An Evening at Almack's

by Sally Britton

  “I imagine she did,” Dev muttered, but allowed himself to be led away from the best view of the curious.

  “I think the wager might not have been needed,” Sutherland said as they made their way through the throng. “Neither Caro nor Miss Postlethwaite has lacked for partners. Even Argyll has put in an appearance, escorting his niece and dancing with her.”

  “Are you calling the wager off?” Tindal asked, looking acutely uncomfortable in knee breeches and dancing slippers.

  “Of course not.”

  Tindal cursed in protest, to the disapproving glares of several mamas within hearing. Tindal then began making frantic noises in his throat, as though simply by being present he was somehow becoming contaminated.

  “Control yourself, Tindal. You can leave any time you wish.”

  “Hide me. My aunt Louisa is here and will expect me to do the pretty with all four of my cousins!” he croaked.

  Dev shook his head and Sutherland pressed close to help conceal him from view.

  “I suspect it is too late, my friend.”

  “Ah, here they are. Mama, you remember Deverell and Tindal?”

  “How could I forget?” she said with a radiant smile.

  “Lady Sutherland.” Dev and Tindal bowed gracefully.

  Dev took the opportunity to search for the notable redhead who was the sole purpose of his attendance. He finally found her, performing a quadrille with a dashing soldier in regimentals. She was enchanting. A gown of cream silk with shimmers of gold floated about her when she danced. Combined with her red hair, she looked like an angel. Dev noticed he was being watched and tried to divert his gaze—and his blatant admiration—away from the latest dashing beauty.

  Arriving as late as they had, he was certain Miss Postlethwaite would not have many sets left, but since he was unconcerned by the nicety of finding other partners, he decided to remain next to Lady Sutherland and Lady Cowper. He might have need of one of the patronesses.

  Caro also did not lack for partners, he noticed, so he was perfectly content to charm the dowagers and matrons while he watched Tindal do the pretty by some astonished wallflowers or, perhaps, his cousins.

  Almack’s was as tedious as ever: dry cake and bland beverages, stiff-rumped sticklers of Society and all the rigid rules of propriety being observed under hawkish gazes. However, this time Dev was not bored. He was quite certain the two young ladies had some trickery in mind, but he had forced himself to arrive as late as possible in order to put at least a partial spoke in that wheel. It had quite exercised his restraint, but he had to keep his head. Never before had he seriously considered anyone for the title of his countess. He was not certain he would enjoy the wedded state, but no one had ever intrigued him as Miss Postlethwaite did. The House of Argyll having recognized her put any thoughts of unsuitability to rest, despite her ridiculous efforts to convince him she was the worst sort of vulgarian. A laugh escaped his lips.

  “Did you say something, Deverell?” Lady Cowper asked, giving him a knowing look.

  “I beg your pardon. My mind was quite elsewhere.”

  “Yes, that much was obvious. Are you going to ask her to dance?”

  “You know I only waltz, my lady. I dare not ask for such a favour.”

  “Indeed? I thought there was nothing you would not dare.” She pursed her lips. “I urge you to reconsider. The consequences, you know. I would think, after bringing her into fashion, you would be weary of her. She has been so popular tonight, I do not know if she has any other dances left unclaimed. I will oblige you, if you are certain it is what you wish to do. I rather like the girl.” She cast him a glance of warning.

  He inclined his head and moved away from the ladies. Lady Cowper was right; it would draw more unwanted attention towards Miss Postlethwaite, and unless he was ready to make that commitment tonight he needed to further consider the consequences, irrespective of the wager. He could not care less about that at this point.

  He moved to where Miss Postlethwaite would be led at the end of the quadrille, but he was one of many hopeful solicitors for her hand. He checked in disgust and backed away. There were certain lengths he would not go to, and making himself ridiculous over a female was one of them.

  “I think Lady Caro is avoiding me, and I cannot even get near Miss Postlethwaite!” Tindal exclaimed from next to Dev. Sutherland had come up beside him as well and was looking greatly amused.

