London Ladies (The Complete Series)

by Eaton, Jillian

  He’d hoped balls might have changed during the past four years, but now he saw they were worse than ever; a mad crush of noblemen and women fighting to be recognized and acknowledged as they used dining and dancing as an excuse to further their own social means. Were Harper not in need of a chaperone - especially after their mother decided to remain ensconced at Winfield - he wouldn’t have stepped foot inside, but he’d made himself a promise, and he was determined to fulfill it.

  “Do I have to dance?” she asked in a loud whisper, tugging on his coat sleeve to gain his attention as they advanced further in the line one step at a time.

  “Only if you want to.” A scowl darkened Miles’ countenance when he caught a young man who could not have been more than twenty years of age boldly staring down at the décolletage of an older woman. Unconsciously his grip on Harper’s arm tightened. “And only if the man is a gentleman of upstanding moral character.” And happily married, he added silently.

  “Well in that case I might as well find a chair and make myself comfortable,” she said dryly.

  Miles cast his sister an amused glance. The protective fatherly urge inside of him was new, but that did not make it any less potent. He felt as responsible for Harper as though she were his own daughter and in some ways he supposed she might as well have been. With their father dead and their mother in a place both literally and figuratively not easily reached for reasons Miles could not completely understand, he and Harper were very much on their own.

  Four years ago he would have run from the responsibility, but now he accepted it as his due. Without him Harper had no one, and he refused to disappoint her a second time.

  Noting they’d nearly reached the front of the line and only six people stood between them and Lady Farcott, Miles absently smoothed a wrinkle from his cravat and adjusted the lapel pin so the tiny sapphire faced outwards instead of in.

  “Do you expect her to be here?” Harper asked.

  “Who?” Miles said evasively, even though he had a very good idea to whom his sister was referring.

  “Dianna.” Harper’s lifted brow indicated she wasn’t fooled for a minute by his feigned air of nonchalance. “Do you expect Dianna to be here?”

  “Where Miss Foxcroft is concerned I have learned to have no expectations,” he said in a tone that very much implied Dianna was not a subject he was interested in discussing. “Do you have your dance card?”

  “Tucked away in here.” She held her right arm aloft where a small satin reticule dangled from her wrist. “Not that I plan on using it very much. Are you going to dance?”

  “I might,” he said absently, attention wandering as he glimpsed a woman with blonde hair cut close to the nape of her neck descending the staircase into the ballroom. His muscles tensed, breath catching in his throat.

  “Are you going to dance with Dianna?”

  His gaze cut back to Harper, eyes narrowing in a glare that threatened all sorts of ominous things if she didn’t change her line of questioning. “No,” he said curtly, looking back at the staircase… but the woman was gone, swallowed up by the crowd.

  “Lord Radnor and Lady Harper, what a pleasure to have you both in attendance tonight.” Lady Farcott’s smooth voice caught Miles unawares, and belatedly he realized they’d reached the head of the receiving line.

  A woman who took great pride in her appearance despite her advancing years, Lady Farcott wore a puce colored ball gown tailored perfectly to fit her short, plump frame and enough diamonds to fill the coffers of a small country. She gazed up at Miles expectantly, a questioning smile lingering in the corners of her mouth. “Lord Radnor?” she queried, “are you quite all right?”

  More than aware of the curious stares accumulating at his back as well as those rising up from below, Miles was quick to form a response. “Thank you for having us,” he said politely, folding into a bow. Beside him, Harper executed a neat curtsy.

  “If I am not mistaken, this is the first social event you have attended in quite some time, is it not?” Lady Farcott asked.

  Miles struggled to withhold a grimace. He’d known the questions would come sooner rather than later. He simply hadn’t anticipated them coming quite so soon as this. Given that his leaving the country - not to mention a fiancée - had caused one of the greatest scandals the ton had seen in over a decade, he should have known better. High society was fueled by the flames of gossip, and if the excited light in Lady Farcott’s eyes was any indication, the fire was burning hot tonight.

