The Advent of Lady Madeline

by Pamela Sherwood

  The corners of her mouth turned up briefly at that, then flattened again as Whitborough strode off through the crowd. Her changeable eyes were stormy green—and stark with misery.

  Oh, my dear. The words rose involuntarily to Hugo’s lips, he swallowed them at once, cleared his throat instead. “Lady Madeline—”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, opened them with a determined smile. “Shall we find ourselves a corner, Lord Saxby—before the lobster puffs get cold and the champagne gets warm? There’s absolutely nothing worse than warm champagne, you know!”

  His heart ached at the forced gaiety in her voice, the gallant show she was putting on, but unless she chose to confide in him, he could only humor her. “An excellent idea. Shall we try one of the window alcoves?”

  Plates and glasses in hand, they skirted the perimeter of the salon floor, finding a cozy window embrasure on the far side of the room where they could enjoy their feast. Food and drink revived Lady Madeline’s spirits, and soon they were conversing easily, sharing their favorite moments of tonight’s performance.

  “A toast to you, my lady.” Hugo raised his glass. “For proving me wrong! I never thought I’d enjoy acting as much as I did.”

  She raised her brows. “Enough to do it again, someday?”

  “I don’t know about that!” he amended hastily. “Let’s just say—I wouldn’t immediately refuse to take part, if asked.”

  “Fair enough.” She smiled then, a radiant, unshadowed smile that stole his breath. “It has been a wonderful evening, hasn’t it?”

  “One of the best I’ve spent,” Hugo agreed.

  “You might feel a bit flat tomorrow,” she warned. “I tend to, the day after—the low coming after the high. Fortunately, there’s the ball to look forward to, along with Christmas.”

  “I imagine you celebrate it in lavish style, here at Denforth?”

  “But, of course—our family never does things by halves!” Lady Madeline’s eyes brightened as she warmed to her theme. “We put up a tree—the finest, tallest one that can be found—and we make a party of decorating it, no later than Christmas Eve. Maman even had special ornaments made for each one of us—marked with our initial—and we hang them ourselves. And we arrange the presents under the tree.”

  “You don’t have the servants do that for you?”

  “Why should they have all the fun? And there are carols and concerts. Father sometimes engages singers or actors for special performances here—professionals, unlike ourselves. And there’s sport as well,” she added. “Another hunt on St. Stephen’s Day, and sometimes a shooting party in the New Year. And then there’s a feast on Twelfth Night, where we crown the Lord of Misrule. We celebrate through the sixth of January, really.”

  Hugo shook his head as he thought of his own parents, wintering sedately in Somerset. “The Lowells have always celebrated Christmas quietly. Your family’s stamina amazes me.”

  Her eyes danced. “We just happen to have a high capacity for enjoyment, although we try to be considerate of those who appreciate peace and quiet too. Talking of which,” she paused, coloring slightly, “some of our current guests will be staying on for Christmas. I had wondered, Lord Saxby, if you would… be interested in doing so?”

  She sounded almost tentative, unlike her usual, supremely confident self.

  “I’m afraid that—I am already promised elsewhere for Christmas.” Hugo could taste the regret in his refusal. “It would be discourteous to my hosts… to change my plans at the last minute.” Much as he wanted to. Dear God, how he wanted to—especially with Lady Madeline so near, bright and beautiful in a scarlet gown that lent a tinge of gold to her ivory skin.

  Never before have I been more tempted to break my word…

  She lowered her eyes. “I understand, Lord Saxby. No gentleman could do otherwise. But I hope you’ll consider paying us a visit, perhaps sometime in the New Year?”

  Hugo swallowed. “I would be happy to revisit Yorkshire—and Denforth.” And you.

  Lady Madeline glanced up, that smile hovering about her lips again. “You would be most welcome, my lord. Oh, look!” she exclaimed suddenly. “It’s snowing!”

  Following her gaze, Hugo saw that feathery white flakes had indeed begun to fall on the other side of the glass.

  Lady Madeline’s expression grew soft, even dreamy. “No matter how old I get, I never tire of the sight. I may feel differently in two months’ time, but the first snow of the season…”

  “There is something almost magical about it.” And about this moment, Hugo thought.

