“Good afternoon, Miss Southwood. What a pleasant surprise to see you in such un-illustrious but worthwhile surroundings.”
The liveried servant pushed himself off the wall and appeared at Lord Russell’s elbow, a pugnacious look on the man’s face.
“Stephen, it’s quite all right. This gentleman is known to both me and my father, so put down your hackles.”
She turned back to Lord Russell.
“Good afternoon, to you, sir. I own I am also surprised. What brings you here today?”
“Oh, nothing. Investigating a local charity. Seems you’ve beaten me to the punch.”
“La, no. I’ve not bested you. I simply happened to find this worthy work before you.” She had to concentrate on the ladle and bowls so as not to spill. She enjoyed the attention from Lord Russell, but she didn’t forget why she was there.
“This is a way I can give back out of the bounty He’s given me. It is fine to provide money, but doing the serving does me as much benefit as the soup does them,” she said.
~*~
The bag of gold coins Mark brought to donate burned a hole in his pocket. He looked around for an alms box or for a manager or matron. Spying an official-looking older man occupied with some type of checklist, he excused himself.
“Excuse me for a moment?” He smiled at Miss Southwood.
“Yes, certainly.”
She took one more bowl from his hand, and he reluctantly left her side and approached the man.
“My good man, are you the head of this operation?” he queried.
“Aye, I be the one in charge. M’name’s Reed.” He made a modest bow.
Mr. Reed’s expression turned to one of surprise as Mark stuffed a bag into the side pocket of the elder’s old-fashioned frock coat. The man gave his coat a pat, heard the jingle of coins, and then came an even more respectful bow.
“One or two members of the quality have been here wantin’ to give a donation. But never had a money bag stuffed into my pocket.” He continued to pat his pocket. “Mustn’t let the left hand know what the right is doing, if that be correct. Thank you, sir, in the name of the good Lord. Who might I be addressing?”
“As much as you’ll allow, this gift is anonymous, not wanting my works to be seen before men.” Or young women, Mark thought with another glance over at Miss Southwood. “Blessings upon your endeavors here at the kitchen,” Mark added. “I’ll be taking myself off in a moment or two.”
“Must ye leave?”
“I shall contact your board of directors with a glowing report.” He patted the man’s shoulder and stepped back to the serving station, where he leaned toward Miss Southwood and spoke in a low voice. “Before I leave, may I ascertain one or two dances for the ball?”
Melissa stammered a bit. “Th—the ball?’
“Yes, the Banting ball. Your family accepted the invitation. Mrs. Banting is my aunt. I am anticipating it, and my joy would be full if you grace me with a dance or two.”
Her cheeks flushed again, yet she responded with composure. “Indeed, I would be delighted. Please excuse me, Lord Russell, I must get back to my duties here.”
“Farewell, Miss Southwood.” Mark bowed over her hand and added in his mind, ‘my dear.’ Already smitten, he was now even more struck by the driving desire to make her his own.
21
The courtship period now extended by as much as another month, Peter scraped up some blunt to take his intended bride on another excursion to Gunter’s tearoom in Berkeley Square. This popular destination provided the novelty of flavored ices, which were all the rage in London.
Miss Southwood’s new companion, Miss Sarah Dean, accompanied them.
Peter tried to charm both ladies while he gathered the nerve to openly broach the subject of her response to his intentions. The carriage rides, excursions, and polite calls on Miss Southwood at approved hours, topped off by the visit to Honor’s Point, were enough. “Miss Southwood, how do you like your lemon ice?”
“Very well, thank you. It is as good as the lime flavor I tried last time we were here. Miss Dean, what about you?”
“Delightful. I prefer it to the lime. Lord Winstead, do you care for your raspberry ice?” Miss Dean’s sparse eyebrows shot up every time she asked a question. She was not too shy to enter into the frivolities.
“I’m partial to raspberries. They remind me of my grandmother.”
The companion made to rise. “I want to examine those cups in that showcase across the room. I’ll not be gone long.”
