by Mary Balogh
“Kneller,” he said, repressing the urge to chuckle. “It is the family name of the Dukes of Fairhurst. My elder brother is the current holder of the title.”
“Oh,” she said with an openmouthed gasp, “you are the brother of a duke. I am so glad I did not know it when I danced with you.” She laughed.
There was a quality of merriment in her that was almost unladylike and was quite infectious, Lord Francis thought. He would like to draw the cork of any man who offered her carte blanche during what remained of the Season.
Perhaps he would take her under his wing, he thought suddenly. Bridgwater would undoubtedly be relieved and the duchess would surely not be displeased. As for himself, he had perhaps a great deal of a leftover life to kill. He had no wish to spend it pining away to a mere shadow of his former self over a woman who was now in Yorkshire with her new husband, doubtless proceeding with the pleasant business of living happily ever after.
Taking Miss Cora Downes under his wing would amuse him. And perhaps it would protect her from harm. Perhaps too he could steer toward her some likely candidate for matrimony. It might be diverting to become a matchmaker for the few weeks that remained of the Season. It would be a new role for him, one he had never even in his wildest imaginings thought of for himself. It was a feminine role, one his elder sisters delighted in. She had been trying to do it to him for so long that it was a testament to her endurance that she had not long ago lost faith in her powers.
It would be an amusing role to assume—if anything in life could ever again be amusing.
He returned Cora Downes to her place, stayed to make himself agreeable to the duchess and Lady Jane—Lady Elizabeth was promenading about the room on the arm of her future sister-in-law—waited until Corsham paused at his side with significant looks and throat-clearing, in the obvious hope of being presented to Miss Downes, performed that office, and had the satisfaction of watching her being led out for a quadrille while her grace and Bridgwater were still marshaling their forces of prospective partners for the merchant’s daughter.
Corsham, Lord Francis thought in some satisfaction, was in possession of property and ten thousand a year. His mother was a draper’s daughter, his father a second son of a second son. Fortunately he had had a wealthy aunt who had doted on him and left him everything on her demise.
An eminently eligible match for Miss Cora Downes.
“My thanks, old chap,” his grace said at his elbow. “I owe you a favor. Fortunately the girl seems not quite vulgar, would you not agree? Rustic might be more the word. One can only hope she will improve under my mother’s guidance. Though one does hope too that she does not make a habit of tripping over her feet.” He grimaced.
Lord Francis chuckled. The sound seemed strange to his own ears. He wondered when he had last laughed.
3
HE DUCHESS OF BRIDGWATER HAD ALREADY PRONOUNCED herself well satisfied. There was no question about her satisfaction with Elizabeth and Jane, of course. Elizabeth had moved almost immediately into the illustrious circle of her future in-laws and had stayed there. Jane had been rediscovered by last year’s admirers and had been discovered by several more, who had been properly presented to her by her brother. But then Jane, even apart from her beauty and youth and sweetness, was the daughter of a duke.
No, it was with Cora that her grace was really expressing satisfaction. Apart from the unfortunate fact that she had tripped over her feet at the sight of Lord Francis Kneller’s turquoise splendor, and that one heavy lock of her hair had fallen down about her shoulder during the third set, another round of vigorous country dances, and that she had trodden on her own hem at the end of the same set and ripped the stitching out of a stretch of it—apart from those slight mishaps, of which her grace made light, she had behaved quite becomingly. And up to and including the supper dance, she had had a partner for every set except the waltz, which she was not allowed to dance because certain dragons—the patronesses of Almack’s, apparently—had not yet given her the nod of approval. Which was all a parcel of nonsense, as far as Cora was concerned, but her grace looked faintly alarmed and very slightly haughty when she mentioned the fact.
It seemed that Cora had taken well.
She took none of the credit to herself. The ladies who spoke with her—there were several—were friends either of her grace or of one of the girls. The gentlemen who danced with her were presented to her by either his grace or Lord Francis Kneller. All of them, she suspected, had had their arms twisted up behind their backs—even if only figuratively speaking—as an incentive to oblige her.
And some of the credit too, she had to admit, was due to the extraordinary story that was circulating. She was a great heroine, it seemed. She had saved the life of Lord George Munro’s son—the child was second in line to the Bridgwater title—at considerable risk to her own life. His grace was deeply in her debt. Everyone referred to the story. Everyone looked at her almost in awe—just as if she were someone special.
It was really rather embarrassing. Especially when she recalled how very foolishly stupid she had been to shriek out and plunge into the river the way she had. She had not been heroic at all—only brainless, as Edgar had pointed out afterward while she was mourning over the bedraggled remains of her bonnet. He had taken her and bought her a new one the following morning—before the duchess descended upon her and bore her away to find her a husband from among the ranks of the gentry as a reward for her heroism.
