by Sandra Heath
As the ländler proceeded, her gaze moved idly over the dancers, coming to rest suddenly upon her cousin Elizabeth. The gaze immediately became critical, taking in every inch of Elizabeth’s appearance, and conceding a little reluctantly that the apricot satin and plowman’s gauze became her very well indeed.
Then, at last, Isobel’s glance moved on to the gentleman with whom her cousin was dancing. Her heart stood still as she saw his pale, romantic face, his thick dark hair, and his thoughtful hazel eyes. It was Childe Harold. Her fan became still, and for a moment she was deaf to the sounds of the ball. She heard her heart begin to beat again, and then the strains of the orchestra became audible once more. Who was he? She had to meet him!
A flush appeared on her cheeks, and a new light shone in her green eyes as she rose slowly to her feet. She had found her Childe Harold, now she meant to win him.
Chapter 2
Lord Justin Fanshaw was a chinless, freckled young man with protruding teeth and receding sandy hair. He had worshipped Isobel from the moment she entered the ballroom, and now his eyes brightened as he saw her approaching.
“Lady Isobel?”
“Lord Justin.”
“Would…would you care for some lime cup?” he asked.
“That would be most agreeable,” she replied, allowing him to conduct her to one of the many sofas arranged around the edge of the ballroom.
She sat down, still watching the ländler as a glass of the cup was procured from a footman’s tray. She waited until Lord Justin had sat down next to her, before she nodded toward Elizabeth and her partner. “Lord Justin, who is the gentleman dancing with my cousin Elizabeth?”
“Your cousin?” He searched the crowded floor. “Ah, yes. She is with Sir Alexander Norrington, Lady Isobel.”
Sir Alexander? The man she was to marry? Isobel’s heart sank with quick disappointment. So her Childe Harold was not unattached and free, but would soon make Elizabeth his bride.
Lord Justin was curious. “I confess I find it a little strange that you do not know Sir Alexander, Lady Isobel. After all, if he is about to be betrothed to your cousin…?”
“It is just that I have not yet been introduced to him,” Isobel replied. “Elizabeth and I have not seen a great deal of each other since I have come to London. All I know is that it is to be a love match.”
“A love match? Yes, so I understand, although when I think of the lady’s first marriage…” Lord Justin coughed a little awkwardly, for he had almost been indiscreet.
Isobel looked quickly at him. “Yes? Do go on, sir.”
“Well, it isn’t any of my business, Lady Isobel.”
“Please say what was on the tip of your tongue, Lord Justin.”
“It’s just that I was acquainted with your cousin’s first husband, James French, indeed I attended their wedding. They were so very happy together, and I thought them the perfect match, but it seems that James was not the fellow I took him for.”
“My aunt told me that James French turned out to be a wicked rakehell, Lord Justin.”
“Eh? Er—yes, he did, although it did not seem that way in the beginning. That was what I was about to say, for when I observe the lady with Sir Alexander, and then recall how it was when she was with James, I simply cannot believe…”
“Yes?” Isobel prompted.
“Really, Lady Isobel, I should not say anything more. I fear I may have consumed one glass of champagne too many.”
“I’m sure you haven’t, sir,” Isobel answered quickly, anxious to find out more. “What is it that you cannot believe about my cousin?”
“That she is as in love with Sir Alexander as he is with her.”
“Do you really doubt on that score, Lord Justin?”
“Look, I’ve said more than I should. Please forget that I’ve said anything at all, Lady Isobel.” He was now very uncomfortable indeed.
She smiled. “But I will not say anything to anyone, Lord Justin. I promise to be all that is discreet. “
He looked adoringly at her. “Oh, I’m sure you will, Lady Isobel,” he said.
Her glance returned to the dancing, and to Elizabeth and Alexander. If what Lord Justin said was true, and Elizabeth did not return Alexander’s love as she should, then might there not be a chance that the betrothal would never take place?
The ländler came to an end, and Elizabeth and Alexander left the floor, evidently not intending to join the next dance. Chance took them to a nearby sofa, but Elizabeth did not detect her young cousin’s intense interest.