  “It is,” he said, hoping to leave it at that. Unfortunately, Lady Farcott’s curiosity was far from sated. Seeming indifferent to the fact that she was holding up an entire line of guests, she placed one gloved hand on his forearm, bejeweled fingers lightly restraining.

  “You must tell me what adventures you have been up to!”

  “Later,” he said with a charming smile even as he took hold of Lady Farcott’s wrist and gently, albeit firmly, lifted her clawing fingers from his arm. “I fear I will need more time than your duties as a hostess will permit to tell you everything.”

  Her mouth set in a pout. “Surely you can spare one tantalizing detail. After all, I will need something to tell my friends when they ask what you have been doing these past… why, I am afraid I do not even know how long you have been gone from us!”

  “Four years,” Harper interceded, earning a light trod on her instep courtesy of Miles’ boot. “What?” she asked innocently. “That is how long you were away.”

  “Four years,” Lady Farcott marveled. “My goodness! And have you by chance spoken to Miss Foxcroft? You were engaged to be married, if memory serves. No one has seen much of the poor girl since your disappearance. No doubt nursing a bit of a broken heart, but who could blame her?” Leaning towards him, she whispered conspiratorially, “I believe you will be quite the catch this season, Lord Radnor.”

  At the first mention of Dianna, Miles’ smile had turned to steel. Now it faded altogether. Were it not for Harper needing to make a good first impression he would have told Lady Farcott to go to hell, but he knew whatever rash actions he made would reflect upon his sister, and so with great difficulty he managed to restrain himself enough to say, “I am not in the market for a wife, Lady Farcott. If you feel the need to share something about me, share that.”

  Seeming to realize she’d pushed a bit too far, Lady Farcott quickly attempted to make amends. “I fear I have monopolized your time far more than I should have,” she said with a tittering laugh, “but that is one of the advantages of being the hostess, after all. Do enjoy yourself tonight, Lord Radnor. You as well, Lady Harper.”

  “I shall endeavor to do my best,” Harper said.

  The corners of Lady Farcott’s eyes tightened. “See that you do, dear.”

  “Interfering old biddy,” Harper muttered under her breath as they finally descended the staircase, staying towards the outside railing in a vain attempt to avoid detection, something Miles knew would be impossible once they were announced.

  They’d nearly reached the bottom of the stairs when the caller’s voice rang about above the crowd, delivering a name that caused dozens of people to gasp and twice as many heads to swivel.

  “Lady Harper, accompanied by her brother Lord Radnor, Earl of Winfield!”

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, ducking his head to the side. Eyes wide, Harper clung fast to his arm as a crush of women rapidly descended on them like a pack of hungry wolves.

  “What on earth,” she breathed, her mouth dropping open in shock.

  “Go,” he urged grimly, giving her a little push. “They are not here for you.”

  “But what are you-”

  “Go.”

  For once she listened to him, and scampered away in the direction of the refreshments mere seconds before the first group of ladies clambered to a halt in front of him. They all began speaking at once, their high pitched voices merging into one.

  “Lord Radnor, what a surprise-”

  “When did
you return to London-”

  “Where have you been-”

  “Would you sign my dance card-”

  Like vultures circling a fresh kill, Miles thought in disgust, his gaze sweeping with derision across their excited faces. He might have had a kind word for them, or even placed his name on a card or two, if not for the fact that the only reason they were fighting for his attention was because of his wealth and title.

  Courtesy of his engagement to Dianna he’d never had to attend a ball as an eligible bachelor before. Tonight was not something to be enjoyed, but rather something to be endured for the sake of his sister; one small penance to be paid in his quest for redemption.

