The Bride who Loved_A Marriage of Convenience Regency Romance

by Bianca Bloom

  But Miss Dorothea was still looking at me, rather critically, as if she were unsure of my next move.

  “What could I do to prove myself, then,” I asked. “I ought to be asked to manage something more difficult than a child’s tea. I accept. What is it you would ask of me?”

  She clasped her hands on the desk, thinking. “There is to be a ball next week over at Beckett Park. I had already asked your mother to see if the pair of you might attend together. You shall know all the dances, and only want only a bit of decorum to make you a success.”

  “Thank you,” I burst out, thrilled for a chance to prove my worth as a marriageable young woman, thereby obscuring my true plans. “I shall certainly go, and you shall feel quite proud of my performance.”

  This made her smile. “Well, then. Why don’t you put on proper shoes and we shall begin practicing now.”

  My costume at the next ball would seem to belie the extensive “discussions” with Miss Dorothea, mama, and all of the ladies maids that had been required before I was allowed to set foot out of doors.

  Many of the other young ladies would have fine lace and flowers on their gowns, and the fashion in London that year was apparently to add as much decor to these horrid pieces as humanly possible.

  I had a fine blue gown that mama had ordered, and I had taken off all of the frills and lace, even managing to sew it up myself so that it looked quite decent. At first, Miss Dorothea would not hear of it.

  “You’ll be laughed out the doorway. To have so much finery before you, and yet refuse to use a jot? No, it shall not do.”

  But I had held firm. “Please. This will show that I have an eye for beauty, but do not wish to appear ostentatious.”

  After several minutes, Mama approved. “In fact, the plan is not unwise. It may yet be a good approach, a way of helping the neighbors remember you. They see you at balls rarely enough.”

  And so it was approved that I should go to the ball in a simple dress, one that would allow me to glow by comparison. Perhaps, next to the over-dressed and nervous young ladies, I should be a beacon of taste and simplicity.

  Of course, this was not why I had decided to wear the dress. I simply hated the excess flowers, ribbons, and lace that were in fashion. It was not out of a desire to make a fool of myself, or even to stand out.

  When I reached the ball it appeared that, indeed, I was to stand out.

  The hosts greeted us politely – one Mrs. Simpson, I believed, and her unmarried son. Mrs. Simpson was a longtime resident of the neighborhood, but her son had spent much of his childhood in London. Mrs. Simpson made some remarks about the ball that were so soft I scarcely heard her.

  Her son, who either did not know or did not care that my mother and I were not exactly the social stars of the neighborhood, provided a greeting that was much more warm – at least to me. As my mother spoke a moment with the diminutive Mrs. Simpson, I listened as the son – only slightly taller than I, but broad-shouldered and unmistakably masculine – recalled our past acquaintance, a subject of which I knew little.

  “Miss Morton! An honor. I believe I sold you a tart at the village fete three years ago,” he said, his glance lingering on my dress.

  I now wondered whether even my “modest” affair was not pulled rather too low. It certainly seemed tighter about the bust than I recalled. Trying to meet Mr. Simpson’s eyes, I attempted to recall the last time I had been to a village fete. Perhaps he was right, and it was when I was fifteen, and quite embarrassed by the glances of rowdy villagers.

  Though the intensity of Mr. Simpson’s greeting was not lost on me, I reveled in it more than I would have at the fete, all those years ago. His attention was unexpected, but flattering. “I don’t recall. Perhaps your memory is more reliable than mine.”

  “Perhaps I had more to remember. How could the most fetching girl to visit my stand possibly escape my memory?”

  This sounded rather too forward to me, and I looked to my mama for guidance, but she was standing just far enough away that she seemed to have missed Mr. Simpson’s scandalous remarks. She and Mrs. Simpson did not appear to be engaged in particularly interesting discourse, but nonetheless, they were prattling on about some subject and seemed disinclined to turn round and rescue me.

  Additionally, there were no additional guests lingering on the stairs. Perhaps we had arrived at an inopportune moment.