It had been a successful evening. Her grace said so and even Cora felt it. But the trouble was that the part of her that felt it the most acutely was her toes. She dared not take her slippers off to wiggle them or to assess them for damages. She needed no assessment of the eyes. She would be very surprised if there was not a blister on every single toe. She could even feel blisters on toes that were not there. It was very difficult to sit through supper and smile and converse with her partner, Mr. Pandry, and the other people at her table—one of the ladies asked her repeated questions about dear little Henry and his behavior throughout his watery ordeal in the river at Bath—it was difficult to be sociable when all ten of her toes in addition to the ghost ones were screeching for her attention.
To dance after supper was an impossibility. To refuse to dance was an equal impossibility. Half of her mind dealt with the conversation at hand while the other half considered her dilemma. She was ashamed to admit the truth to her grace. A real lady, she rather suspected, would dance even if all ten of her toes were broken and a couple of ankles to boot. A real lady … She had never—before the incident of little Henry, that was—even considered the fact that she was not a real lady. She had been very satisfied with who she was. She still was satisfied. She had no wish to start pretending to be anything she was not. She was her papa’s daughter. Papa was not, according to strict definition, a gentleman. She loved her papa.
She told the duchess when they had returned to the ballroom that she needed to go to the ladies’ withdrawing room and that she might be gone a little while—words uttered with some blushing embarrassment. She declined the offer to be accompanied.
She really did intend to go to the ladies’ room, but she suddenly remembered from the time she had gone there with her grace earlier to have her hair pinned up again and her hem mended that it was crowded and noisy. If she sat there for any length of time the fact would surely be remarked upon. And she would feel the eyes of the maids stationed there upon her. She turned sharply instead and walked out through the open French doors onto the balcony outside.
It was all but deserted. After the supper break, everyone was ready to dance or to play cards again, she guessed. She discovered a vacant chair behind a large and dense potted plant. She sank gratefully onto it and tried wiggling her toes. The attempt did not help at all. She would not have thought it possible for slippers to cause such pain, but she supposed it made sense that they did so when they were a size too small.
She looked carefully to both sides and even over her shoulder.
There was no one in sight. Everyone was in the ballroom. The music had struck up again. She lifted one foot onto the opposite knee, bending her leg outward, and cradled her foot in both hands. For a short while she resisted further temptation. But it was too insistent. She pulled off her slipper and tossed it to the balcony beside her other foot. The freedom, the rush of coolness, even the pain was exquisite. She closed her eyes and sighed.
“Trouble?” a languid, almost bored voice asked.
She snapped to attention, still clutching her foot. And then she breathed out through puffed cheeks in noisy relief when she saw who it was. It was only Lord Francis Kneller. She would have been horribly mortified if it had been any other gentleman. Lord Francis seemed almost like a woman friend. Not that she meant the thought at all unkindly. After an evening of observing him—she had found her eyes following him about the ballroom—and occasionally exchanging a few words with him and dancing with him that once, she had come to believe that he was happy with who he was. As any person should be, she firmly believed.
“Oh, it is just you,” she said. Even so she edged down the hem of her gown, which had been up somewhere in the region of her knee. “Sore feet is all. I have slunk out here, where I thought to remain unobserved.”
“Just sore?” he asked. “Or blistered?”
“Blistered,” she admitted after a short pause. Now she did feel mortified after all. “My feet are too large, you see. I thought to reduce them to greater daintiness with slippers that are too small.”
“Not a wise idea,” he said and he seated himself on the stone bench that ran beneath the balustrade and took her foot onto his lap. He massaged it with his thumb, avoiding her toes. She was inclined to giggle and pull away at first, but the pressure of his thumb was too firm and too soothing to tickle.
“You are a tall lady,” he said. “You would not be able to balance on tiny feet. I believe a certain incident earlier this evening proved that. Besides, you would look funny. Out of proportion.”
She chuckled, pain forgotten for a moment. “Vanity is a dreadful thing,” she said. She supposed that he would understand that himself.
“When it causes blisters, yes,” he said. “I suppose the other foot is in just as bad a case?”
“Yes,” she admitted ruefully.
He set her stockinged foot on the ground and lifted the other onto his lap, easing off the slipper and proceeding to massage the foot as he had the other.
“Not that it is any of my concern, Miss Downes,” he said at last, “but where is your chaperon, pray?”
“Oh, what nonsense it is,” she said, “this business of chaperons. I had a great deal more freedom before I became a heroine, I do assure you.”
“Your parents allowed you to roam about unescorted?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Dear me.”
“My mother is dead,” she said. “Edgar—my brother—told me once, a long time ago, that she ventured one look at me after giving birth to me, took fright, and quit this world without further ado. But Papa scolded him for making light of so serious a matter and even thrashed him for it, I do believe, though I was sorry because it was said only as a joke even if it was in poor taste. No, Papa does not allow me to roam unescorted, as you put it. But now that I have become a heroine and a protégée, I may not move a muscle, it seems, without having a female companion accompany it.”
“It is for your own protection, I do assure you,” he said. “How do you know that I am not about to take great liberties with your person? Indeed, I have already taken liberties. Many ladies I know would faint dead away if they knew I had been fondling your feet for the past ten minutes or so.”
Cora threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, I know I am safe with you,” she said and then realized that perhaps her words were ill-bred even though she had not meant them unkindly. “You were presented to me by the Duke of Bridgwater himself,” she added.
