Chatter was animated and unabated as, free of hats, cloaks and gloves, they headed up the wide staircase to where the mass of guests congregated on the first floor. The doors to the drawing room were flung wide open, footmen in immaculate and dazzling blue and gold livery standing either side, ready to obey any will. The scent of thousands of flowers floated into the air; both from the huge arrangements set on pedestals and tables, and from the perfumes worn by both sexes. A few weeks ago, Damaris might have castigated them as sickly and stifling but, tonight, they smelled like heaven itself.
Her positive mood continued as she ventured into the ballroom. Six musicians stood on a small pedestal playing country airs, no doubt readying themselves for the minuets, quadrilles and country dances that would soon commence.
Unfortunately, the first person she saw was Lady Elizabeth Askew. The lady was resplendent, and festooned with flowers, both real and the artificial ones embroidered on her gown. Roses, the flower of love. She positively beamed at Damaris.
She never did that. Something was wrong.
As she caught Damaris’ attention, she let a piece of paper drift to the floor. A letter, by the folds in it. Damaris had no choice but to pick it up and return it.
“Oh, you may read it if you wish,” her ladyship said. “In fact, read it aloud.”
Once she’d scanned the lines, Damaris was not about to do that. With shaking fingers, she handed it back.
Lady Elizabeth trilled with laughter. “I am glad you are the first to know.”
The writing, in beautifully neat copperplate, spoke of the writer’s love and his impatience to be with her. It was signed, “your suitor, Logan MacIver.”
Damaris had no reason to disbelieve it. After all, the last time she’d seen Logan, he’d made it clear that their brief intimacy was at an end.
All her training came to her aid now, and she forced a smile, even though it hurt, and murmured a few words of congratulations.
“Lady Damaris!”
Glad of the intrusion, Damaris turned to greet Sir Peter.
He glanced down at her wrist, where the pink fan dangled, and his face fell. “May I bespeak the first minuet?”
The couples who led off a ball were usually attached, one way or another; husband and wife, brother and sister, so this was another attempt by Sir Peter to bind her to him. Damaris was tired of it. Tonight, she would make her feelings clear, and damn the consequences. If Sir Peter wanted her, he should know what he was letting himself in for. She would dance with him.
After all, what other choice did she have? Logan could not have made his point clearer.
She glanced around, looking for one person in particular. “Such a crush already. Are you sure there will be space to dance?” She was in no mood to dance.
“I have no doubt there will be. Would you like a tour of the rooms? Lady Butler is fortunate in her London house. I would like to buy something similar when I am married.”
She ignored the obvious hint, and smiled up at him. The musicians had collected themselves and were striking up for the minuet.
Despite her misgivings about Sir Peter, Damaris was glad to know she was taking part. The first minuet was a time to show and be seen. Would Logan be here? Would he see her?
A spurt of anger went through her. Why should she care? He’d made his intentions clear to Lady Elizabeth. He was none of her concern now.
She glanced around as they took their places and she unfurled her fan, as the dance required.
She would keep the same partner throughout, and perform the stately moves with as much grace and style as she could muster. Not a tremor disturbed her as she swept down for the first curtsey.
Turning her chin away from Sir Peter, in a mock refusal she might repeat in reality later, she scanned the room. It was packed, but no dark head marred the perfection of pastel and white powdered heads that crammed the drawing room. The gilded frames around huge paintings of the Butler family gleamed in the light of a hundred candles, blazing above their heads and in the sconces set against the wall. The chairs that lined the walls were already full, older ladies, duennas and the unfortunate ladies unable to secure a partner occupied them. They were already fanning themselves, the flutter of fans worthy of a flock of peacocks.
She swallowed her nerves at the sea of faces, all intently watching, and tried to pretend that none of them were watching her.
When she scanned again, she did not see him. Pinning her society smile in place, she turned back to Sir Peter. The dance over, a patter of applause came, and the band played a light reprise while the couples left the floor, before setting up for a country dance.
