Engaged to the Earl

by Lisa Berne

  She sniffed again.

  And frowned.

  Why, it smelled exactly like her own perfume, a light rosewater scent she occasionally used.

  But she wasn’t wearing it today, so . . .

  Gwendolyn leaned forward and looked past Christopher to Helen. She breathed in deeply, and there was her confirmation: Helen smelled like a giant bouquet of roses, in fact.

  How very irritating.

  Also, how odd.

  Helen never wore scent of any kind. Not only that, she had a green silk ribbon woven among her red curls today—usually she scoffed at such things as being stupid furbelows. And she was wearing jewelry as well! A pair of pretty emerald ear-bobs, and a matching emerald necklace, very dainty and fine.

  What was Helen up to?

  Just at the moment, Gwendolyn saw, she was gazing at Christopher, with an expression Gwendolyn couldn’t decipher. Was it admiration, or something else?

  “Are you going to show us that—that pento dance after tea, Mr. Beck?” Helen asked.

  Her voice was sweet. Noticeably sweet. As if she was making an effort to subdue the gruffness that was usually there.

  “The pentozali?” Christopher laughed. “I’d prefer to embarrass myself in other ways. Like learning how to waltz.”

  “I’ll show you,” Helen said quickly, “it’s a very jolly dance.”

  Gwendolyn stared at her in astonishment. Helen hated to dance. What was going on here?

  She stared at Helen staring at Christopher.

  And then it came to her.

  Goodness gracious, was Helen actually setting her cap at Christopher?

  Gwendolyn leaned back and took a long sip of her tea. A curious jumble of thoughts and emotions roiled within her, chief among them a feeling of distaste. She didn’t like the idea of Helen and Christopher together. On the other hand, what business was it of hers? Was she—again—being proprietary simply because Christopher was her friend? That wouldn’t make her much of a friend, would it?

  She searched inside herself and what rang true, very deeply, was a sincere—genuine—strong desire for Christopher to be happy.

  Well then. That would guide her actions.

  If Helen liked him, and he liked her, she certainly wouldn’t stand in their way.

  Even if, a tiny secret part of her whispered stubbornly, she still didn’t like the idea of it.

  “Is everyone ready for our little practice dance?” inquired the Duchess. “That is, those who wish to participate?”

  Owen groaned, sliding down low in his armchair, and Helen said mockingly:

  “Scared, brother dear?”

  “Not scared,” muttered Owen resentfully. “Not interested.”

  “Easiest thing in the world,” declared Percy, jumping to his feet. “Come on, Helen, old girl, let’s show him how it’s done.”

  “But I—I was—” Helen glanced at Christopher, visibly upset.

  “I’m sure we’ll have a chance later, Miss FitzClarence,” he said kindly. “That is, if you’re brave enough to risk dancing with my ignorant self.”

  “Of course I am!” she answered loudly, standing up, and Gwendolyn saw her glance around the drawing-room, taking in the Earl and Étienne de Montmorency, Lady Almira and the Duchess, Percy and Christopher, and, finally, Francis, who still sat in his armchair, his tea untouched, gazing out the window.

  As everyone else got up and began making their way to the ballroom, Francis remained in his chair, unmoving, and Gwendolyn went to him.

  “Francis.”

  He turned and looked up at her. “Oh, hullo, Gwennie,” he said, sounding as if he’d just returned from a journey. Which, she supposed, he probably had, in the intellectual sense. She smiled down at him.

  “Our practice dance is starting.”

  “Oh, is it? Have a nice time.”

  “Aren’t you joining us?”

  “No. I know all the dances. Besides, I had the most interesting idea about Kant and Swedenborg, and I was just thinking about the implications for the essay I’m writing.”

  “You know the dances?”

  “Yes. There’s a book with all the steps. I read it before coming to London. It all seems very straightforward. Though why people make such a fuss about it I can’t understand.”

  “Well, I suppose because it’s fun for some people.”

  “Is it? Do you enjoy it?”

  “I do. But I don’t insist that everyone ought to feel the same way.”

  Francis nodded. “Nosce te ipsum.”

  “Know thyself,” she said softly, and he nodded again.

