“Mrs. Bentley, are you indeed allowing O’Brien enough time to press his suit with your niece? In view of your, eh, largess toward her, did you not expect to net a higher yield?”
“Mr. Mornay, I resent that!” Ariana’s eyes blazed at him.
“Oh, but she did!” He had to laugh as he spoke. “She expected me!”
“I daresay I did not expect an offer from you.” Mrs. Bentley was also offended, although what he had said was quite true.
Ariana managed to loosen her hand from his and snatched it away. Without a word she turned on her heel and opened the door and hurried from the room.
Mrs. Bentley turned to the Paragon. “There, you have offended her.”
“And so have you,” he said, unpleasantly.
The chaperon did not know what else to say. She stood up to leave, but had a thought.
“I shall send an invitation for the ball, which I mean to hold.”
“Do that.” His dark eyes were indecipherable.
As Mrs. Bentley descended the stairway, she decided she could not be angry with Ariana. None of this confusion was truly her fault. It concerned her, but she had not done anything amiss. In addition—and this was the strongest factor which influenced her just now—it seemed to her that despite all he had said, Mr. Mornay cared about her niece after all. He did not wish to admit the fact, but the conviction that he did, of a surety, feel more for Ariana than he had expressed, was from that day on a constant thought with her. What to do about it was the question. Mr. Mornay might take himself off once the season ended. Most of the upper class families abandoned town as soon as Parliament shut its doors. That signified the end of the season. What if Mr. Mornay did the same? There had to be something a chaperon could do!
She thought of the upcoming ball in her home and a little light went on in her head. The ball’s the thing, in which to catch the conscience of the king! If a king’s conscience could be caught, she reasoned, nodding her head silently, then surely Mr. Mornay must be vulnerable—to the right plan. And it must be soon. Before the season ends. Hadn’t Mornay as much as promised to attend their ball? This meant she could count on his coming—and plan for it.
Twenty-Three
Mrs. Bentley was not sorry she had suggested giving a ball. True, she had not thought of doing so in the past, for it was a great trouble and a great expense, particularly since she had put forth so much for Ariana already. In addition, one was never certain it would be a success. But with Ariana so popular, and Mr. Mornay promising to attend, a success was virtually guaranteed.
Mornay had been perfectly on the mark in suggesting that she, Mrs. Bentley, was hoping for a greater catch than O’Brien. And if the Paragon never did come round, then all the more reason to encourage Ariana to realize there were many, many other fish in the sea.
Some of the possibilities, in fact, were of the peerage. Although her niece did not possess a fortune, she had beauty, grace, and charm, and even, occasionally, the odd touch of wit. (Not to mention a rich aunt with good taste and connexions!) These endowments had caused many an uneven match in the past, and were sure to do so in Ariana’s case. The thing was certain to happen; it was only a matter of time…
Ariana realized her aunt was placing exceptional hopes upon the upcoming ball, for she insisted on taking her shopping for a new gown for the occasion. And that was only the beginning of a spree of amazing expenditures that made Ariana quake in her shoes. She tried to dissuade her aunt on the grounds there was no guarantee of her ever being reimbursed. Mrs. Bentley had got the idea in her head, however, that Mr. Mornay was eventually going to offer for her niece, and, in view of that, could any expense be considered too great?
She had firm ideas of what sort of gown she wanted for Ariana, but the first modiste they visited, a Frenchwoman, insisted that Ariana’s gown could not be too sophisticated. Was not mademoiselle a debutante? It did not become women so young to wear gowns more fitting for seasoned ladies. Ariana agreed heartily and urged her aunt to listen. But Mrs. Bentley was offended and ended up taking them elsewhere. They returned to the busy street.
“To get the match we are seeking, we need a little more incentive.”
“But I do not seek a high match! You are bringing this requirement upon me if you insist upon spending so much!” Ariana had to hiss beneath her breath so that passersby did not hear this exchange, for it would no doubt have caused much mirth. Her words were in vain, however, as her aunt ignored her. Still, she implored, “My family will never be able to repay you—and then you will not take my sisters when they come of age.”
