Susanne Marie Knight

by A Noble Dilemma

  “You look lovely.” Bethany quickly set aside her writing quill and put her papers into the desk drawer. Standing, she smoothed the soft crêpe material of her ball dress. Her gown was also new, one of the many purchases from her expedition to the Bond Street shops.

  She fingered the edge on the low bodice. Ladies’ fashions had changed considerably since she last shopped. She had far too much bosom exposed — an exceedingly uncomfortable circumstance. To cover the expanse of skin, she wore a dove grey scarf of the same fabric as her dress.

  Petunia gave Bethany’s appearance a thorough going over. “I do adore your gown, Bethany. ’Tis a pity that you must dress in half-mourning. I’m sure a bright color like my blue would do wonders for your complexion.”

  “That doesn’t signify. I only wish I had more material up on top.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll be all the crack tonight. See if I’m not right.”

  Since Petunia’s gown was just as decadent, Bethany dismissed her words.

  Petunia hurried to the door. “Get your gloves and reticule, then we’ll be off.”

  Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Bethany reluctantly followed her young friend down the stairs. She dreaded seeing Lord Ingraham again. How could she have behaved so abominably in the carriage this afternoon?

  Not that it was an excuse, but his insistence that she was in London to attract a husband had upset her equilibrium. After all, she had to be realistic; who could want to marry a near dowerless woman?

  More to the point, she wasn’t interested in marriage.

  Once downstairs, they entered the drawing room where Lady Ingraham waited on the flowered settee.

  “Here you are, my girls. And finely dressed you both are, too.” She stood and waved them out the door. “Let us make haste to the barouche. No time to waste. ’Tis a certainty there will be a fair crush of carriages lining the streets on the way to the Duchess of Margrove’s residence.”

  “But where is Davy?”

  Petunia spoke Bethany’s very question.

  The Countess shook her head, sending the long plume of bright blue ostrich feathers in her toque into a frenzy. “You know your brother, my dear. Some business came up. Important, of course. Never fear. David promised he will join us at Margrove House.”

  “I shall hold him to it,” Petunia said firmly.

  Bethany withheld comment. As she stepped into the stylish barouche, she crossed her gloved fingers, wishing her luck would hold. Perhaps Lord Ingraham’s important business would drive her missish behavior from this afternoon from his mind.

  She could hope, couldn’t she?

  The Duchess of Margrove’s extraordinary ball was not to be missed especially if one desired to dine on exotic foods from the far-flung corners of the world: foods such as black eel soup, spiced Persian melon, and fried bustard meat.

  But David didn’t wish to dine on exotic foods or standard English fare. He’d attended this sumptuous fête at the urgent behest of two very influential personages: the Foreign Secretary, Lord Liverpool, and the Viscountess Weatherhaven, Lady Petunia.

  To most of Britain, Robert Banks Jenkinson — the second Earl of Liverpool — was the more important of the pair in question. However, to David, and to Lord Weatherhaven himself, Petunia held the keys to their happiness in the palms of her dainty little hands.

  For Weatherhaven, this power was a pleasurable one. For David, on the other hand…He shook his head. Sisters.

  And speaking of said sibling, where the devil was she and his mother? And Miss Bethany Branford?

  “Lud, man.” Henry Penning joined David by the crimson satin damask drapes tasked with covering a large picture window. “Why the deuce are you looking like thunder? The Duchess throws a top o’ the trees affair. Nothing but the best for polite society, don’t you know?”

  He pulled out a white linen handkerchief to mop at his forehead.

  David couldn’t blame his friend for that indelicate action. The oppressive heat inside this enormous ballroom caused many a fair maiden to swoon. Obviously there were too many revelers and too many candles burning in the numerous crystal chandeliers.

  “I know, Penning. It is just that royalty might also attend. Liverpool relayed to me that the Regent received an invite.” He hesitated. The Prince Regent wasn’t acknowledged as a model of restraint and decorum — and that was phrasing it quite mildly. “George does tend to be divisive on certain issues.”

  And diverse political opinions often lead to knock down, bloody brawls.

