By a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  Lady Charlotte was returned to the adoring bosom of her family, and Mr. King approached Lady Dalrymple and her “niece.” The Master of Ceremonies offered a stunned Miss Welles his arm. As all eyes were upon her, she could not turn back toward the countess to satisfy her curiosity as to whether Lady Dalrymple had played a part in this turn of events.

  What could she possibly say to Darlington? Certainly, propriety dictated—

  Damn propriety! Damn it to bloody hell and back!

  As Mr. King handed C.J. to the earl, she broke free from the Master of Ceremonies’ grasp and made a dash for the long table near the entranceway, leaving a puzzled Percy on his own. She continued to shock the well-heeled assemblage by dousing her body with water from the heavy silver urns, the contents of which had been intended for the purpose of refreshing the patrons’ parched lips. C.J.’s flimsy, white muslin ball gown, now soaking wet, clung to her shivering body and undetectable bandeau like the drapery on an ancient Greek caryatid. Her appearance would have been quite à la mode in Paris, where such wetting down had become a custom among the fin de siècle fashionistas, but even the more sophisticated members of the English aristocracy were appalled by her display.

  “Heavens! Who does the girl think she is . . . Sulis Minerva?” drawled a dandy whose horizontal-striped silk waistcoat and vertical-striped surcoat made him resemble nothing less festive than a large piece of Christmas ribbon candy. He withdrew a pristine lace-edged handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed a mirthful tear from his jaundiced eye.

  “I think she’d do Sue Em proud,” giggled his companion, referring to Miss Welles’s current resemblance to the hybrid deity to whom Bath was consecrated—the Celtic Sulis, goddess of the spring from which the healing waters came, and her Roman counterpart, Minerva, goddess of healing as well as of wisdom.

  “Bless me, she’s making quite a spectacle of herself!” remarked a shocked Mrs. Fairfax, a bit too loudly, to her two daughters, who fought over their mother’s quizzing glass, eagerly awaiting whatever the eccentric Miss Welles might think to do next.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet,” C.J. shot back to the gossipy old windbag. She approached the orchestra, and crooking her finger at its leader—who was all too happy to bend down to speak to her, as it afforded a better gander at her spectacular figure—she requested a polka.

  The musicians, pleased to depart from the expected stately and, frankly, rather boring minuet, and sensing that something quite out of the ordinary was happening, struck up a lively tune in three-quarter time.

  “Now, your lordship,” C.J. began, approaching a nonplussed Darlington, who had remained standing like a condemned man in the middle of the room. “Shall we dance?”

  The confounded nobleman, not wishing to offend Miss Welles, although her own rather stunningly offensive comportment of the past few minutes had discredited her quite enough, proceeded to arrange his arms in the proper form for the polka.

  C.J. felt a perverse thrill take hold of her senses. Knowing full well that the ballroom of inbred aristocrats would not learn the dance for nearly a dozen years, she rearranged Darlington’s arms in the configuration that she had been taught back in her own century at one of her dance workshops.

  With their hips nearly touching, their left arms meeting overhead in a balletic arch, while their right arms clasped one another about the waist, C.J. talked her partner through the simple boxlike step of an early waltz. The proximity of their bodies, combined with the intense gazing into each other’s eyes—as the form of the dance figure left nowhere else to look—generated the gasps of outrage that future historians would chronicle when the daring Countess Lieven was credited with introducing the waltz to London society in 1812.

  The ladies who did not faint, or pretend to, so as to distract their respective male companions from the spectacle at the center of the room, fanned themselves furiously and sought to shield their virgin daughters’ eyes from the view of the sopping wet Miss Welles dancing virtually hip to hip with the apparently mesmerized Earl of Darlington. He, too, should be scandalized, thought many of his peers, who—if pressed—would have admitted their envy of the nobleman’s present position.

  Lord Digby was growing more florid than usual. His wife was unsuccessful in trying to put a good face on her morbid embarrassment. Lady Charlotte, on the other hand, found herself somewhere between mildly jealous, awkwardly uncomfortable, and inexplicably fascinated. Part of her wished to tear her betrothed from the siren in his arms; another part wished the siren to teach her the figures.

