by Mary Balogh
Cora lifted her arms and did some hasty repairs.
“Another heroic deed, Miss Downes?” Lord Francis asked her. His riding coat was a glorious shade of puce.
“Chasing after a child’s hat?” she said. “Hardly.”
But his grace was clearing his throat again. “Miss Downes,” he asked, “is that by any chance my sister in the center of the group of cheering gentlemen?”
To be quite fair, they were no longer cheering, though several of them were grinning and one of them was laughing out loud. And another of them cried “Bravo!” as she looked toward them.
“Oh, dear, yes,” Cora said. “We were walking here, your grace, for the air and the peace, and these gentlemen walked or rode by and were obliging enough to accompany us for a short distance.”
His grace had a quizzing glass to his eye and was looking in some distaste at Jane and the nine gentlemen.
Lord Francis chuckled. “And your maid looks as if she is wondering how she may divide herself in two and chaperon both of you in order to keep all decent and proper,” he said. “Do take my arm, Miss Downes. We will solve her problem by having you rejoin Lady Jane.”
The duke stayed where he was, holding the reins of Lord Francis’s horse as the two of them walked away.
“How glad I am that you arrived,” Cora said gaily. “Without you—and his grace—I do believe the infant duke would have chewed me up and spat me out. I had sentimental images of a poor child who was about to lose his new hat and would cry all day and all night over its loss and never be able to afford one to replace it until next year at the very earliest.”
“Doubtless,” he said, “with so many witnesses, Miss Downes, you will find that this heroic act will be added to the other two in order to swell your fame.”
She laughed. “Oh, what nonsense,” she said. “If I had been a true lady, I would have fluttered my eyelashes at one of the gentlemen and he would have raced after the hat for me.”
“And the incident would have lacked all sense of drama,” he said. “You are to be at Lady Fuller’s ball tomorrow evening?”
“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Lady Elizabeth is betrothed to her brother, you know. Will you be there too, Lord Francis? Will you come early enough to engage a set with me this time? I was sorry last evening to find that there were none left for you.”
“I have noticed a tendency in you to take words from my mouth, Miss Downes,” he said. “Will you do me the honor of reserving a set for me tomorrow evening?”
“Yes.” She smiled dazzlingly at him. “Can you waltz? I have been approved, though I think it all a parcel of nonsense, and now may waltz myself.”
“Then I will request that you write my name in your card next to the first waltz,” he said.
They were almost up to the others, a fact that she found regretful. She would prefer a quiet stroll with Lord Francis. But a nasty thought struck her. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I asked you to dance with me, did I not? That is something a lady never does. I gave you no choice but to be gallant, did I? And I dare not ask now if you really wish to dance with me because of course you would be gallant again and say that of course you do. I do apologize.”
“Miss Downes,” he said, “you do seem to have perfected the art of rendering me speechless.”
“Well,” she said, “no matter. It is only you and you do not mind if I occasionally ask you to dance with me, do you?”
He looked sidelong at her but did not reply. She found herself surrounded by laughing, admiring gentlemen, who congratulated her on her prompt action with regard to the young Duke of Finchley’s hat.
“Well done, Miss Downes,” Mr. Parker said.
“Jolly good show,” Mr. Pandry agreed, returning her parasol to her.
“Miss Downes is tired,” Lord Francis said, sounding bored again and faintly haughty. “She has wisely decided to return home with Lady Jane. Good morning, gentlemen.” He made them all a slight bow.
The Earl of Greenwald was the first to leave after glancing across to the Duke of Bridgwater, who was still sitting on his motionless horse some distance away, observing the scene. The others wandered away too, one by one or two by two.
“Ladies?” Lord Francis bowed to both Jane and Cora before glancing at their maid—who was looking remarkably relieved. He turned and walked back to the duke and his horse without looking behind him.
“Cora.” Jane grasped her arm and hurried her back in the direction from which they had come. “Do you think Alistair believed there was an assignation?”