Her aunt gave her a doubtful look. “Do not fret about repaying me. I never required it. But getting the right husband for you will be satisfying, indeed.”
Ariana’s heart sank. But she determined never to agree to a match that failed to honour her family or her own convictions. As they stepped up into the next seamstress’s shop, she ventured to remind her aunt of the lovely pink and gray net gown she’d worn to Carlton House. It was at the house, waiting for another use.
“Allow me to be the judge of what is suitable,” Aunt Bentley said. “You take too much upon yourself. If you must know, I feel Mr. Mornay has more of a tendre for you than he allows. You must appear in as sophisticated apparel as we can manage.”
“Is that why? For Mr. Mornay?”
When her aunt did not bother to answer, she added, hoping to sound ominous, “This is my first season, and he of all men will be sensible of my being dressed unsuitably!”
“You have the style and the presence to wear the gown I have in mind for you.” While they waited to be helped, she added, “His bachelorhood is famous, and no doubt difficult to give up. He needs a little more incentive.” She looked steadily at Ariana for a few moments. “I feel very strongly, Ariana, that you will be his wife.”
“But the man denied outright that he has intentions toward me, Aunt! What could be clearer?” Bitterly, she added, “He actually laughed at the idea, do you not recall?” A tear popped into her eyes, but she hastily shook it away. Why on earth should she cry about that?
Mrs. Bentley looked at her almost fondly. “I am satisfied upon this point, Ariana, and I mean only to help him grow aware of it.”
There was a ball at the Seton’s a few days after the shopping. During the interval the Paragon had called upon Ariana and taken her out in his open gig. Before they even left the curb he inquired mildly whether Ariana had yet received an offer from Mr. O’Brien, to which she coloured, since she had not. But she was relieved to own that Mr. O’Brien had been away visiting family.
When she next saw him at the Seton’s ball, the evening was well past its peak. Ariana had been anxious for the night to be over, but her spirits perked up when she noticed his tall head above the crowd coming toward her. Her stomach gave its customary lurch, and she was thankful to be seated upon a cushioned wall bench taking a rest as he drew up to her. He was gallant as usual, and sat beside her after making his signature polite bow.
Ariana waited for him to begin the conversation.
“How do you find the ball?”
“I have stood up for nearly every dance,” was her evasive reply.
“Excellent.” At that moment, a Mr. Chesley returned to Ariana with two cups of lemonade in his hands. He was a second son who could look forward to one thousand a year, but when he saw Mr. Mornay sitting beside the delightful Miss Forsythe, his face sank.
“I say, Mornay,” he said grudgingly, as he handed one cup to Ariana. “This seat was taken. Miss Forsythe is no doubt too polite to inform you that I only left to get us some refreshment.”
“Very good of you,” was the maddening response. He relieved Mr. Chesley of the other cup, ignored the glaring eyes and compressed lips and added, “I wish to speak with Miss Forsythe. We’ll let you know when your attentions are required.”
Ariana had not objected to Mr. Chesley’s attentions. He was a vicar’s son, first of all, which raised him inestimably in her sight, and
he had asked to stand up with her two times. She was far from inclined to object to Mr. Mornay, however, so she said nothing, but smiled weakly at Mr. Chesley, who, inspired by that little kindness, dared to face the giant.
“This is just your style, Mornay! Shouldn’t you be at White’s or Boodles?”
Mr. Mornay was not a stranger to either of the gentlemen’s clubs, but he merely eyed the younger man with disdain.
“Tsk, tsk, Mr. Chesley, have a temper, do we? Do not provoke me, my boy, for I guarantee you shall regret it.” Mr. Chesley’s face glowered angrily and he stood there for a moment deciding whether to respond; but then Mr. Mornay added, in a light, venomous voice, “Be off with you!”
Young Chesley bowed stiffly to Ariana, glared again at Mr. Mornay, and turned on his heel, stomping away across the room. Ariana turned gently accusing eyes upon her companion.
“Was that necessary?”
