Winn looked closer at the young woman and caught the hectic flush on her cheeks, the slight waver in her stance. Once again he cursed her parents. “Devil a bit, I think you’ve had enough already. What you need, my girl, is a walk in the fresh air. What do you think your father will do if I ask you for a stroll?”
“I think he’ll have an apoplexy. Shall we go?” Irma tugged on her mother’s sleeve and loudly whispered, “Lord Wingate has invited me for a walk on the balcony. If I am not back shortly, tell Papa I fell off.”
Lady Bannister scowled, but she couldn’t very well refuse the highest ranking gentleman at her ball. “You’ll return at the end of this dance, Irmagard, or I shall come drag you back myself, broken legs and all.”
The viscount fixed the shawl more securely on Irma’s shoulders when they reached the balcony. He led her away from the other couples taking the cool night air and advantage of the dark corners. “I’m sorry you’ll have to go back.”
Irma leaned on the railing and stared up at the stars, trying to see them through the blur of tears “Oh, it’s not your fault. And thank you for this reprieve at least. You truly are the most chivalrous of gentlemen. I wish…”
“What do you wish, Glory?”
She wished with all her heart she was older, prettier, more refined—and not about to be affianced to some unknown, unloved, and unlikely shabster. What she said was “I wish this dance will never end.”
Winn chuckled. “Usually it’s some young mooncalf who utters that bit of fustian. Or at least a female who’s been waltzed senseless. In your case it’s not quite the compliment a gentleman expects.”
“Oh, do stop teasing. You of all people know how hopeless my situation is.”
“I told you not to worry, didn’t I?” He took her arm for the walk back toward the entrance of the ballroom.
“That’s all very well and good, but no one is about to condemn you to a life sentence.”
“The verdict isn’t in yet, Glory,” he whispered when they reached Lady Bannister’s side. Then the viscount raised Irma’s hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. She knew what he was doing, trying to frighten other suitors off by making them think he had an interest in her. Such a ploy wouldn’t fadge with Papa. He wanted an offer, not a bit of gallantry. Winn was just being chivalrous again. Still, her fingers tingled.
Happily, a commotion at the door drew everyone’s eye before the music started for the next interval. Iselle and her new husband blew into the room amid laughter and exclamations and more congratulations. There was more champagne and more toasting, and no one paid any attention whatsoever to Irma, hidden at the edge of the family group. A few of her mother’s friends did make snide references to two such joyous events, with cutting looks in the third daughter’s direction, but the bachelors were busy chiding the latest benedict in their midst, or swigging more of the baron’s wine.
When the orchestra struck up a quadrille, Evan Farrell escorted his new bride to the floor, and Irma’s heart sank. Now she was exposed to the scrutiny of the assembly all over again. The young bucks were getting louder in their jests, bolder in their assessing looks, even with the viscount standing nearby. Papa’s face was getting redder.
Then Kelvin, dear, sweet, affianced Kelvin Allbright asked her to stand up with him. She accepted with joy, then proceeded to step on Kelvin’s toes, trip up the other couples, and purposely mangle the complicated figures of the dance. ’Twould take a brave man to dance with her after that exhibition, she figured, brave as well as pockets to let.
Her new brother-in-law asked her for the country dance next forming, bless his dandified heart. Farrell did threaten to leave her to her fate if she scuffed his new satin evening pumps, but he smiled and offered to try talking sense into her father. Irma told him to save his breath, for Lord Bannister was barrelling around the ballroom, haranguing the knots of men on the sidelines. He was most likely raising her dowry even as she danced. She thanked Sir Evan as prettily as she could when he returned her to Lady Bannister, but her heart was sinking as low as her slippers. Not even Farrell’s whispered promise to bribe his married friends into dancing with her could bring a smile to her lips.
The boulanger was next, then the Roger de Coverly. When no one asked her, Irma began to think the condemned man might even get his last supper.
Then a waltz was begun. Irma had never waltzed with anyone but her sisters, and now she never would, unless Papa’d finally found someone down at the heels and dicked in the nob. She kept her eyes on the floor so no one could see her struggle to keep from crying.
