by Sahara Kelly
She chuckled. “You have no idea.”
Chapter Eight
Both Miles and Rose knew there could only be one dance, of course. To dance together twice in one evening would announce a serious interest in both parties and occasion exactly the kind of comments they both deplored.
Rose couldn’t begin to imagine what her Mama might say, and besides, she knew she was totally ineligible for a man of Miles’s standing and heritage. He was a lovely person, and one who inevitably made her relax, regardless of their surroundings. She was at ease with him for all those reasons and knowing there could never be a whisper of marriage helped even more.
The Linfields could trace their lineage back to somewhere around William the Conqueror, whilst the Glynde-Beauchamps were a mixture of farmers, pirates and the odd Jacobite that nobody mentioned. Then there was the matter of her strange affliction which completely eliminated anyone from Miles’s level within the aristocracy. The mere thought of such a match made Rose laugh and shake her head. So aside from the occasional moment of awareness that she couldn’t quite explain, Rose was always comfortable and delighted to be in Miles’s company, solely as his friend.
The one waltz they’d shared had saved her first evening at Almack’s from being a total disaster. Sadly, the rest of the time did not come anywhere near the pleasure she’d found with Miles.
Sir Franklyn Marchwood had requested the dinner dance; a gentleman who was, according to her Mama, of good social standing, possessed of a tidy estate, and looking to wed.
The fact that his future bride would be his third, and that he already boasted five children…well, what of it?
Rose looked her Mama straight in the eye and said one word. “No.” Then she turned, did her duty by Sir Franklyn, and then suffered through an assortment of terrible food, including day old bread and warm lemonade, while listening to the virtues of his offspring. All boys.
The second half of the evening couldn’t come soon enough, and although she and Miles managed to snatch a word or two, he seemed to have left before the hour grew too advanced.
Ivy, Miss Prudence and the Duke had stayed the course, and Rose heard a few whispers about the Duke having procured a companion for Miss Prudence, but what was she doing here at Almack’s?
She wanted to say something and had to bite her tongue. Almack’s was the seat of gossip, but she’d be damned if she’d add anything to it. However, when the Duke requested a dance, she gladly gave him the next to last one…a waltz. And during that waltz, which each performed with creditable poise, Rose casually mentioned that it was lovely to see Ivy there, and how nice it must be for Prudence.
The Duke narrowed his eyes, all while keeping his steps. “She’s here as herself, you know.”
“I do indeed, your Grace.” She glanced around. “And I also know what a terrible hodge-podge of rumours run rampant around these rooms.”
He looked down at her. “I take your point, Miss Glynde-Beauchamp. Thank you.”
She smiled. “Thank you, your Grace. This is only the second dance tonight that I have really enjoyed.” She gulped. “But I’d appreciate your not mentioning that too loudly.”
To her surprise, a tiny smile curved his lips and his blue eyes definitely twinkled. “I wouldn’t dream of betraying your confidence, Miss Glynde-Beauchamp.”
“I’m in your debt, sir.”
The music drew to a close and the obligatory bows and curtseys exchanged. The Duke led Rose back to her mother, who was standing at the edge of the ballroom with a look of excitement on her face.
“Oh dear,” sighed Rose beneath her breath.
“Never fear,” answered the Duke, surprising her. “Good evening, Madam. My compliments on your daughter’s dancing. Most delightful.” His cool tones made Mrs Glynde-Beauchamp blink and took the effusive wind out of sails that were ready to billow.
“If you’ll excuse me, I must claim my final dance of the evening. I believe Miss Siddington is waiting.” He bowed and left.
“Well,” said Rose’s mother. “I’m not sure what that was all about, but it was very nice to see you singled out by such an eligible gentleman. And a Duke to boot.”
“I’m sure he’s very high on the eligibility list, Mama. But, as we both know, I’m very low. Don’t even begin to get your hopes up in that direction.” She watched Ivy’s face as the Duke approached, spoke to her and obviously had to work to persuade her to join him for the final quadrille.