  “I am dashed if I will pay you a monkey when I cannot get near the ladies!” Tindal said, affronted.

  “A wager is a wager,” Sutherland quipped.

  “The whole intent behind it was so your sister would not lack for partners!” he argued.

  “Au contraire. Equally as much of my intent was to be amused by seeing you make a cake of yourself!”

  “I shall remember that next time!” he retorted.

  “Yes, do!”

  “Now, where did Caro go? She was just here.” Tindal looked around with frustration.

  Dev had no notion where Caro might be, but he looked up and spotted Miss Postlethwaite’s retreating back. Following at a leisurely pace, the strains of a waltz falling upon his ears, he noted with interest that she appeared to be in a great hurry.

  Where could she go without her bevy of suitors following, but to the retirement room? Yet she did not go there but towards the refreshments. After selecting a glass of orgeat, she lingered near some potted trees.

  Was she hiding from her brother and his friends? Dev was too curious to withdraw. Being over six feet tall, he concealed himself as best he could behind groups of people, and zigzagged his way towards her hiding place until it was too late to retreat. He was behind her and waited for her to turn and notice him. It was perhaps ungentlemanly of him, but her withdrawal wanted explanation.

  “Oh!” she cried, jumping slightly.

  “Miss Postlethwaite.” He bowed. “I did not mean to startle you. I was trying to determine if it was you before I spoke to a stranger.”

  “Lord Deverell,” she said somewhat breathlessly before falling into a curtsy.

  He reached down and clasped her wrist to help her up; then he slid his hand into hers and brushed a kiss over her glove.

  “Sir? I—” A small wrinkle formed between her eyebrows, and he felt the sudden urge to brush it away, but he remembered where he was just in time and restrained himself.

  “I came here to dance with you.”

  She frowned fully, and those violet eyes sparked with a fire he felt to his toes. It started an interesting sensation within his breast that, at this moment, he did not care to investigate.

  “I am afraid I must decline. I know Sutherland forced you into coming here. You have my permission to leave.” She placed a hand on her hip in defiance, and he had to force his gaze back to her face. A few freckles dusted the bridge of her nose, but otherwise there was little resemblance to the hoyden of the past few weeks.

  “Please.”

  Her lips thinned, and he could see the indecision on her face.

  “There are any number of young ladies desperate for a partner,” she argued.

  “Do not make me beg, Rua.” He leaned forward and whispered next to her ear, “I do not intend to accept a rebuff from you.”

  Apparently he had said the wrong thing, for she stiffened her spine, pulled her hand from his and walked away.

  ***

  Rua could not pretend any more! Much though she had tried to guard her heart, she could feel it breaking. She knew she was unsophisticated, but she could not play these wretched games and remain unaffected. Something about the way he had looked at her and whispered in her ear had caused her accustomed resilience to snap.

  Though she searched wildly for some niche where she could recover her composure, everywhere she turned was crowded. Forcing a few smiles, she continued to fight tears and tried to control her speed as she sought a refuge. How could she have been so stupid? Finding herself back in the ballroom, she stopped and attempted to remain unnoticed behind
a group of onlookers who were chatting amongst themselves.

  “Miss Postlethwaite.” Rua looked up to find Lady Cowper smiling kindly at her. Rua curtsied and did her best to appear unmoved.

  “May I present to you a partner for this dance?” The lady stood back to reveal Lord Deverell, and Rua was trapped. Like a fox at bay she was well and truly caught. She could not refuse in front of all eyes at a ball, and he knew it.

  “Thank you, my lady,” she replied graciously, and took the hand Deverell held out to her.

  A mixture of humility and anger—mostly at herself—kept her from speaking. There could not be a full dance left, she told herself, forcing her gaze anywhere but into his eyes, for she would then certainly come undone.