  Suddenly spying a familiar countenance amidst the sea of formally attired strangers, he raised his voice to a dull shout in order to be heard above the squealing melee. “You will have to excuse me ladies,” he said, stepping to the side. “I fear there is an old acquaintance I need to see.” Ignoring their sighs of disappointment and the advance of one particularly bold redhead, he cut across the middle of the ballroom, the heels of his boots drilling with military precision against the marble floor. All around him couples swirled in graceful unison beneath a half dozen glittering chandeliers while music played and champagne flowed freely.

  The mood was light, the laughter plentiful. After being kept isolated in their country estates for six long months, the members of the ton were more than ready to partake in a bit of celebration.

  Catching sight of Harper standing in a far corner beside a long line of chairs occupied by dejected looking wallflowers, Miles frowned and started to veer in her direction, only to come to an abrupt halt when he saw her gesture to two of the girls. They stood up, and within moments were involved in an animated discussion, the topic of which brought smiles to all three of their faces. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Miles felt one of the knots in his stomach begin to slowly loosen. If nothing came of this evening other than Harper making some friends of similar age and interest, he would consider it a great success.

  “I say there Radnor, is that you? By God it is!”

  Turning when he felt a hand clamp down heartily on his shoulder, Miles couldn’t help but grin as he found himself face to face with an old childhood companion. “Hemsworth, how the bloody hell have you been?”

  “I could ask the same of you.” Short and stoutly built with bullish features and a perpetual grin, Lionel Hemsworth, a viscount of considerable holdings, grabbed Miles’ other shoulder and gave him a hard, good-natured shake. “I’d heard you were back, but refused to believe it until I saw your ugly mug with my own two eyes. Damn, but is good to see you again!”

  “And you as well, my friend.”

  With a disbelieving shake of his head Hemsworth gave Miles one last slap on the shoulder before he rocked back and crossed his arms, straining the stitching on his black tailcoat. “Finally grow weary of living life as a free man and decided to return to the shackles of society, eh?”

  “Something like that,” Miles acknowledged. In due time he would share his experiences, but tonight was neither the time, nor the place. Looking to change the subject, he mustered a grin and said, “I must say, I never thought I would see the day Lionel Hemsworth attended a ball of his own free will.”

  “My wife adores them. A bit of a social butterfly, that one, and being the jealous sort I never like to let her out of my sight for long, especially with all these randy bucks milling about.”

  “Your wife?” Had Hemsworth told him he’d given up all his worldly possessions and become a member of the clergy Miles could not have been more shocked. In all the years they’d spent growing up together Hemsworth had never expressed an interest marriage. If anything he’d been adamantly opposed to the notion; his steady stream of mistresses unending. ‘Bedded but never going to be wedded’ had been his saying of choice, and one of his favorite pastimes had been ribbing Miles for being engaged.

  “Aye. Married two years this April.” His expression inexplicably softening, Hemsworth nodded towards a petite brunette standing several yards away. The sudden light in his brown eyes was so foreign and unexpected it took Miles several seconds before he recognized it for what it was.

  Love.

  Not the kind couples feigned when they wanted to put on a show for their peers, but genuine, down to the soul, true love.

  As though she could sense the weight of her husband’s gaze upon her, Lady Hemsworth turned in their direction.

  She was pretty, Miles observed, delicately so, with dark hair swept tidily back from her face and a sweet, shy smile. Mouthing a silent hello, she blushed bright pink when Hemsworth blew her a kiss. Giving him a stern look, she returned her attention to her circle of friends, but not before blowing Hemsworth a discreet kiss in return.

  Witnessing their open adoration of one another, Miles felt a queer tightening at the back of his throat, making it difficult to swallow. “You seem, ah, quite fond of each other,” he managed gruffly, tugging at his cravat. When had it gotten so bloody warm? The air was suffocating, and high on his forehead a sheen of perspiration began to form.

  “I love her,” Hemsworth said unabashedly. “I swear the moment I saw her I knew then and there she was the one. Took a bit more convincing on her part, but there you have it. I say, you’re looking a bit pale, Radnor.”