  Mr. Simpson didn’t seem to think so. His pale skin, surpassed only by his excessively fair hair, did not turn the least bit red as he spoke to me again. “Miss Morton, would you do me the honor of dancing the next two dances? I believe all the guests are arrived, and it would bring me great pleasure.”

  I hardly knew how to respond, but as usual, my thoughts came tumbling directly out of my flustered lips. “Well, if it would bring you great pleasure, I supposed I must acquiesce.”

  “Au contraire, Miss Morton,” he said, quietly enough that I was certain that I was now the only person in the crowded rooms who might be able to hear him. “Sometimes denial of an object greatly desired has the opposite effect. It increases the feelings of pleasure.”

  As this elicited a confused frown from me, Mr. Simpson continued. “When there is a delay, but the pleasure sought is ultimately obtained – that is perhaps the most satisfying feeling of all.”

  This addition clarified the true nature of his thoughts, and I blushed rather furiously. “I must go to my mother.”

  “I shall find you when the next dance begins.”

  To my surprise, the sight of him was bringing me greater and greater excitement. “Thank you, Mr. Simpson. I trust we shall both enjoy the delay.”

  They were perhaps the most disgraceful words that had ever escaped my lips, but I greatly enjoyed saying them. Nearly as much as I enjoyed the surprised but greedy smile that eclipsed my admirer’s face as he heard them. He began to realize that I meant precisely what I said, and that when it came to verbal combat, I might be an enemy worthy of him.

  My mother and I barely had time to greet Mrs. Winters, an old eccentric who was quite attached to my mother, before the dances began.

  Mr. Simpson walked me over to the dancing floor with such a commanding, proprietary air that my own steps were not quite steady. Since my coming-out, I had danced with many men of his age, but none had been able to maintain the same devil-may-care manner as Mr. Simpson. His air seemed to be that of a king, sweeping about one of his loyal subjects thoughtlessly.

  And his smiles toward me assured me that this was certainly not an air born of indifference. Indeed, his clear interest made me feel rather faint.

  “Miss Morton,” he said, “You are seldom seen at neighborhood gatherings.”

  This was a fairly safe opener, and I nodded in agreement. “Generally speaking, I have little patience for balls.”

  “What makes tonight the exception?” he asked.

  The presence of a man who bears some resemblance to the arrogant, well-favored rakes of my dreams, I thought. A man such as you makes a ball dangerous and exciting, not tedious and long.

  My answer was rather more proper. “I found my parent’s house rather stifling.”

  His smile returned to his chiseled face. “Quite so. Understandable, for a free-spirited young lady such as yourself. And yet, it does not do to abandon your parent’s house without thinking.”

  I permitted myself a small, highly undignified snort. “Even if it is a house that makes one think unceasingly of escape?”

  It was an unkind characterization of my home, but an accurate one. This remark, though, somehow made Mr. Simpson’s face go quite serious.

  “Especially if it is the sort of house a young person wishes to escape.”

  The dance slowed, giving me a chance to catch my breath and ask my dancing partner to elaborate. “I fail to take your meaning, Mr. Simpson.”

  Since pointing would have been noticed, Mr. Simpson managed to direct my attention with a tiny jerk of his chin. “Take, for example, that young lad over there.
Excellent background and breeding, not to mention a tidy fortune, and yet he seems perfectly willing to court a lady whose grandfather was not even a gentleman.”

  At that point, we turned round again, so I had no opportunity of viewing the scandalous couple of which he had spoken. But, as a lady whose grandfather was certainly no gentleman, I felt I had to come to the young woman’s defense.

  “Are we not speaking of glass houses, Mr. Simpson,” I managed, trying to make my tone light. After all, little though I knew of his family, I was aware that they were not on the short list of eligible matches father spoke of late at night (after drinking “fine” whiskey).

  He quite anticipated my point, and responded to it without delay. “I know that, in spite of our well-regarded name, my family has very little money to speak of. If I attempted to dissemble around that very salient point, I should be a complete scoundrel.”

  As Mr. Simpson was turning me about at that very moment, handling me with a bit more vigor and force than I expected, he seemed to be proving himself a scoundrel anyway.