The master-of-ceremonies announced the new cotillion again, and there was a ripple of applause, for there wasn’t a person present who did not enjoy L’Echange. A smile began to play upon Isobel’s lips. L’Echange, with its change of partners and kiss on the lips, was the perfect way of not only meeting Sir Alexander Norrington, but of meeting him in a very exciting and romantic way!
She turned suddenly to Lord Justin. “I would very much like to dance, sir.”
“Eh? Oh, yes, rather. Anything you wish, Lady Isobel,” he replied, relieving her of her glass and then getting up.
As he held out his white-gloved hand, she glanced again toward Elizabeth. “Shall we invite my cousin and Sir Alexander to form the other half of our set?” she suggested.
He looked a little uncomfortable again. “By all means, Lady Isobel, but you will bear in mind that everything I said to you was in the strictest confidence?”
“Of course.” She smiled.
* * * *
Elizabeth looked up as they reached the sofa, and she was a little taken aback to see the warm smile on Isobel’s lips. “Why, good evening again, Isobel,” she murmured.
“Hello, Elizabeth. Lord Justin and I were hoping that you and Sir Alexander would join us for the new cotillion.” Isobel was able to look into Alexander’s eyes at last, and her heart seemed to skip a beat. Close to her he was even more as she perceived Childe Harold, and she secretly crossed her fingers that Elizabeth would agree to the dance. In a few minutes now the shocking new cotillion might sweep her into this man’s arms, and bring her lips to his…
Elizabeth was a little puzzled as to why her cousin would wish them to dance, for until now Isobel could not have been less interested in her. “Actually, Isobel, we thought we would sit this dance out.”
“Oh, please don’t do that.” Isobel turned to Alexander. “Please join us,” she begged, her lovely green eyes luminous and beseeching.
He succumbed. “Of course we will,” he replied, smiling down at Elizabeth. “One more measure, my love?”
She returned the smile. “Oh, very well,” she agreed, accepting the hand he extended.
The two couples made their way through the crush to a small space, and took up their positions just as the orchestra prepared to strike up. Isobel’s whole body was now trembling with expectation. Soon she would feel his arms around her, and he would kiss her on the lips.
The orchestra began to play, and the sea of dancers twisted and turned to the jaunty melody. Cotillions were so named because of the swirling of the ladies’ skirts, and L’Echange involved a great deal of such swirling. Isobel knew that she looked exquisite as she danced, and that the clinging white muslin of her gown outlined her willowy figure to perfection. Handkerchief favors were given and forfeited, hands touched, the gentlemen’s arms rested briefly around their ladies’ waists, and there was a great deal of laughter and amusement as the guests endeavored to remember the complicated measure.
L’Echange drew toward its diverting conclusion, and as the final bars rang out there was much merriment as the ladies twisted and twirled toward their new partners, who took them in their arms and kissed them on the lips.
Isobel was almost weak with anticipation as Alexander took her hands and drew her toward him. She closed her eyes, and her lips were soft and pliable beneath his. She longed to slip her arms around him, to embrace him passionately in front of everyone, but she knew that that would be a faux pas of the highes
t order. And so instead she savored the few brief seconds of intimacy, and as he released her she knew her fate had been sealed. This was the only man for her, and if she could win him for herself, then she would. He was her Childe Harold, and Elizabeth was not the bride for him.
Elizabeth was relieved when Lord Justin let her go, for not only was he a clumsy dancer, but his kiss was so enthusiastic that his protruding teeth dug into her lips. As both couples left the floor, Isobel turned smilingly to her cousin. “Elizabeth, we’ve hardly seen each other since I came to town, and I would so like to talk to you. May I call soon?”
Elizabeth was astonished. Isobel wished to call upon her? “Yes, of course. Please call whenever you wish.”
“Oh, thank you.” Isobel looked at Alexander again. “Why, I do believe that in the rush of joining the dance, you and I were not properly introduced, Sir Alexander.”
Elizabeth gave a brief laugh. “Isobel, this is Sir Alexander Norrington. Alexander, my cousin, Lady Isobel Crawford.”
He took Isobel’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Isobel.”
“And I yours, Sir Alexander,” she replied, giving him a shy smile. “How very shocking that we should have danced such a scandalous dance without a formal introduction.”