  Penning pocketed his handkerchief. “Bless me, yes, I quite understand. If Prinny gets his rotund bottom here, the party will go downhill in a trice. He’s always got a bee in his bonnet about some outrageous notion.”

  “Indeed.” David kept his voice low. While the words they spoke weren’t treason by any stretch of the imagination, the Regent was a very thin-skinned man. Once a person got into his black books, he remained there — forever. He steered the conversation onto a safer topic. “Have you seen Lady Petunia about?”

  “No,” was the immediate reply. “I’ve been on the lookout for your mother’s party.” Penning compensating for his middling height by rising onto his black-slippered toes to gaze out at the entrance to the ballroom. “Must secure a dance or two with our very own Incomparable.”

  Although introducing Miss Branford to society with the end purpose of marriage was exactly what David had intended, he could not help glowering at his friend.

  The fading strains of music sounded. A set of minuets was now over, which meant matrons would be on the lookout for unattached men to partner with their eligible daughters for another round. Before David had a chance to make himself scarce, his hostess, the Duchess of Margrove, set her considerable sails in his direction.

  “Ah, there you are, my Lord Ingraham. And fancy, Lord Penning, as well.” The Duchess, a good-natured woman with more girth than height, waved her jewel-encrusted hand in their direction.

  David made his bows to the grey-haired lady. “An excellent party, your Grace. You are to be congratulated.”

  Her congenial face crinkled into a smile. “Stuff! You are a charmer, my lord.”

  Penning lifted an eyebrow. Evidently he didn’t think much of David’s silver-tongued abilities.

  “As you both know,” the Duchess continued, “gentlemen are always in such short supply. Especially those who cast a merry leg about the floor.” She twirled a frizzy grey lock of hair around her finger, then cleared her throat. Evidently she was getting to the point of her discourse. “Would you both be so kind as to escort some of our fair English flowers to the dance floor?”

  David shot a glance at Penning, ordering him to comply. “It will be our pleasure, your Grace.”

  “Of course, your Grace,” Penning mumbled.

  David spotted a spray of bright peacock blue ostrich feathers bobbing by the ballroom entrance. Only one lady of his acquaintance wore that particular shade of blue.

  “Indeed, I see my mother’s party just now arriving. I shall ask Miss Branford for the next set.”

  Although Miss Branford was dressed in a gown and scarf of drab grey, even at this distance she shone with the radiance of a natural beauty.

  He couldn’t withhold his smile.

  However, the Duchess was of another mind at his suggestion. Her mouth flapped open. “No, no! Lady Cowper, one of the patronesses of Almack’s is here tonight. She’s got sharp eyes and a penchant for gossip, my lord. It wouldn’t do for you to dance with your own protégée. Heaven forbid. Tongues would wag, they would. My word, how they would wag.”

  “I’ll take the task on, then,” Penning was quick to interject.

  With a haste that was unseemly, Penning took his leave, then scurried over to the Countess, a very fetching Lady Petunia, and the beguiling Miss Branford.

  David had to admit the Duchess had the right of his particular situation. However, perhaps as the night advanced, Lady Cowper and those other relentless social arbiters lurking a
bout the ballroom wouldn’t be as apt to censure him if he asked Miss Branford to dance.

  And perhaps, if he solicited Lady Cowper’s hand for a set about the dance floor, she would be more willing to overlook his subsequent indiscretion.

  He inclined his head at the Duchess. “My thanks, your grace, for your astute advice. I see an excellent example of one of our English flowers sitting patiently on yonder bench. Could you introduce me?”

  “Most certainly,” was the Duchess’ loud reply. She linked arms with him, then headed toward the seated Miss Vanhorne. “I can assure you, you will not be displeased with your choice.”

  With a slight frown on his face, David followed his hostess. Blast it, he was only going to dance with the young woman, not offer for her hand.

  Bethany was flattered by all the unexpected attention she received at the Duchess of Margrove’s elaborate party. The quiet in her soul, however, yearned for a more tranquil setting.

