by Carola Dunn
“Is it not delightful? Mr. Gilchrist introduced us, though he had not the least notion we were related. Cousin Neil is beyond anything agreeable. You cannot know how much it means to me to have a relative who is both amiable and respectable.”
“I believe I can guess.” He was looking down at her with deep sympathy in his brown eyes. “What a valiant soul you are, Alison.”
He swept her into the dance. As she circled the room in his arms, Alison was convinced that the world was perfect and that no one in it had ever been happier than she was at that moment.
When Philip escorted her back to Lady Emma, Lord Fane had taken Ralph Osborne’s place. The evening had passed so quickly Alison had not realized that it was already time for the supper dance. Philip disappeared momentarily and returned with Lord Deverill in tow, whom he introduced to Lady Emma and Lord Fane as Robert Gilchrist’s friend and Alison’s cousin.
“You are a friend of Robert’s?” Lady Emma queried. “And my wretched brother never noted the resemblance until you were face to face with Alison? We shall be happy to see you in Park Street at any time, Lord Deverill.”
“Thank you, ma’am, I shall take advantage of your invitation. May I have the pleasure of this dance?” He cast a wickedly sparkling glance at Alison, daring her to remember how he had referred to her chaperon as a dragon.
Lady Emma shook her head. “Thank you, but I am promised to Mr. Trevelyan for supper. Here comes Robert, perhaps you can steal his partner.”
Neil went off with Fanny Witherington to seek her mother’s approval, leaving Mr. Gilchrist glowering after them. His sister’s meaningful cough drew his attention back to present company.
“Your friend is charming,” he said to Alison. “I daresay you know she plays the pianoforte, but perhaps she has not told you that her brother plays the flute? She has some music books for piano and flute with her in Town.”
“How very fortunate!” said Alison, avoiding Mr. Trevelyan’s eye. She knew very well he was thinking of the sonnet written to her eyes by the fickle young man.
“Miss Witherington is a pleasant young lady,” Lord Fane put in. “I imagine you will attend her ball tomorrow, Miss Larkin? May I engage you in advance for the first dance?”
This time, even as she answered his lordship, she did meet Philip’s eye. They could both see that Robert Gilchrist was frantically searching his memory to see if he had received an invitation to Fanny Witherington’s ball. Only Lord Fane’s sober presence stopped Alison from going into whoops.
The dance began. Alison and Lord Fane were near the bottom of the set and at first were at leisure to converse.
“I was glad to meet your cousin,” he told her, “though I fear he may be a trifle rackety. Still, I was beginning to think you had no near relations, ha ha.”
Alison was tempted to tell him that she had lots of relations no farther away than Great Ormond Street, but she held her tongue and smiled sweetly. His description of Neil as rackety she dismissed. Her cousin was a dear, and she would not hear anything against him. Lord Fane had used the same word of Lord Kilmore, so he probably considered all gentlemen rackety who had not his own serious, responsible character.
They were joined at supper by Cousin Neil and Fanny, with Robert Gilchrist hanging on as a determined third, and Lady Emma and Philip Trevelyan. Lord Fane solicitously plied Alison with such delicacies as salmon in aspic and apricot gateaux. She scarcely noticed what she was eating, as she was far more interested in watching Neil tease Robert by flirting with Fanny.
Miss Witherington was master of the entire repertoire of coy glances, artful turns of the fan, slyly innocent rejoinders. It was an education to Alison, who had never flirted with anyone. It looked like fun, but whom was she to try it on?
Philip was her friend, Neil was her cousin, Robert had one of his instant tendres for Fanny and Lord Fane was unlikely to appreciate such dashing behaviour. At that fortuitous moment her glance fell on Lord Kilmore at the next table. He smiled at her, a faintly mocking smile. If he ever asked her to dance, he might prove to be the very person to enjoy a mild flirtation.
Robert was beginning to look sulky.
Fanny apparently realized she had gone far enough if she wanted to retain his interest. Turning to Alison, she said, “I have been meaning to tell you, Mr. Gilchrist happened to mention that he plays the flute. It is of all instruments the most delightful. My brother plays and I have some of his music with me—is it not a lucky chance?”
