David scanned the rows of dancers until he spied Miss Branford’s shiny dark-haired head at the end of one of the minuet lines.
He was in luck; the slow, stylized dance was almost at an end.
“No need to fly into the boughs, Penning.” David smiled as he walked toward his objective. “I should be mindful of my responsibility to new protégée, wouldn’t you agree? A turn about the floor with the angelic Miss Branford will adequately serve my purpose.”
Penning’s handkerchief worked overtime as he followed behind. “Stap me! You cannot mean to say that you are intending to declare yourself to — ”
“Declare myself?” David stopped halfway to the dance floor, then lifted his eyebrow at his friend.
Penning reddened. “I mean to say, offer marriage to Miss Branford?”
“Offer marriage, old fellow?” David stood on the sidelines, patiently waiting until the minuet was over. “You do mistake me, my friend. I confess to wanting to dance with Miss Branford, nothing more.”
Nothing more…yet, he silently added. Providence had dropped the alluring Bethany Branford into his lap, so to speak. He did not know her well, of course, but what he did know bespoke of her honesty and purity. She was a female completely without guile.
David’s smile deepened. He hoped a lively country dance would be next.
The Prince was a gentleman.
As Bethany made the ending curtsy of the minuet, she smiled at her royal partner. She’d thought dancing with one of the King’s sons would’ve been intimidating, but the Duke of Sussex exceeded her expectations on several fronts.
Not only did he dance with graceful movements and a sense of style, but he also spoke knowledgably on a great many subjects. He was well versed on literature, took an avid interest in politics and supported several charities.
“Miss Branford, I am most delighted to have had this chance to dance with you. I shall endeavor to — ”The duke glanced over her shoulder. “Ingraham! Upon my honor! What a fortuitous situation. Just the very man I wish to speak with.”
Goodness! Bethany turned around to find Lord Ingraham standing right behind her. His brilliant blue eyed-gaze seemed affixed to her person. Flushing, she adjusted the grey scarf over her bodice even though the ballroom blazed uncomfortably warm.
“Your grace,” Lord Ingraham pronounced as he inclined his head. Then he turned his mesmerizing gaze on her. “Miss Branford.”
Somehow his words were imbued with more warmth than was seemly. She felt a trickle of perspiration pool in the space between her breasts.
The Prince…the Duke…Bethany placed her gloved hand to her mouth in confusion. What was the correct way to address King George’s son?
It doesn’t matter.
The Prince, a much shorter man than Lord Ingraham, lifted up onto his shoe-buckled toes. He spoke in a low tone into the Earl’s ear. “I wish to have a word with you about your young protégée.”
Bethany was close enough to hear, however. She reddened further.
Lord Ingraham lifted an imperious eyebrow. “Indeed, your Grace?”
One of the Prince’s aides, a young man with a decidedly serious countenance, interrupted this uncomfortable, for Bethany, at least, tête-à-tête.
“A thousand pardons, your Grace, but Her Royal Highness, Princess Charlotte — ” The man blinked, cleared his throat, then continued, “Or rather Princess Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, has an urgent need to see you.”
This announcement transfigured the Prince’s even-tempered demeanor. “My word! My word! My niece has an urgent need for me! Go,” he ordered his aide. “Go this very moment and fetch my carriage.”
Whatever Prince Augustus was going to ask Lord Ingraham was now completely forgotten. Taking his leave, the Prince plowed behind his aide through the crowded ballroom with all possible haste as befitting one as sturdily built as he.
The Earl watched as Bethany did, then turned his attention back to her. For a moment she admired his form. He was resplendent in black evening clothes with gleaming silver buttons. He reached over and took her hand. Even through the cotton material, she felt the warmth of his touch. “Would you be so kind as to grant me this next dance, Miss Branford?”
She lowered her lashes. “Yes, of course, sir.” She accompanied him out to the dance floor.
While she could admit to herself she was thrilled to be in such close contact with him, a strange sensation also flickered in her chest. Why did the image of a cat playing with a trapped mouse come to mind?
