Polly raised her brows. The Dowager Countess was very high in the instep and would never countenance such guests at one of her own events, but not all ton hostesses were as discerning. A moment later, Polly heard her mother give a stifled groan, halfway between a shriek and a moan, almost as though she were in pain. The Dowager Countess had stopped dead in the middle of the marbled floor.
Polly stopped too and turned enquiringly to her mother. “Mama, are you quite well?”
“Yes, only look! No, not over there…over by that pillar! The strumpet!”
Startled, Polly turned to scan the room. There were plenty of faces she recognised, but none surely to give rise to such vehemence in the Dowager Countess’s breast. Why, her mother had gone quite pale, though whether with shock, anger or illness it was impossible to tell. Then, she saw the reason.
“Good Lord—” The exclamation had escaped before she could help herself.
“Polly, you will not take the name of the Lord in vain!” the Dowager Countess said energetically. She seemed slightly restored by her daughter’s inadvertent slip into blasphemy.
“Yes, Mama, I am sorry, but it is Peter and—”
“I am as capable as the next person of recognising your brother,” the Dowager snapped. “We cannot acknowledge him, however! Come this way! Thank God that Nicholas and Lucille are not present tonight! That brass-faced trollop is always trying to embarrass us!” She took Polly’s arm in a tight grip and positively pulled her towards the ballroom.
“I thought that Peter had taken up with Lady Leverstoke,” Polly said, obediently allowing herself to be steered away with only one backward glance.
“Humph! I never thought to consider Maria Leverstoke as the lesser of two evils—” The Dowager broke off to give a tight-lipped smile to one of her acquaintance. “On no account must you allow your brother to approach you,” she continued, as they squeezed past the orchestra to appropriate two rout chairs in an inconspicuous corner. “It would be quite unacceptable!”
“Perhaps it would be easier for us to go home,” Polly said, a little dispiritedly. It was bad enough to be confronted by the prospect of Lord Henry flirting all evening with some fast-looking matron, but the thought of avoiding her own brother seemed quite ridiculous. Here, however, she ran up against the Dowager Countess’s stubborn streak.
“Go home! And have everyone say that that trollop has ousted us? Certainly not! Besides…” the Dowager looked around surreptitiously “…I most particularly wish to see Agatha Calvert tonight! She has not been up in Town this age and we have so much to catch up on!”
“Surely Lady Calvert can call on you tomorrow—”
The Dowager Countess looked disgusted. “Have you no pride, Polly? I assure you that the Cyprian will not drive me away!”
Polly smiled slightly. She could see her brother Peter coming into the ballroom at that very moment, threatening to put his mother’s resolution to the test. Lucille had mentioned Peter’s sudden descent into questionable company, but even she had apparently been unaware of this latest disaster. For with Peter Seagrave was none other than Lucille’s sister, the notorious Cyprian Susanna Bolt, in a dress of the most outrageous plunging black silk and ostrich feathers.
“Peter, what can you be doing!”
“Why, I’m talkin’ to my own sister!” Lord Peter Seagrave said, with pardonable indignation. “What could be more suitable?”
“You know that is not what I meant!” Polly looked up at him with asperity, feeling her annoyance begin to melt at the limpid innocence in those dark Seagrave eyes. It was so very difficult to be angry with Peter for long. Whilst Polly and Nicholas had inherited something of their father’s gravity, Peter had a gaiety and insouciance that was almost irresistible. “Oh, Peter, how could you squire Susanna Bolt about and embarrass Mama so?”
Peter looked affronted. “Mama ain’t embarrassed by me! Why, she’s nose to nose with Agatha Calvert and has barely noticed me!”
“Only because she has not seen Lady Calvert for an age!” Polly looked across to where the two matrons were chatting nineteen to the dozen. “I assure you, she would not have allowed me to even speak with you else! Supposing Lady Bolt approaches us?”
“Lady Bolt is almost one of the family,” Peter added virtuously, but unable to repress a slight twinkle, “and I am sure Mama would not slight a relative!”
“Fustian!” Polly was also trying not to smile. “Oh, this is too bad of you, Peter! I dare swear it is not for the family connection that you have sought her company!”