‘‘Most fortunate,’’ Alison agreed gravely, all too aware that Lady Emma and Mr. Trevelyan were exchanging amused glances.
“Miss Witherington has kindly offered to accompany me,” said Mr. Gilchrist in a grand manner, then added with a touch of anxiety, “She says she has some easy pieces, folk songs and such.”
“Irish folk songs,” said Fanny, laughing. “Lord Deverill, do you sing?”
“Faith and what Irishman does not know the songs of Ireland?” Neil’s blue eyes were twinkling, but he soothed his scowling friend by adding, “I’ll be happy to join you both if Cousin Alison will lend her sweet voice in support.”
Lady Emma nodded, so Alison assented. She could not read music, but with Neil and Fanny to help she would manage. Robert, realizing that in any case a chaperon would be needed, abandoned his chagrin and a date was set.
Lord Fane looked disgruntled at his exclusion. “I hope you mean to give us a concert when you have practised,” he said, putting a good face on it. “I fear I have no musical ability, but I am a talented audience.”
Alison rewarded his joke with a laugh. She was relieved, however, when later on Lady Emma whispered to her, “A little competition, real or imagined, will do Lord Fane no harm. You must not let him take you for granted.”
Neither Alison nor Fanny sat out a single dance for the rest of the night. It was nearly dawn by the time the landau deposited Lady Emma and her protégée at the house in Park Street. Alison wanted to discuss the joys of her first ball, and to ask advice on one of many perplexities.
“Not now, you unnatural child,” groaned Lady Emma. “We have another ball tonight, remember. I, at least, need some sleep!”
So Alison retired to bed to ponder the puzzling question of why Lord Kilmore had watched her all night without ever making the least attempt even to speak to her.
CHAPTER TEN
It did not seem possible that Alison could enjoy Fanny’s ball even more than her own, but she did. There were two reasons for this. First of all, she no longer felt herself the cynosure of all eyes. In the second place, Lord Kilmore at last asked her to stand up with him.
“Why did you keep gazing at me last night, my lord?” she asked as soon as they took their places.
“You are not one to mince words, are you, Miss Larkin?” His smile held the mockery she remembered. “My intention was to tantalize you. Did I succeed?”
She glanced up at him through lowered lashes, experimenting with the way she had seen Fanny do it. “La, sir, I did not even notice, I vow.”
He laughed, with genuine amusement. “Coming it altogether too strong, my dear. I watched you because I was afraid that if I took my eyes off you for an instant you would vanish like some forest sprite. That is what you looked like, all silver and white amid the rustic greenery.”
“Oh no, sir, I am made of flesh and blood.” She hoped her eyes were round and innocent.
His gaze grew warm and he pulled her a little closer. “I am aware of that.”
That had been the wrong thing to say, Alison realized. This flirting business was more complicated than it appeared. With considerable relief she pointed out, “It is our turn to lead.”
When they again had leisure to converse, the mockery was back in his expression. “So you don’t want to know why I did not ask you to dance last night, Miss Larkin?” he enquired.
She eyed him with speculative caution. Curiosity won. “Tell me.”
“I was afraid I might be called out if I dispossessed any of you
r partners.”
“You mean a duel? Then you think my partners tonight are less likely to challenge you? That is unhandsome of you, sir.”
“On the contrary, ma’am, when I saw you tonight I knew I was ready to risk my life for the bliss of one moment at your side.”
“And has that moment lived up to your expectation, my lord?” Alison ventured archly.
“What if I should say it has not?”
“Then perhaps I shall challenge you myself.” His shout of laughter made everyone stare. “I believe you might. Allow me to assure you that my every expectation has been exceeded. And your talent at the art of flirtation progresses rapidly with practice.”
“I have a good teacher, sir.”
“Saucy wench. Your dimples are adorable. It is our turn to lead, I believe, ma’am.”
Once again, Alison was glad of a respite. Lord Kilmore was constantly taking her by surprise. He was fascinating but, she had to admit, a bit disconcerting.