Ivy Siddington wasn’t the highest Ton either, but certainly her pedigree was quite acceptable. Short in stature, she looked oddly right partnered with his Grace, a tall man who managed to use his height to his best advantage. The two of them conversed quite correctly during the measures, and only a slight blush on Ivy’s cheeks revealed her emotions.
Many eyes followed them and fans were raised to hide the whispers that ensued.
Rose found herself with more questions than answers and the beginnings of distaste for the whole affair. She sighed. “Mama, can we leave now? I must confess that my feet are quite sore after all this dancing.”
Her mother looked around, noting that the company had thinned considerably. It was the first evening of the Season, not one of the ones later that would last until well into the wee hours.
“All right, I suppose we can.” She cast a final look over the assembled crowd, and Rose couldn’t help but wonder if she was checking to see if she’d missed a potential husband.
“Come along. Let’s collect our cloaks.”
Dragging Mrs Glynde-Beauchamp behind her, Rose headed away from the ballroom to the hall where more than a few guests were already slipping into their jackets and gloves while they awaited their carriages.
A maid retrieved their belongings and a servant helped Rose into her cloak. He also straightened it, leaning close. “Check your pocket, Ma’am. From Lord Linfield.” He nodded, dusted off an invisible fleck, and then bowed.
She casually stood beside her mother and touched the deep inner pocket of her cloak. Sure enough, there was a piece of paper in it. And, damn it, she would not be able to read it until she got home.
Frustrated, she was delighted to see that Fate had intervened, delivering one of her Mama’s bosom bows to the position behind them in the queue, their conversation bloomed as they shared the wait. It was distraction enough to give Rose a chance to remove the note and turn aside a little to read it.
“Ride in the park tomorrow at eleven. L”
Rose blinked. That was rather autocratic. Suppose it rained? Or even snowed? Where in the park? Which park? Although Rose knew it pretty much had to be Hyde Park. She quietly folded the note and replaced it in her pocket, her mind turning over the possibilities. What did he want? She was at a loss.
And she couldn’t quite understand the little thrill of delight she felt at the thought of seeing him again the following day. He was her friend, and she valued him as such. But so was Lydia. And Matthew. And quite a few others.
But she only got that odd shivery tingle from Miles.
Most peculiar.
*~~*~~*
Miles awoke the next morning with a slight headache, due to the large brandy he’d indulged in upon his return home after Almack’s. Or possibly the entire evening.
With the exception of Miss Rose, his dance partners had been either young women intent on following their mother’s instructions on how to snabble themselves a husband—none of which had worked on him—or more mature ladies who flirted outrageously with him and should have known better. He wasn’t in the market for a mistress, married or otherwise, even though he’d bid farewell to Solange and was now without any formal female companionship.
It had been an evening that reinforced his decision not to attend Almack’s if he could in any way avoid it.
It had also reassured him that his opinion of Miss Glynde-Beauchamp was right on the nose. She was different, intriguing and he very much enjoyed her company. It had been during their waltz, the moment he’d put his arm around he
r and felt her nestle into his embrace as if it was the most natural thing in the world…that was the instant that crystallised a plan he’d allowed to wander through his brain for a few days.
They fit, a simple merging of curves and angles. He found himself relishing her closeness, fascinated by the tiny gold flecks he could see in her eyes, and the soft scent of her, blending not with roses as one might expect, but with the delicate air of lily of the valley which happened to be one of his favourites.
Breakfast helped clear the fusty head, and he glanced at the clock, noting he’d more than an hour to go before leaving for Hyde Park. It would be interesting to see if Rose accepted his invitation; but even if she didn’t, a good ride would blow away the cobwebs. Fortunately it was cool but sunny, a blessing for February in London.