  They sat in companionable silence, watching the snow descend.

  Chapter Five

  I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

  Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

  Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

  With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine…

  —William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  21 December 1879

  Winter Solstice. The shortest day of the year, followed by the longest night. An appropriate occasion for a ball—especially one that was to celebrate the betrothal of Whitborough’s heir, Hugo mused as he entered the ballroom.

  The surroundings were certainly festive enough: hangings of green and gold silk warmed the salon’s pale walls, with hints of scarlet and white in the floral arrangements: berried holly interspersed with “Christmas roses” and pearly sprigs of mistletoe. Hugo even spied several pots of velvety red poinsettias, most likely grown in the Whitboroughs’ conservatory.

  A number of guests had already assembled, and to Hugo’s pleasure, Lady Madeline was among them. A small part of him wondered how it was that he could pick her out so readily in a crowd, but he disregarded it as he made his way towards her.

  Approaching, he saw that she was surrounded by the youngest members of the house party: Lady Juliana, Lord Jason, Lady Alicia Carlisle, and Miss Susannah Middleton.

  “Margaret and Alicia are going to adopt one kitten and share her between them. The Middletons said they’ll take one when it’s old enough. And Alasdair said he might take two,” Lady Juliana was telling her sister. “To keep the mice in check at his country estate.”

  “Very obliging of him,” Lady Madeline remarked. “At this rate, my dressing room will soon be untenanted!”

  “You’re still keeping the kittens in your dressing room?” Hugo exclaimed, surprised.

  The Lyons sisters both looked up, Lady Madeline flushing just a little. “Under the circumstances, it didn’t seem quite right to evict them or Volumnia,” she explained. “Not at Christmas. After the New Year, however,” she leveled a stern gaze at her sister, “I expect you to find other accommodations for them, Ju!”

  “I’ll think of something,” Lady Juliana promised. “Good evening, Lord Saxby,” she added with her winsome smile.

  “And to you, Lady Juliana. You’re staying for the party?” Hugo inquired, eyeing her blue velvet frock and matching hair ribbon.

  She nodded. “For the first hour or so—because of the Important Announcement.”

  “Lord Denforth and Meg are getting married!” Lady Alicia—twelve, blonde, and angelically pretty—clapped her hands together with excitement. “Isn’t it romantic?”

  “Engaged, Alicia,” Lady Juliana corrected. “They aren’t anywhere near ready to be married. Your sister’s not even out yet.”

  “Well, I hope she makes me a bridesmaid,” Lady Alicia sighed, ignoring these dampening words.

  “I hope there’ll be pudding,” Lord Jason, a dark, quiet, slightly pudgy child, remarked. “We didn’t have any at dinner, before.”

  “I wonder if there will be trifle,” eleven-year-old Susannah Middleton added wistfully. “Or jam tarts.”

  “I suspect there will be both,” Lady Madeline replied, smiling indulgently. “Just try not to overeat, all of you, or you’ll feel wretched later.”

  Assuring her that they had no such intention, the children began to dis
cuss among themselves their favorite holiday treats. Seizing his chance, Hugo offered Lady Madeline his arm. “Will you walk with me a moment, my lady?”

  “Of course, Lord Saxby.” Resting her hand on his elbow, she let him draw her away from her juniors.

  “First of all,” Hugo began, “I had to tell you how lovely you look tonight.”

  “Thank you.” A trifle self-consciously, she toyed with the lace edging her bodice. “I seldom wear pink, but Margaret will be in green this evening, so I thought it best to choose another color. Something a bit… quieter than my usual style.”

  “Well, it suits you nonetheless.” Her gown was a soft rose, embroidered with velvety petals in a deeper shade of pink. On anyone else it might have appeared a touch insipid; on Lady Madeline, it bewitched, making her look—not less formidable, but warmer and more approachable. Like a rose in winter.

  As though reading his thoughts, Lady Madeline quoted, “At Christmas, I no more desire a rose, / Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled mirth—”

  “But like of each thing that in season grows,” Hugo finished triumphantly.