Then a pair of black satin evening pumps was in her view, and white stockings encasing well-muscled legs. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Glory?”
“No!” she snapped, before Lady Bannister pinched her arm. She rubbed the sore spot and hissed at him anyway: “Do go away, my lord. You know what Papa said.”
“Yes.”
“Well, you cannot want to marry me.”
“Yes.”
Winn took her hand and led her to the dance floor before Irma could interpret his response. Every eye in the room was on them, of course, and Papa’s mouth was hanging open. Irma stood at rigid attention in front of the viscount. “My lord, Winn, please listen to me. I realize you are just being noble again, but Papa won’t understand. He cannot force a gentleman like you to make me an offer, but he can subject you to a terribly embarrassing conversation for all of us. Please, perhaps if we just promenade around the room…”
In answer Winn took her in his arms and swirled her around the floor, keeping her spinning until she was laughing and out of breath. Dancing with her sisters was never like this!
“He’ll offer you the Grange,” she warned.
“It won’t be enough. I have ten times more property than any man needs.”
“He’ll offer you his foxhounds, that’s how desperate he is.”
“I’ve given up hunting.”
“Then he’ll say you were trifling with me. He’ll blacken your reputation.”
“What? Brig the Prig? My name can stand a little scandal, I’ve been so good all these years. A touch of notoriety only adds to a fellow’s consequence, anyway, don’t you know? Look at Farrell. The man’s an out-and-outer, yet he won himself a treasure in Iselle. Did you notice she is even more beautiful with a wedding ring?”
Irma did not want to talk about Iselle’s beauty. “Papa will call you out.”
He laughed out loud. “That’s unlikely. I’m known to be a crack shot, and I doubt your father’s been next or nigh a sword these ages.”
“Then I suppose you’ll be safe from his machinations.” She sighed, almost regretfully.
“Safe?” He laughed again, brown eyes dancing with golden flecks as he twirled her around. “If I wanted to be safe, Miss Irmagard Snodgrass, I would have fled when I saw your watercolor painting, all vibrant and chaotic and full of life. I would have turned tail and run back to the intrigues of Vienna rather than take part in your skipbrain schemes.”
Irma was about to protest that her tactics were not lackwit, they worked, for the most part, when she found herself back on the balcony in the chill air. Somehow she wasn’t cold, for his arms were around her and he was whispering in her ear: “And if I wanted to be safe, Glory, I’d never kiss you like this, knowing I’ll never be free of you again.”
A few minutes—or a lifetime—later, he tipped her face up to stare into her eyes. “Say you care for me, just a little, Glory, and let me try to make you as happy as I know how. Otherwise, it’s a life sentence for me, too, a whole eternity with an empty place in my heart.”
Confounded by the dance, the kiss, the warm breath on her cheek, she could only think to ask, “You mean, you really wanted to dance with me? You weren’t just being kind and good because you felt sorry for me?”
“No, you little goose. I waited to make sure there was no young swain you smiled at to encourage. Of course, I might have had to call him out, but I waited to make
sure.” His hands were on the side of her face, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. “And no, I didn’t want to dance with you. I wanted to hold you in my arms again. I wanted—I want—to make love to you. I want to marry you. I love you, Glory. J’t’aime, te amo, ich du lieber…”
“You love me?” She still couldn’t believe it.
“With all my heart. I know it’s been a short time, Glory, but do you think you can come to love me a little?”
“No, for I already love you so much I thought I would burst with it.” This required another long kiss filled with promise, then a question. “Winn, do you believe in love at first sight?”
“How can I not? And I believe it will be love at the first sight of you each and every day of our lives. Now come, let us go make your father the second happiest of men.” And he waltzed her back through the balcony doors to the dance floor. “What do you think would happen if I were to kiss you right here?” he murmured during one of the turns.
“I think Mama would swoon and Papa would halt the music to announce our betrothal. Please do.” He laughed and did, even though the music had been finished for ages.
*
Lord Bannister hosted the fall hunt, and Lady Bannister held the annual autumn ball. Both were memorable occasions in the neighborhood society, but never more than that year.
The Management Requests
1
Proper supervision.