Walking into his library, Miles crossed to a shelf with some large, well-worn volumes, and removed the family copy of Debrett’s Peerage. He had to at least peruse the Glynde-Beauchamp lineage, if it was listed. Settling down with the book on his knee, he acknowledged that two paths lay ahead. The first would relieve him of the pressures of the Season. In fact it would lift a considerable burden from his shoulders and allow him to live the life he preferred.
The second? Well, that would change matters considerably.
Best to be prepared for both.
He thumbed through the well-worn pages; unsurprised since the Linfield family was like any other of comparable status—aware of their standing and the need to ensure their lineage continued unabated and without problems. It wouldn’t do to have an unknown cousin marrying another cousin. Such things did happen, due to the amazing profligacy of court circles. Given the current Duke of Clarence’s vast brood of illegitimate children, it was a feature of the aristocracy that seemed bound to continue.
He found the Beauchamp entries to be much as he had anticipated. A modest estate bequeathed to a valiant knight in the long distant past. The property had gone down through the male line, and was now in the hands of one St John Beauchamp, distantly related to the Beauchamp that had fathered Rose.
Her mother, who was obviously the Glynde half, barely rated a mention. The fact that the family was mentioned at all, however, was positive. Sir Roger Glynde had received his knighthood from King George III in 1803 for some unnamed good deed. But since he had produced a pair of daughters and no son, the only properties listed were those of a distant relative who had benefitted from the entail.
The daughters, Isabel and Imelda, received a line each. Isabel, wed to Montague Beauchamp. Imelda, wed to Lord Francis Radford. Both gentlemen deceased. One daughter born to Isabel.
Miles wasn’t surprised that Lady Radford had failed to produce offspring. Her reputation, her notoriety, remained as a faint air surrounding her, although her time in the spotlight had occurred over a decade earlier. He could, however, recall quite clearly the swathe she had cut through London during her two seasons. Rumoured to have taken a lover before her marriage, she flirted with abandon, shocked the more straitlaced ladies, and finally obeyed her parents by marrying Radford, a man many years her senior.
Ignoring the other information on the Glyndes and Beauchamps, since their respective crests, marks and holdings were of little to no interest to him, he closed the book and sat back, losing himself in contemplation.
Rose seemed to consider herself an ineligible parti.
She had to, because otherwise why would she be so comfortable around him? Of course they’d met under less formal circumstances, and she and her friends had grown used to seeing him, Ragnor Withersby, Matthew Davenport and his own brother Mowbray. They’d made up parties a time or two and shared adventures; their last true reunion had been at Judith Fairhurst’s wedding to Ragnor.
And yet he’d watched her last night at Almack’s. She was fully aware of her mother’s machinations; her behaviour had been perfectly correct, but very formal and not like the Rose he knew at all.
She relaxed when in his company.
He was of two minds whether this was a good thing or not. Did she not regard him as a man? Did she not even consider him as a possible husband? The answer to the second question had to be yes.
He didn’t know the answer to the first, and that bothered him to no little degree.
He also realised that he was devoting quite a bit of time and effort into the topic of Miss Rose. Which perturbed him, because it introduced an unsettling element into his hitherto almost-perfect bachelor existence.
A tap on the door heralded the arrival of his trusted valet, and often butler, Claude. In his hands was a tray and on it a note.
“Oh dear, Claude.” He looked into the small Frenchman’s eyes. “Should I open it?”
Since Claude had bravely saved Miles’s life during a bit of nastiness in France during the recent war with Napoleon, he was now a trusted confidante, and well able to answer Miles’s question.
“’Tis from votre mère, Milord.” He shook his head. “Ze choice must be yours.”
“Merde.” The oath slid from his lips.
“Précisément,” nodded Claude. “May I suggest ze green jacket for your ride zis morning? Along with ze waistcoat avec dragons?”
Miles blinked. “Er, no. It’s just a ride in the park. And I’ll have my greatcoat, so none of it will show anyway.” He opened the note, read it, and rolled his eyes.
Claude, suffering though he was at the rejection of his wardrobe choices, bent a sympathetic eye on his master. “Bad news, Monsieur?”