  Being forced to come face to face with what could have been his own present but for one selfish mistake in his past, Miles felt more than pale. “I do not like these things,” he said, gesturing vaguely over Hemsworth’s shoulder to where dozens of couples were dancing in a blinding blur of color. “Too many people.”

  His friend snorted. “You don’t have to tell me. As I said, if not for Victoria you wouldn’t catch me within ten leagues of a ballroom. Here. This will put a bit of color back in your face and some hair on your chest to boot.” After a furtive glance to the side - no doubt to make certain his wife was not watching - Hemsworth slid a sterling flask out of his coat pocket and pressed it into Miles’ hand.

  Tipping the flask up to his mouth, Miles took a liberal swallow and immediately felt his throat ignite. “Hell,” he gasped, shoving the flask back towards Hemsworth. “What is that?”

  “Scottish whisky,” Hemsworth said with a grin. “Good, eh?”

  While it was certainly something, ‘good’ wasn’t the choice adjective Miles would have used. As a man who rarely imbibed in spirits, he preferred a dark wine over brandy and almost never touched whisky, particularly the Scottish kind which was stronger than most, not to mention illegal. “It is… potent.”

  “Aye.” Hemsworth’s eyes twinkled as he tucked the flask away and gave his pocket a pat. “It is that. Let’s go outside for a bit. The fresh air will do us both some good.” Looping an arm over Miles’ broad shoulders, he steered them out of the ballroom and onto one of the side terraces. Long and narrow with wicker chairs set on either end and a glass topped table in the middle, it overlooked the elaborate gardens for which Lady Farcott was renowned. It was said no other London residence held their equal, and it was easy for Miles to see why.

  Illuminated by hanging lanterns that swung lightly in the air courtesy of a faint breeze, the gardens were an intricately planned maze of twisting walkways and ivy covered stone walls. Gentlemen stood casually conversing around a life sized marble fountain that spat out water in a shower of drops, while further in the shadows couples huddled together on wooden benches, their voices hushed as they dared far more than they would have inside a crowded ballroom.

  Sitting down, Hemsworth procured a thin metal box from his other coat pocket, leaving Miles to wonder exactly how many vices his friend had picked up during the past four years.

  “Snuff?” he offered, tapping the box briskly against his palm before flipping open the lid, allowing the strong scent of tobacco to waft into the air. When Miles shook his head, Hemsworth shrugged, took a pinch of snuff, and inhaled it up both nostrils with barely a grimace. “So tell me what brings you here tonight, old frie
nd.”

  Resting his forearms on the iron fence that wrapped around the edge of the terrace, Miles stared broodingly out into the dark. “Harper was in need of a chaperone.”

  “Your little sister? The hell you say! She cannot be old enough for a season debut.”

  “She should have made her debut last year,” Miles admitted. “And she would have, if I had been here.”

  In the silence that followed his somber statement Hemsworth exhaled heavily, the wicker chair groaning beneath his weight as he leaned back. “You’re here now. That is all that matters. If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t change the past. You left. You came back. What’s done is done. No use dwelling on it.”

  Easier to say than do, Miles thought silently, but he appreciated his friend’s candid advice nevertheless. “Are you and your wife remaining in London for the entirety of the Season?” he asked, glancing at Hemsworth over his shoulder.

  “Bloody hell I hope not. Victoria has family in Scotland she wants to visit. Cousins of some sort.”

  Noting his friend’s pained expression, Miles felt his mouth crack into the smallest of grins. “I take you and the in-laws are not on the best of terms?”

  Hemsworth shuddered. “God no. They think I’m a womanizing drunkard not fit to lick Victoria’s shoes, let alone be her husband.”

  “And yet her father gave you permission to marry?” Miles asked, one brow lifting.

  “Not precisely.” Having the good grace to look a bit sheepish, Hemsworth explained, “We eloped. Still not sure how I did it, to be honest, but somehow I convinced her to run off with me to Gretna Green.” He scratched his jaw. “May be a few years yet before her family comes round and decides to forgive me.”