Polite to a fault, Peter rose, assisted her with her chair, and sat again as soon as Miss Dean moved away from the table. He cleared his throat, gathered his courage, and spoke in a low voice. “I’ve wondered as of late, Miss Southwood, if perhaps you are anywhere near a decision in my favor? Since your father has given provisional approval, thus far I dispensed with doing the pretty and getting down on one knee, but if that’s what it will take, my dear?” Deuced awkward, courting a young lady for her fortune.
She set down her spoon and pushed away her lemon ice. “Oh, la! I do not expect you to fall to your knees. I find nothing repulsive about your person, and you’ve shown me naught but the finest courtesies. Still, I wonder if we shall suit.”
“What is the basis of your doubts, my dear?” Peter wanted to groan. She sounds so prim and frosty. Why not fall for me like many frippery misses in the past? Though he did not love her, it hurt his pride that she so readily fended him off. He wanted her to be more taken with him than the signs indicated.
“My expectation and desire to marry someone who is spiritually in tune with me is vital. Even though you and I attended church together every Sunday since we were introduced, we have yet to engage in a deep discussion of faith.” She played with her spoon, eyes down.
“Don’t dash my hopes because of that, Miss Southwood. I am a bit of a mutton-head when it’s time to discuss profound spiritual matters with young ladies.” This disarming remark came accompanied by his best, most dazzling smile meant to take the edge off the moment and distract her from the subject. He forged ahead. “My dear, are you saying a few faith discussions, and you will consent to be my bride?”
“I would love to discuss such matters with you, Lord Winstead, because you and I are friends, now, aren’t we? I am simply not sure I’ll be able to answer within the additional month my father granted to decide.” Her brown eyes shone with sympathy.
He didn’t want her pity, but it spoke well of her. She had every right to be nasty since he was courting her for her father’s fortune.
Miss Dean returned and joined them at the table again amid the fluster of a slipped shawl.
For a moment, Winstead closed his eyes to gather his wits and to suppress the urge to slam something. Opening them, he acted as if he hadn’t a care in the world other than dallying along, taking small bites of raspberry ice, and relishing those spiritual discussions in his future. He choked down his anxiety over the pressing creditors he’d been able to put off by making known his expectations to marry into the famous Southwood fortune. Dire circumstances sometimes required dire actions.
~*~
The day of the ball arrived, and although her plans had gone off without a hitch, Lucy Banting bustled around with a voluminous list. All stood in readiness. She still checked the list for the third time as she sat in her private dressing room off her bedroom.
Madame Olivier arrived with the gown at ten for a fitting. Last-minute alterations and adjustments complete, she gushed, with hands clenched in front of her bosom. “Delivering zis beautiful garment to my favorite customer is one of the greatest benefits of my calling as a successful seamstress and proprietress. Magnifique, non?”
“Oui, ’tis the loveliest ball gown I’ve ever owned. This is a creation to be remembered. It’s put my spirits in high alt anticipating wearing this creation to the ball tonight.” Lucy surveyed herself in the mirror, and her heart gave a lurch of happy anticipation of the evening ahead.
�
�Indeed. The dress reflects your femininity and unique vision. Zee plum-on-plum embroidery combined with touches of black accents lifts zee robe far above zee ordinary.”
“Thank you. Now, Madame Olivier, I’d like to ask, if any other ladies will be wearing your designs tonight?”
“Oui. Perhaps Miss Southwood? Is she invited?”
Lucy nodded. “She’s invited.”
“She is c’est belle!”
“I agree she must be beautiful by all accounts, not having met her yet. Help me disrobe, and then you may take your leave. My butler has payment ready for you. See him on your way out. Merci, and adieu.”
Madame having departed, and during a lull, alone in her private sitting room, Lucy mused over the night to come. She thought ahead to entertaining on a scale not ventured since before her husband passed away. The first years of grief were now over, and she did have Mark to take her mind off her loneliness.
A widow in her forties, she still enjoyed appearing at her best. Much time passed since she’d taken the trouble to order a gown made for a specific event, and doing so brought back some needed pleasure to her life.