  Her eyes widened. “You are full of surprises tonight, Lord Saxby!”

  “My present company has taught me the virtue of surprises. I never realized just how much Shakespeare I’d absorbed until I came here.” Hugo paused, smiling into Lady Madeline’s sparkling green eyes. “And a beautiful woman is always in season, whatever color she wears.”

  “Flattery may get you somewhere, my lord,” she said lightly, though he could tell that the compliment pleased her.

  “Will it get me one of your waltzes tonight?” he asked.

  She consulted her programme. “As it happens, my second waltz of the evening is yet unclaimed. As is the supper dance. In recompense for such a pretty speech—to say nothing of capping my quotation—I feel I must put you down for both, Lord Saxby!”

  Hugo inclined his head “As my lady wishes.”

  The increasing hum of conversation around them attested to the arrival of more guests. The Whitboroughs had invited many local families as well, Lady Madeline explained: mutual friends of themselves and the Carlisles. The influx pressed Hugo into closer proximity to his companion, which he did not mind in the least. Lady Madeline still smelled delightfully of rose and neroli, with the faintest hint of spice that reminded him of clove-studded pomander balls.

  Meanwhile, footmen had begun to circulate, bearing silver trays holding crystal flutes of champagne, which they offered to the guests. Hugo took two flutes when a footman paused before him, handing one to Lady Madeline.

  “Our best vintage, of course.” She held her glass up to the light as the tiny bubbles winked and popped in the wine. “Maman would have nothing less for such an occasion. Ah.” Her hand tightened about the stem. “Behold, the bridegroom draweth nigh…”

  Hugo followed her gaze to where both sets of ducal parents were descending a marble staircase into the ballroom. The newly engaged pair followed, Lady Margaret in a pale green gown, with delicate white flowers in her chestnut hair, looking almost heartrendingly young. And glowing with adoration for the golden young man beside her—whose expression was far less enraptured, Hugo noted with some trepidation. Indeed, of the six, only Denforth wasn’t smiling. At best he appeared resigned, but his mouth had a slightly sulky set.

  “For heaven’s sake, Hal,” Lady Madeline murmured. “Do try to make an effort.”

  “If I may have your attention?” Whitborough’s voice rang out across the ballroom. “We’d like to thank all of you for coming and for being part of our celebration. Tonight marks a momentous occasion for both of our families, as we announce the betrothal of our son Harold, Earl of Denforth, to Lady Margaret Carlisle.”

  “A match that has been long in the making,” the Duke of Langdale added, with his gentle, rather unworldly smile. “But my duchess and I could not be more pleased than to see our daughter joined in marriage to the son of our oldest friends.”

  Whitborough returned his smile. “Nor Her Grace and myself, to welcome this lovely young woman into our family! And so tonight,” the duke paused to accept a flute of champagne, then raised it high, “I propose a toast to the newly betrothed couple and their bright future! Lord Denforth and Lady Margaret!”

  “Lord Denforth and Lady Margaret!” the assembled guests echoed, and drank.

  With the announcement duly made, the musicians struck up a quadrille from the gallery, and the dancing began. As expected, Hal led Margaret out onto the floor. The light from the chandelier illuminated his bright hair and even brighter smile. Only someone who knew him well—from the cradle on, for example—would have detected that his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  Oh, Hal. A fierce surge of love for her twin swept over Madeline: love tinged with fear, a fear that she knew was shared by everyone who cared for him. So handsome, so dashing, so debonair, and at the same time, so lost. Two years ago, he’d tried to assert himself by laying claim to real power—and failed. Now he drifted aimlessly from pleasure to pleasure, with nothing to anchor him. If he could only see how much he might benefit from the steadfast love and faith of a girl like Margaret, who would do anything to please him…

  A familiar voice spoke her name, and she turned to find Jack Middleton—her partner for the quadrille—holding out his hand. Accepting it, she let him lead her onto the floor. Lord Saxby, she noticed, was escorting Olivia Middleton, and her estimation of him rose further still when she saw her friend’s smile. Most men tended to overlook Olivia in favor of Christabel, and while the former professed not to mind, she would have to be a saint not to resent it now and then. And to relish the times when she was noticed and appreciated.