“Goodness,” Cora said, “I hope not. Why would any woman in her right mind make assignations to meet so many gentlemen at the same time and in the same place?” She laughed. “Unless it were because there is safety in numbers. Do you like puce, Jane?”
“Lord Francis always looks elegant,” Jane said. “Do you believe Alistair knew?”
“I doubt it.” Cora patted her hand reassuringly.
They lapsed into silence, each thinking her own thoughts about the eventfulness of their morning walk.
Cora’s thoughts were quite decisive and rather disturbing. She was not going to marry a gentleman, she realized. Gentlemen were silly. Remarkably so. Mr. Bentley had proposed marriage to her when he scarcely knew her merely because she was in fashion and wealthier than he was—or such was her educated guess. All eight gentlemen this morning had been silly, preening themselves before her in the hope of winning her favor. Her—Cora Downes! All of them had thought the distress of a little child comical—though, as it had turned out, he had deserved a little distress in his life. None of them would have given a thought to rescuing the wretched hat themselves. And yet all of them pretended deep admiration for her mad and undignified dash after it.
And these were supposed to be her prospective husbands? She would lose patience with any one of them within a week—within a day. She would rather marry any of the men she had rejected at home. At least all of them were worthy men. She would rather marry someone of her own kind. Someone with a little sense between his two ears. What nonsense all this business of heroism was. She should have told her grace so before all this started. But of course the prospect of coming to London—and while the Season was still in progress—had been irresistible.
If there had been any doubt left in her mind about her decision not to marry a gentleman, it was put to rout as soon as she thought of Lord Francis. She had been so very glad to see him. She would have given anything to have walked off with him and forgotten about all her foolish suitors. And she was already warmed to exuberance at the thought of dancing with him again tomorrow—waltzing with him. And yet she was not thinking of Lord Francis in terms of marriage. How absurd! She felt a deep friendship for him, almost an affection—well, perhaps quite an affection.
If she could have felt so much more gladness to meet and walk with a friend, then, when eight prospective husbands had been waiting to receive her back into their admiring midst, how could she possibly take them seriously?
She would a hundred times rather spend a morning or afternoon with Edgar than with any of them. She would a thousand times rather spend them with Lord Francis. Lord Francis could make her relax and laugh. She could say anything she wished to say to him without fear of shocking him. Lord Francis liked her, she believed. She preferred to be liked than to be admired. Especially when she suspected—when she knew—that the admiration was all feigned. How could anyone possibly admire her? She looked down at Jane’s bonnet and felt her own largeness again.
No, she was not going to marry a gentleman. She was going to go home to Bristol when she decently could and keep house for Papa until her ideal man came along. If he ever did. If he did not, well, then, she would remain a spinster for the rest of her life. There were worse fates—she could be a wife to one of this morning’s eight gentlemen.
She hoped Lord Francis waltzed well. She would wager he did. He did everything else so elegantly. She had only ever waltzed with a dancing master. She looked forward
with such eagerness to twirling about a London ballroom in the arms of a gentleman with whom she could relax and perform the steps without tripping all over his feet—or her own.
She hummed a waltz tune and Jane smiled at her.
“I have promised the first waltz tomorrow evening to Lord Greenwald,” she said. “Is he not the most handsome gentleman you have ever seen in your life, Cora?”
Cora was feeling quite cheerful enough to concede the point, though she believed that to any impartial observer Edgar would have the edge.
“MUCH OBLIGED, KNELLER,” the Duke of Bridgwater said as they resumed their morning ride. “My mother made a huge mistake, I believe.”
“You believe so?” Lord Francis looked at him.
“You must confess,” his grace said, “that there was something perilously close to—vulgarity about that scene, Kneller.”
Lord Francis chuckled. “I might have chosen the word farce,” he said. “I am beginning to think that farcical situations find out Miss Downes wherever she goes in public. But she is not vulgar, Bridgwater. I must quarrel with you there.”