Because of her nephew’s interest in Miss Southwood, it would also be fascinating to meet the wealthy Southwoods. Mark and Madame Olivier reported the young lady’s beauty as something out of the common way. Her nephew’s heart stood on the line, and Lucy wondered if Miss Southwood was a beautiful person on the inside as well. Would the girl, or her father, give Mark a chance?
Arrangements needed to be checked one last time for tonight’s ball, but before she began the final round of checks, she’d catnap to hold her in good stead for the coming crush. She lay down and tried to put the to-do list out of her mind. Taking deep breaths, she soon slept.
~*~
Attending church, riding in the park, going for ices, and the like, gave only partial insight into Winstead’s character. Not enough to satisfy Melissa. The calls he paid on her, mandated by propriety to be no more than twenty minutes in length, did not bring the level of acquaintance adequate for true discernment. He’d been quite guarded about any serious matters. Perhaps tonight would bring further wisdom.
Late in the day of the Banting ball, Melissa and her father entertained Lord Winstead, who had been invited to partake of dinner en famile prior to the dance. She sat silent, listening to the men chat before the meal.
When the time came to dine, she entered the dining room on her father’s arm with Winstead following behind. Footmen stepped up and assisted them with their chairs and unfurled the snowy linen table napkins, placing them on laps in a seamless motion.
“Lord Winstead, would you favor us by saying the blessing?” She’d planned this request.
“Why, uh, yes indeed.” Lord Winstead cleared his dry throat and stalled, taking a sip of water. Using a formal tone of voice, he spoke in low tones, “Ah, um, yes, Lord God of the universe, we humbly beseech Your grace and favor upon this household and upon this meal, Amen.”
Lord Winstead sat back with an audible sigh of relief, and then smiled across at her. He reached for a glass of water. “My throat is so dry, excuse me.”
Again, she found it difficult to take the measure of the man. His words lacked depth and vigor. Most people weren’t used to praying aloud, though, so perhaps he was nervous.
As the meal progressed, superficial conversation reigned among the threesome allowing no further openings to probe into Winstead’s character.
All courses complete, the men departed with due decorum for the traditional after-dinner brandy and cigars in the study. She, meanwhile, whisked herself up to her boudoir, and with the assistance of her lady’s maid, put on the fabulous cream-colored ball gown, ordered on a whim, with nary a ball invitation in sight.
It would have been a sad loss for this dress to go unworn. She loved the way the creamy white complemented her coloring. The combination of satin and crepe fabrics accented by touches of gold embroidery, a square neckline, and small train gave the gown a regal, feminine character.
She checked the mirror to make sure her hair retained its style. She twirled the wavy golden strands near her face. A delicate heirloom tiara of gold, fashioned with laurel leaves and pearls, crowned her tresses.
As she thought ahead to the ball and how Lord Russell bade her to promise him dances, a flush of heat swept over her and breaths came a little bit faster than normal. Why do I feel this way? She was on the path to marriage with Lord Winstead, but when Lord Russell came to mind, Lord Winstead’s courtship wafted away like a wisp of smoke on the wind.
Lord Winstead never took her to a ball in the few short months of her acquaintance with him. Perhaps he thought she’d be too uncomfortable in high society. Or maybe he was too low on funds to make the kind of splash many town bucks considered de rigueur.
She took a deep breath, one more glance into the mirror, and left the dressing room. Her first ton ball loomed ahead, and she was delighted to be going.
22
When Melissa descended the stairs, her father’s gaze darted to the aristocrat who stood at his side.
She wondered whether he was belatedly considering Lord Winstead’s worth. Was his mind flooded with doubts? Was his choice made too precipitously? Tonight’s invitation came through Lord Russell, not Lord Winstead. She shoved those thoughts aside, determined to enjoy the evening.
She stood still as her father advanced toward her, took her hand, and lifted it to spin her around. “Yes, let’s practice for dancing later.” She laughed out these words, enjoying her father’s lightheartedness.
He clasped his hands in front of his chest, resting them on his lavish white silk evening vest. “Dear darling girl, if only your mother were here.”
