Evelyn Richardson (24 page)

“Good God,” Wytham's sardonic voice broke in. “She must be a diamond if Langford likes her. Can't remember when he ever liked a female that wasn't a horse. Can it be he's going to become leg-shackled at last?”

“No.” Langford sighed. “She's as friendly to me as she is to everyone else, but I don't stand a chance, with Alvanley and all those others who surround her all the time. And Wolvercote is so taken with her, he's ready to do battle with anyone who even looks at her. Tell you what, he's making a dashed cake of himself with his poetic airs and constant haunting of her house. Wonder she doesn't get demmed sick of it. But she's too kind to upset anyone, even someone who's as big a gudgeon as Wolvercote.”

Mainwaring turned to the Corinthian who had entered with him. “Who is this, Boxford? A female that isn't silly or a diamond but is all the rage? Only tell me the name of such a paragon.”

Lord Boxford looked at him with surprise. “Where have you been, old boy? You need catching up with the ton. She is Lady Frances Cresswell, Charles Cresswell's daughter. Apparently she had a Season several years ago, but when her father died she went back to Hampshire to manage the estate and hasn't come to town since. Now she's going about with the Comte de Vaudron, who stands as some son of godfather to her. She isn't exactly a diamond, but she's got great elegance and style, and what's more, she's pleasant to be with. Doesn't put on any of the airs and graces that our usual incomparables seem to feel they must adopt.”

Lord Mainwaring had the oddest sensation in the pit of his stomach, as though someone had broken through his guard and tipped him a leveler. Lady Frances, an incomparable? His Lady Frances? But she wasn't the sort to appeal to bucks like these. It took a man of intelligence and perception—someone such as himself, for example—to appreciate her very special qualities.

This turn of events killed all his interest in Brooks's and he returned to Grosvenor Square to throw himself into a pile of correspondence that had accumulated during his absence. After two hours of intense concentration on some very delicate diplomatic issues, he was in no better state. His thoughts and feelings were still in a turmoil. There was nothing to do but possess himself of as much patience as he could muster until the Duchess of Devonshire's ball that evening. It was the event of the Season, and Frances was sure to be there.

In the meantime, his staff crept about quietly making their own observations and reaching their own conclusions. “He's in a bad way,” Kilson commented to himself. “Never seen him as blue-deviled before, especially over any woman. Wonder if he knows it?” Ordinarily Mainwaring's henchman had the highest respect for his master's intelligence, but lately it had seemed to him that Lord Mainwaring had been unaware of the simplest situation. Any fool could see that the mere mention of Lady Frances Cresswell caught his immediate and total attention. And one didn't have to spend much time in that lady's presence to know that she was the one for him. Why, he never talked to other women the way he talked to her, or cared to hear their thoughts on any subject. Why, the other day he had even asked whether or not she had used the latest seed drill. And, what's more, what she had thought about it. However, it was more than that. There was a certain warmth in his eyes whenever he looked at her or mentioned her that Kilson had never seen before. He only hoped that Lady Frances was of the same mind. Of course, he didn't know her very well, but he rather thought she was. But something must have happened to upset this nicely progressing state of affairs. Discreet inquiries among the coachmen and footmen had revealed nothing, and Kilson, at a loss to know what had occurred, was at an even greater loss as to how to remedy it. Like his master, he finally decided that all he could do was to await developments with as much patience as possible.