  Fortunately, no lady was destined to be a wallflower tonight, unless it was by choice. Even with the additional guests, the men outnumbered the women, so there was no shortage of partners. Most of Madeline’s dances had been spoken for, and she enjoyed them all, even as her mind insisted on racing ahead to the moment Lord Saxby would come to claim her.

  Her heart bounded in her chest when she saw him approach, and she gave him her most brilliant smile in greeting. “Lord Saxby! God match me with a good dancer!”

  He smiled back, his eyes crinkling irresistibly. “Well, my sisters tell me I’m passable, and I haven’t stepped on a lady’s toes in years. Will that do?”

  Madeline made a show of looking him up and down. “It might. Shall we?”

  They joined the other couples assembling on the dance floor, took up their place in the set: Madeline’s pulse quickened at the sensation of Lord Saxby’s right hand at her waist, its warmth perceivable even through his glove and the silk of her gown. His other hand held hers in a light but firm clasp. The music began—“The Artist’s Life,” one of Madeline’s favorite Strauss waltzes—and Lord Saxby guided her into a graceful opening turn.

  It shouldn’t have surprised her that he danced well, moving with the same confidence and assurance he brought to the sports he loved. More than that, Madeline felt safe—cherished, even—in his arms. She knew herself to be tall for a woman, yet dancing with Lord Saxby made her feel almost petite. To say nothing of the way his proximity affected her. The intimacy of the waltz could be a mixed blessing, but tonight she welcomed it, breathing in the lemony scent of his cologne and savoring the warmth of the strong, athletic frame so close to hers.

  One more night. Madeline could hardly bear to think about the morning—and his looming departure. But he wouldn’t be the honorable man she believed him to be if he did not honor his previous engagement. She had to trust that he too felt the attraction between them, that she was not merely imagining the light in his eyes when he looked at her, and that he would be back… just as he’d said he might.

  He turned her again, so lightly and deftly, that she was scarcely conscious of it, because her whole world had narrowed to his eyes, his smile, his encircling arm. Ten days ago, she’d considered only that she might discover a few potential suitors among their guests, me
n whose company she might enjoy and with whom she could imagine herself spending more time. She’d never expected to form an attachment—much less, one this strong—so quickly. A miracle… but Christmastide wasn’t only the season of miracles, but the season of faith. She would have faith, in him and in them.

  She smiled up at him, letting all her faith—and hope—shine through, and thought she heard his breath catch. The music faded into silence and the whirling couples slowed and stopped, many gazing raptly into each other’s eyes. As she and Saxby were doing.

  He was the one to speak first, his voice husky, almost tentative. “Lady Madeline, would you care for some refreshment now? Or are you bespoken for the next dance?”

  She shook her head. “I left some of my dances unclaimed, Lord Saxby. Just in case, I should want a respite, after.” A respite with you. “But I don’t require refreshment at the moment. Perhaps we might—go for a walk instead?”

  “Ah.” He paused, then added with commendable swiftness, “As it happens, I’ve heard much about the beauty of Denforth’s conservatory. Might I prevail upon you to show it to me?”

  “You may indeed, Lord Saxby.”

  One last night, Hugo thought with a pang as he escorted Lady Madeline discreetly from the ballroom. He could reckon their remaining time together in hours. Best make the most of each moment, then.

  Achieving the doorway, they slipped into the passage—and started guiltily when a voice spoke from the shadows.

  “Avoiding the crush? Can’t say I blame you. Found I needed some air myself.”

  Denforth, glass in hand, was slouched with careless elegance against a wall. His betrothed was nowhere in sight, Hugo observed.

  As did Lady Madeline, her gaze going from startled to mildly disapproving. “Hal, where’s Margaret? It’s your engagement party—you really should be with her.”

  “Managing Maddie.” Denforth took a healthy swallow of something considerably darker—and likely more potent—than champagne. “You needn’t worry about my intended. She’s currently dancing with one of the Middletons. Besides, I’ll have the rest of my life to be with Margaret. Eons, no doubt. Just as our fathers have decreed.”