “I told you so” sort of fashion.

  Martha, however, was not so elated as she might have been. The earl was definitely the pick of this Season’s crop, and it was naturally she who would have been desirous of my lord’s attentions. Still, she had had one waltz with him, so she supposed Camilla could enjoy her little quadrille. After all, a quadrille was not nearly so distinguishing as a waltz, not to mention exhilarating, for she had made certain that her glittering bodice pressed accidentally against my lord’s own expansive chest, and that she edged a trifle closer to him than the requisite three inches.

  She was just feeling pleased with herself when her eyes alighted on Amaryllis, engaged in animated conversation with Lila Trewellyn. Her face darkened, for she could not think how insipid little Amaryllis could have stolen her limelight. She moved closer to the pair and waited until their own delicate steps brought them into speaking distance.

  “Oh, dear Amaryllis!” she trilled. “How . . . how perfectly provincial is your dress! Do you hope to start a trend?”

  Amaryllis made the fatal mistake of looking flustered, but Lila Trewellyn was more up to snuff. She smiled sweetly. “It is a trend the Earl of Devonport obviously likes, Miss Caddington. Did you not notice how he asked Miss Hastings for the last waltz? Miss Caddington smiled, but the blaze in her eyes was spiteful rather than merry.

  “But naturally I did! How fortunate you are, Miss Hastings, to have been chosen as his token wallflower this evening. His lordship is so punctilious about such things, you know. He always makes a point of distinguishing one partnerless lady at every function. So civil, I always say.”

  “You are a cat, Martha Caddington!” Lila’s eyes flashed, but the damage was done. Amaryllis looked unsteady on her feet and so pale her friend thought she might faint. But she was more spirited than that, and a lady if nothing else. She smiled at Martha and murmured that yes, indeed, she had been fortunate.

  Martha nodded spitefully and moved on to fresh targets.

  “Pay her no heed, Amaryllis! She is just jea
lous and spiteful.”

  “I know that. She is, nevertheless, quite correct. His lordship was just being kind.”

  “Nonsense! When you forget your nerves, Amaryllis, you are positively beautiful!”

  “You are a dear for saying so, Lila, and I love you for it, but I cannot think of myself in such terms! But come, let us not spoil the evening in this fashion. I daresay if we are quick enough we can coax a sherbet out of that footman. I am positively parched.”

  So, head held up high, Miss Amaryllis Hastings concluded her evening with both poise and dignity. She had never, however, felt so low, especially as Mr. Ratchins required her for a second dance and indicated, in that circuitous and pompous manner of his, that he would be calling on her the following day.

  Amaryllis’s heart sank. The thought of an offer from Mr. Ratchins was very lowering, for though she had been despairing of ever receiving a formal proposal of marriage, the thought that one might now be imminent was depressing to the spirits. She scolded herself for being such a flighty flibberty-gibbet. But no matter how many times her dresser told her, as she set aside her baubles and brushed through her hair, that she looked passing pretty, she could not overcome her feeling of gloom.

  Chapter Three

  As it happened, Mr. Ratchins must have had second thoughts, for there was no distinguishing visit from him all morning, despite Amaryllis forcing herself to wear her newest muslin, adorned with rosebuds and a sash of the softest flamingo pink.

  Her mama, when she had seen her thus attired, had raised her brows and inquired whether Amaryllis was expecting any visitors that day.

  “No, Mama.”

  “Well, I wish you were, for you are in excellent good looks, my dear, and I feel certain that if only Mr. Darrow or even, yes, I shall dare to look so high—the Earl of Devonport—should set eyes on you thus . . .”

  “Oh, Mama! Let us not speak of such things! There is not the remotest chance that either of those gentleman will show the smallest interest in me . . .”

  “No? I heard you waltzed with a certain earl last night. I could have kicked myself for missing the spectacle, but I was engaged in the most riveting game of piquet . . .”

  “It was nothing, Mama.”

  “Nothing? When it was the talk of the ballroom? Now, my dear, do not look so coy, I am very pleased with you and if only we can put our heads together to think of a way . . . I know! We can invite a select circle to a picnic at your uncle’s country seat. It will be unexceptional at this time of year, and I feel sure I can include Lord Redding, for after all, his mama and I were once close acquaintances . . .”

  “Mama!”

  “What?”

  “I forbid you to think of such a thing! Oh, it is embarrassing and so horribly transparent . . .”

  “But, my dear, how do you expect his lordship to become better acquainted with you if you don’t make the slightest push to meet him?”

  “I don’t expect it! Mama, fixing one’s eye on Lord Redding is like expecting to make a match with Czar Alexander himself! It is . . . it is . . . romantic nonsense.”

  “Then you like him?” Lady Hastings regarded her daughter keenly.

  “Yes. Yes. Of course I do.” A delicate pink suffused Amaryllis’s cheeks. “But what is that to the purpose?”

  “The purpose is that his lordship distinguished you last night with a waltz.”

  “Yes, and Martha Caddington and Lila Trewellyn . . .”

  “Only a quadrille and Martha is of no account. There is a reason she has had three Seasons already. She is the most spiteful widgeon alive and I cannot think his lordship will be cajoled by her forward manner.”

  “I cannot think he will be cajoled by my insipid one!”

  “Amaryllis Hastings, I should wash your mouth out for such nonsense! You are not insipid, you are charming.”

  “Mama, I am a wallflower! I have not taken, and you know it! You cannot think how thankful I am when I manage to get my card half full . . .”