  None of her new swains would have understood her sentiments. Indeed, if they had been aware, they would have been perplexed for gaiety, frivolity and high spirits were the order of the evening.

  It was with great relief that she turned to Lord Penning, a familiar face in the sea of black apparel surrounding her. Black — the de rigueur color for gentlemen in attendance.

  “Bless me!” Henry wiped his affable face with a much-abused handkerchief. “I have been on the lookout for your entrance, Miss Branford. And now you are here.”

  He made a small bow.

  She withheld a giggle. His bow was small because there was no room to make a larger one. “It is good to see you, my lord. Lady Ingraham, Lady Petunia, and I have only just arrived.”

  His dark-eyed gaze had a tendency to focus on the unseemly amount of skin exposed by her far-too-daring gown. To one who was modest, this was a mortifying experience. She discreetly adjusted the folds of her scarf.

  “I say, Miss Branford. Would you do me the honor of dancing with me? Our hostess, the Duchess, has given me marching orders — dance.” He lowered his voice. “To be truthful, there is no young lady I’d rather be dancing with than you.”

  Plain speaking indeed. Bethany felt herself flush. “You are too kind, sir.”“And here is our hostess, hurrying over to perform the formal introduction,” Henry added.

  The Duchess fluttered an animated handkerchief as she dutifully introduced Henry to her. Bethany made a shy smile, then held out her hand.

  Merging into the flow of graceful dancers for a cotillion, they were the needed fourth to complete a square set. She flinched when he stood uncomfortably close to her side. About to protest, she glanced around and realized he had no choice. The floor was filled with eager dancers.

  Goodness! In truth, she’d never been in such intimate contact with a gentleman…and someone she’d just met five days ago. She felt breathless. But she had to set her trepidations aside for if she did not, she would’ve been left behind on the dance floor.

  “Splendid fun, hey?” Henry panted as he laughed as if the vigorous dance was more than he could handle.

  She stole a glance at his large biceps straining against the fabric of his tailcoat. Henry Penning was particularly able-bodied. There had to be another reason for him being winded.

  Perhaps he was as affected as she was by their close proximity.

  Heat burned her cheeks. Murmuring something inconsequential, she concentrated on the varied, intricate patterns and steps of the cotillion. To calm her racing heart, she darted her gaze over the nearby couples.

  A piecing stare attracted her attention. Her host, Lord Ingraham, also glided about the floor in another dancing set. Standing by his side was a milk-and-water miss who appeared as pale as her snowy white ball dress.

  But Lord Ingraham wasn’t staring at his partner. He stared at Bethany. At that moment, she noticed his eyes were an extreme shade of blue. The brightest possible blue, a shade that could haunt a person’s thoughts for days at a time.

  She might have smiled at him before lowering her gaze. She couldn’t be sure. Her mind was a mass of conflicting sensations and her heart tripled its beat in time with the music.

  One thing was for certain: if she hadn’t been constrained by Henry’s hands, she would’ve floated off the floor, so filled she was with an unfamiliar emotion.

  “I say, Miss Branford.” Henry inadvertently turned so that Lord Ingraham’s gaze was now blocked. “You seem to be trembling. Are you feeling quite the thing?”

  “Oh yes.” She hurried to deny any symptoms of illness. “I am well, thank you. But it is rather warm inside, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Henry glanced over her head, in the direction of the entrance to the ballroom. “Bless me, I fear ’twill get warmer still. Do you know who just deigned to grace these hallowed halls? No pun intended, but ’tis the Duke of Sussex, Prince Augustus.”

  A prince? One of the king’s sons? Bethany riveted her gaze toward the congregation now swarming by the entrance. With his fine array of garments, Prince Augustus was easy to spot in the crowd.

  Although the word “prince” conjured up visions of handsome young men behaving gallantly to comely, tender maidens, this prince didn’t live up to that description. Augustus Frederick was no longer young. If memory served, his age totaled forty plus years. Perhaps forty-three.

  The ninth child, and sixth son of George III, Augustus constantly suffered from ill health. His infirmity showed in his plump, round face. Pain seemed to be etched into the lines around his mouth.

