by Louise Allen
* * *
Two weeks and I could swear there is not the smallest space in my brain for one more fact about the peerage, one more rule about table settings, one more dance step. There is certainly not an inch of my body unpricked by dressmaker’s pins.
Cleo climbed another step and then stopped, her nose almost between the shoulder blades of the matron in front of her.
‘This will be a complete crush if the queue for the receiving line is anything to go by,’ her Aunt Madeleine said in a self-congratulatory tone. ‘I knew I could trust Almeira Hazelcroft to host something suitable for your first appearance.’
She glanced sharply at Cleo, who sent up a silent prayer that her face showed nothing but polite enjoyment, that her deportment was perfect, that she was holding her fan correctly. It had been made quite plain to her that her continued residence in London depended entirely on the effort she made to learn everything that was required of her and that she never let her upbringing show for an instant.
‘I will not be fooled by passive resistance, Cleo,’ her grandfather had warned. ‘You have shown a rebellious, outrageous temperament that must be utterly eradicated. Do you understand me?’
Yes, she understood him. And she found she feared him as she had feared nothing else in her life because she sensed he had the power to completely crush her true self out of existence. There were even long, sleepless hours when she feared he could force her into a marriage she did not want through sheer strength of will.
It had taken a fortnight of intensive lessons and fittings before she was deemed ready for this trial. If she failed to demonstrate that she could behave in every way as befitted a duke’s granddaughter then this was over before it had begun, for it would soon be June and the ton would be planning its summer escape from the heat and dust of London. If she could not cope with a ball, Lady Madeleine had pronounced, she certainly would not stand up to the constant scrutiny of a house party.
The crowd moved up several steps and shuffled to create a little more space, turning to look about them and wave to friends. Cleo, flanked by her grandfather on her right and her aunt on her left, achieved two more steps and found she had a clear view of the top of the stairs.
Quin.
Chapter Nineteen
Quin was talking to a man in scarlet dress uniform, his own corbeau-blue tailcoat and crisp white linen in startling contrast to the military magnificence. How foolish to be taken by surprise. Of course she should expect him to attend a function of this sort: he was intending to court a bride and where better to encounter her?
Anger, longing, misery mixed uncomfortably with her existing nerves. Cleo put up her chin, dropped her shoulders and drew herself up to her full height. She was not going to be sick, she was certainly not going to burst into tears. When Quin turned his head and looked directly at her, bowing his head in unsmiling greeting, she inclined hers a trifle and then looked away.
At least she could be certain he would not approach her here, not after the way they had parted. Her long jade ear-bobs swayed and she focused on the unaccustomed sensations she was experiencing. The pull of the earrings on her lobes, the weight of her hair, skilfully coiled and pinned with tiny jade-headed clips, were slight discomforts that helped her recall her posture. The warm air on her shoulders and the exposed swell of her bosom reminded her to handle the silken folds of her sea-green gown with grace.
Her aunt had decided that she was so tall that there was no point in attempting to disguise the fact and, as she was a widow and not an unmarried girl, pastels need not be adhered to. Neither fish nor fowl, she thought now. Neither a virgin nor a matron. Quin’s teasing from one day in Egypt came back to her. Queen of the Nile. If she could concentrate on being Cleopatra, then her fear of disgracing herself would not show.
They arrived at the landing, turned left and reached the receiving line. Cleo shook hands with her hosts and was swept into the crush of the ballroom.
Sheer will-power carried her along in the wake of the duke until he stopped in an alcove with a number of gilt chairs framed by ferns. ‘Will this do, Madeleine?’
‘Admirably, thank you, Papa.’ He strolled off and her aunt sat down. ‘Stand slightly behind me with your hand on the back of the chair, allow yourself to be seen,’ she commanded. Ladies approached, were introduced. Some sat and beckoned to daughters or nieces to join them. Cleo dipped curtsies, bowed, tried to remember names. And smiled.
She was being stared at, she knew. From the other side of the ferns she heard a conversation, the whispers not quite low enough.