She looked forward to her next dance, a waltz with Philip, when she could relax and be herself.
Philip was also looking forward to the waltz. He wanted to know what Kilmore was saying that made Alison’s eyes sparkle so, and he had no doubt but that she would tell him. Her artless confidences were a delight, her trust in him a pleasure of a deeper sort. He found it hard to believe that he had ever thought her a vulgar hussy.
Her enjoyment of her success was whole-hearted and innocent. For Emma’s sake he would make sure nothing happened to mar Alison’s happiness. He was even willing to aid and abet her intention of marrying a lord.
“So you have added another lord to your string,” he greeted her.
She laughed. “Lord Kilmore? He is a wicked flirt.”
“What has he been saying to you?”
“A dozen things, none of them worth repeating. Some of them excessively silly, in fact. You know, I used to suppose that all lords were alike. At least Mrs. Meeke and Mrs. Cuthbertson would have it so. I am quite undeceived. Lord Kilmore is a flirt, and Lord Fane is gallant and respectable, and Cousin Neil is a merry dear, and Lord Edgehill is, well, elderly.”
“Four!”
“I have danced with two others, whose names I have forgot.” She looked absurdly guilty.
“That makes six. A goodly total. Which do you like best?”
The music began while she was considering, and she moved into Philip’s arms as if she felt she belonged there. Her hand on his shoulder, feather-light, sent an inexplicable frisson racing through his body. He had to concentrate to follow her words.
“I like them all, in different ways. Cousin Neil best, perhaps, because he is a relative.”
“You have a laudable sense of family loyalty.”
“My family is worth being loyal to. Lady Emma told me you are close to your brothers and sisters.”
“Yes, my family is dear to me.’ He found himself talking about his sisters, their husbands and children. “But you cannot be interested in strangers.”
“I am,” Alison assured him earnestly. “They are not quite strangers, for they are all part of you.”
So he went on to tell her of his clergyman brother, recently engaged to be married, and his naval brother who was expecting a promotion to captain of his own ship. She peppered him with questions. Scarcely noticing that the waltz had finished, they continued to walk around the room together until an indignant Robert Gilchrist confronted them.
“Dash it, Miss Larkin, I’ve been looking for you all over the place If you mean to dance with me, we had best join a set before it is too late.”
Philip hurriedly apologized and went to find his next partner. He had not danced so much in years, but he did not want the tattlemongers to be able to say that he only stood up with Lady Emma and her protégée.
That did not stop him waltzing with Emma later that night. She was a graceful dancer and they moved together well, but somehow her calm self-sufficiency was less satisfying than usual. The memory of Alison’s lively enthusiasm and sparkling eyes came between them.
“You are to be congratulated on Miss Larkin’s success,” he said. “You have done wonders with her.”
“She is a charming child. I do not wonder that the gentlemen flock about her, though doubtless the rumours of her fortune are no hindrance to her popularity. Mr. Osborne is concerned lest she be taken in by some ne’er-do-well fortune hunter.”
“I saw you talking to him at your ball last night.” Philip wondered if he was imagining the touch of pink in her cheeks.
“Yes, I thought he ought to be there so as to be able to report to Mrs. Winkle. He is very gentlemanly, do you not think? I don’t believe anyone would guess him to be an India merchant.”
“I doubt anyone cast a second glance.”
“I promised to try to obtain some invitations for him. Just so that he can keep an eye on Alison,” she added quickly.
“Of course. I’ll see what I can do to help.”
“Thank you, Philip, I can always rely on you. To satisfy Mrs. Winkle must be my first concern. I expect she will be aux anges at Lord Deverill’s acceptance of Alison as a close relative. Alison herself is in raptures.” Emma chuckled. “Did you hear her ordering him to ask that unhappy beanpole with the teeth for a dance?”
“She is kind. I have no doubt that she will soon have as many female friends as male admirers. Miss Witherington seems devoted to her already.”
“Yes, she and Fanny are bosom bows. A most fortunate acquaintance. She is a success, is she not?”