  Having devoted so much of her life to caring for her Great Aunt Cordelia, Bethany understood how pain could take over a person’s life. Her heart went out to the man.

  And, to be fair, he could have been just as gallant as the word prince implied.

  Henry executed another turn on the floor. “I owe I am glad ’tis Augustus in attendance. Ingraham mentioned that we might expect royalty tonight.”

  Bethany lost her footing and bumped into him, however whether her awkwardness was a reaction to the turn or to the mention of Lord Ingraham’s name, she didn’t know.

  She murmured an apology.

  Henry smiled his forgiveness. “Naturally we stewed on whether ’twould be the Prince Regent lumbering over tonight. However, since Augustus and his eldest brother are at loggerheads, we can feel assured the Regent will not make an appearance.”

  The remainder of the cotillion continued with more commonplace conversation. Everyday topics such as how Bethany was enjoying London, and how Henry looked forward to driving her around Hyde Park tomorrow.

  When the music ended, Henry took her hand, heading in Lady Petunia’s direction.

  Before they reached their destination, Bethany felt a tap on her shoulder. The sensation caused tingles of excitement to run down her arm.

  What if…what if it was Lord Ingraham, requesting her hand for the next dance?

  Her heart in her mouth, Bethany turned around. There, standing side-by-side were the Duchess of Margrove and Prince Augustus.

  “My dear,” the Duchess loudly intoned. “May I say your good fortune is now complete? It is with the greatest honor and the utmost pleasure that I introduce you to His Royal Highness, the Prince Augustus.”

  Bethany swallowed her surprise, and bent down into a deep curtsy. When she arose, she caught an admiring gleam in the man’s eyes.

  Goodness! If she remembered correctly, Prince Augustus was not currently married. Could it be possible he was in the market for a new wife? That would be a noble dilemma indeed.

  Chapter Five

  A restless feeling disturbed David’s soul. The blame for this discontent could not be laid at his last partner’s feet. No, Miss Vanhorne had been as dutiful and as proper as any of society’s debutantes on display during this current London season.

  But what disturbed his equilibrium? The answer to that question lay just beyond his reach.

  He made his way back to his out-of-the-way lookout — the satin draped picture window — then turned
around to observe the party in progress. Spotting Miss Branford’s elegant figure dressed in half-mourning, he watched as she participated in the dignified pattern of a minuet. Her face was aglow with pleasure as she gazed at her nobly born companion.

  Prince Augustus was in rare form tonight.

  David sighed. Perhaps he should have remained in Paris. There was nothing for him here in England. Nothing but duties and responsibilities.

  “Lud, man. You’ve a countenance more suited for a funeral than a gala fête, don’t you know?” Penning also stood by the window. He slapped David on the back. “Someone die while I wasn’t looking?”

  It would not do to bare one’s innermost thoughts to a gabster like Henry Penning. David darted his gaze around the confusion of activity gathered inside the Duchess’ ballroom for something, anything, he could use as a decoy.

  The blue ostrich feathers in his mother’s toque gave him the diversion he sought.

  “How can I smile, Penning? You see the Countess’ inappropriate behavior with that bounder, Fenwick. She is near twice his age, yet there she stands, flirting like a seasoned coquette well past her debut. When is my mother going to act her age?”

  Blast, it truly was embarrassing to watch his mother flutter her fan, simpering like a schoolroom miss.

  “Perhaps when you finally enter the parson’s mousetrap.” Penning reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out that accursed handkerchief. He put it to good use on his forehead. “I’ve a feeling the Countess will mend her ways once the Ingraham nursery is filled.”

  For a moment, the ballroom came to a standstill. A shaft of insight penetrated David’s thoughts.

  Good God, Penning has perceived the right of it. My mother is unfulfilled. She needs a grandchild.

  It was a thunderclap of the obvious. He turned to his friend and shook his hand. “My thanks, Penning. I do believe you are correct. Perhaps it is time for me to get on the scramble for a wife.”

  First Penning nodded in agreement, then suspicion shadowed his jovial face. “Hold on, Ingraham. What the deuce are you planning?”