The vigorous music began to float throughout the ballroom. David placed his hand in Miss Branford’s hand. He felt her tremble, like a fearful fawn might, newly taken from her mother’s side. He smiled to reassure her. With a rush, they danced in time with the music. Warm air sailed past them, fueling their movements.
It was wonderful. Magical. As they advanced down the floor, the delicate flush on her cheeks deepened. She cast her gaze everywhere but up at him.
Leaning in as closely as the constraints of polite society would permit, he murmured into the shell of her ear. “I have been remiss in my attentions to you, my dear Miss Branford.”
She started to protest, but he stopped her.
“No, it is true, I have been negligent. As your guardian, tonight’s first dance should have been mine.” He inhaled her sweet fragrance of jasmine. “Is it any wonder I intend to challenge Penning to a duel?”
“No!” She pulled away. Surprise, shock, indignation — all these and more flitted across her lovely features.
David laughed. “Peace, my dear Miss Branford. I jest.”
A few seconds passed without her speaking. Finally, she scolded, “That was unkind of you, sir.”
“Perhaps. However you must admit the sight of Penning and me battling it out would surely prove to be a nine days wonder.”
“I admit nothing of the sort, my lord.” She turned her pert nose up at him. “Indeed, I believe you were correct in your first statement. You are remiss.”
She wasn’t averse to ringing a peal over his head, that much was certain. He found her righteous attitude delightful in the extreme.
He grinned. “Mea culpa, my dear. I shall endeavor to mend my errant ways and resume my guardian demeanor, eh? So, in that vein, on what topics did the most noble Duke of Sussex bend your ear?”
Obviously that was a safe topic for she smiled back at him, then responded in kind. “We covered a variety of subjects, my lord, from the Royal wedding in May to the British Museum’s June acquisition of the Elgin Marbles.” Her hazel eyes grew wide with childish amazement. “Were you aware that the princely sum of thirty five thousand pounds exchanged hands for the Marbles?”
Again, David was reminded of a delicate fawn, unused to the harsh ways of the world. Miss Bethany Branford was pure and untouched by any type of deceit. He felt himself drawn to her engaging manner, not to mention being smitten by her very pretty face.
In the privacy of his thoughts, he could refer to Bethany by her given name. Perhaps one day, soon he hoped, he would be granted the privilege to use her name in public. He executing a turn rather sharply, duplicating a movement he had noticed Penning execute. The effect was the same: Bethany bumped into his chest.
That brief melding of her bosom to his stoked a fire burning wildly in his heart. He wet his lips, tapped down his desire, then apologized.
The blush on her cheeks changed to crimson. She apologized as well.
He glanced over her head at the surrounding couples, then lowered his voice. “Have you any idea why the Duke wishes to have a word with me?”
“Indeed, I do not, sir.” She raised a troubled gaze at him. “I confess, his interest does worry me a trifle.”
“Never fear, Miss Branford. I cannot imagine Prince Augustus would wish to woo you.”
Perish the thought.
David continued, “After all, the Duke is twice your age. However, if his intention is to pay court, I shall not hesitate to fling cold water upon the proposal.”
She gazed up at him earnestly, her yellowish brown eyes deepening to pure gold. “Thank you, sir. I realize I am foolish, and perhaps I am even badly mistaken in this case. But I do sometimes worry about inappropriate situations.”
“To be truthful and honorable are virtues to be commended, my dear. May I say how pleased I am that you have joined the Greyle household here in London?”
His words were meant to praise, not to cause consternation. But oddly enough, Bethany did indeed look alarmed. When the dance ended and they made their bow and curtsy, she gave a wan smile, then professed a desire to return to his mother’s side.
As David escorted Bethany back to the Countess, he puzzled on the enigma that was his new protégée. Just what the devil had distressed her?
Goodness gracious. This is a sad state of affairs. Whatever am I going to do?