“I only, ever, do what is necessary.”
She took a breath, and hazarded a second question. “Do you disapprove of Mr. Chesley?”
Mr. Mornay met her gaze and then answered lazily. “Oh, not in any important way. Just your run-o’-the mill devil’s cub, you know. Beginning to kick at the bit, too. If he keeps it up, I may even manage to like him.”
“Why do you call him a devil’s cub? He is the son of a vicar!”
“ ’Tis just an expression.” Then, “Are you particularly fond of him?” He looked into her eyes as he asked.
She looked out at the ballroom, uncomfortable beneath the gaze that always made her feel as if he could see right through her.
“I hardly know him. But I should endeavour to defend anyone from being called a ‘devil’s cub,’ unless it were patently true.”
If he did not feel remorse, he at least apologized prettily, begging her pardon and vowing never to call any other young sprig a “devil’s cub” in her presence. Ariana smiled, her light tan eyes flecked with gold beneath the lights of dozens and dozens of candles overhead in chandeliers. They sat chatting after that for nearly fifteen minutes. Mr. Mornay’s conversation afforded her no small pleasure, for he was one of the few people who did not harp upon Mr. S_____’s fortune, or Lady P_____’s jewels, and so on. She had acquired a disgust of such gossip in an amazingly short time.
Just then, the Master of Ceremonies announced the next dance would be the last for the night. Mr. Mornay looked at her.
“I hope you are not engaged, for I’ve a notion to dance with you. If,” he added politely, “you would grant me the honour?”
For a moment, her heart soared, but then Ariana frowned. If only he had asked this of her at any previous ball.
“I should be very glad to, I assure you, but my aunt has forbidden me to accept any invitation to dance.”
He looked at her silently a moment. “Did you not say you had been dancing this evening?”
She met his gaze with difficulty. “Yes. I am afraid this applies only to…you.” She shrank from saying it, and looked at him apologetically.
“Only to me? Where is your aunt?” His voice did not sound angry or even venomous as she well knew it could, but the set of his jaw was not promising.
“She only means to—”
“She means to plague me!” But there was a droll expression about his mouth as if he recognized the situation was not without humour. He came to his feet, and Mr. Chesley, who was watching them with eagle eyes from across the large room, came to attention. Perhaps Mornay was leaving, he thought. But no. He watched while the man he detested held out his arm to the charming Miss Forsythe, who stood up uncertainly.
He took her by the elbow and led her forth.
“You cannot mean to make me disobey my aunt?”
“No. But was this your wish, as well?”
“Not in the least, I assure you.”
He was silent a moment. “Is it true the young men are avoiding you on my account?”
“Only when you are present. And I must say ’tis a welcome relief!”
“Am I frightening away a man you admire now?” He looked briefly about the room.
“No, I promise you, you are not.”
“Then the only reason she denies me your company on the dance floor is to vex me.” He had to smile. “Your aunt means to make it a battle, does she?”
“No, surely not.” She felt an alarm at the idea. Mr. Mornay always won his battles, and she did not want him under the impression that her chaperon wished to take him on. He was silent another moment, still leading her past all the dancers with one hand propelling her by the arm, keeping close behind her. When they reached a quieter space he stopped and faced her.
“I hope you would say so, Ariana, if you preferred that I keep my distance from you. Do not be so missish that you fail to let me know.” When he paused, waiting for her to speak, her feelings were so much the opposite that all she could safely do was to shrug her shoulders.
“What, me, turn away the Paragon?” she said in a teasing tone.
“Do not call me that. I am acutely conscious of how little I fit that description.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said, touched by his admission.
He now continued leading them slowly from the ballroom.
“Is Mr. O’Brien aware you are disposed to accept his offer?” This seemed an abrupt change of subject, but she went with it.
“I think not.” A second later she added, “I am uncertain, actually, regarding the matter. I made that rash statement at your house because my aunt mortified me!”
He stopped. “Do you mean, he is not preparing to offer for you?”
“Oh, I think he is. But whether I shall accept him is not certain. I am determined to be open-minded; I enjoy his company, and he is intent on entering the church.”