  Lady Hastings blinked back a tear. Amaryllis spoke the truth, though she could not think why, for her daughter had character and a generosity of spirit that was rare for her age.

  How stupid gentlemen are when they come to look for a bride! How tiresome not to recognize her daughter’s sterling qualities! Oh, if only Amaryllis would consent to wearing the latest, low-cut necklines! With her slender figure and rounded curves . . . oh, it was a shame she was so modest, for she hid her greatest attributes—her face and her figure—behind potted plants. It was nothing but a matter of shyness, if she could develop a more flirtatious manner . . .

  “Mama, I know what you are thinking! I am not going to bat my eyelashes for Mr. Darrow, I should look a quiz!”

  “It is not Mr. Darrow I was thinking of, Amaryllis!”

  But Amaryllis would not be baited. With a flush high upon her cheeks, she announced there was no point continuing on with such a tedious discussion. She had work in the herbarium, for Lady Atholl had advised her of a new way of propagating lemon grass and she was anxious to try it out.

  The next few days Amaryllis threw herself into her work. She enjoyed gardening very much indeed and Lady Hasting’s London residence benefited much from her expertise. She found it impossible to stitch, or do needlework or any of the indoor activities she usually found solace in, for whenever she had a spare moment she found herself thinking uncomfortably of Lord Redding’s arms upon her, and his deep, hazel green eyes regarding her with more seriousness than she was used to and oh, her tingling nerves as he smiled....

  Then she would think what a ninnyhammer she was being, and of Martha’s spiteful remark, which, whilst mean-spirited, was nevertheless unfortunately true. She had been no more than Lord Redding’s token wallflower. She must not lose herself in nonsensical contemplation.

  She did her very best not to, for she rode vigorously every day and reveled in her discovery of the upper stacks at the Temple of the Muses. She was accompanied to Albany, of course, by her maid and very often by Lila Trewellyn, who was also a bookworm and delighted in finding some of the cheaper bargains above stairs.

  Somehow, though, her thoughts were not on Shakespeare—whom she admired enormously and had obtained a collection of his first editions at a lucky price. No, they were more in the way of a Midsummer Night’s Dream and she had to keep pinching herself to remember that she was in a bookstore, not a certain earl’s residence in Mayfair.

  Unfortunately, her thoughts, when they were contained, kept straying to Clementine and Vicky, and she could not help but wonder if they had enjoyed their repast undiscovered, and whether a new deportment master had ever been appointed.

  “Amaryllis, I could swear you are in a dream world of your own!” Lila’s voice had a slight edge to it, for she had been quoting Addington and Steele to her friend for nearly a minute without so much as a chuckle in response.

  “I am sorry, Lila, I am such a scatterbrain lately! Shall we get out of here?”

  Lila agreed, though she regarded her friend sharply and nearly said something teasing, then determined to hold her peace. It was perfectly obvious to her that Amaryllis was suffering the first pangs of love, and she had a very compassionate idea that they could not be comfortable when there was no hope of reciprocation.

  Even as they wended their way down the winding stairs, past the various lounging rooms until they were at last at the huge circular counter that was almost as famous as the shop itself, Amaryllis seemed to be casting anxious glances at the gentlemen lounging behind newspapers and Morning Gazettes. But if she hoped to see a certain Lord Stephen Redding, Earl of Devonport, she was doomed most utterly to disappointment.

  Lord Redding was not in so sorry a state himself. He was carefully perusing a list that had been placed in his elegant hands by his mama, the dowager countess Devonport. He adored his mama, who had been very kind indeed to him as a child, though she herself had lost her heart to his father and been treated rather offhandedly in return.

  He was d
etermined not to cause any woman that pain, nor himself be subjected to the type of agonies his mother had been. His marriage, he was certain, would be warm, but not tender, respectful but not dependent.

  More and more, he was yearning not just for an heir—which naturally was his duty to provide—but a child of his heart. Perhaps he was being fanciful, but the time he had spent with his nieces had been so warm and uplifting, so funny and tender that he’d been moved to contemplate the notion of becoming a father himself.

  Vicky and Clem were like tonics, but there was always that nagging feeling that they were not his—they belonged, in truth, to his sister, and the moments he had with them, though precious, were ephemeral. He wanted to lavish love on someone who was entirely his own, the product of his dreams and hopes and love. Somewhere vaguely in the background he acknowledged the role of the mother in all of this, but it was an odd and misty notion. All his focus was on fatherhood, and the joys he might bring to a small person, boy or girl.

  But heirs did not materialize without suitable mothers. He was not impractical! Indeed, he was pragmatism himself, for he had enlisted his own mother’s aid to sort the suitable from the unsuitable, the wheat from the chaff.

  Certain names on the list had been circled, others had had neat deletions penned through them with short comments in indigo in the margins. These were often edifying, for the countess had a sharp wit—and my lord smiled as he read.

  He himself held a quill and every so often appended his own comments and deletions. Miss Martha Caddington had already been deleted by the countess, but her bosom bow, Miss Camilla Ingles, had not. His lordship, his memory fresh from the tedious quadrille, now corrected this obvious omission with a firm deletion of his own. He could tolerate hauteur, but not archness. Miss Ingles, he felt certain, was not only arch, she was mean.

  At one name, however, he stopped, and his hazel eyes grew slightly softer. When the girls crept up on him, his hand was just hovering to append a question mark to the crisp margins.