Chapter Twenty-six

The Duchess of Devonshire's ball was predicted to be the most important event of the Season. No member of the ton worthy of that appellation would have even considered missing it. No more did Lady Frances, though she was certain it would prove to be a sad crush. Much to her astonishment, she had rather enjoyed her social transformation. At first she had been inclined to doubt the Comte de Vaudron's opinion that the more elegantly she was attired and the more fashionable she was, the more confident she would feel. In fact, he had been astoundingly accurate. Her locks, shorn of their heavier tresses, felt light and frivolous, encouraging her to toss her head, laugh, and smile in a manner totally foreign to her previous, more dignified self. She knew her toilette to be the height of elegance, and this, to her total amazement, actually did give her the absolute composure she had lacked before in the face of social scrutiny. Before, a stare, no matter how ill-bred, left her quaking in her boots, wondering if her dress were horribly dowdy, her toilette in disrepair, or her conversation lacking. Now she could attribute such stares to envy rather than to censure, and this envy, though she was loathe to admit it, gave a certain spice to social affairs. It was, of course, a lowering thought for one bred to disregard the superficialities and appreciate the finer points of people's characters, but that made it no less true. It was thus that she looked forward to the ball. Despite Lady Frances' protests, Madame Regnery had insisted on creating a ball gown for her out of the material carefully brought from Lyons. Because of the uniqueness of the silk, which shimmered between green and a rich gold, the dress was of the simplest design, cut low over the bosom and softly gathered above the waist. Its only ornamentations were several heavy rouleaux of the same material at the hem, which served to make it mold to the elegant lines of her figure, and a Medici collar of rich blond lace at the neck. It was true that silk was now less favored than muslin, but this was of a type that had never before graced the ballrooms of London—or Paris, for that matter. A magnificent parure of her mother's emeralds and a matching brooch in the corsage completed the ensemble, complimented the color of her eyes, and emphasized the creamy richness of her skin. Her hair, brushed into a riot of golden curls, shone with the same highlights as her gown.

“Oh, Frances, don't you look just like a princess!” Kitty exclaimed when she saw her. “No, much grander than that... a queen, I think,” she amended.

Kitty was not alone in her opinion. Bertie, who came to escort her, was equally appreciative. “I say. Fanny, that's a bang-up rig. I am certainly lucky to be with you. You'll take the shine out of all of 'em. Did you get it from Fanchon?”

“What a complete hand you are, Bertie. You always know just the right thing to say, don't you?” Frances was gratified.

“Now Fan, you know that's a plumper. I ain't one of those poetic fellows who knows just how to put things.”

“You can't flummery me,” she interrupted sternly. “Whether or not you or anyone else acknowledges it, the most important words are those that come directly from a kind heart, which you have in abundant degree.”

“I say, Fan,” he stammered, pleased in spite of his evident embarrassment. “Now it's time for you to cut a dash with a larger audience. Are you ready for it?” he inquired as he escorted her to the carriage.

It was gratifying to Frances, slowly making her way up the magnificent staircase, to see so many familiar faces. How different from her first Season, when everyone was not only strange to her, but critical as well. Now, though many of the familiar faces were no closer friends, they represented no threat to her equanimity. And much as she disliked admitting it to herself, she enjoyed causing a stir, however minor, when she entered. Heretofore Frances had looked upon vanity with distaste, but she allowed herself to indulge in it just briefly when Lords Alvanley and Boxford, closely followed by the Viscount Wytham, hastened over to secure dances and form a laughing coterie around her.

It was thus that Mainwaring first saw her in the glow from the chandelier directly overhead, laughing gaily at a sally of Alvanley's. Mainwaring's ordinarily bored expression deserted him and he stared at the warm, vital creature who caught the light with every graceful gesture.

Long hours spent staring into the fire had brought Julian to the conclusion that Lady Frances Cresswell was someone he cared enough about to consider spending the rest of his life with. She would make a fine wife. She was intelligent in a greater variety of areas than most men of his acquaintance. She faced life with courageousness and purpose. She had a quick wit that teased and delighted him, and the heavy responsibilities she had borne so competently and quietly endeared her to him. But tonight, for the first time, he saw her as a beautiful woman. It quite took his breath away. Never had her smile seemed so bewitching or—his jaw tightened at the thought—intimate. The slim perfection of her body and grace of movement were emphasized by the material of her gown, which clung to her and shimmered enticingly at the least motion. The brilliant parure called attention to the beautifully molded neck and shoulders, not to mention a décolletage that might even have been called daring. In the midst of all the pale fluttering gauzes she stood out like a gilded vital young goddess with a warm and vivid beauty that would have taken any man's breath away.

In a daze. Lord Mainwaring guided partners around the floor, nodding and commenting mechanically at the appropriate moments, but his eyes never left Frances as she whirled by with one partner after another. Just as he felt he could stand it no longer, that he simply must talk with her at whatever cost, he saw her disappear through a French window onto the terrace. Not far behind her followed the besotted young man Wolvercote, a great deal the worse for the effects of the punch. Barely staying to restore his partner to her party, Mainwaring strode off after the pair, his blue eyes smoldering dangerously in a face dark and threatening as a thundercloud.