‘They say she and her father were stranded in the desert and rescued from savage tribesman by a French officer! Can you imagine! And so she had to marry him to secure his protection for herself and her father. And then there was a battle and he was killed and her father—the scholar Sir Philip Woodward, you know—he bravely took a small boat down the Nile—’
‘My dear! The crocodiles!’
‘I know, I was aghast! But fortunately they encountered our valiant army besieging Cairo and were saved. And Miss Woodward—she is not using her French name, and who can blame her, poor child?—was escorted home by some wealthy merchant’s wife. Not good ton of course, but utterly respectable.’
‘Good heavens. So now she is with her grandfather, St Osyth. Quite a catch, I imagine, despite the French husband. Handsome girl. Have you seen her gown? One of Madame Rochester’s, if I do not mistake. And that jade set—unconventional, but I suppose as she is actually a widow...’
‘Cleo, my dear!’
‘Yes, Aunt Madeleine?’
‘Lady Jersey is coming this way.’
One of the patronesses of Almack’s, one of the leaders of the ton. Cleo felt herself shivering with nerves. If she got this wrong, she was doomed from the outset.
* * *
The next half hour passed in a daze. Cleo maintained her poise, her smile and, apparently, her wits, although she had no clear idea of what she said to anyone. Lady Jersey was pleased to be interested and amused by her exotic story, gentlemen joined the group. Perhaps I can do this after all.
‘Lord Dryton, good evening.’ Lady Madeleine fluttered her fan and beamed on the gentleman who had just joined the group.
That was very warm. Suspicious, Cleo tried to study him without staring. Dark, olive-skinned, lean with firm lips and deep lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth. He bowed to her aunt and smiled. Cleo took an involuntary step back. I do not like you, my lord.
‘Lady Madeleine, such a pleasure to see you again. Do, please, introduce me to the young lady I believe is your niece. I have been hearing such exciting tales of perilous escapes.’ His voice was deep and pleasant, but his smile did not reach his eyes. They seemed to slide over her body before returning to her face.
‘Of course. Cleo, my dear, here is a good neighbour of ours in Somerset, Lord Dryton. My lord, Miss Woodward.’
She curtsied as she had been taught and found a smile to curve her lips. ‘My lord.’
‘You have had an exciting time of it, it seems, Miss Woodward.’
‘The stories of crocodiles were exaggerated, my lord,’ Cleo said. But I think I have one standing in front of me.
Lord Dryton shot her a look from under his dark brows as though he suspected her of levity. ‘Excellent. You will do me the honour of a dance, I hope?’
‘My lord.’ She proffered her empty dance card and he wrote his name against the dance immediately after supper, bowed and left.
‘Deverall, my dear fellow. You are back in town.’
Cleo dropped her reticule and someone picked it up. She murmured her thanks. I must not show any particular interest in Quin.
The rest of the group glanced in his direction, several people nodded and smiled and the buzz of conversation grew. Quin was obviously known and liked. Cleo’s hands moved of their own accord—to reach out and touch him or to slap that clean-shaven, handsome face with its easy diplomatic smile? She clenched them on her fan.
‘Lord Quintus,’ she returned, amazed to find she could speak with perfect control. ‘We meet again. Lord Quintus was on the same ship that I travelled on from Alexandria, Aunt Madeleine.’
Lady Madeleine knew the true story, of course, but her self-control was perfect. ‘Indeed, my dear?’ There was a smile on her lips and a clear warning in her eyes.
‘It was a fleeting acquaintance, ma’am, to my regret,’ Quin said. ‘I am a martyr to seasickness and spent most of that wretched journey confined to my cabin.’ That little lie was going to get him unmercifully teased by some of his acquaintance, Cleo could tell from the grins on the faces of the men. ‘I must do my best to make up for my lack of utility now. Might I beg the honour of a dance, Miss Woodward?’