“Shocking indeed,” he murmured, returning the smile.
She knew she had prolonged the moment as long as she could, and so reluctantly allowed Lord Justin to escort her back to their sofa, but she glanced back over her shoulder, anxious to look at Alexander as much as she could. He was everything she had ever dreamed of, and she wanted him desperately.
Alexander knew nothing of Isobel’s interest, for his attention was on Elizabeth. “The master-of-ceremonies has announced a polonaise. Would you like to dance again?”
“I think not, for my feet begin to ache from all the tripping around. Let us go to the supper room and sample some of Gunter’s fare. Maybe we will be able to find a quiet corner.”
“Quiet corners are at a premium here tonight, but we will see what we can find,” he replied, taking her hand and drawing it over the black velvet of his sleeve.
They found an unoccupied sofa by the entrance of the supper room, and sat down to enjoy a glass of chilled champagne, and a little of Mr. Gunter’s excellent cold chicken salad. After a moment Alexander mentioned Isobel again.
“Tell me, are all the ladies in your family as lovely as you and your cousin?”
“From which question I take it that Isobel meets with your approval?”
“How could I not find her enchanting?”
Elizabeth pursed her lips philosophically for a moment. “Well, I have to concede that on tonight’s performance she is indeed very engaging, but I also have to say that this Isobel is rather different from the one I’ve encountered hitherto. The other Isobel was a spoiled brat as a child, and hasn’t seemed much better as an adult. She is quite carried away by all things romantic. My aunt tells me that she reads Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage all the time, and that she was infatuated with Lord Byron until he was inexcusably rude to her one night.”
“Poor Lady Isobel.”
“Poor Lady Isobel gave as good as she got, from all accounts, and left his lordship smarting over his inability to dance.”
“Good for her. He needs taking down a peg or three,” Alexander replied with feeling. “He certainly is not the sort of fellow I would approve of for Lady Isobel.”
“I agree, indeed I’ve been hearing some very shocking whispers about his dealings with his half-sister, Mrs. Leigh.”
Alexander pretended to be appalled. “Madam, you should not know about such things.”
“But I’m a woman of the world, sir, a widow no less, and so I am permitted to know about such things.”
“It still isn’t seemly.”
She grinned at him. “You’re right, of course, so I will not tell you everything I’ve heard about Lord Byron and Mrs. Leigh.”
He was intrigued. “What, exactly, have you heard?”
“Oh, I cannot possibly shock you by saying, sir.”
He smiled. “You’re a wretch, Elizabeth French.”
“I know.”
A footman came to take away their empty plates and to replenish their glasses of champagne. When Elizabeth spoke again it was of something else entirely.
“What were you and Tom Crichton so engrossed about earlier?”
“It seems Marcus Sheridan may be back in England.”
She looked blankly at him. “Is that supposed to convey something to me? Who is Marcus Sheridan?”
“To give him his full title, he is Marcus Jonathan Philip Louis Sheridan, eighth Duke of Arlingham, Lord Rainford, and Baron de Valence of Princeleigh.”
“Good heavens, how very impressive.” Then her brows drew together. “Duke of Arlingham? But I thought the line died out a year or so ago.”
“Marcus’s father, the seventh duke, died not long ago, but the line itself most definitely did not. Marcus and his father did not get on at all, something about the old man never forgiving him for his mother’s death giving birth to him. Anyway, they were always virtually at daggers drawn, and in the end Marcus couldn’t endure it anymore. He upped and took himself off to America about ten years ago, and no one heard from him again.”
“Until now.”
“So it seems. Ten years is a long time, and although Marcus, Tom Crichton, and I were inseparable at Cambridge, it’s difficult to be certain of recognizing someone again, especially if that person does not respond when hailed. Tom was driving his cabriolet out of Knightsbridge toward Kensington when he saw a horseman riding toward Mayfair. Now, I realize that Tom is often in his cups when he goes home at night, but he swears that this time he was quite sober. He is certain that the other fellow was Marcus, but although he called out to him, there was no reply, indeed he thinks the man increased his speed in order to avoid speaking. It’s very curious.”
