Evelyn Richardson (18 page)

“Oh, Frances, isn't it just like a fairy tale?” the girl asked when she had had a moment to catch her breath. Then, remembering that she was now a grown-up young lady, “But, of course, it is a sad crush, isn't it?”

“A terrible squeeze,” Frances agreed, shaking her head gravely before quizzing her. “Are you enjoying it, then? I am so glad.” Kitty barely had time for an enthusiastic nod before another swain appeared to lead her away.

Lady Streatham broke her own discussion with the dowager concerning Kitty's probable success, the possible choices she might have among the various eager young men, and a shrewd reckoning of their eligibility, to turn to Frances. “But are you enjoying yourself? Almost any young girl . . . well, any impressionable young girl,” she amended, remembering the misery that had been Frances' first Season, “is bound to enjoy herself at her own ball if she is not an antidote and is elegantly dressed. It is the older, more critical, but still young ladies I worry about such as you.” This was said with a meaningful look.

“Me?” Frances demanded in some surprise. “What can it signify, how I feel?”

“Really, Frances, for a bright girl, sometimes you are a muttonhead! Did it never occur to you to do something for the sheer pleasure of it? Must you do everything for a reason, and a reason that usually involves helping someone else?”

“Of course, but...” Frances was at a moment's loss as the truth of Lady Elizabeth's observation sank in. She shut her mouth with a snap.

“If you won't look after your own amusement, may I induce you to take care of mine?'' a deep voice at her elbow interrupted some rather unpleasant revelations. She whirled around to meet the marquess's quizzical smile. “Come . . .” He held out a shapely hand. “Waltz with me. I have spent the entire evening thus far trying to get blushing young women to speak to me, pompous dowagers to be silent, blushing young men to speak to blushing young women, and no one has spoken two sensible words to me the entire evening.” Lady Streatham had voiced her hope that Frances was having a good time. Her cousin was determined to carry this out. He had kept his eye on Frances' progress around the room, and seeing her free, had rather abruptly left a dashing young matron who had been casting languishing glances at him, to arrive in time to hear the end of Lady Elizabeth's remarks. He wholeheartedly agreed with her observations and thus ascribed the rush of warmth he felt when Lady Frances smiled at him to mere sympathy for one who bore too many responsibilities. If he had thought about it at all, he might have realized that this agreeable feeling could more accurately be ascribed to the way her hazel eyes widened with pleasure and seemed, along with an enchanting smile, to sparkle for him alone. But he did not stop to wonder any of these things, giving himself up instead to the pleasure of whirling around the floor with someone whose movements matched his to perfection.

His partner's feelings mirrored his as completely as her steps. It was true that she rarely did anything without a very good reason, but for the moment she was content to forget everything except the joy of gliding over the floor and the agreeable sensation of being expertly guided in the marquess's firm clasp.

For a time neither broke the spell, but the marquess, misinterpreting Frances' abstracted expression, demanded bluntly, “Are you still blue-deviled about that ridiculous brother of yours? Because you shouldn't be, you know.”

She was startled out of her reverie, blushed, and admitted, “No, in truth, I wasn't.”

He cocked an incredulous eyebrow.

“If you must know, I was thinking how much I was enjoying this dance.” She looked impishly up at him. Decidedly it wasn't the standard answer for a society lady, but it was a gratifying one. Her eyes clouded. “I know I shouldn't worry about him, and ordinarily I wouldn't. After all, I did nearly the same thing myself once. It's just that I have lost two of the people I care most about in the world, and now, if the least little thing happens to any of the family, I fear the worst. It's silly to let a little thing like that overset one, I know . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“My child, there's not the least need to excuse yourself.”

“But I detest such missishness, and fear that at the same time I am turning into the protective type of female I heartily loathe.”

“You need to inspire Freddie to teach Wellington equestrian tricks instead of essaying them himself. You know how that misbegotten mongrel adores horses and attention.”

“He's not a mongrel!” Lady Frances rose instantly to her pet's defense. She smiled. “But he is virtually indestructible. How clever you are. But enough of my affairs. We must be the only ones in the entire room who aren't discussing this ball or Kitty's chances of becoming an incomparable. And speaking of incomparables, who is that Adonis partnering her now? He looks to be so besotted as to be in danger of suffocating.”

Mainwaring glanced in his ward's direction. “My God, now we are in the basket!”

She was puzzled. “He seems perfectly unexceptionable to me.”

“That. my dear, is Willoughby's eldest.”

“What could be better—a title, an old name, and a fortune?”

