Sophie twisted around to get a better view of the handmade pink tulle roses twining down the train of her dress. A yawn escaped before she had a chance to cover her mouth.
She’d been standing still for over an hour while Madame Bonheur and her assistants worked on finishing the final details of the white and pink confection she would wear to her first ball the following night. The butterflies churning through her stomach refused to give her any peace. For the first time in her twenty years, she doubted she could do something. She did not see how she could navigate the potential tonnish traps of the Howicks’ ball with her sanity intact.
Lydia burst into the room and twirled around a few times in the now altered blue silk dress she’d found at Madame Bonheur’s. “La, Papa will never believe the bill from your dress shop for this find.”
“I knew that shade of blue would bring out the color of your eyes. You look wonderful, especially with all those tiny silver stars on the fine tulle,” Madame Bonheur said.
Sophie suspected the high color in her friend’s cheeks had something to do with the way she’d been complaining, repeatedly, about Captain Neville.
Sophie sucked in a sharp breath when a seamstress accidentally stuck her with a pin through the bodice. They were frantically re-fitting the dress to accommodate the changes in Sophie’s curves. She’d been unaware the tensions of husband-hunting while not knowing who wished her harm had taken their toll. She’d lost a bit of weight. Sophie gave her side a surreptitious rub with an elbow where the pin had pricked her skin through the fabric.
“Oh.” Madame Bonheur quickly pulled down the bodice to check for blood from the tiny scratch. “It would never do to stain this fragile white silk. There is no way we could make such a blemish vanish. Mon dieu.”
The tiny Frenchwoman’s words were a harsh reminder. Like a stain, her parents’ reputation for loose morals always hung over her head. She knew there was no escape from the ton’s perception of her being brushed by the taint of their eccentric ways.
A fluttering surge of stubborn hope built within Sophie, in the vicinity her breastbone. She realized with a sudden clarity her mother and father’s sins had nothing to do with her. No matter what members of the ton thought, she would rise above the criticism and make the best of the ball her grandmother’s old friend had been so kind to provide for her.
Somewhere, there had to be a gentleman who would care enough to make her his wife. He would not be Arnaud, but in time she could come to love another. She had no other choice.
Lydia skipped back out of the room, without a worry. She would dance the night away, flirting with her many admirers without a care for how the outcome might affect the rest of her life.
Chapter Thirteen
With the exception of the first few moments of standing in the receiving line with Lord Howick and Lydia, Sophie had felt, if not fully accepted by the glittering guests, at least not shunned. She’d taken deep breaths and weighed her answers to questions carefully, making sure she smiled warmly no matter how stiff and forced the greetings seemed.
Madame Bonheur’s ball gown and Lydia’s maid’s inspired dressing of her hair braced her confidence to get through the evening. But, oh Lord, she hadn’t yet made it through the first dance, which Lydia informed her with glee would be her duty to lead out, since the ball was in her honor.
The white plumes of feathers fastened above her elaborate coiffure swayed and tickled her nose with every move. She struggled to keep a sneeze from spoiling the whole effect.
Lighted candelabras atop massed flowers on every available flat surface shimmered before her eyes, making her doubt her balance. Wonderful. She’d lead out the first dance only to fall flat on her face. She hoped Dr. MacCloud would catch her in time. His was the first name on her dance card. Maybe she should warn him…
“Stop.” Lydia spoke low with a hiss close to her ear. “I know what’s spinning round in that beautiful Italian head of yours, so just stop. You look perfect in your gown. You’ve said all the right things. Now enjoy yourself and stop expecting the worst of calamities to happen.”
Sophie was only half-listening to Lydia. Her eyes instead sought the various nooks of the ballroom for the grumpy, unforgiving face of her bodyguard. Ah, there. He leaned against a far wall near the exit to the garden, like an avenging dark angel in a stark black wool cutaway jacket and trousers, his arms folded across his chest. He swept the room with stern looks, pausing from time to time on one guest or another. Goodness. She hoped no one else noticed his hawkish regard of the Howick guests.
Too late. Lord Howick had just descended on Arnaud and called over a servant with a tray of flutes of champagne. She could imagine her benefactor urging Arnaud to soften his demeanor a bit. Arnaud refused refreshment, but did seemed to relax and laugh at something Lord Howick said.
Arnaud’s surgeon gave her a broad smile and a roguish wink before taking her hand and drawing her over to the dance master to choose her favorite dance, the quadrille. That was the one she remembered best from all the lessons she and Lydia had endured from their dance tutor every week.
Once she took her place across from Cullen and the rest of the dancers filled in the line behind them, the orchestra began to play. Her doubts vanished into the magic of the music. She thanked her guardian stars for having given her over to such true friends as the Howicks. She and Cullen whirled through all of the dance figures and returned to their original places at the head of the line before she realized she’d done what she didn’t think she could. She’d stood her ground before the leaders of the ton and refused to acknowledge the whispers behind fans or the openly curious stares.