  Darlington regained his senses, after several lilting turns about the floor, when the aghast faces around him finally swirled into focus. “Miss Welles, you must cease this childish behavior,” he reprimanded in a tone that he himself realized was an unfamiliar one. “I will accept the responsibility for my own mortification under the circumstances, but can you not see the irreparable damage you are bringing to your character?” He tried to keep his voice low but had to speak louder than he had planned in order to be heard above the music.

  “Your lordship, I am not the one to blame for the destruction of my reputation,” C.J. retorted, her voice rising in pitch. “You are quite concerned for my character when it conveniently suits, but what does your precious society say about the character of a nobleman who encourages a young woman to share his bed, makes assurances that lead her and her esteemed aunt to believe his intentions of matrimony, and then suddenly abandons her—with neither warning nor apology—and immediately becomes betrothed to a woman of means, little knowing—or perhaps caring—that his seduced and abandoned lover now bears his child?”

  She had been so focused on her admonishment of the earl that she failed to note that the polka had ended, and that the shocked musicians sat, bows poised in midair, eagerly awaiting Darlington’s reaction.

  Upon the horrific realization that her revelation had been heard by all and sundry, owing to the deafening silence—and suddenly mindful of the way Lady Rose and Lord Featherstone had been treated by their so-called equals—C.J. elbowed her way through the crowd and bolted from the ballroom.

  The collective gasp upon Miss Welles’s stunning exit sounded like the sudden deflation of one of the Montgolfier brothers’ hot-air balloons.

  Following a shocked silence, the room soon became atwitter with wagging tongues. “What else would you expect from a poor relation? A churchmouse?” And Lady Oliver sniffed, “No doubt encouraged by her aunt to behave with such hoydenish abandon.”

  Never before had Lady Dalrymple wished that Beau Nash had sanctioned the wearing of weapons in the Assembly Rooms. Were the ironclad rule not strictly enforced, the countess herself would have unsheathed a rapier and made swift dispatch of her former bosom friend. “I have never heard such rubbish, Augusta!” she declared. “And while I have no use for your opinion of my own character, I intend to reveal you to be nothing more than a conniving prevaricator, intent upon destroying the good name of my dearest of kin.”

  Certainly the girl was within her rights to be heartbroken over Darlington’s betrayal, as well as his callous disregard of her attempts to contact him in order to verify the truth of the rumors that he would soon wed Lady Charlotte, and to hear such confirmation from his own lips. That much—that little—he surely owed her. There had been a formal understanding forged between the pair of them, Percy and Cassandra, no doubt about it. Whether Cassandra’s extraordinary conduct this evening was out of turn was not for Lady Dalrymple to speculate upon. Her “niece” was as she herself had once been called—an original. And Euphoria was proud of the appellation—and proud of those who flew in the face of conventional behavior.

  On the other hand, what if Cassandra truly were enceinte, as the young woman had hinted? Was it then her delicate condition that governed her outrageous performance this evening? The countess was determined to see the girl vindicated. But how?

  RULED ENTIRELY by her feelings of shame and humiliation, C.J. had torn through the ballroom and the an
teroom, dashing blindly past scads of aghast onlookers and out into the night. The moon was but a silver sliver in the sky, and her eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness when she stumbled over a loose stone in the road. Down she went, face first, ripping her fine kid gloves, bloodying her palms and bare forearms, losing a slipper, and tearing the front of her gown. She let fly a string of well-known Anglo-Saxon invectives, which she continued to repeat while surveying the damage to her wardrobe and her person. Her bodice and bandeau were past all repair and she had neither shawl nor cloak with which to cover her now nearly bare torso. There was no question of returning to the Assembly Rooms. The only thing to be done was to locate her dancing slipper and limp back home.

  DARLINGTON’S ATTEMPT to follow upon Miss Welles’s heels as she fled the ballroom had been impeded by his aunt and Lord Digby, as well as by several others in attendance. By the time he was able to breathe the night air, Miss Welles was nowhere to be seen, and there was no trace of her—no dropped reticule or mislaid shawl. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim glare of the streetlamps on Albert Street, he thought he could make out a figure hastily descending the hill. On the other hand, he could have been mistaken. Nevertheless, he increased his pace. If his intuition was correct, Miss Welles was the figure in question. If not, he was prepared to accept the attendant embarrassment of accosting a complete stranger. After all, his humiliation in the ballroom just moments earlier was the least of what he deserved.