Wringing her gloved hands, Bethany took a step behind her hostess, who was at present busy talking with a few acquaintances and admirers. She moved over to the wall, where a painting of a happy, well-to-do couple captured her attention. Its neoclassical style featured intricate details such as the elegant folds in the woman’s gown and the meticulous arrangement of the lace of the gentleman’s cravat. She took a brief refuge from the party by studying the canvas. Only when she spotted the artist’s signature did she sigh and turn away. This masterpiece had been painted by Jacques Louis David — the famous French artist. Not that she had anything against Jacques Louis David, even though he had been the official painter to Napoleon Bonaparte’s short-lived but destructive reign. David, to her, did not mean a last name, but first, as in David Greyle, the Earl of Ingraham. David, who had just referred to her as “my dear Miss Branford.”
His Miss Branford.
The sound of that endearing phrase had caused her heart to soar. But then, his following words had crashed her back to the ground.
To be truthful and honorable are virtues to be commended, my dear.
Even now she flushed with the remembrance. The admiration in his voice, the special glow to his eyes…
Fie on it.
Although she felt an emotional bond with him, she warred with her conflicting emotions. The truth of it was, she wasn’t truthful. Nor even honorable. In fact, she brimmed full of deceit, full of guilt at thus taking advantage of the Earl and his household.
Her unseemly ambition was to be a published writer of popular novels. What would Lord Ingraham think, indeed, what would he say if — dear God, please no — if he ever found out her secret?
Oh, for such a breach of etiquette as this, he would condemn her most readily. His ire would blaze out of those uncompromising eyes of his. He would not care to look upon her. He would not wish to speak with her. Her woman’s intuition told her all this…and much, much more.
Bethany hung her head. Was clandestinely penning a novel worth this possible disgrace? Should he discover her perfidy, could she bear to lose his high regard? But how else was she to manage her expenses if not through an occupation?
“There you are, Bethany,” Petunia called out as she weaved her way through the party revelers. “The crush here is so frightful. I have been looking everywhere for you.” Stopping by the painting, Petunia patted her hand over her heart as if to calm that particular organ’s frantic beating. She was radiating a happiness Bethany could not hope ever to achieve. “’Tis Weatherhaven. He’s just arrived. I do so want to introduce you.”
Bethany smiled at her young hostess and took her arm. “And I am looking forward to meeting your Lord Weatherhaven. What is his direction?”
“Over by that dreadful statue. You know the one — the garish bronze figure. How could you overlook it? Half man, half goat.” She shuddered.
The Duchess’ ballroom was very large indeed, with a multitude of artworks to marvel at. But one could not fail to notice the tall Greek satyr avidly playing his soundless horn regardless of the company. Petunia dashed through the crowd, towing Bethany by her side. She nodded at several acquaintances but didn’t stop to talk. The only words that passed her lips were for Bethany.
“The dear man misses me so,” Petunia breathlessly called behind her as she headed for her destination — the horn-playing man/goat. Reaching the gargantuan monstrosity, Petunia halted, then peeked around to the back of it. “Weatherhaven is right over…here.”
Bethany reached Petunia’s side. The area behind the statue yielded no presence of Lord Weatherhaven…nor of anyone else for that matter.
“Faddle.” Petunia stood up onto her toes. The delicate curls on her upswept coiffure quivered with intensity as she searched the grand ballroom for her husband. “Now where did the man get off to?”
As Bethany had never seen Lord Weatherhaven, she could be of no assistance in locating the man. She did, however, see something on the dance floor that severely disturbed her equanimity.
Lady Ingraham, her attractive face flushed with excitement, participated in a lively cotillion with her escort, Mr. Fenwick. Unfortunately, she danced with such abandon, she forgot herself. To facilitate her steps, she lifted the hem of her satin round gown so high, several inches of her ankles were revealed to all and sundry.
Bethany blushed. Lady Ingraham’s inappropriate display embarrassed not only herself but her entire family. Bethany’s immediate concern, however, wasn’t for Lady Ingraham, but for David. She put her hand out to touch Petunia’s shoulder. “Petunia, your mother is — ”
“Gracious.” Petunia wasn’t focused on Lady Ingraham’s imprudent behavior. Instead, she stared in the opposite direction.