* * * *
Over the next month Alison’s success showed no signs of diminishing. Philip attended many of the same events, routs and breakfasts, dinners, soirées and balls. He was present when she made her triumphal appearance at Almack’s, thanks to his introduction to Lady Castlereagh, and he was the recipient of her whispered declaration that the refreshments were even worse than she had expected. At every entertainment where there was dancing he engaged her in advance for a single waltz.
In fact, the one time he was tardy in asking her, she reminded him. He was not sure whether waltzing with him had become a habit to her, or whether she looked forward to their dances as much as he did.
While she never lacked for partners, the group of particular friends who surrounded her on most occasions remained the same. Fanny Witherington was always there, as was Robert Gilchrist. At first Philip thought young Robert was surprisingly compliant with his sister’s request for an escort for her protégée. It soon became plain that Fanny was the attraction.
Lord Fane and Lord Deverill were both steadfast in their attentions to Alison. Philip was privileged to hear their opinions of each other.
“The man’s a pompous ass,” Neil Deverill grumbled to him. “I’m damned if I know what Alison sees in him.”
“Solid worth,” Philip suggested.
Deverill snorted with laughter. “Solid’s the right word. Faith, he’ll be a tub of lard by the time he’s forty.”
Philip could not help liking Alison’s cousin, nor could he help suspecting that Lord Fane’s view was correct: “The man’s a damned here-and-thereian. These Irish titles are all the same: no solid worth to them.”
“He’s something of a scapegrace,” Philip admitted, hiding his amusement at hearing his own words on Fane’s lips. “There’s no harm in him, though, I believe.”
“It’s a pity Miss Larkin has no more respectable relations in Town, but she cannot be blamed for that. I shall make it my business to see that Deverill does no harm to her reputation.”
Philip was more concerned about Lord Kilmore’s less conspicuous attentions. The baron was not a constant member of the group around Alison, but when he was present at a ball he invariably stood up with her twice. It was obvious that she found him fascinating. Chiding himself for a busybody, Philip noticed that she behaved quite differently with Kilmore than with anyone else. His consolation was that she had told him she considered his lordship a shocking flirt.
Kilm
ore’s reputation was not precisely unsavoury, but he was something of a rake, and the fact that he lived on the edge of Dun Territory was common knowledge.
To be sure, Mrs. Winkle’s fortune was sufficient to support an expensive spendthrift. Philip had come to know Ralph Osborne better in the past few weeks; he was sure the man knew how to tie up that fortune so that no extravagant husband could leave Alison going home by beggar’s bush. If Alison fell in love with Kilmore, there was no logical reason why she should not marry him.
There was only Philip’s heart telling him that she would never be happy with a rake. She would be better off with that “pompous ass,” Fane, who showed signs of being perturbed by Kilmore’s pursuit of the object of his affection.
Philip debated whether to warn Alison, or at least Emma. But Emma knew Kilmore’s reputation. She would wonder at his unnecessary interference. He said nothing.
Neither Lord Fane nor Lord Kilmore was present at Lady Witherington’s musicale. Philip would not have missed the occasion for the world. He sat patiently through harpsichord sonatas and harp suites and Italian arias, for the most part more notable for brio than grazia. He quite understood why Neil Deverill had refused to turn up at the beginning of the evening.
Seated beside him, Alison fidgeted and kept peering over her shoulder. “They are all so good,” she moaned as a plump soprano in pink curtsied, beaming and breathless. “If Neil does not come I cannot do it. I simply cannot hold a note without him singing, too.’’
“He will come,” Philip soothed, taking her restless hand in his and patting it in what he hoped was an avuncular manner.
“I am glad Lord Fane could not come tonight, to see me making a cake of myself.”
“He would have noticed only that you are quite the prettiest performer in the room.”
She looked up at him in surprise, for he was not given to compliments. For a heart-stopping moment their gazes held; the wild roses in her cheeks took on a deeper hue. Then the absentee slid into the chair on her other side and she turned to him in joyful greeting.
“Neil! I was afraid you would come too late, you odious creature.”