A raised brow and a little smile. “Is that all it takes to gain your approval?” He had a further thought but did not speak it: That anyone with the right connexions and the money could enter the church.
Ariana’s face was flushed, however, for it occurred to her that had Mr. O’Brien been intent on any other occupation, he would immediately have appeared less eligible to her. Mr. Mornay was exactly right! It was that easy to gain her approval! It was a terrible realization.
“Is something wrong?”
She looked up at him, but had no words to say what she felt.
“What is it? You are not well.”
“No. I am not.” She was oddly at a loss and just looked at him helplessly.
“I will see you home.”
She always enjoyed his self-assurance, and he displayed it now, putting her hand firmly upon his arm and taking her toward the hall and door.
“I am not ill, precisely.” She did want to leave, though. She had been bored for much of the evening, finding a commonplace ball was no longer something to excite her sensibilities. Mr. Mornay was virtually the only man she would have delighted to dance with, and her aunt had denied her that pleasure. And now, having suddenly realized the shallowness of her attraction to Mr. O’Brien, it threw into sharp relief all of the stronger, truer feelings she had been fighting to suppress for Mr. Mornay.
“I must find Aunt Bentley,” she said. “To let her know.” He changed direction, going toward the room set aside for cards. Her aunt often abandoned the ballroom in favor of the card table, though she played strictly for small wagers only. She was far too sensible to hazard great sums. In addition, she had seen Ariana happily dancing enough nights away to know the girl would be fine left to herself. She did not need her aunt hovering about at every occasion, after all.
Thus, they found her engaged in a game of whist. It was the start of the third rubber but she would not be ready to leave until it had finished.
Mrs. Bentley saw Mr. Mornay and felt a twinge of satisfaction. He had come to complain about being banned, had he? But then she noticed Ariana looking strained; so when he informed her he would be escorting the girl home, she could only eye him doubtfully. She would have liked to deny him—and
somehow she felt he knew it—but she was losing the present game and wanted to regain her few pounds. In addition, the ladies around the table were impressed that the Paragon was prepared to see her niece home. Under the circumstances, how could she say no?
Mr. Mornay was not one to miss an advantage when it came his way. In minutes, therefore, he was handing Ariana into his plush black coach. He might have been denied a dance, but his male pride was now fully restored. He enjoyed having charge of Ariana.
When comfortably seated across from her in the carriage, he struck the wall to signal them off. He lit the interior lamp, and it was evident her face was still crestfallen. Try as he might, he could not remember what had passed between them that might have caused it.
“Are you ill?” His voice was gentle.
She shook her head.
There was silence then, until he asked, “Is it something I said? ’Twould not be the first time I plagued your sensibilities.”
He was rewarded with a brief smile, but nothing more.
“Ariana, this is unlike you!” He sat forward in his seat and looked at her questioningly. “I would much prefer to be subjected to one of your outbursts than to have you silent. Pray, if there is anything I have done, tell me!”
“But there isn’t!” She looked at him fully then, and, without knowing herself what was about to happen, burst into tears and covered her face with her hands.
Mr. Mornay was dismayed. He felt helpless. It was not something he was accustomed to.
“Ariana!” he said, softly, handing her his handkerchief. When she continued to cry silently he moved from the cushion across from her and sat beside her, in what he hoped was a supportive gesture. He tried to lift her face so he could see her, but she refused to turn her head. This left him sitting there continuing to feel that awful helplessness, without a clue as to what he should do. Her blonde hair shone golden beneath the glow of the lamp and he gently cleared the side of her face of any stray tendrils.
He sat beside her until her shoulders ceased to rock, and he could tell she was calming down. He had a strong urge to put her upon his lap but realized the romantic implications, and could not bring himself to do it. He wished for a moment that he was her father or brother; it would allow him to be more affectionate without raising any false hopes. For he had long ago realized his utter unsuitability for marriage; no, not even with Ariana, despite the feelings of protectiveness she aroused in him.
Before the Season Ends Page 20