“Yes, Papa, she’d love this gown and your evening suit, too.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, before making a show of surveying him appreciatively. Dressed all in black, with a snowy white shirt and cravat, as deemed correct by the current arbiters of fashion, he’d make Beau Brummel proud.
Lord Winstead’s appearance, however, would set all other female hearts aflutter. His dark blue, tight-fitting coat, which matched his eyes, was cut away at the waist, tapering into tails at the back. Black silk breeches hugged his thighs and clocked silk hose his calves. From the top of his gleaming, thick, near-black hair, to the toes of his shiny black dancing shoes, his whole appearance gleamed.
Eyes glittering, Lord Winstead stepped forward, took a velvet evening cape from a waiting servant, and with a proprietary air, put it around her shoulders. She shivered, and her teeth chattered involuntarily—due to nerves.
The party of three swept into the night air. A glossy black carriage stood ready. She and her father faced front, and under cover of a voluminous fold in her voluminous cape, held hands, giving an occasional squeeze. The invitation to the ball gave a common success to be pleased about, and their camaraderie ran high.
Shivering again, she clutched the front of the velvet cape more tightly closed. After a short ride, she was helped by a footman to alight at the stylish Banting mansion. All she must to do was put one foot in front of the other and proceed up the steps, which had been covered with carpet for the evening.
Once they passed through the portals, she hoped the ball would meet all Papa’s expectations, because entering the hallowed halls of the ton had been one of his lifelong goals. Watching Papa gave her a needed distraction.
He glanced around, an air of nonchalance cloaking his demeanor. But she guessed at the awe within him as she observed how his gaze took in the glow of hundreds of candles, the scores of elegant aristocrats filling the entire hall, and the ornate gilded staircase rising to the ballroom.
Inching up the stairs, as everyone else was also doing, they reached the receiving line. She spied Lord Russell with a lady who must be Mrs. Banting ahead on the landing. She wore an exquisite plum and black ball gown. It appeared to be from Madame Olivier’s salon since it bore her signature details and carried hints of Melissa’s own dress.
Amused, rather than jealous, as some would be, she looked forward to meeting the hostess.
Lord Russell stood with commanding posture at the hostess’s side and wore subdued black evening attire with a diamond pin in his cravat. Different than Lord Winstead’s handsome gleam, but equal in appeal. Melissa’s eyes were caught by Lord Russell’s gaze. His eyes radiated a mysterious message that coursed down her spine and made her tremble.
~*~
“The Southwood party.” Mark leaned over to murmur this information to his aunt. Then he straightened and waited until each member of the group met his aunt first. He would soon have his turn.
Greetings and introductions made, the party of three began to move past Mrs. Banting and into Mark’s sphere.
“Welcome, Mr. Southwood. I’m glad you could attend.”
Shaking Mr. Southwood’s hand, Mark moved the older man along, which allowed him to give his planned special greeting to Melissa. “The stars must be shining brighter tonight, Miss Southwood, trying to outdo you.” Mark smiled right into her brown eyes, willing her to read his open interest. He forced himself to release her, and she walked toward the ballroom, trailing her delicious minty perfume.
“Winstead.” Mark gave a brief shake to his rival’s hand and moved his attention to the next person in the receiving line.
During a break in the stream of arrivals, Mark turned to Aunt Lucy. “Do you understand now why I went to the extreme of suggesting this ball?”
“O my, yes. She is a diamond of the first water. Don’t mind about the ball. I’m having the time of my life!” She made a happy flutter with her fan.
“You look beautiful tonight, Aunt Lucy. Entertaining agrees with you.” More arriving guests soon interrupted their brief conference.
The opening dance provided their next opportunity to touch base. As Mark led his aunt out onto the floor for the first set, his eyes quickly located Miss Southwood’s fair head. Her father and beau were nearby, in fact at each side of her. This did not stop a cluster of young men from jockeying for position as they vied for her attention and slots on her dance card. Soon, she moved through the crowd on Winstead’s arm, and they joined the dancers already on the floor.
A Match for Melissa Page 12