“But he's barely dry behind the ears, and to make matters worse, he's a budding poet,” he finished in accents of disgust.

“That's as may be, but I fail to understand your objections.”

He snorted. “They're both babes in arms. He's as romantic as she is, and neither one of them has the least notion how to go on in the world.”

“Well, of all the queer starts!” she gasped. “And why, pray tell, did you come to Cresswell if not to convince me that it was in Kitty's best interests to be married and off your hands as soon as possible?” A dangerous glint appeared in the corner of her eye. “Doubtless you worked yourself up then for no other purpose than to brangle with me.”

He had the grace to smile sheepishly. “Will you forgive me if I admit you were totally in the right of it? She is a dear girl, but she does want some town bronze and definitely a mature and sensible man for a husband.”

She was mollified and impressed too by this handsome concession. Her mischievous smile as she magnanimously forgave him was so appealing that he decided there was a great deal to be said for humility.

The dance had long since ended, but the two of them, so engrossed in their conversation, might never have noticed it had not Bertie come up and said meaningfully, “I'm ready now, so you must dance this next with me, as you promised.” Frances laughed gaily, nodded a smiling thank-you to Mainwaring, and whirled off, leaving his lordship slightly miffed at the easy way she quitted him to share secrets with his friend.

I must be in my dotage, he thought. A chit with an unbecoming habit of arriving at and voicing her own opinions is on intimate terms with the friend I asked to take charge of her. I should be congratulating myself on my own cleverness at ridding myself of her with such aplomb. And I do congratulate myself, he averred with total lack of conviction.

A sharp voice at his elbow observed, “I like that gel. She's got style and she's got sense—a looker, too.”

 “A little too much sense for her own good, but... she does have a certain something.”

Unlike her grandson, the perspicacious old dowager marchioness had no difficulty in interpreting the cause of the slight frown creasing his brow. She chuckled gleefully and settled herself to await farther developments. It was going to be a long time. Mainwaring had not the slightest inkling of how much Lady Frances meant to him. And, by the looks of it, the girl was no more aware of her feelings than he was. When and if they tumbled to their situation, the ensuing courtship would be even more interesting. The dowager hadn't enjoyed herself so much in years.

Meanwhile, on the dance floor Lady Frances finally broke in on her companion's thoughts. “Out with it, Bertie. The suspense is killing me. The look on your face tells me that you have devised A plan.”

A smile of satisfaction spread across his features. “It's quite simple, really,” he admitted modestly. “I shall just tell her I ain't the marrying kind, and if I were, her daughter ain't the kind I would want to marry.” Frances eyed him skeptically. “Well, it's the truth, ain't it?” he muttered defensively.

“Oh, I'm not challenging your veracity, merely your optimism. I think you underestimate Lady Darlington's determination and her desperation. A woman of her kidney isn't put off by something as paltry as the truth. Let me see,” she ruminated. “I shall tell her that Lady Streatham and I had had you in mind for her daughter until we began to wonder about your past.”

“Past!” he exclaimed indignantly. “I haven't got a past!”

“That's exactly why we've been wondering about it.”

Comprehension dawned. “I must say. Fan, that's devilish clever. Because the less you say, the worse she'll think it is, and that old beldame is quite gothic. Even my mother thinks she's hideously straightlaced, and the Mater's so rigid herself it don't bear thinking of.” He maneuvered her deftly back to the corner where Lady Streatham and the dowager were holding forth.

These two ladies looked slightly conscious as Frances approached, but she was too busy trying to catch a glimpse of Kitty to notice. They had been amusing themselves the past half-hour counting the number of times Mainwaring's eyes had strayed to whatever part of the room happened to be graced by Frances and her partner at that moment. Naturally, Julian was the perfect host, moving easily among his guests, chatting with this dowager, helping along that young woman's reputation by stopping to talk with her, giving his opinions on the probable speed of Stapleton's new bays to a group of young bucks, but this behavior seemed curiously mechanical to those who knew him best. In fact, after his last waltz, he had seemed, for Mainwaring at least, unusually abstracted.

He approached now as he saw Frances joining them. She had laughed and chatted gaily enough all evening, but to him her face looked pale and slightly drawn. He smiled kindly at her. “Do me a favor and sit the next one out with me. I fear I am getting too old for this frantic frivolity.”

“Doing it much to brown, my lord, for one who has just returned from Vienna. I expect there might be some skills of yours that became rusty there, but dancing was not one of them.”