“Careful, Poll!”
“Well, if you are setting Lady Bolt up as your inamorata—”
“Polly!”
“Oh, I collect that it is acceptable for a gentleman to have such a thing, but not for ladies to refer to her?” Polly frowned at her brother. “And if you try to tell me that Lady Bolt has become respectable since her marriage I will count you a greater fool than I already do! What of Hetty, Peter?”
The amusement went out of Peter Seagrave’s face like a candle blown out. He studied the dancers with sudden intentness. “Miss Markham and I are no longer…That is, we have agreed that we would not suit.”
“Oh, Peter!” Polly looked up at him, genuinely shocked. Peter swung gently back on his rout chair, feigning nonchalance.
“It was only last summer that you were bowled over by her,” Polly added reproachfully.
“Miss Markham was a different girl last summer.” Peter was looking both annoyed and upset now. “Unspoilt, sweet-natured…It took only six weeks in Town to turn her into the type of silly simpering debutante that I detest! Besides,” he added bitterly, “she is after bigger game than me now!”
Polly was silent. She could hardly deny that Hetty had behaved very foolishly, flirting with any titled and personable man who had shown her attention and treating Peter in a most offhand way. She put her hand on her brother’s arm.
“It is only that her head was turned a little,” she pleaded. “Please will you reconsider—”
“Peter, darling!”
Peter rose to his feet, a schoolboy blush in his cheeks as Susanna Bolt put a gloved hand caressingly on his shoulder. The Cyprian gave Polly an appraising look and her feline smile. “Lady Polly…”
“Lady Bolt,” Polly said coldly. She marvelled at how different two sisters could be. There was a clear innocence about Lucille Seagrave which contrasted starkly with the predatory sexuality of her twin. Lady Bolt might have achieved a fragile respectability through her recent marriage, Polly thought, but her previous activities continued much as before, encouraged, some said, by Sir Edwin Bolt himself. Susanna’s blue gaze, as hard as the diamonds she preferred, raked Polly and dismissed her as an unworthy rival.
“Peter…” this time she trailed her fingers gently down his shirtfront “…you promised me you would play deep this evening…” The phrase was loaded with so much innuendo that Peter Seagrave looked acutely uncomfortable and his sister almost surprised herself by giggling. Doubtless she should have felt shocked, but Lady Bolt was so superlatively overdramatic that it was almost impossible to take her seriously.
“Do not let me keep you from your entertainments, Peter,” she said sweetly, and watched Susanna steer her sheepish brother away towards the cardroom.
There was a quadrille in progress, but Polly had refused a number of requests to dance because it was so hot and she had felt disinclined to become even more heated and flustered. The Dowager Lady Seagrave had moved away temporarily to chat with Lady Calvert and a number of other senior matrons, and when she had seen Peter approach his sister she had not troubled herself to disturb them despite her earlier words. The Dowager knew that Polly had so much Town bronze that she need not trouble herself to chaperon her too closely. After all, apart from one regrettable incident five years ago, her daughter had never given her cause to worry. Nevertheless, she kept her firmly within eyesight.
Peter’s rout chair was only vacant for a moment, then a voice said ingr
atiatingly, “Lady Polly! Vision of loveliness! I bring succour!”
Polly stifled a sigh.
“Sir Marmaduke. How do you do, sir?”
Sir Marmaduke Shipley gazed languishingly at her. An ageing roué, he was a gazetted fortune-hunter who liked to think that he was dangerous. A certain indulgent smile on the face of the Dowager Countess as she looked across at her daughter gave the lie to this. Sir Marmaduke handed Polly a glass and took the seat beside her with an ostentatious flick of his coattails.
The room was getting more and more humid and the drink was very welcome. Polly, who had been intending to be very chilly towards the lecherous Sir Marmaduke, found herself smiling gratefully at him instead.
“What exquisite looks you are in tonight, my lady,” Sir Marmaduke murmured, his breath hot against Polly’s neck. “Dare I hope that you will smile on me?”
“I doubt it, sir!” Polly said smartly, taking a mouthful of the drink. It was certainly not lemonade, but it tasted rather pleasantly fruity and quite innocuous, light and refreshing for a summer night. She took another sip.