  The Earl called from the doorway, where he stood waiting: “Anything wrong?”

  “No, Julian, not at all.” Gwendolyn put her hand on Francis’s shoulder. “Will you tell me more about your idea later?”

  “If you like.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” Gwendolyn went to the Earl, who looked so stunningly handsome and serene in his beautifully tailored bottle-green jacket and buff pantaloons that it was hard to remember exactly why she had been so unhappy last night. She’d probably just been tired—it had been a very long and busy day. One’s spirits did tend to sink when one was fatigued. She smiled up at him as they turned into the long high-ceilinged hallway that led to the ballroom.

  “Are you going to dance with me, Julian?”

  “Of course I am, my darling. Francis isn’t coming?”

  “No, apparently he knows all the steps.”

  “Ought he to join us anyway? Being a guest of the Duchess and so on.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Cousin Judith won’t mind.”

  “You don’t think she might consider it a trifle rude of Francis?”

  “No, I’m certain of it. She’s so lovely and easygoing. Besides, she did say the practice dance was optional, you know.”

  “Still, perhaps Francis ought to bestir himself. Shall I go back and talk to him?”

  “I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “I’m happy to do it. As his future brother-in-law, it’s perfectly appropriate.”

  “I don’t think it is, Julian.”

  They came to a halt and looked at each other, both of them, Gwendolyn thought, in perplexity. For an instant she felt the heavy weight of politeness bear down upon her—don’t make a fuss, don’t make a scene, smooth over the troubled waters, let it go, it’s not that important really, be nice, above all be nice—and she pressed her lips together, as if to hold back the soothing words of apology, of retreat.

  “Very well then, my dear,” Julian said. “Shall we go on? I hear the piano.”

  “Yes, by all means.”

  They began walking again, and Gwendolyn glanced up at his face. His brow, which had been slightly wrinkled, was smooth once more, and his expression was benignant. She wondered, had this been their first quarrel?

  The thought made Gwendolyn feel suddenly panicky. She didn’t want to fight with him. She clutched at his hand and brought them to a halt again. “Julian,” she whispered, “Julian, I love you.” Quickly she looked left and right; the long hallway was, for the moment, empty but for themselves. She lifted herself up on her tiptoes and brought her mouth to his.

  Very gently, he stepped away. “Not here, my darling.” He disengaged his hand and smiled down at her. “I love you too. What we need is a garden or a maze right now, don’t we?”

  Panic had ebbed away, to be replaced by an acrid sense of humiliation. “Yes,” she said, rather stonily. “That’s what we need. Shall we go on?”

  “Left foot here,” said the Duchess to Christopher, “then step back and do a half-turn before returning to the center.”

  He did as she instructed. “How was that, ma’am?”

  “Very good. Now we clasp hands and take three steps forward before parting, turning in a circle, and meeting again.”

  Christopher complied, and the Duchess said:

  “You’re getting the hang of it nicely, Mr. Beck. Now we wait while the others move do
wn the line. If there were any others.”

  They were standing, just the two of them, in the center of the big ballroom. Lady Almira sat at a piano which a footman had rolled out of a corner and was playing a pretty, stately tune with, Christopher noticed with pleasure, remarkable skill and sensitivity. She even managed to turn the pages of her music-sheets without incident. Sotto voce, the Duchess added, “I am so sorry about Helen and Owen, Mr. Beck. Sometimes they act just like children.”

  Christopher glanced over to the long row of gilded chairs, set against a wall, which the footman had uncovered. Owen sat on one, arms crossed over his chest, and scowling; he had flatly refused to dance with his grandmother. Several seats away from him was Helen, her arms over her chest. She was scowling at Percy, who sat next to her.

  “You said you’d dance with me, old girl,” he was saying. “Come on then.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Don’t be a bore! Keep to your word!”

  “Go dance with Gwendolyn! Everyone knows she’s a better dancer than I am!”

  “Maybe because she’s practiced! I say, what’s gotten into you all of a sudden? In the drawing-room you were perfectly all right.”

  “I’m fine,” Helen said between gritted teeth.

  “The devil you are!” Percy jumped to his feet and went over to sit next to Owen.