“No? Well, let's just say that I had enough of dancing and diplomacy to last a lifetime, and not nearly enough rational conversation. But do let me get you some refreshment.” He disappeared into the supper room, his tall form towering above those around him. Unbidden, and certainly unexpected, the thought came to Frances that with his broad shoulders, severe dress, and air of command, he dwarfed almost everyone else in the room. She had never really paid much attention to what men looked like. She either liked or disliked them, but recognizing the attraction that a strong face, responsive dark blue eyes, and well-knit physique could hold was a novel sensation. Before she had time enough to explore and feel threatened by this sensation, the marquess had returned to ply her with a variety of delicacies and an absurd description of Kilson's struggles to adjust to the snobberies of London servants. She enjoyed it hugely, for he was a good storyteller, but some of the strain remained at the back of her eyes. He frowned slightly and offered to have someone call her carriage. “You have done your duty here and I am persuaded you would feel much more the thing if you were to get some rest.” She started to protest, but with so little conviction that he soon overrode her objections and summoned one of the footmen hovering at the side of the ballroom. “I shall spirit you out so no one will know you have left. Besides, you have made your appearance, so if you are now missed, no one can fault you.” She smiled gratefully and allowed him to lead her to her carriage.

Before handing her in, he adjured her to get a good rest. “Are you still worried?” She shook her head slightly. Not at all satisfied by such an equivocal response, he cupped her chin in his fingers and tilted it up. “Now, look at me and tell me you promise not to fret yourself, especially since you know I shall call tomorrow to give that young would-be equestrian a severe talking-to.”

Frances looked into his dark blue eyes and read such a wealth of concern that she was too touched to reply. She nodded. “That's my girl.” He handed her into the carriage, but retained her hand in his strong clasp. “No more giving way to irrational fears. Promise me?”

She looked at him and for an instant as transfixed by the intensity of his gaze. “I promise.” He squeezed her hand ever so gently before placing it in her lap, shutting the door and sending her on her way. She leaned back against the squabs. It had been quite a day. One that had forced her through a gamut of emotions: fear for Freddie, unexpected enjoyment of the ball, and now an odd feeling of some special bond, some private communication with Mainwaring. She didn't know what to make of it or of the attention he seemed to be paying her, and she wasn't at all certain how she felt about it. At the time, she had enjoyed the strength of his arms around her as they danced, sensing a special friendliness in the smile he seemed to reserve just for her, and had appreciated the attractive picture he presented as he moved among his guests. She hadn't thought much about it until he had held her hand and looked at her in such a way. Then she began to realize just how disturbingly attractive he really was to her. She felt slightly breathless and excited. Now it dawned on her that she had felt that way with him several times this evening. Whatever it is, it won't do, my girl, she admonished herself sternly. Men, particularly those of Lord Mainwaring's discriminating taste, aren't likely to feel anything for one such as you, much less heightened pulses. Best to forget it all. With this salutary thought, which somehow vanished as quickly as it came, she fell into a pleasant reverie that lasted until they arrived in Brook Street.

Chapter Twenty

True to his word. Lord Mainwaring appeared in Brook Street at the unfashionably early hour of ten o'clock the next morning. He too had undergone some soul-searching the night before, and as he sauntered leisurely along, all his thoughts from the previous evening returned with a vengeance. Until the ball he had enjoyed Lady Frances' company for her quick grasp of a variety of subjects, her interested and intelligent comments, and her complete disregard for any of the flirtatious arts most women practiced assiduously on him. He admired her elegant taste and the quiet courage with which she shouldered enormous responsibilities, but he certainly had not felt anything more for her than admiration and a friendly wish to alleviate some of her responsibilities. Somehow, as they had been whirling around the floor, things had changed—so subtly that it had been some time before he was aware of the difference. She had felt so slight and graceful in his arms that her brief admission of her fears for her graceless brother tore at his heart. When she had tried to smile and quickly blink away the tears in her clear hazel eyes, he had wanted nothing more than to crush her in his arms and kiss the lips that would tremble in spite of her best efforts. He too had sensed that strong bond between them as he helped her into her carriage, and had tried ruthlessly to suppress these unwanted and most disquieting feelings. You're returning to your salad days, my boy. You've been away from the charms of London and London beauties so long that when one of them looks at you gratefully you are knocked into the middle of next week. She's only one of a dozen pretty faces—and not the prettiest of them either. But he knew he was wrong, that beauty had very little to do with .it. Botheration! The more you try to define it, the worse case you become. It was almost with relief that he recognized Lady Jersey beckoning to him. That lively lady's naughty flirtation had soon banished all such unwelcome reflections.