“Still so cruel, divine one?” Sir Marmaduke’s dissolute gaze roved over her familiarly. Lady Polly Seagrave had never been an accredited beauty, but there was nevertheless something very alluring about her, he thought. Tonight, in the deep aquamarine which was rather daring for an unmarried lady, albeit one of more mature years than the debutantes, she looked particularly attractive. Her dark hair was upswept and restrained with a diamond studded slide but she wore no jewels other than a string of pearls that had the same translucent glow as her skin. She did not need adornment. Sir Marmaduke’s eyes lingered in lascivious appreciation. Whilst the dragonish Dowager was fully occupied, he intended to take full advantage of this unexpected tête-à-tête.
Polly sighed again. She had far too much assurance to feel threatened by Sir Marmaduke’s slimy overtures. In a crowded ballroom she was in no danger from him, other than of being bored to death by his unwelcome compliments.
“So your young brother has fallen for the lure,” Sir Marmaduke said, abandoning flattery and pursuing a more scandalous line. “Never did a lamb go more happily to the slaughter! The on-dit is that the lovely Susanna had a mind to take him away from her foster sister, and what chance did Miss Markham’s untried charms have against such a wealth of experience?”
Polly was shocked, but tried not to show it. It had not occurred to her that Peter’s flirtation with Susanna Bolt was anything more than a coincidence. She knew a little of Lady Bolt’s activities, far more in fact than her mother would have thought proper, and now that she thought about it she remembered hearing of more than one occasion when Susanna had set out to destroy a couple’s happiness. But her own foster sister? It argued a particularly harsh and jealous nature.
“Indeed?” Polly murmured, refusing to rise to Sir Marmaduke’s bait. “I do not care for this conversation, sir.”
“No?” Sir Marmaduke’s gaze moved thoughtfully to her empty glass and he summoned another full one from a passing flunkey. “Your pardon, I was only wishing to warn you of Lady Bolt’s vicious nature.”
“I should hope that her ladyship’s diversions would not affect me, sir.”
“No?” Sir Marmaduke said again. There was a look of malicious amusement in his eyes which made Polly profoundly uncomfortable. “Perhaps not. You will not be interested in the most piquant part of the tale, then, which is that young Peter is her ladyship’s second choice, for she first set her sights on Lord Henry Marchnight…”
For a moment Polly’s dark gaze met Sir Marmaduke’s, then she looked away. She took another mouthful of fruit punch without noticing. It was so easy to take refuge in her glass to avoid difficult subjects. And the drink was so refreshing and unusual. Normally she was only allowed lemonade, which, now she considered it, was ridiculous for one of her age and experience. The Dowager Countess was such a high stickler, Polly thought. Perhaps it was time she asserted her independence.
“Your squalid gossip is of no interest to me, sir,” she said distantly, wishing that more congenial company would present itself. Unfortunately, Lady Seagrave was still chatting, glancing across at her daughter with unusual and misplaced satisfaction. It would take a brave soul to interrupt Sir Marmaduke now that he was so entrenched, Polly thought resignedly. As if to underline the point, the elderly baronet stretched his arm along the back of Polly’s chair and leaned closer. His breath was stale with wine.
“Can I not please you?” Sir Marmaduke murmured. “When my sole intention is your delight, beauteous lady—”
“Your servant, Lady Polly. Shipley…”
Polly almost jumped. She felt a quiver of awareness along her nerves even before her hand was taken by Lord Henry Marchnight himself. Perhaps it was the drink, which she was now regarding suspiciously, or perhaps the effect of Lord Henry’s presence, but she felt suddenly light-headed.
“I am persuaded,” Lord Henry said gently, “that you would do so much better dancing with me, Lady Polly. Will you do me the honour?”
For a moment, as Polly’s startled dark eyes met Lord Henry’s narrowed, lazy gaze, she had the oddest feeling that he knew she had been thinking of him. Various thoughts jostled for dominance in her mind. Her first was that Lord Henry never asked her to dance. How could he, when he seldom even spoke to her? The second thought was that this was a waltz and the Dowager Countess would not approve. The third was that she was feeling ever so slightly odd—not unpleasantly odd, but definitely a little adrift…Which no doubt explained how she came to be waltzing in Lord Henry’s arms before she even had chance to think about it properly.