  Étienne de Montmorency, Christopher saw, stood at one of the windows, his expression inscrutable save for the thoughtful look in his pale-blue eyes. The light streaming in through the window made his pale hair look almost white, and lent his face a startling pallor.

  The Duchess gave a little sigh. “And now we clasp hands again, take three steps forward, three steps back; finally, at the same time I curtsy—like so—you bow. Well done, Mr. Beck.” The music had stopped and she called, “That’s splendid, Almira, thank you so much.”

  Lady Almira beamed. “Shall I play another, dear ma’am?”

  “Yes, do, here are Gwendolyn and Westenbury.” In the Duchess’s tone was relief, and she added in an undertone to Christopher, “We can count on them, at least.”

  But when Christopher looked at Gwendolyn, he saw that her earlier, cheerful mood had changed into something else. The Earl seemed untroubled, however. Odd. Especially as Gwendolyn seemed . . . deflated somehow. Sad; unhappy.

  Christopher noticed in himself a quick, savage reaction and it took him a moment to figure out what it was.

  Not anger, but something else.

  Fierce and primitive and urgent.

  Protectiveness.

  If the Earl had hurt Gwendolyn—been unkind or cruel to her—

  His hands, Christopher realized, had doubled into fists.

  Steady, he warned himself. Don’t overreact. Just—observe.

  Carefully, deliberately, he relaxed his hands.

  “Gwendolyn, m’dear, would you mind very much dancing with Owen?” said the Duchess.

  “Not at all, ma’am,” answered Gwendolyn, adding with what seemed to Christopher an unusual soberness, “If he doesn’t mind dancing with me.”

  “You’re all right,” Owen said, unfolding his long skinny self from his chair. “I don’t mind.”

  “You might,” said the Duchess, “try for just a bit more finesse.”

  “I say, where’s Francis?” demanded Helen.

  “He’s not coming.” Gwendolyn turned back to the Duchess. “If that’s all right with you, ma’am?”

  “Of course it is,” said the Duchess, and Christopher watched as Gwendolyn shot a look at the Earl, who didn’t seem to notice.

  “What do you mean, he’s not coming?” Helen said, scowling at Gwendolyn. “Whyever not? What did you say to him? Did you upset him?”

  “Helen,” said the Duchess, “you might also try for a little more finesse. Almira, if you’re ready?”

  “Yes indeed, ma’am,” responded Almira, and launched into another song.

  Christopher danced with the Duchess, learning as he went, while Gwendolyn and Owen danced. Owen was not a good dancer, but Gwendolyn was kind, and patient, and tactful, and by the dance’s end he seemed to have gained some confidence. The Duchess complimented him on his improvement, and Owen actually smiled.

  The next dance was a quadrille, announced the Duchess.

  Christopher thanked the Duchess for all her help, and then went to where Helen sat, still with her arms crossed over her chest and a sullen look on her face.

  “If you’re still feeling brave enough to let me partner you, Miss FitzClarence, may I have this dance?”

  “No, I don’t want to,” she answered gruffly.

  He tried a joking tone. “Is it because you’re unimpressed by my progress? I promise to do my best to not step on your toes.”

  “I said, I don’t want to.”

  He stood there rather nonplussed, then turned away. Lady Almira had begun to play the opening measures. And Gwendolyn was coming to him, moving with that easy, unselfconscious grace he’d come to associate with her alone. She said:

  “Christopher, will you dance with me?”

  “Gladly, Gwennie.” And he meant it.

  Together they went to the center of the shining parquet floor where Percy had already gone and, with a humorously elaborate bow, asked the Duchess for the favor of this dance. He had, knowingly or not, nipped in ahead of the Earl, who then went to stand next to de Montmorency at the window.

  Christopher looked down into Gwendolyn’s lovely face. She had brightened, but still he had the sense that something was troubling her. Now was not the time to ask. He only said, lightly, “You’ll have to talk me through this, Gwennie.”

  She said, “I will, Christopher,” and somehow, it seemed to him like a larger promise than that of merely describing the steps of a quadrille.

  “Owen, where are you going?” called the Duchess.