His grace sighed. “No, I did not call her so,” he said. “Strangely, one cannot help but like the girl. But I must admit to some uneasiness when I recall that Jane’s chief companion here is a woman who vaults down from high-perch phaetons in the middle of Rotten Row in order to rescue a few miserable curs from a danger that was doubtless more apparent than real. And one who attracts admirers like bees to flowers and then leaves my sister in the midst of them while she dashes away, all bare ankles—and even one knee, I swear, Kneller—in order to catch a runaway hat.” He sighed again, sounding considerably aggrieved.
Lord Francis could only continue to chuckle. “She showed them a thing or two, though, Bridgwater,” he said. “Apart from the ankle and knee, I mean—I missed the knee, unfortunately. The ankles were well worth looking at, though. Come, you must admit that she is refreshing. I derive enormous amusement from her. And the admirers should please you. It was for the purpose of finding her a husband that her grace brought her here, was it not?”
“A husband,” the duke said. “Singular, Kneller. I am beginning to lose sleep over the chit. She refused Bentley, you know.”
“Good,” Lord Francis said without hesitation. “The man has not enough humor with which to paint his little fingernail. He would not be amused by her at all. She can do better.”
His grace sighed yet again. “I hope Greenwald comes to the point this year,” he said. “He had to leave in a hurry last year—sick aunt or some such thing. I believe Jane has a tendre for him. How thankful I am to have only two sisters. Perhaps I will be able to concentrate on my own life once they are both settled.”
“Ah,” Lord Francis said. “You are thinking about setting up your nursery, Bridgwater?”
His grace frowned. “I had in mind other, ah, pleasures to precede that particular one,” he said, “though I suppose that is inevitable too. One tires a little of mistresses, do you not find?”
“I swore off them a year or more ago,” Lord Francis said, feeling his mood slip.
“And there is something to be said for nurseries, I suppose,” his grace said. “I never thought to see Carew so happy. Lady Carew is in a delicate way, so he informs me.”
“Yes,” Lord Francis said.
The duke looked at him sharply. “Oh, sorry, old chap,” he said. “I was not thinking.”
Lord Francis raised his eyebrows. “No harm done at all,” he said with a wave of one hand. “Ancient history.”
“Glad to hear it,” the duke said. “You are going to Brighton for the summer? You have not attached yourself to Lady Augusta’s court, I see. Maybe there will be some new beauties there.”
But Lord Francis was too busy fighting a familiar drooping of the spirits to give the matter serious thought. He concentrated on images that would perhaps restore his humor. The image of Cora Downes, for example, her skirts hitched almost to her knees, dashing across the grass, flushed and windblown and laughing, in pursuit of a ridiculous little child’s hat. Or the imagined picture of her waltzing with all her usual exuberance—in his arms.
Yes. He smiled. There was something about Cora Downes that would lift the lowest of spirits. Farce did follow her about. And a certain innocent charm. And of course she was deliciously lovely despite the bold face and tall stature. Perhaps because of them. And certainly because of the generous endowment of curves in all the right places.
“I have made no definite plans for the summer,” he said.
7
ORD FRANCIS KNEW AS SOON AS HE ARRIVED AT LADY Fuller’s ball that the Prince of Wales was expected. Not that one ever expected Prinny to honor any social invitation even if it had been duly accepted. He went where he wished to go, and no one, including the prince himself, ever knew quite where he wanted to go until the last possible moment. But at least if he had accepted an invitation, preparations were duly made.
It was clear that the Regent had accepted his invitation to Lady Fuller’s ball.
How did he know? Lord Francis asked himself rhetorically. It was easy to know. Every window and French door in the ballroom was tightly shut even though it was a warm night outside. Already, although the dancing had not even begun and all the guests had not arrived, the air was heavy with the scents of flowers and perfumes. Soon, once the dancing was in progress, it would be unbearable.