Bethany followed her hostess’ gaze. She saw a distinguished gentleman with dark curls tinged with grey, leaning over a seated young woman. He raised the woman’s gloved hand to his lips, then kissed her fingers. The woman gave the man such a wide smile that no one could possible think her a demure young miss.
Petunia gasped. “That hussy!”
Before Bethany had a chance to stop her, Petunia charged headlong toward the man. Was he Lord Weatherhaven?
Bethany took a moment to sigh before heading after Petunia. Life in the village of Bamburgh, Northumberland had been so much simpler than here in London, with its big city intrigues.
Chapter Six
Dashing about the dance floor as if on fire was a pastime reserved only for the young and the foolish. Unfortunately, David considered his sister both. So it was no surprise to see Petunia race from one end of the ballroom to the other.
Demmed inappropriate.
And since her expression was set as if she were preparing to battle the enemy, he feared some sort of unpleasant confrontation would soon take place. He had to avert disaster. Making his way over in her direction as nonchalantly as he could, he then spotted the source of her agitation.
Lord Weatherhaven was paying his respects to the Marquess of Overton’s daughter, Lady Harriet.
That in itself would not have generated excitement, except for the fact that Weatherhaven had offered for Lady Harriet during the Last Season. Lady Harriet had refused the viscount, and that had been that.
Or so David thought.
With her blue eyes flashing, Petunia stared up at her lord and master. Her hands tightened into fists, her narrow jaw jutted. If she were a man, she would have been a prime candidate to frequent Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon.
Pity the man who was to be her opponent.
Weatherhaven was oblivious, as great men often were concerning their spouses. And as the Weatherhaven marriage was of such a recent occurrence, David’s understanding of Lady Petunia had to have been far superior than that of her husband’s.
“Petunia, here you are. I’ve been looking for you.” Weatherhaven, a tall man slightly prone to portliness, inclined his curly dark head at his wife.
David readied to speak, and Petunia opened her mouth, but grey-garbed Bethany, hovering by his sister’s side, was the one who spoke first.
“My lady, would you do me the honor of introducing me to your husband?” Bethan
y turned her attention to Weatherhaven. “I am so deeply indebted to you, kind sir, for allowing your wife to see to my amusement here in London.”
While Weatherhaven replied, David smiled warmly at her. He should have known his country miss would have the wherewithal to smooth over this little contretemps.
Petunia blinked those china blue eyes of hers, obviously needing a few more seconds to compose herself. David jumped in and performed the introductions himself.
Then he turned to the still-seated Lady Harriet. “Lady Harriet, may I present Bethany Branford, our cousin from Bamburgh, Northumberland?”
Lady Harriet regally glanced up, then looked down her prominent, hooked nose. “Delighted, I’m sure.”
The woman looked as far from delighted as could be. In fact, as cross as crabs was a phrase that could adequately describe Lady Harriet.
David withheld his amusement. “If you will please excuse us, Lady Harriet.”
Without waiting for her reply, he shepherded his sister, her errant husband and Bethany in the direction of the Duchess of Margrove’s large cloakroom. They weaved through the closely packed revelers. All were silent, except for Weatherhaven — he attempted to make inconsequential conversation.
Poor fellow was still unaware he faced a monumental frost. It would take more than a few well-phrased words to thaw out Petunia.
Indeed, his sister seemed to be a pot readying to come to a boil.
Once inside the room, the pot boiled over.
David quickly gazed around. Only three guests lingered within the gloomy walls of the cloakroom, but they were three too many.
“Weatherhaven, how could you dance attendance on that dreadful person? I am beyond mortified.” Petunia stamped her tiny foot, losing all pretenses of civility.
“My dear.” Weatherhaven cleared his throat. “Whatever is the matter?”
He did not moderate his tone to accommodate this intimate gathering. He spoke as if addressing his peers in the House of Lords.
Bethany leaned in and lowered her voice. “The hour is far advanced, my lord, and indeed, the air is quite close in the ballroom.” She used her hand to fan her face, most likely for effect. “Perhaps you and Lady Petunia would prefer to repair to your own home for a comfortable coze?”
Susanne Marie Knight Page 6