When he did come, he would pay all his attention to Lady Elizabeth.
The strains of music followed as Sir Peter led her through the suite of rooms opened for the ball. “I heard that his grace, the Duke of Glenbreck, left town this afternoon,” Sir Peter said softly. “You are particularly acquainted with him, I believe.”
Instantly, her mood plunged to the depths of her being. She wanted to go home. “We share an interest, the same one that you and I share.”
Apparently his kisses meant nothing. Bitterly, she went over his promises. She should know better than to trust a man.
“Do you know why?”
“Perhaps he was bored. His mother and sister have remained in town. After all, his business is done,” he added, with a meaningful glance to where Lady Elizabeth was holding court at one side of the room.
The evening lost its luster, and her dreams crumbled to dust. That was why he’d sent her the telescope. It was a farewell gift. She would send it to his residence as soon as she got home. She didn’t want it in her room a moment longer.
Sir Peter drew her closer. “I fear he was trifling with you, my dear. But you knew that, did you not?”
She forced a nod, feeling like the veriest fool for allowing Logan to touch her heart. Doubts sent fingers to wrap around her ebullience and squeeze it to extinction. But it was not dead yet. Still, trust remained. If she was mistaken in her assessment of Logan as a man worthy of friendship and more, she would never trust herself again. Logan would have killed part of her.
In that case, she might as well marry Sir Peter. At least he had stayed to ask her.
“I have requested the use of a private room from our hostess. I would much appreciate a conversation with you, if you would do me the honor of accompanying me.”
She favored him with a bright, sparkling smile. “I would love to.”
What choice did she have? Society had narrowed her choices down to one or the other. While she was immensely attracted to Logan, she liked Sir Peter. Even as the thought crossed her mind, her heart filled with despair.
She could not let people see her as a flirt. She had her sisters to think of. What she said to him tonight had to be binding.
Chapter Thirteen
“Are they holding us here on purpose?” For the umpteenth time, Logan stuck his head out the window of the carriage. Seated opposite him, his mother snapped her fan open and closed, but said nothing.
“Are you in a hurry, Logan?” Georgiana asked.
He could not be sure in the gloom of the carriage but his sister might have had the audacity to wink at him.
He drummed his fingers on the door panel on the outside. “I am tired of waiting here. If it weren’t for you and Mama, I’d have walked.”
The carriage jerked into action. “It’s the horses I feel sorry for,” his mother said. “All this stopping and starting is not good for them.”
At last, they were a bare three carriages away. “We should have walked,” he grumbled. “Plenty of people are on the street.”
“You might be right,” said his mother. “We have enough credit to do it, but we are here now and it’s too late. What time is it?”
Logan dragged his watch from his waistcoat pocket and pressed the button that flipped the lid open. “Just after nine.”
“Then we’re early. No need to walk.”
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br /> Why did his mother have to be so damned reasonable? The carriage inched forward.
Ten minutes later, they’d arrived. Logan did his best to curb his impatience as he helped his mother and sister out of the carriage. Flunkeys arrived, seemingly out of nowhere, to help his mother as if she were a precious porcelain vase. His mother shook them off irritably and waited for her son.
Logan dutifully led his mother upstairs. When he glanced behind, he discovered Georgiana had selected the best looking footman, and was leaning on his arm a trifle too much. “Georgie has an eye for the footman,” he murmured in his mother’s ear.
The dowager duchess sighed. “I know. She is becoming aware of her potency, and she’s practicing it on every man she meets. I have no desire to see her wed at this age, and we have no reason to rush her to marriage.” She shot him a sharp look. “Unless you insist on dragging your feet for another ten years.”
“Women cannot inherit.”
She heaved a sigh. “Do not remind me.”
While he understood her anxiety, her constant reminders were not helpful. Tonight, he might begin the path that would give her the heirs she wanted. After havering for a full day, he had made his decision.