  The night was so quiet he could hear the sound of his own footsteps reverberating through the narrow lane off the façades of ashlar stone as his boots pounded the cobblestones.

  It was a blessing that Mr. King was not as fastidious as his predecessor, Mr. Nash, in checking the patrons in the Upper Rooms for weapons. Darlington placed his hand on the hilt of his main gauche, which he had been able to conceal in a custom-tailored pocket within the lining of his dress coat. As far as Darlington was concerned, rules applied to others. There were always exceptions, always extenuating circumstances. For example, should the unchaperoned Miss Welles be accosted on her way to the Royal Crescent, he would be able to offer her his protection. Did he believe himself above the law? Unequivocally. He claimed it as the privilege of the aristocracy.

  In that case, the nobleman thought, why had he allowed his aunt to convince him that Miss Welles was unworthy of him? That she had no portion coming to her upon marriage, and that Delamere must be saved at all costs? Lady Oliver had appealed to his sense of honor should it come to the necessity of discharging dozens of tenant farmers and their families. She had prevailed upon his vanity when it came to avoiding the disgrace of bankruptcy and the seizing of his lands by his bankers at Coutt’s. Retrenching was unthinkable for someone in his exalted position. Under the present unfortunate circumstances, there was only one option, which was to forge a respectable alliance with a young lady of means: an heiress whose dowry would not only ensure his continued ownership of Delamere, but whose person might produce the necessary heirs to continue the family line.

  To be sure, there was a sacrificial lamb, as Lady Oliver had so caustically, even cavalierly, agreed. But Miss Welles would soon get over her disappointment and, if necessary, could be persuaded to accept consolation in the form of a modest financial settlement. The dragon was thoroughly convinced that the eccentric bluestocking who had turned her nephew’s head was not only expendable, but perhaps would even be more content to receive compensation in lieu of the match.

  And his aunt, who had raised him and to whom he did acknowledge a great debt of gratitude, a woman who had such an unfortunate and disgraced history herself, had always merited his dutiful compliance, though many of his acquaintance firmly believed that as Darlington neared the age of forty, the debt of respect he had thus far accorded Augusta Oliver’s opinions and actions had long since been fully paid and that he had long ago squared his accounts with her. Whether or not this was the case, the earl still felt a duty toward the woman despite her ill treatment of him. It was not in his own nature either to stoop to her level or to exact a form of familial revenge simply because his aunt behaved abominably.

  Yet Darlington had heretofore considered himself a man who took risks. He came from a line of men who defied convention, who marched to their own fife and drum. The second earl had departed for distant parts to indulge his passion for antiquities after he had indulged his parallel passion for an uncommon, and fallen, woman. However, his lengthy absences from Delamere had been the cause of the estate’s demise, insisted Augusta Oliver. The father’s abrogation of responsibility now rendered the son a slave to it. Now the third earl must preserve both his family home and name. There was no alternative, his aunt decreed.

  Darlington’s guilt was unspeakable. And propriety dictated that he honor the formal betrothal that had just been announced publicly to the ton. Yet, that did not prohibit him from continuing to care deeply for the welfare of Miss Welles. He did not expect her to ever grant him forgiveness. She had been humiliated beyond—

  My God! The full force of Miss Welles’s accusation struck him. The young woman had announced right in the middle of the ballroom that she was carrying his child. Could it possibly be true? Possibly, of course. In the one afternoon they had made such magical love, Cassandra could have conceived a child. Miss Welles had never struck him as being a deceitful sort. Quite the contrary, her frankness often astounded him. In fact, Miss Welles was the most honest young woman the earl had ever met.

  If her outburst had not been a fiction born of anger, had she been speaking the truth, the girl was exposing herself to the utmost censure as well. Lady Dalrymple’s eccentricities were not always understood by the ton; if her niece was with child, both women would certainly be cut by society.