The correct behaviour for dealing with requests to dance had been drilled into Cleo. Provided her chaperon had approved the gentleman, then she must accept if there were any dances left on her card. She’d had not the slightest excuse for refusing Lord Dryton, nor would Quin believe her card was full. Even pleading fatigue when the time came would not save her from either man—she must still accept, but ask to sit out and talk. Aunt Madeleine appeared to approve of Quin as a partner so there was no help there.
She was supposed to look at her card, pretend it was almost full, even if it was not, but she could not play those games with Quin. Cleo looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘They are all free but one, my lord.’
Her aunt gave a little moan as Cleo offered him the card and waited for his choice. He was wearing cologne, subtle and provocative.
‘This set then, if I may?’ He wrote his initials against the dances immediately before supper. ‘And this.’ He added the last country dance set, handed the card back, bowed and stepped back out of the group as the other men pressed forward, all eager to claim a dance now her chaperon had signalled her availability.
* * *
The dancing master they had found for her had been excellent and demanding. Cleo had drilled every day for a fortnight and gave silent thanks for the fact that she was fit and supple and had good natural co-ordination. It was different dancing to a full string orchestra and in a crowded ballroom, but she was fortunate in her partners and there were no mishaps to earn her a reproof when she was returned to her aunt after the quadrille.
Quin, she had seen, had been dancing with a lively, freckled brunette and the pair of them appeared to be able to negotiate the tricky dance with ease and chat while they did so. She found her gaze was following him and kept her eyes forward with an effort. He looked as home on the dance floor as he had when moving around the felucca.
He returned the freckled girl to her mama and came to collect Cleo for the country dances before she had come to any decision about how to treat him.
‘What is wrong?’ he asked, low-voiced, as they waited for the set to form.
‘Wrong?’ She glanced down at her skirts, lifted one hand to her nape as though to check her hair was still pinned securely. ‘What do you mean?’ He shot her a quizzical look and she realised he was not deceived for a moment. ‘Perhaps you think I should be pleased to see you. I can assure you, Lord Quintus, that only the constraints of good manners stop me slapping your face.’
‘You look perfect,’ Quin told her. Either he did not believe she would do anything so rash or he was a magnificent actor. ‘You are beautiful.’
‘Why, thank you, my lord.’ She knew she was colouring up, just as though that was a genuine accolade. ‘Praise from you is to be treasured.’ Anyone overhearing would have taken that at its face value, unless, of course, they had heard the tremble of anger in her voice.
Quin moved closer and the familiar scent of him swept through her senses. ‘I know you are angry with me and I understand why. But it is more than that, isn’t it? You are afraid. Tell me, what is wrong?’
‘You put me in a position where I had to accept a dance with you when all I want is never to see you again, that is all,’ she murmured back.
‘That might well make you irritated,’ Quin agreed. ‘It would not make you fearful—and you were that already on the stairs. Don’t deny it, Cleo. I know you too well.’
‘Do you? No, I do not think so.’ She knew her expression was under control, but to her own ears her voice held a betraying thread of yearning. Don’t let him realise. Please don’t let him see I love him.
‘Cleo—’
‘We cannot talk here.’ The music struck up, partners bowed and curtsied.
‘No.’ Quin took her hand and moved into the first circle. ‘But I have reserved the supper dance.’ He tightened his grip on her hand as though he thought she would make a bolt for it.
‘You may relax your grip, my lord. Or do you think the prospect of crossing swords with you over a plate of cakes would send me into retreat?’
‘Nothing makes you flee, Cleo.’ Then he fell silent as if he realised that she needed every ounce of concentration to weave through the measures of the dance.
I can do this. Their circle formed, advanced, split up and reformed with half of the dancers from the adjoining group. A pretty blonde stepped forward to take her place in the centre.
‘Lord Quintus,’ she said with an enchanting smile. ‘You are back in England!’
‘As you see, Lady Caroline.’ Quin advanced and took her hand and the circle closed around them. Cleo’s hands were taken by the men on either side and somehow she kept on dancing.