Lady Elizabeth’s act of spreading the cartoon was incredibly cruel, and worse, small-minded. He would not take her to wife. Not just because of that, but because what “they” thought meant too much to her. He needed an independent-minded duchess, one who would make her own role, not follow anyone else’s.
Elizabeth would side with his mother. The shrines to his father would continue, and Elizabeth would defer to her. Logan would not accept that. There had to be change. Therefore, he would think of Damaris once more.
He could control his feelings for her, he was sure of it. What he was experiencing was overwhelming lust. That was easy to cope with. Already, he knew she responded to him, so all they needed to do was enjoy each other for however long it took to make an heir and work out their physical attraction.
He liked her mind, too, that analytical fine reasoning, but that would be nothing but advantageous to a woman required to stand by his side and shoulder the estates.
When the dust cleared, they would.
She might not be enamored of his choice, but she would be happy with the outcome. If he did it. But he would not love her. All love did was make fools of people. When he thought of it, his stomach clenched and unreasoning terror filled him. His mind went blank.
Inside, the hall was full, and people chattering. Of all things, he hated the constant level of noise, that chattering murmur that accompanied everything society did. Even at the theater it never stopped, and the actors sometimes had to shout to get over it. Sounds merged, with the occasional word drifting up from the morass of noise. While his mother gave her outer clothing to a servant and her maid, who, since she had arrived here on foot, had probably been waiting an hour, restored her to pristine perfection, Logan spoke to the people who spoke to him, and tried to remain civil, though he had no idea what he said.
Of course, his irritation had worsened tonight.
“Have you seen Kilsyth and Blackridge?” he asked Lord Eder, an urbane man with a neat turn of phrase, mostly directed at his own rotundity and lack of height. Despite his physical shortcomings, he had just married for the second time and his wife was, by all reports, exceedingly happy with the match.
“Your Scottish friends? Yes, they arrived about half an hour ago.” Eder leaned closer. “So did a certain lady. She is most anxious to see you, since you were kind enough to send her roses. If she keeps sniffing them the way she was doing when I saw her last, she will wear them out.”
Logan gave a wan smile, and began his counteroffensive. “It was my mother who sent the flowers, not I. Our hothouse has been prolific this year.”
“The one in Scotland?”
“The one in Essex.” As Lord Eder well knew, Logan owned land scattered across the country. The Essex mansion was the perfect place to cultivate produce for the use of his household. He made a nice little profit every year from the market garden complex there. Perhaps he should flee there if London became too much for him. At this rate, he’d be heading for the estate tonight. If Damaris was not here, he would certainly do so.
He patiently waited for his mother, so he could escort her and his sister upstairs. His mother remained uncharacteristically silent. But on his other side, Georgiana chattered mercilessly, covering such a range of subjects he gave up keeping up with her halfway up the broad, crimson-carpeted staircase.
At the top, an imposing landscape, presumably of the Butler estate, met their not-so-fascinated gazes. His mother found an acquaintance, and leaned in to gossip, but not before fixing Logan with one of her meaningful glares.
Refraining from a wickedly obedient, “Yes, Mama,” Logan bowed to her and went off in search of his fate. Or his doom, whichever happened first.
The doom came first. Lady Elizabeth, a nosegay of roses strapped to one wrist and a few stuck in the top of her bodice, approached him with every indication of delight. “Why, I thought you were never coming, Glenbreck! It is dreadful of you to keep me waiting.”
He had not, but he would not offend her straightaway. Spying Grant across the room, he gave him a nod and a glare that conveyed, “Come here, now.” If Grant read him right, and he did not wish to tease his friend, he would make his way across. Turning to Lady Elizabeth, he said, “We took nigh on an hour to get to the door of this benighted house. My mother informs me the whole of society will be present tonight and seeing this throng, I can well believe it.”
“It is a highlight. Lady Eleanor Butler is fortunate that her parents have decided to launch her in such a spectacular fashion. Her ball was held back by an unfortunate bout of influenza, but she is remarkably fit now.”