  Owen stopped at the ballroom’s doorway. “To see if there’s any tea left.”

  “You’ve only had the one dance.”

  “But Grandmother, you said I did well.”

  “You did. But you ought to try some more dancing.”

  Owen looked over at Helen scornfully. “There’s nobody to dance with.”

  She shot him an equally venomous glance. “I’d die before dancing with you.”

  “Oh, Christopher, I really ought to be dancing with Owen again,” Gwendolyn whispered. “Would you mind very much?”

  He smiled at her. “You truly are a good soul, signorina. Of course I don’t mind.”

  And so Gwendolyn went to Owen, and persuaded him to come back with her onto the dance floor, which earned her a very grateful look from the Duchess. Lady Almira began the song all over again.

  Christopher went to lean against a wall. He watched the dancers for a while, admiring Gwendolyn’s skillful execution of the complicated steps. He also watched as de Montmorency went to sit next to Helen and how, in the space of just a few minutes, he seemed to have talked her out of her sulks.

  A memory came to Christopher then—he’d been lounging around a piazza in Rome, all lit up with hanging lanterns; a band had been playing, and people were dancing. Nearby, a dapper, jaded-looking man of about forty was doing his best to cajole a pretty young girl to join him in the tarantella, and when before too long he succeeded, next to Christopher an old woman shook her head and muttered:

  “Il diavolo dalla lingua argentata.”

  The silver-tongued devil.

  There was no question about it, Christopher thought, watching de Montmorency and Helen: the Frenchman certainly had a way with words. And even though Helen was smiling, her arms uncrossed from her chest, Christopher was aware again that for some reason he couldn’t fathom, he felt sorry for her.

  “The quadrille’s not difficult once you grasp the pattern.” It was the Earl of Westenbury, who had come to stand next to him. “The couples move in a square formation. One couple dances while the others wait their turn. Percy and the Duchess have taken on the role of the head couple, and th
e others—in this case only Gwendolyn and Owen—are thus the side couples. Right now they’re doing the chassé, the gliding ‘step—feet together—step again’ movement. Do you see?”

  Christopher nodded, noticing that within him was a distinct animosity toward the Earl. But he tamped it down and replied in a pleasant tone, “I suppose I’ll figure it out eventually.”

  “To be sure you will. How are you liking London, Mr. Beck?”

  “Very much, sir.”

  “Getting on all right? You’ve found lodgings, a manservant, and all that? I’d be glad to help if I can.”

  “Yes, I’m settling in nicely, sir, thank you.”

  “You’ll be wanting up-to-the-minute clothes, I expect. Bond Street is where you ought to go—you’ll find all the best tailors, boot-makers, and hatters there, though you might care to stop by Weston’s on Old Bond Street. And if you’re looking for jewelry, seals, snuff-boxes, that sort of thing, Rundell and Bridge, on Ludgate Hill, is the place to go.”

  “Thank you, sir, I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “One other thing, Mr. Beck,” said the Earl, then paused. And went on, with a careful delicacy: “You may not, perhaps, be familiar with all the little nuances of etiquette among the Upper Ten Thousand. Here among our small, intimate circle, addressing the Duchess as ‘ma’am,’ myself as ‘sir,’ and Owen without any honorific is, of course, entirely suitable. But when in company, you may want to address the Duchess more formally as ‘Your Grace,’ and Owen as ‘my lord’ or ‘Your Lordship.’ And Helen as ‘Lady Helen.’ For the sake of appearance, if you catch my meaning? So that no one need disparage you for your manners.”

  “I see. And how ought I to address you, sir?” Christopher hoped he’d managed to keep his voice flat, polite, neutral.

  Apparently he succeeded, for the Earl smiled at him with undimmed affability. “Oh, you needn’t change your ways for me, Mr. Beck. But if you should encounter another earl, you ought to initially address him as ‘my lord’ or ‘Your Lordship,’ just as you would a marquis as Owen is, or a viscount. Later, if your acquaintance advances, ‘sir’ is perfectly suitable.”

  Still with the same neutrality Christopher replied, “There’s a great deal to learn, isn’t there, sir?”