Lady Caroline Brooke, the woman Quin intended courting, the prospective bride who would be perfect for his career. How lovely she is. Her blonde curls bobbed around her pretty, heart-shaped face with the movement of the dance steps and her skin was flushed pink with the exertion of the dance. As the central pair turned Quin’s eyes met Cleo’s. He had remembered he had told her about Lady Caroline, she realised. And he could see she had guessed who the other woman was. But what does it matter? He does not know I care.
‘How nice to see you back in England again, Lord Quintus,’ Caroline said brightly as he turned her under their clasped hands. ‘You must call.’
‘You may be sure of it.’
To Cleo’s ears that sounded remarkably like a declaration.
* * *
‘What are those?’ Almost two hours later Cleo sat and studied the intricate little pastries on the heaped plate Quin placed before her. She knew she was pink-cheeked and she knew she was breathless, but she could only hope he thought that was the result of the energetic set they had just danced. ‘I...I mean, thank you, Lord Quintus, that looks delightful.’
‘Those are an assortment of savouries, including a fair number of lobster patties, which I thought you might like. They are delicious but, naturally you must only nibble at them, pretending you have no appetite, despite the fact that they are the product of Gunter’s fabled kitchens.’
‘I know. Yet another ridiculous convention. Ladies have no appetites. Of any sort,’ she added darkly, and Quin swallowed a laugh choked on pastry crumbs.
She told herself she could do this, pretend to be indifferent, as though she was prepared to forgive him in a ladylike manner, but wanted no closer acquaintance with him than an exchange of small talk over supper. Fortunately she had danced every set between the country dances and the moment when he came to claim her again for the supper set. Her shock at coming face to face with his prospective bride must surely be hidden by now.
Quin looked around as if confirming that their little table squashed into a corner was out of earshot of any of the nearby tables, each with their chattering group. She had wondered at him choosing it when so many better-placed tables had been available, now she realised he was preparing for a tête-à-tête.
‘Cleo, tell me what is wrong. And don’t pretend it is simply that you want to run me through with a dagger or you are exasperated by lessons in ladylike behaviour.’
She pushed a patty around her plate with her fork. ‘Why should I confid
e in you? You will probably go straight to my grandfather and report whatever I say to him.’
‘No, I will not. Cleo, you know I did the right thing in bringing you to him. The only possible thing. My fault was in not explaining to you beforehand, but I thought you would run away from me.’ He hesitated, and she had the inexplicable feeling that what he said next was somehow of deep significance. ‘Cleo, I give you my word of honour that I am not hiding anything from you and that what you tell me will go no further.
‘Are you so very unhappy?’ Quin asked. ‘Truly I believe this is the best for you, the safest thing. You probably still feel very alone, but that will pass. This will all become familiar, you will make friends, make a new life.’ He laid his hand over hers on the table and Cleo stiffened, then left hers where it was. A dangerous indulgence if he could read her erratic pulse aright.
‘Yes, I am unhappy,’ she agreed, making no attempt to lighten the words with a brave smile.
‘Does it seem intolerably superficial and frivolous?’
She shrugged.
‘What is wrong, Cleo?’
‘I feel better now the evening is half over. But you see I have to do this perfectly or my grandfather will exile me in the country with my great-aunt. I thought I would have at least until my twenty-fifth birthday, eighteen months away, to find a husband he approves of. He told me that if I do not behave as he thinks fit, or fail to consider honestly proposals made to me, then I will be banished earlier. This is my first major social event. At first I feared that I would get it all wrong, that I would fail at the first hurdle and it would all be over before I can find a way to get some money together and somehow live my own life.’
‘It must seem daunting, a mountain of things to learn, a quicksand of social pitfalls.’ There was no sympathy in his voice, only bracing encouragement. ‘You are good at languages, this is just another language to learn,’ he said as she sat silent. ‘You are doing wonderfully already. You dance well, you look both elegant and beautiful. Soon you will feel at home and realise that this is where you belong. You see your grandfather in the light of an ogre, but he is not that really, is he?’