If he had not been beside himself with rage and jealously, he might have appreciated the picture that met his furious gaze. Slim and ethereal, her dress shimmering in the moonlight, Frances leaned on the parapet surveying the garden below. Wolvercote, who, whatever his faults, was a picturesque and graceful youth, had just flung himself to his knees and caught her hand to his mouth in a passion of youthful ardor. But Mainwaring was in no mood for aesthetics, nor did he register the look of intense annoyance that crossed Frances' face as she tried to recapture her hand. All he saw was the woman he wanted, being ardently kissed by another man. By this time Wolvercote, intoxicated with his own boldness and the romantic atmosphere, had risen, grabbed Frances inexpertly in his arms, and was trying unsuccessfully to kiss her.

“Most affecting.” Mainwaring's harsh voice shattered the idyllic scene.

“Lord Mainwaring!” Frances exclaimed, striving for a normal voice and wishing fervently that the earth would open up and swallow her. “I had not thought to see you here.” There! She had achieved at least a semblance of conversational tone, though the thudding of her heart threatened to suffocate her.

“Obviously not,” he responded grimly.

The contempt in his face goaded her as she realized the infelicity other last remark. “I had thought,” she continued with emphasis, “I had thought you were out of town on business and had not expected to see you for some time.”

“And so made yourself the talk of the town in my absence.”

Thoroughly roused, she flashed back. “You are certainly not my chaperone, my lord. And if I were looking for models of propriety, I certainly shouldn't look to you.”

“Oh, wouldn't you? Let me tell you, my girl, I was on the town and conversant with all its rules and restrictions long before you were out of the schoolroom. And disappearing to an isolated terrace with besotted young men has never been acceptable behavior.” Here he turned to the miserable Wolvercote, who had been standing, his mouth open, observing this astounding scene. “Get out of here, you puppy. And don't you go compromising Lady Frances again.”

Wolvercote fled with relief, but Lady Frances, thoroughly enraged, drew herself to her full height and turned to Julian. Eyes flashing, she responded in a low passionate voice that she could barely keep from trembling with anger. “What right have you to interfere in my affairs or comment on my conduct?”

Mainwaring, as angry as she, lashed out, “The right of any sensible person who sees someone behaving like an idiot.”

“And what concern is it of yours, my lord, whether or not I choose to behave like an idiot?” In fact, Frances did feel like a complete idiot. She had been as intensely aware of Lord Mainwaring all evening as he had been other, and, upset at her own interests and attraction to someone so obviously a cad, she had sought the solace of the terrace, never dreaming that her escape would be noticed or that she would be followed. She had been as revolted as Mainwaring by young Wolvercote, but her censor's next words forced her to adopt a totally opposite position.

“I never thought to see you with such a foolish young jackanapes.”

Lady Frances thoroughly agreed, but would have died before admitting such a thing. “Wolvercote happens to be a serious young man who shares many of my tastes. We admire many of the same things, and he, at least, respects and admires me.” She was thoroughly disgusted at the petulance of this last remark, which, in spite of its childishness, seemed to be the last straw for Mainwaring.

“If it's admiration you want...” he hissed, grasping her by the shoulders and pulling her roughly to him. His arms tightened painfully around her as his lips came down on hers fiercely, possessively, angrily demanding.

Caught off guard, Frances felt herself overwhelmed by the hardness of his body against hers, the insistence of his lips as they moved on hers, exploring, forcing her to respond. For a moment she gave herself up to the warm tide that was flooding her, spreading languorously up from her trembling knees to the pit of her stomach and her breast. For an instant she wanted to free her arms, pull him to her, and return the kiss as passionately as he. But at the back other mind a cold little voice admonished. “He is doing this out of anger and disgust. He despises you. Get away. Run!” Marshalling her fading resistance, she pulled away, her eyes dark with passion, and in a voice throbbing with emotion demanded, “And I suppose this is proper conduct? You seem to forget I am not Lady Welford, sir.” Then, in a swirl of green-gold, she turned on her heel and vanished into the garden.