The Prince of Wales was terrified of drafts. Coveted invitations to Carlton House and the Pavilion at Brighton were also dreaded invitations. It was a physical ordeal to be a guest of Prinny or to be a guest at a function he had decided he might favor—if he was in the mood.
Lord Francis looked about him, acknowledged a few friends and acquaintances with a nod or a discreet raising of the hand, and located the Duchess of Bridgwater and her party. Her grace, her usual elegant self in dark green, was looking rather pleased with herself. As a chaperon she had good reason to be pleased. At least the largest gathering in the whole room was clustered about the two young ladies in her charge. Those about Cora Downes were almost exclusively gentlemen.
Lord Francis fingered his quizzing glass and then raised it to his eye.
“Yes, all is as it should be,” the Duke of Bridgwater said from beside him a few moments later. “He has come up to scratch.”
“Pandry?” Lord Francis frowned. The man was shorter than she was by a good two inches and he was already, at the age of five- or six-and-twenty, showing signs of portliness to come. Not to mention incipient baldness. All of which were no rational disqualifications for him as her husband. But Lord Francis hoped she would have better taste.
“Greenwald,” his grace said. “He called on me this morning and we came to a very amicable settlement. It seems the same can be said for his visit to Jane this afternoon. She is—glowing, would you not agree, Kneller?”
Lord Francis changed the direction of his glass. Yes, indeed. Lady Jane Munro was talking with Greenwald’s mother while the earl stood beside them, looking a comic mixture of smugness and sheepishness. Lady Jane herself was glowing, as Bridgwater had just said.
“My congratulations,” Lord Francis said. “Two sisters and both well settled.”
“Johnson called too this morning,” the duke said. “For Miss Downes, of course. I had to direct him to my mother since I have no authority to negotiate on her behalf. It could well be a memorable day for my mother.”
“Johnson?” Lord Francis’s brows snapped together again. Johnson had a pea for a brain. And he was at least three inches shorter than she was.
“He has a very respectable property in Berkshire,” the duke said, “and a tidy income. She will have done very well for herself if she has netted him. I had better pay my respects and kiss the bride-to-be yet again. Would you care to join me, Kneller?”
Lord Francis kissed the hand of Lady Jane a few moments later, shook the hand of Greenwald, and made his bow to the duchess. The betrothal had not been officially announced yet
, but no secret was being made of it. The cluster of people about the couple was clear proof of that.
Cora Downes was in the center of a group of gentlemen—her usual court. His use of that word gave Lord Francis a mental jolt. Only the Incomparables of the ton’s beauties ever acquired courts that gathered about them wherever they went. Lady Augusta Haville was the queen of the Incomparables at this stage of the Season. Earlier she had been a mere shadow of a rival to Samantha Newman. He and Gabriel, Earl of Thornhill, had always teased Samantha about her court. And Gabe had teased him about his membership in that court—its most devoted member.
And now Cora Downes, the most unlikely candidate of all, had acquired her own court, all within two weeks. And in the midst of it she looked quite as comfortable and quite as animated as Samantha had ever looked.
The thought that he was after all attaching himself to someone else’s court this year amused him as he wove his way to her side and smiled at her. Not that he was really a member, of course. Courting Miss Cora Downes was the very farthest thing from his mind. But he felt a certain protective instinct toward her, and some of the members of this court were not eligible suitors at all. There was one notorious fortune hunter among them, one inveterate gambler, and any number of fools. Of course, by now all his concerns might be academic. By now she might have betrothed herself to Johnson.
She tapped him on the arm with her fan and smiled brightly at him. “Pink,” she said. “It is my very favorite shade of pink.”
It was his favorite evening coat. Samantha had always teased him mercilessly about it, as had Gabe when he stayed at Chalcote just after Christmas—because Samantha had been there too, visiting her cousin, Gabe’s wife. But Miss Downes, he believed, though she smiled, was not teasing. It seemed almost as if she were—being kind to him? He had no chance to ponder the strange thought.