Captain Arthur Hunter was limping badly. He would always and forever be limping badly, but he wouldn’t be Captain Hunter for long. No, as soon as the War Office accepted his resignation, Arthur would be Viscount Huntingdon, an honor he wished for almost as much as he wished for that cannon blast at Ciudad de Santos. Deuce take it, he’d managed to survive Bonaparte; his brother Henry might have tried to survive that curricle race to Brighton. Arthur never wanted to succeed his brother, and he never wanted to be stumbling through Mayfair leaning on a cane, and he sure as the devil never wanted to be playing diplomatic dogsbody to foreign dignitaries. Unfortunately, he spoke German, in several dialects. And he’d been of some assistance at the peace talks. And the prince regent wanted his officers marched through the streets like conquering heroes for the victory fetes.
Victory, hell. The country should be in mourning for all the good men lost. Yes, the Peninsular War was finally over, but at such a cost no one should be celebrating. Try telling that to those fools at the War Office, though. All they were concerned with was the next parade. So what if the poor infantry soldiers were being dumped back on the streets with no jobs, no pensions, no way to support their families? They had their new medals and ribbons, didn’t they? Bah!
Arthur would have traded every gewgaw and grosgrain for the chance to go home to the country, to learn to manage the family’s properties, to be out of the deuced public eye. Instead he was suffering through another barrage, this time of bombast instead of cannonballs. Devil take it, if he’d wanted to be a sauntering park soldier he’d have joined the Horse Guards. If he’d wanted to be a swaggering swell with a smooth tongue he’d have joined the diplomatic corps.
And if he’d wanted to stay at the family residence in Cavendish Square, he wouldn’t be limping halfway across Town. He’d learn to ride again, he swore, but not in view of the ton, so Arthur supposed he’d have to purchase himself a curricle. His brother’s, by all reports, was reduced to kindling. Meanwhile, the streets were so congested Captain Hunter had left the hackney to walk. Even at his slow rate, he’d get to Huntingdon House sooner. And the sooner he’d paid his respects to Henry’s widow, the sooner he could remove his dress uniform, rest his aching leg, and resort to a bottle of wine.
Seven years older than Arthur’s eight and twenty, Sylvia, Lady Huntingdon, still treated him like a sticky-faced schoolboy. A series of miscarriages had ruined her looks; knowing that she had not protected the succession from second-son soldiers ruined her temperament. Still, she was nearly all the family Arthur had left except for some old aunts and distant cousins, so he made sure to call on her first, before she heard through the rumor mills that he was back in London. He handed his shako to Henry’s butler Udall and quickly combed his fingers through his blond curls as he followed the poker-backed servant down the hall.
“At last!” Sylvia did not waste her breath on pleasantries. “I thought you’d never get here. Henry has been gone for over a year now. The least you could have done was sell out your foolish commission.”
In the middle of a war? Arthur merely bowed over her plump hand, declaring that she looked well. She looked like a stuffed sausage, with a frizz of hennaed curls on top.
“Well? How could I look well with all the worries on my shoulders, the thousands of details I am constantly bothered with?”
Since the captain knew he had an excellent man of affairs in charge of the estate, one who communicated with him on a weekly basis, he could not imagine what had Sylvia in a swivet. He did stop wondering, however, why Henry undertook a reckless race to Brighton in the first place. “Yes, well, I am home now, so you may refer any difficulties to me. You have enough funds? The house is in order?”
She waved his questions aside with a lace-edged handkerchief. Her other hand held a lemon tart. “Of course it’s in order. For the time being. Who knows what will happen next though, with a vagabond for viscount.”
“Ma’am, I was with Wellington, not a band of Gypsies. Henry agreed I should go. He even bought my commission.” Arthur looked around for a decanter, but saw nothing but a pot of tea, to his regrets. Udall was playing least in sight, wise fellow that he was. At least the lemon tarts were good.
“Faugh. Henry thought he’d live forever, too. Most likely the same as you do, with no thoughts to the future, to those dependent upon you. What would happen to me, I ask you, if you’d died of that wound?”
“You’d have a handsome settlement and the dower house at your disposal. No one can take those from you, no matter what far-off cousin is viscount.”