“The worst.” Miles sighed. “M’mother has found a potential bride for me. And I’m ordered to Linfield Lisle to meet her. And her mother.”
“Merde indeed, Monsieur.” Claude shook his head, but then looked up hopefully. “Mais for such a special visit, ze dragon waistcoat, oui?”
Miles wondered what the penalty was for clocking one’s valet over the head with a well-worn copy of Debrett’s Peerage.
Chapter Nine
Rose was ready long before eleven the following morning.
After returning from Almack’s, she had pleaded exhaustion and fled when her Mama seemed eager to replay the entire evening. Retiring to the peace of her own room, she’d prepared for bed and worked through various plans that would permit her to escape the house without suffering an inquisition.
Riding, thankfully, was considered acceptable, and Rose was an acceptable horsewoman. She would have to have a groom in attendance, unfortunately, but since that was the norm, there was no way she could avoid it. On a whim, she emptied her reticule, finding some coins in there from Ivy.
Prior to last night, the two of them had wagered each other in the matter of Miss Annabella Garneby. She’d been on the verge of accepting an offer from his Grace the Duke of Castleton, a terribly upright and proper gentleman, already possessed of three children by his first wife.
The Garneby lure was her fortune, rumoured to be substantial, and his Grace wasn’t above seeking additional funding for his pet project, a large zoo he was establishing at his country estate.
Ivy thought she’d accept, but Rose couldn’t see it happening. There was something in the young lady’s eyes when she looked at the disreputable Sir Langston Royall. And there was that same something in his gaze as well.
So last night had passed without any announcements, and Rose grinned as Ivy had slipped two guineas into her reticule, with a mild oath, just before heading back to Miss Prudence and the Duke.
A silly bet, but the coins did give her an advantage this morning. Surely the groom would be pleased to take himself off for an hour while she rode with Lord Linfield. She would be in excellent company, after all. And two guineas would be most welcome, she guessed, especially when earned for doing nothing but dropping by the local inn for a tankard and not saying a word about it.
Satisfied by her stratagem, she slipped into bed, settled herself beneath the covers and then allowed herself the luxury of anticipation. Seeing Miles at Almack’s had served to remind her how comfortable she was with him. A t
rue friend, a gentleman and above all, intelligent.
She enjoyed his humour, his patience and his acute observational talents. She also knew him for a musician who took pleasure in playing, and that—to her—was of greater importance than skill. For music was something to be relished, experienced, inhaled even. And Miles did all those things.
This evening, she confessed, when he’d taken her into his arms for the waltz…well, she’d suddenly become aware that along with all his excellent qualities, he was a man. The sensation of their bodies almost touching, brushing against each other during the dance, his palm warm on her back…yes, it had been unusual in that it stirred her in ways she’d not anticipated.
Closing her eyes, she found his image drifting through her brain and for a moment she let herself wonder what it might be like to be kissed by Lord Linfield.
Then she snorted at herself for being a silly, romantic chit. He was a friend. A good friend. And that was the totality of their relationship. The Linfields could and would look much higher than a young woman with barely any social standing. Besides her gift for music there was the matter of her strange affliction to be considered.
She sighed. She’d probably end up as everyone’s convenient spinster, called upon to play, or perform, whenever music was required.
A doleful thought, but a realistic one.
She sighed again as the vision of warm brown eyes swam across her consciousness and made her hum with pleasure as she drifted into sleep.
There was no hum or gentle moments of introspection the following morning, though.
Awoken at her usual hour by her maid, Rose found herself at the breakfast table across from both her mother and her aunt, who were obviously ready to begin their discussion of the previous evening.
The dialogue was predictable.
“Mr Dartsbridge seemed nice,” began her Mama.
“I hear Sir Franklyn Marchwood showed some potential interest too,” added Lady Imelda. “Of the two, he’s the better bet. His financial affairs are certainly in order, and young Mr Dartsbridge, while showing some indications of a successful future political career, has yet to establish his fortune.”