The lilt of the music was very seductive and Lord Henry was an exceptionally good dancer. After one circuit of the floor, Polly realized with some incredulity that she felt rather delightfully abandoned, like thistledown floating on air. Lord Henry was holding her at an entirely respectable distance from his body, but nevertheless the strength of his arm about her, the unfamiliar brush of his thigh against the slippery material of her dress, was peculiarly exciting. Polly blinked slightly, aware that she was not feeling quite normal, but the thought slid away, out of reach. Normal? She felt marvellous.
“You are keeping dangerous company tonight, Lady Polly,” Lord Henry said in her ear. The thought of his lips so close to the sensitive skin of her neck sent a delicious shiver through Polly. She tried to pull herself together. What on earth was wrong with her this evening?
“Are all the Seagraves courting scandal?” Lord Henry continued. “First your brother sets himself up as Lady Bolt’s new…” he hesitated “…new flirt, then you grant Sir Marmaduke Shipley a tête-à-tête and compound your daring by dancing with me!”
Polly looked up fully into his face for the first time. His words crystallised the thought which had entered her head when first he had whisked her from under Sir Marmaduke’s nose. Sir Marmaduke liked to consider himself a rake, but Lord Henry was the really dangerous one, a marauding tiger loose amongst the innocent flock of debutantes. Whatever was she about, to be dancing with him with such abandonment? Across the dance floor, she could see that the Dowager Countess had finally finished her conversation and was glaring at her most meaningfully. Polly felt exasperated. Why had her mother not objected to the unwelcome attentions of the odious Sir Marmaduke and yet had immediately perceived Lord Henry’s arrival? It was most unfair. She deliberately looked the other way.
Lucille had once said, without an iota of partiality, that Lord Henry Marchnight was the best-looking man that she had ever seen. Polly could certainly understand what she meant, for Lord Henry had the classical regularity of feature beloved of all sculptors and painters. His thick fair hair, immaculately ruffled in the Windswept style, made ladies long to run their fingers through it. The lazy appraisal of those grey eyes could, as one infatuated maiden declared, positively cause one to swoon, and his sporting pursuits had given him a physique envied by those less favoured.
“Are you really so d
angerous then, sir?” Polly heard herself say. Surely that could not be her voice, so light, so teasing? She never flirted!
“I am accounted dangerous, certainly.” Lord Henry had given her a quizzical glance, no doubt as surprised by Polly’s flirtatiousness as she was herself.
“A real tiger, then, not merely a pussycat?”
This time Lord Henry’s look was rather more searching. “Have you been drinking the arrack punch, Lady Polly?”
“Certainly not.” Polly said with dignified aplomb. “I had some delicious fruit cup, but what is that to the purpose, pray?”
“Ah, the fruit cup,” Lord Henry murmured with a slight smile. “It is so refreshing, is it not? I see the Dowager Countess is looking daggers at us,” he continued indolently. “I must shortly redeem myself in her eyes and return you to her unscathed!”
“Oh, no!” Polly had suddenly remembered that she had promised Lucille that she would speak to Lord Henry about a matter of importance. She frowned in concentration, trying to remember what exactly the issue had been. It was something potentially difficult…embarrassing…but she did not feel embarrassed at the moment, only marvellously liberated. Her mind was a little fuzzy at the edges, perhaps, but she had not felt this confident in a long time! It was a moment before she realised that Lord Henry was looking at her with amusement.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Polly?”
“No, do not take me back just yet, sir!” Polly tried to grasp the appropriate words. “I…there is a matter I need…must discuss with you!”
“Indeed!” A faint smile touched Lord Henry’s firm mouth once more. “You intrigue me, madam! I am at your disposal, of course!”
The music was ending. Lord Henry gave her a mocking bow, taking her arm to escort her through the crowd and across to one of the silk-draped alcoves. It was sufficiently far from her mother to make Polly feel much more confident. She could deal with this matter without the Dowager Lady Seagrave even realising!
Lady Polly Page 3