“Does her grace know you are out here?” he asked.
She smiled at him conspiratorially. “I told her I was going to the ladies’ withdrawing room,” she said. “But it is always so crowded there. It was cooler and quieter out here.”
“Stay here.” He got to his feet after setting her foot down beside the other. “I shall explain to the duchess that you are ready to go home and see to the ordering around of her carriage if Bridgwater is nowhere in sight. Then I shall come back and escort you to it.”
“She will have to know about my blisters,” she said. “It seems so ungenteel somehow.”
“Even one of the royal princesses would develop blisters if she wore slippers of too small a size and then proceeded to dance for several hours in them with—ah—vigor,” he said. “I shall return.”
And he was gone.
She would be packed up and sent home to Bath, Cora thought. It must be disgraceful to have to leave one’s very first ton ball early because one had blistered feet. Now her grace was going to have to leave early and Jane and Elizabeth too—and doubtless their dancing cards were full and they were going to have to excuse themselves to all the gentlemen with whom they were to dance. And they would be miserable at having to lose half an evening’s entertainment but they would be too well mannered to blame her openly.
If only she had not jumped into that river. There was nothing callous in the thought. Little Henry’s survival had not depended upon such theatrical heroics.
Well, she thought, stooping down to pick up her slippers and eyeing them with a grimace, if she was sent home in disgrace, she would not care. She really had not wanted to become the Duchess of Bridgwater’s protégée in the first place. But her grace had been importunate and Lord George had been charmingly insistent—and Lady George too, though because of her confinement she had had to relay her pleas through her husband and one lengthy letter—and Papa had thought it a splendid opportunity for her. Even Edgar had told her she would be a fool to reject the chance that was being offered her.
But she had no wish for a genteel husband. Or for a husband at all, in fact. Though that was a bouncer, she admitted in all fairness. Of course she wanted a husband. And of course it would be pleasant to have one who was well set up and genteel in manner. But mostly she wanted a husband for affection and companionship and for—well, for the other. She had no particularly clear picture of what was involved in that other, but she was very convinced that she would like it excessively. Provided she felt an affection for her husband, that was. And she knew that she would like to have children.
Perhaps, she thought, she should merely have had Lord Francis escort her back into the ballroom. She could have sat through the rest of the evening without disturbing anyone else. But it was too late now to think of that. She flexed her slippers in her hands as if she thought to enlarge them a whole size by doing so.
And then Lord Francis appeared again. Cora looked sheepishly beyond his shoulder, but it was just Betty who was standing there, the maid the duchess had brought with them.
“Her grace is making arrangements for Lady Elizabeth and Lady Jane to be chaperoned and fetched home by Lady Fuller,” he said. “I shall escort you to the carriage, Miss Downes. I have brought Betty with me so that you will not be forced to the impropriety of moving a muscle without its being accompanied by a chaperon, you see.”
Lady Fuller was sister to the Marquess of Hayden, Elizabeth’s betrothed. Cora felt better knowing that the evening was not going to be ruined for Elizabeth and Jane.
“Was she very cross?” she asked.
“Her grace?” He raised his eyebrows. “Cross? I do not believe duchesses are ever cross, Miss Downes. Actually I believe she was more relieved than anything else. She was coming to the conclusion that you had vanished into the proverbial thin air. No, I would not advise trying to squeeze your toes back into the slippers.”
She sighed. “I cannot walk back through the ballroom in my stockinged feet,” she said. “Even merchants’ daughters know that much about gentility, my lord.”
“I would not have brou
ght Betty if that had been my planned route,” he said, “Come along. We shall avoid the ballroom altogether.”
He took her slippers as she got to her feet, and handed them to Betty. Then he drew her arm through his and led her slowly toward the steps leading down into the garden. Betty followed silently behind. Cora hoped fervently that the few people who were strolling on the balcony would not look downward to notice that she was unshod.
“It is such a shame,” she said with a sigh as they descended the steps, “to have to miss the rest of the ball. Just listen to that music. You are very kind, Lord Francis. Would you not prefer to be dancing?”
“When I might be escorting the loveliest lady among the guests to her carriage instead?” he said. “Absolutely not, ma’am.”
Cora chuckled. “What a thorough bouncer,” she said. “You will go straight to hell for that one, Lord Francis.”
“Dear me,” he said rather faintly.
They were to walk about the house to the front, it seemed. It also appeared that the house was surrounded on three sides by a cobbled walk.
“This is by far the best part,” he said as they reached it, “and the reason I felt it wise to bring Betty along.” And he disengaged his arm from hers, turned to her, and scooped her up into his arms.
Cora shrieked.
“It was definitely wise,” he said. “Stay close, Betty, if you please.”
“You cannot carry me,” Cora said, feeling considerably flustered and doing with her arms the only thing that seemed possible to do with them—she set them about his shoulders. “I weigh a ton.”
His voice, when he spoke, betrayed the truth of her words—he was breathless. “The merest feather, Miss Downes,” he said, “I do assure you.”