“Gammon. They are all strangers, not real family. But now that you are here, you will do your duty, I am sure.” Arthur thought about that Austrian princess he was supposed to squire about Town for the Foreign Office and shrugged.
“Yes, and while you are looking around at the current crop of misses, you can be our escort, now that we are out of mourning and there are so many fetes and balls.”
Arthur choked on his lemon tart and took a nasty gulp of too-hot tea. Looking around? Escort? We? He could feel a prickle at the back of his neck, the same kind of prickle that used to tell him there was danger ahead, enemies waiting in ambush. “I’m afraid I have duties still. I did write to you concerning this last assignment, didn’t I?”
Sylvia swept his excuses aside like so many crumbs on her ample chest. “Nonsense. You know what is owed your family. An heir, for one.”
“Surely it is early days for that. I have no intention of—”
And Sylvia had no intention of letting this wealthy, titled gentleman slip through her hands. “Yes, and I am hoping you will consider my sister Elizabeth. A lovely girl, well bred, of course, with a handsome portion.”
Arthur recalled Elizabeth Ferguson from Henry’s wedding. She’d been skinny, spotty, and shy then. He saw no reason to believe she’d improved with age. “Is Miss Ferguson with you in London, then?”
“Of course. Where else should she be, with all the festivities going on? We’ll be much more comfortable now, with a gentleman’s escort.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, ma’am. As I explained, I am to be squire to Princess Henrika Hafkesprinke. In fact, I must find my lodgings shortly, in case she and her entourage arrive early.”
“Lodgings? You’ll stay here, of course.”
Where he could find Miss Ferguson in any number of compromising situations, like his bed? Arthur congratulated himself on bespeaking rooms at the princess’s hotel. He’d not wanted to discompose his sister-in-law, nor make her feel in any way de trop. Now he did not feel as though pa
rson’s mousetrap was closing on his good leg. He stood, with the aid of his lion’s-head cane. “I really must be off.”
“I won’t hear of it. What am I to tell people when they ask why you are not biding in your own home? They’ll think we’ve had a falling out. That I did not make you welcome. Or that you do not wish to know your own family. Or—”
Captain Hunter had been making his way out of the drawing room, with Sylvia trailing crumbs and complaints behind. As he reached the hall he pointed his walking stick at the stairs to the bedrooms, the steep marble stairs that climbed endlessly, it seemed. “You may merely tell anyone rude enough to inquire that I was unable to negotiate the steps.”
“After you walked here?” Sylvia screeched.
“Quite right. Udall, find me a hackney.”
*
More stairs, confound it. The blasted hotel had enough steps to lead straight to the top of Mt. Olympus, it seemed to Captain Hunter. Half-naked gods and goddesses looked down from every niche and on every painted, carved, or woven surface, to watch the poor mortals struggle upward. Arthur’s suite was on the third floor, of course. His batman, Browne, clicked his tongue.
“It’s a rum go, Cap’n. You’ll be settin’ that leg of yours back a month, less’n you intend to spend all the time in your room, eatin’ there, too.”
Worse, it would set the cat among the pigeons if he took accommodations more inhospitable to his leg than Huntingdon House. His sister-in-law would have an apoplexy, at the least.
“You would of done better, I’m thinkin’, to bunk down in the library at Cavendish Square, less’n a’ course, you was plannin’ on entertainin’ that princess in your bedchamber.”
Which was exactly what Captain Hunter was not planning on doing. He was not going to become her royal highness’s lover, despite the knowing looks at the War Office and the grins at the Horse Guards barracks. Escort duty was one thing, tupping her Teutonic majesty was quite another. Besides, he’d already done so, in Paris, in his cups, which was most likely why he’d been chosen for this assignment. It was the German schnapps, Arthur recalled with a shudder, swearing never again, not even for the sake of world peace. Princess Henrika was nearly his height, nearly his weight, and nearly insatiable. His leg had required more surgery after that night, and infection had set in. Arthur was barely recovered now, and doubted he’d live through another amorous encounter with the heroically proportioned Hafkesprinke scion.
Autumn Glory and Other Stories Page 6