  The floor was crowded with twirling couples who looked magical beneath the glittering candles, which bounced light from the gilt mirrors about the room. In another situation, she would have been in ecstasy.

  “I am sorry, Rua,” he said after a full turn about the ballroom. “I did not mean it to go so far.”

  She shook her head. “Please do not do this. Not here. Not now.”

  “I must.”

  “You must what? Complete my humiliation in front of the ton?”

  “Is that what I am to you? An embarrassment?”

  “Of course not! I thought I could play your game, but I . . .” She choked on her words and looked away.

  “You . . .?” he prompted. His hand on her waist tightened.

  “Never mind. I do not wish to play anymore or be anyone’s object of sport.”

  He did not reply. She at once began to brood on the injustice of it all, but then checked her thoughts. He was partly to blame, yes, yet she had thrown herself whole-heartedly into the game and could not now cry foul. It was she who had broken the rules by allowing her feelings to overcome her good sense and then falling for the rogue.

  Around them, couples circled, but she scarcely saw them. Forcing her lips upward into a neutral line, even if she were unable to smile, she made an effort to savour these last moments in his arms. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be lost in the strength of his arms and the gentleness of his touch, for he was an excellent dancer and she had no fear he would lead her amiss. Pretending, for these few moments, that things were different, she absorbed his musky scent, the way she fitted perfectly within his embrace and the euphoric feeling of being in the arms of the one you love. Never could she have anticipated such a sensation.

  As the music drew to a close, and reality once again encroached, she could not help but satisfy her last question.

  “What do you win?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What is the prize for the wager you have won?”

  He stopped, still holding her in his arms. “I fear I have lost more than I ever hoped to gain.”

  “I do not begin to understand you,” she replied, stepping back from his arms.

  “Can you not?” The expression in his eyes gave her pause and caused her insides to churn.

  Although most of the couples had left the dance floor, those remaining were beginning to stare. Rua barely registered the odd looks and titters; she was too intent on the gentleman before her. Yet had she but known, the shocked members of Society, so unused to Deverell’s unflappability, were marvelling at what strange start had come over him.

  Footsteps broke the trance-like gaze in which she was locked, and her brother appeared beside her.

  “Rua, people are staring,” he said quietly through a smile, bowing to Deverell as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Rua could only be grateful her brother did not say something foolish.

  “I beg your pardon. We were having a fascinating discussion,” Deverell explained.

  “Perhaps you may continue the discussion in private?” Her brother took her arm to escort her away. The dancers took their places behind them for the next contredanse, and the music resumed.

  “I will call on you tomorrow, Miss Postlethwaite,” Lord Deverell said when they reached the edge of the ballroom. Rua could not meet his gaze, and suddenly wished the evening to come to a swift close. Convinced he had said the last for the benefit of those nearby, she did not put any great hopes into receiving his lordship again.

  Later, Rua gave up trying to sleep, finding the effort fruitless. Her thoughts were travelling in circles around Lord Deverell’s behaviour. She must put him out of her mind—nothing would come of it, and she must put the whole experience behind her. She rose, splashed her face with cold water, and began packing in order to remove to her grandmother’s house. Much though she would like to return to the country and pretend none of this had happened, she was still practical enough to know that time was running out and she must secure her own future. She did wish at least to know her mother’s family a little, though she doubted they would ever be close.

  Rua answered a soft knock on her door to find a sleepy Caro standing there in her dressing gown.

  “What are you doing awake at this hour?”

  “I heard you moving about and wanted to discover what had happened. You were already abed by the time I reached my room last night.” She frowned when she saw Rua’s trunks part filled, and her belongings scattered about. “So you are truly leaving?”

  “I am only removing to Argyll House for a time. I will not be so far away.”

  “It is not the same as having you in my own house! I will miss you, Rua.”

  “And I, you. I will ever be grateful for your kindness to me.”

  “And I will always remember this Season fondly, for the great adventures you brought to me!”

  Rua laughed, and then tears began falling down her face.