  But I could not help pushing the point. “If you yourself cannot boast of a perfect financial situation, I wonder that you criticize this lady for her imperfections.”

  His smile was broad, almost a little wolfish. “Far be it from me to criticize any lady, Miss Morton. Where ladies are concerned, I admire – never do I criticize. For example, I have been admiring the suitability of your costume for the practice of dancing for some time now.”

  It was no secret that current fashions quite often allowed the taller gentlemen a generous view of a lady’s bosom, but this was the nearest I had ever been to hearing a gentleman (even an impoverished one) admit that fact.

  Once he appeared assured that I was blushing again, he continued. “In the case of that couple in the corner, I criticize not the young lady, but rather the gentleman. His family has a line that stretches back centuries, not to mention great amounts of money. Their only son and heir ought to be seeking out a wife who has the same.”

  And at that moment, discomfited by the conversation and seeking a new place to rest my eyes, I actually looked at the man whom Mr. Simpson was so harshly criticizing.

  It was Elias.

  He looked remarkably well. My impressions of him from my one fitful encounter had not been inaccurate. If anything, I had missed the sweet curve of his cheeks, his broad and restless shoulders, the slender hips that I had earlier longed to touch. In truth, I still longed to touch them, but I forced myself to spar with Mr. Simpson so that I would have to look away.

  “Are not your criticisms rather beside the point, Mr. Simpson?” I asked, suddenly turned daring by the circumstances. I would not have bothered to parry with him if not for my fondness for the subject of his scorn, my dear Elias.

  Or perhaps he was not “my” Elias at all. After all, I had no claim on the young man’s heart. And I could not help noticing that this Miss Mulhearn, the apparent object of Elias’s affections, appeared rather excessively pretty. Her pale yellow hair was done up in an intricate mass of curls and little jewels, and her gown flowed so freely in its reams of pink material that she looked rather like an angel.

  Mr. Simpson’s assessment of the situation, however, remained the same. “Certainly not. I have never gotten on with young Mr. Glover, to say the least, but I do not wish him to make a silly sort of choice when it comes to marriage. Even my worst enemy, I should hope, would not make such a decision.”

  “Mr. Glover may think differently.”

  This gained a true laugh. And my annoyance with Mr. Simpson would have bubbled over into genuine anger, except that when he pulled me closer (his arm brushing my bosom in what I could only conclude was a deliberate moment of clumsiness) I was quite enraptured and ready to listen to any diatribe of his, no matter how ridiculous.

  “If he thinks differently, someone must put things to him. At any rate, I am sorry that we seem to have spent the better part of this number discussing a neighbor of so little consequence. During our next dance, let us speak more about you, Miss Morton - it is an infinitely more interesting subject.”

  And then he turned away and walked off, and I bit the stupid tongue inside my mouth. How happy I had nearly been to say a couple of words to Mr. Simpson, and what an idiot. My mine reviled his simpleton views of wealth and status, but inwardly I had to admit that I was quite besotted with his wolfish manner. If his motivation included money as well as lust, well, wasn’t that something I should expect in any man who knew of my family’s great and recent fortune? At any rate, he should have risen in my estimation by the very fact that he was willing to speak to me. Even if Mr. Simpson made me feel clumsy, at least I could be assured that he was favorably disposed toward me. Apparently, to Elias (I still could not think of the boy I had met in the woods as Mr. Glover), I was of very little consequence.

  The fire in my mind made my feet hurt all the more. If I was not going to gain either a friend or an admirer from the ball, I might as well see if my mother would accept my efforts thus far as proof that I had reformed. Provided she was ready to make a raving report to Miss Dorothea, our presence was likely no longer required – a blessing, as my swollen toes were in desperate need of rest. I practically stomped over to where my mother was standing, fanning herself rather lazily and speaking with Jonas Mathieson, one of the villagers who came from a family that farmed on my parents’ estate.

  It appeared that she was enjoying talking of sows and scythes more than I had enjoyed all of the apparently “droll” amusements of the party.