“Did you not receive such a launching?” She was, after all, the daughter of the Duke of Illingworth.
Regretfully, she shook her head. “Everyone was in mourning for the poor Prince of Wales. The season that year was decidedly somber and everyone wore black armbands.”
That meant she’d been on the town for three years. Why had she not taken? Perhaps, like his mother, her parents had wanted to make her wait. A maiden rushed off her feet in the first month of her first season often had cause to regret her reckless haste. But it would help to explain her desperation.
He guided Lady Elizabeth around the area set aside for dancing. The floorboards had been dusted and waxed, as was evident from the strong scent of lavender and beeswax. The odor of burning beeswax emanated from the candles, too, so one could call this whole, magnificent room a shrine to the bee.
The dancing was in full swing. Skirts swayed gracefully, or bounced vigorously, depending on the age and the inclinations of the wearer, and gentlemen eyed the prizes on display. Adam, standing to one side of Grant, had his quizzing glass in his hand. He leveled it at Logan, who lowered his eyelids and flattened his mouth in his best imitation of a fashionable fop. Adam grinned, but made no move towards him. The bastards were making him suffer. He was damned if he was going to lead an expectant Lady Elizabeth onto the dance floor for everyone to gawp over. He would take her around the floor and let her show him off to the doting mamas? No, he didn’t want to do that, either. But anything he tried would be gossiped over and discussed until he was forced into the match.
Savagely, he swore, but he kept the words locked up in his mind. The Gaelic he knew came in handy here, but he wasn’t such a fool as to utter anything in public. Knowing his luck, somebody would understand what he was saying.
Ah, he had it. Lady Butler loomed ahead like a ship in full sail, graciously taking everyone’s compliments. Quite a crowd had gathered around her. He could take Elizabeth there. Accordingly, he leaned over and murmured, “I see our hostess. I should thank her for her hospitality.”
Lady Elizabeth shot him a doubtful look, her lip between her teeth. “There will likely not be time to get on the floor for the next set.”
> “There will be others.” That was an interestingly ambiguous answer. Lady Butler was firing off her daughter tonight. He would beg her for a dance, and try to stay with her for a while. He had not met Lady Butler’s daughter before, at least he would have remembered if he had. She’d have made two of her mother, and her mother was not built like a fairy.
That was probably not fair, and he wouldn’t dream of articulating his thought, but he wasn’t fit for company right now.
And Lady Butler might know where Damaris was. His anxiety swelled and grew, for no reason that he could think of. He noted the emotion and put it away, determined not to betray himself to anyone watching. Several people followed their movements, ladies from behind their fans, gentlemen more blatantly. Speculation buzzed around the room, reducing the size of the spacious area to that of a monk’s cell.
Lady Elizabeth made a very graceful curtsey. When he bowed, Logan took the chance to move away a couple of inches. Enough that she could not automatically take his arm when she rose, although she did lift her left hand as if she expected him to take it.
As befitted the hostess, Lady Butler and her daughter formed the center of quite a crowd. Gowned in a green so startlingly bright it would probably glow in the dark, her ladyship was triumphant tonight. Her daughter fluttered her fan when her ladyship reminded Logan of her existence, and Logan took the opportunity of complimenting the young woman on her appearance and the crowds who had thronged to her come-out.
If he asked about Damaris here, he would cause her a great deal of damage. Deliberately seeking her out in front of so many people would have the opposite effect to the one he wanted.
His ploy was doomed to failure. Unless—he had a bare chance, and he also saw a way of shaking off Lady Elizabeth for a while.
With a regretful glance at Lady Elizabeth, Logan requested the next dance from the girl. She hardly seemed old enough for a come-out, though, Logan reflected, that might be more of a comment on his age than of hers. If he recollected rightly, she was half his age, which made her seventeen. Far too young for him. The older he got, the younger the newcomers appeared, and the more they bored him. That was definitely his fault.
A Hint of Starlight Page 19