  And where did that leave him? the earl wondered. Would Lady Charlotte wed him after all, whether or not Miss Welles’s pronouncement was true? It would make the young heiress appear a fool. Her parents would no doubt wish to extricate her from impending disaster before further ruin ensued. They would claim damages against him and demand a large financial settlement. And he would be responsible as well for Miss Welles’s bastard. His bastard. Their bastard. Another dark stain on the Percival escutcheon.

  He noticed a huddled form by the base of the tree at the center of the Circus and, approaching it, found the object of his search, sobbing, bleeding, and half clad, gazing at the façade of his town house. “Take this, Miss Welles.” Darlington unfastened his cloak and draped it over C.J.’s shoulders, gently fastening the garment about her so it would remain closed. He drew away with extreme formality and extended his hand. “Come. I will escort you home.”

  C.J.’s face was wet with tears. “Is that all? I allow I am not familiar with the ways of the ton, nor may I ever comprehend your rules of protocol. But I believed that we had an understanding. I took—and still take—tremendous risks to enjoy your company.” She placed a trembling hand on her still-flat belly. “I carry your child, Percy!”

  He bore the look of a bewildered parent. Now that they were alone, it should have been the time to take this woman in his arms and murmur sweet promises of a glorious future together. But he could not. And not for lack of desire, but for having made the decision to adhere to those damn codified societal dictates after decades of throwing them to the dogs. “I . . . realize that anything I say will make me appear a fool, Cassandra—”

  “The game still confounds me. Forgive me,” C.J. replied bitterly. “I was under the impression that you were no longer permitted to address me by my Christian name now that you have promised to wed another.”

  It was true, of course. He couldn’t even handle that simple convention properly. Darlington hated himself for the necessity of forcing this remarkable woman to comprehend his dilemma. “I love you, Miss Welles. I beg of you not to question my regard for you. And were it still in my power to make you my wife, as I intended, I would do so with alacrity. It pains me enormously to be so cruelly frank, but at present I do not possess the capi
tal to restore Delamere to a fully functioning estate. If the property must be sold, who knows what might happen to those who live and work upon my lands, who depend on my stewardship for their livelihood? Crops must be grown; fields must be worked. The tenant farmers live off a portion of what they sow and reap. The shops in the nearest village are dependent upon the tenants possessing the financial means to make their purchases there, or the emporia must close, leaving the shopkeepers destitute as well. The same is true for the tanner, the farrier, the saddler, even the taverns.”

  He regarded C.J.’s devastated expression and cursed the years of mismanagement and neglect, even assigning blame to his beloved father for bringing his son to this miserable crossroads that compelled him to be so cruel to Miss Welles—the first woman he’d loved since he’d lost Marguerite—and to subject her and their child—if indeed there was one—to the horrors of censure and ostracism. Darlington gave C.J. a desperate, tormented look. “Would that this very minute I could take you to Delamere so that you could meet for yourself the hardworking men and women and the rosy-cheeked children whose faces, even as we speak, grow pale from malnourishment.”

  “Then why, at the very least, could you not have responded to my letters?”

  “Because I was fighting like the very devil to do my duty, Miss Welles. It would not be considered seemly for me to correspond with a former lover when I have promised my hand to another. But the stringently prescribed rules of society make no allowances for the promptings of the heart, and for that reason, I cannot for the life of me adhere consistently to their dictates. Duty demands that I abjure your companionship, but honor compels me to look to your welfare. Believe me, Miss Welles. I have agonized over this decision. And every fiber of my being aches over having caused you and your aunt so much distress. But my intentions were thwarted by a team of solicitors who impressed upon me the gravity of my financial situation. The full extent of the mismanagement of the stewardship of Delamere was brought to light. I was aware that there were . . . problems . . . but until Lady Oliver arranged for a meeting with our bankers and solicitors, who enlightened me on the severity of the matter at hand and the imminence of the danger . . . I confess that I believed that things would find a way of sorting themselves out. Therefore, with the heaviest regrets, I must marry a lady of means whose portion, added to my own ever dwindling funds, will preserve Delamere.”