  Jonas Mathieson greeted me with respect, but soon took his leave of the two of us. A twitch of my mother’s chin told me to turn round, and when I did, I saw Elias and a woman whose face strongly resembled his. The greatest difference between their visages was that the older woman’s seemed starved with sadness.

  Her eyes were sad but her tone was polite as she greeted my mother. “It has been far too long since we have had the honor of seeing you at a ball. May I present my son, Elias. Elias, make your bows to Lady Morton.”

  The very brief pause gave me a moment not only to examine Elias, but to pretend surprise at the acquaintance.

  My mother was genuinely surprised, but not worried. To my astonishment, she seemed quite friendly with Elias’s mother, whom I had always thought of as just as much an enemy as Lord Glover himself. “Of course. Lady Glover, my eldest girl, Helena.”

  I gave Elias’s mother a deep curtsey. It felt cruel that the rules of social engagement prevented me from speaking, particularly as Elias’s mother was quite taciturn.

  Fortunately, my mother was not the worst person one could call upon for the task of polite conversation. Perhaps realizing that Lady Glover was not likely to be eager to chat, she turned to Elias.

  “Mr. Glover, I trust you and your mother are enjoying the ball.”

  “We are indeed, thank you. My elder sister has been visiting, and we have been unfortunately rather isolated during her stay.”

  This got a smile from my mother. She had no living relatives in England at all, so the thought of having a large family that would visit the house she had so carefully assembled gave her great pleasure. “How delightful. May I ask whether your sister is in attendance at the ball?”

  Elias looked to his mother, who practically jumped. Her answer, which was only just audible, was quick. “She had matters to take care of at our home, and was not able to attend.”

  Elias’s eyes met mine for a brief moment, and I recalled that his younger sister Beatrice must need care. Perhaps my mother was not insensible to this, but her answer betrayed no knowledge of the inner workings of the Glover family.

  “Indeed? Well, I shall hope that those of you who have been able to attend the ball shall enjoy it, then.”

  Elias nodded rather eagerly. “Indeed. It has been quite some time since I have had the pleasure of attending one,” he confessed, and I was able to guess that this was due to his solicitous care for his sister.

 
“Miss Morton, if you would permit me, might I ask you to dance the next two?”

  For a moment, I was silent. Oh, if only the moment would have allowed me the possibility of saying all that I wished to say! I wanted to ask Elias about his family, about the girl he was apparently courting, and at the same time to laugh in his face over his contempt for my mother’s culture.

  But because I could say none of this, my mother prodded me. “Helena, have you forgotten your manners? Do say you will brave the dancing once again, in spite of your delicate little feet.”

  It was said with a mocking tone, but certainly none of the well-clad ball attendees knew the scars my mother’s feet bore from years in terrible shoes or no shoes at all, not to mention many years of labor. In her eyes, the soreness in my feet was a mere trifling concern, and rightly so.

  “Yes, Mr. Glover,” I breathed. “Thank you, I will.”

  And before the conversation could truly continue, the orchestra began, and I was lead out by Elias. The reel was very familiar to me. When I was much younger, I would pretend to be a great lady in our little rooms, and my mother would encourage me. I danced all of the steps with her, imagining that to be invited to a true ball would be the purest pinnacle of happiness.

  After my first ball, I was quite disillusioned and bored. But when I took my place with Elias, in spite of the fact that I was properly dressed and ready to properly dance, an enormous flush spread over me. I could feel the prickling in my neck and shoulders, and even my vision of the candlelit room was affected.

  My partner, however, mistook this flash of hot emotion and embarrassment for anger. “I beg you to forgive me, Miss Morton. Truly, I must urge you to accept my apology.”

  It was clumsy, and I let him know it, relieved that he had misinterpreted my discomfort. “I believe that I have not yet heard an apology, Mr. Glover.”

  He cringed immediately under the blow, and seeing him at a disadvantage gave me a little bit of relief. “Of course! I – well, I’m very sorry. The fact is, I mocked your Pushkin, and have since been humbled. I am now quite ashamed that I said those horrible, ignorant – I mean, that is to say, those stupid things.”