“Perhaps the man didn’t hear Tom calling.”
“Tom is certain he did.”
Elizabeth shrugged a little. “If it was Marcus, why would he ignore an old friend?”
“I have no idea at all, but as I’ve already said, ten years is a long time, and the Lord knows what Marcus is like now. He was always something of a tear-away, and could be the very devil with the fair sex, but then with looks like his he could hardly fail. Anyway, Tom hasn’t left any stones unturned, and has made inquiries all around, but no one knows anything about Marcus being back here or not. Tom has even sent a letter to Rainworth Priory, in case Marcus has gone there.”
“I thought Rainworth was sold after the old duke’s death,” Elizabeth replied.
He looked at her in some surprise, and then smiled. “Of course, you would hear about Rainworth through Lady Isobel and her family, for it isn’t far from Southwell Park, is it?”
“About seven miles. Rainworth is in the heart of Sherwood Forest, Southwell Park is on the edge. Anyway, it was my uncle who thought the priory had been sold. It seems there were notices up to the effect that it was for sale, but that then they were taken down again. No one moved in, but everyone believes it was sold. All the staff are still there, I gather.”
“It’s possible that Marcus sold it, I really wouldn’t know.” Alexander sipped his champagne. “Oh, it would be good to see him again.”
“Then I hope that you and Tom Crichton run him to earth.”
They looked up at that moment, because Isobel came hurrying in to find them. She was the picture of flusterment and charming apology, pausing to bite her lip for a moment before addressing Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth, I’m afraid I’ve taken rather a liberty, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“What liberty?”
“Well, Aunt Avery has a headache and has left, but I wanted to stay, and so I told her a little fib. I said that you had offered to take me home should she decide to leave early.” Isobel lowered her eyes guiltily. “I know I should not hav
e said it, but I’m enjoying the ball so much that I couldn’t bear to go just yet.”
Alexander had risen to his feet the moment she joined them, and he was now at immediate pains to reassure her. “Lady Isobel, please do not think anything more of it. We would be delighted to take you home.”
“Oh, thank you. You’re very kind and understanding, Sir Alexander,” Isobel breathed.
He smiled.
Chapter 3
The Duke of Devonshire’s guests departed as the first gray light of dawn marked the January sky. Occasional snowflakes drifted in the frozen air, as they had from time to time in recent days, and it was so cold that the crowds of onlookers had long since retired to the warmth of their homes.
London was quiet as Alexander’s carriage drove west along an almost deserted Piccadilly, en route first for Park Lane, to take Isobel home to Aunt Avery’s house, and then for Kensington, and Oakgrove House. There was no conversation in the carriage, they were all too tired for that, but Isobel hummed softly to herself as she gazed out at the empty pavements. The tune she chose was the melody from L’Echange, and it wasn’t the London scene that she saw, but the dance floor at Devonshire House, and Childe Harold as he took her in his arms to kiss her on the lips.
She sat opposite Elizabeth and Alexander, looking lovely in a hooded white swansdown cloak that was trimmed at the front with little red satin bows. The soft swansdown framed her face, and her hair and tiara were not entirely concealed, so that her diamonds sparkled and flashed in the light from passing street lamps. She had seldom left her cousin’s side since confessing to having fibbed to Aunt Avery, and thus she had managed to spend a great deal of time in Alexander’s company. Each moment with him had served to reinforce her desire to win him, for there was something about him that captured her imagination. When she looked at his pale face, she saw a melancholy soul in need of her comfort, and when she imagined a shadow in his eyes, she thought of dark secrets bravely borne. She reminded herself of what Lord Justin had said, and told herself that her cousin Elizabeth was not as deeply in love with Alexander as she should be. If Elizabeth’s heart were not fully committed to the forthcoming betrothal, then was it so wrong to set out to break the relationship by stealing the prospective bridegroom? No, it wasn’t wrong at all, in fact it was almost justified. Isobel continued to hum L’Echange, a tune that was particularly appropriate to her situation, for just as the shocking new cotillion concluded with a change of partner, so she meant to see to it that Sir Alexander Norrington changed partners as well, from Mrs. Elizabeth French to Lady Isobel Crawford.