  “Whatever is the matter, my dear? Have you been crying?” Caro came over and placed an arm around her. It was too much for Rua's raw emotions to bear. Unable to contain her anguish any longer, she sobbed upon her friend’s shoulder.

  “I am the stupidest girl alive!”

  “Whatever do you mean? You were the belle of the ball last night. Every gentleman wanted to dance with you, and the attention from Deverell was much remarked upon.”

  The mention of that name caused Rua to lose her composure again.

  “Oh, dear girl. Have you lost your heart to him?”

  All Rua could do was nod as Caro’s comforting arms cuddled her close.

  “There is naught to be done about it, however. I shall recover in time.”

  Another knock on the door interrupted their discourse.

  Rua looked up. “I did not expect everyone to be about so early!”

  “It is already noon!” Caro exclaimed. She opened the door to one of the footmen.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but Miss Postlethwaite has a visitor.”

  “Very likely it is my brother,” she responded. “He was overly concerned last night. He is to escort me to our grandmother’s house.”

  She sat at the dressing table and put her hair up in a plain knot before rising again and smoothing out the wrinkles of her new lavender poplin dress.

  “Will I do, all things considered?” she asked with a self-deprecating laugh. Her eyes were red and swollen and held no sparkle. She knew this pain would eventually ease, but it would be impossible to feign her normal gaiety and carelessness.

  “You only look a trifle peaked. You still take the shine out of any other lady!” Caro assured her.

  “You are too good, Caro!” Rua kissed her friend’s cheek.

  “You will say goodbye?”

  “Of course!”

  Rua was glad to have her brother back, at least for a short time. That would be as good a distraction as anything, and he would not tolerate her blue devils. The footman opened the door to the small saloon, and when Lord Deverell turned to look at her, she could not have been more astonished.

  “My lord?”

  “Why the surprise, my dear? I told you I would call.” He came to her and, taking her ungloved hand, kissed it, sending a shiver coursing through her entire bo
dy.

  My dear? “So you did, but I was not so foolish as to set any store by it.”

  “I suppose I deserve that.” He released her hand and walked towards the window with his hands behind his back. It took a great deal of fortitude not to beg him to return to her. She had no notion of why he was here. He had already apologized for the wager, and meeting like this could only cause more pain. She was a sorry case, indeed. Her throat began to burn with unshed tears, and she looked down in an effort to hide her emotions from him.

  As she studied the patterns of blue, gold and red on the Persian carpet, his polished Hessians came into view.

  “Rua.” His index finger gently lifted her chin, forcing her gaze to his.

  With difficulty, she looked into his handsome face . . . and the look of tender affection she saw there set off a small spark of hope within her.

  “I think, by now, you may guess at what I mean to say. I have apologized for my behaviour towards you with regard to the ridiculous wager, though I cannot be sorry for it, since it brought me you.”

  Her brow must have wrinkled, for he lifted one finger to smooth it. She closed her eyes from the sheer pleasure of his touch.

  “Do go on,” she encouraged, which elicited a chuckle from deep within his chest.

  “My dearest girl—my love. Will you put me out of my misery and tell me you will marry me?”

  A gasp of shock escaped her. “Are you—can you be sincere?”

  “I have never been more so in my life!”

  “But how can this be? Forgive me; I be fair betwattled!”

  “As am I! But it has become clear to me over the past few weeks that your presence was essential to my future happiness.”

  “I am not fit to be a countess!” she protested.

  “Where, pray tell, is there a rôle résumé? The only requirement is for you to say yes. Well, and for you to remain just as you are. I have never been so diverted in all my life!”

  “I never imagined to be rewarded for coming Yorkshire over you!” When he raised his brows, she added quickly, “For trying to bamboozle you.”

  “My dear girl!”

  Suddenly, Rua found herself locked in a passionate embrace, leaving her little doubt that her feelings were reciprocated. Could he really intend marriage?