She fancied her mother stood somewhere amidst the glittering couples thronging the Howick ballroom, happy for her and wishing her a wiser love and luck. Her beautiful mother had forsaken the comfortable life of a duke’s daughter to follow a tragic love to ruin in Italy and beyond with a hopelessly romantic poet. Sophie vowed to protect her own heart. She would never forsake a child of her own to a life of poverty and shame.
Of course Sophie’s father had loved her, in spite of his wastrel ways. He’d provided for her in small things and sudden extravagances in spite of his shortcomings. She shivered a bit with only a rose-colored, gossamer silk shawl covering her shoulders and wished his last gift could have complimented her ball gown. The madly colorful, woolen paisley shawl Paolo Brancelli had given her just months before he died was folded in lavender at the bottom of her wardrobe back in her bedchamber.
After leading Sophie back to Lady Howick’s side, Dr. MacCloud leaned in and asked if she needed a glass of punch before the next dance. Lady Howick answered for her. “Of course she needs punch, and I will take some lemonade, young man.”
He smiled and headed toward the refreshment tables.
Sophie sat in the gilded, cushioned chair next to her patroness, and turned her head, searching the ballroom for Arnaud. She thought she was being surreptitious, but Lady Howick abruptly said, “He’s over there,” and nodded toward a marble nymph guarding a palm tree.
Sophie followed Lady Howick’s nod to where Lydia was engaged in what appeared to be serious conversation with Arnaud. He in turn was giving her friend a look Sophie knew only too well. An eye roll and lift of chin that usually signaled he’d made up his mind. Don’t try to change it, thank you very much. She nearly giggled when she saw Lydia attempting to launch an argument. One of his eyebrows lifted in what always meant, “Conversation over.”
When had she begun to catalogue his conversational habits and the language of his expressions?
Next to her, Lady Howick gave out a tiny, tinkling laugh. “Those young men of the Squadron have been good for Lydia. She needs to see how real men cannot be budged from their duties to engage in inane ballroom gossip.”
At that moment, Arnaud’s Marine Captain Neville came up to Lydia and asked a question. Lydia’s mouth dropped open and nothing seemed to come out. She merely turned and followed him back toward the entrance to t
he garden where he’d been standing guard. That was a first. Lydia with nothing to say.
When Sophie turned toward Lady Howick for confirmation of what she’d just seen, her patroness nodded and smiled. “Yes, I’m quite as amazed as you. I’ve never seen her at a loss for words, either. Not since she started babbling as a babe.”
Lord Howick approached from across the room where he’d been engaged in deep conversation with a number of fellow members of the House of Lords. He had a tall young gentleman in tow. After stopping several times to exchange pleasantries with other guests, they stopped in front of Sophie and Lady Howick.
“Miss Brancelli, please allow me to introduce Mr. John Bellingham, grandson of Lord Whittingdon. Mr. Bellingham, Miss Sophia Brancelli, and my mother, the dowager Marchioness of Howick. I believe you and Miss Brancelli met in passing in the park last week.”
Sophie returned his bow, and Lady Howick nodded an acknowledgement.
“I am extremely happy to renew our acquaintance,” he said to Sophie. “Would you and Lady Howick like me to bring you glasses of punch?”
“Yes, please,” Sophie said. “I am parched from meeting and talking to so many of Lord Howick’s wonderful guests, and I’m sure Lady Howick would appreciate refreshment as well.”
Lady Howick nodded again and gave him an encouraging smile.
After he straightened and headed for the banquet table, Sophie finally recalled the brief meeting along the path in the park. John Bellingham was Arnaud’s cousin, but the inverse of her dark, stern bodyguard. He was fair and quite tall, but still, he had the same strong nose and full lips. Ah, family traits.
And speaking of family traits, she spied Arnaud at his post near the entryway to the ballroom. She suspected he’d seen his cousin being introduced to her, and the stormy look on his face made her heart leap. Jealousy. Or so her silly heart hoped. Maybe her overweeningly serious guard did have some feelings for her. Perhaps he still remembered the short, awkward kiss they’d shared the day his mother’s naughty cat had been chased up the tree by her even naughtier dog, Lancelot. Perhaps.
She sighed and turned to greet Mr. Bellingham on his return from the refreshment table.
He handed the women their glasses of punch before turning to stare at his cousin across the way. “Is it true, Miss Brancelli?”
Sophie paused mid-sip and gave him a questioning look.
“Has my cousin, Captain Bellingham, been enlisted as your guard for protection throughout the Season?”
Sophie placed her empty cup on the tray of a passing footman and searched her brain for a reply to the man’s rude question.
Lady Howick smoothly interjected. “Since I am limited in my capacity to accompany Miss Brancelli to all the Season’s entertainments, Mrs. Bellingham and her son have graciously consented to assist us.”
As if suddenly realizing his social blunder, Bellingham said in a low voice, “I so beg your pardon, Miss Brancelli. I apologize if my question upset you in any way. If you can forgive me, would you do me the honor of granting me the next dance?”
“With pleasure,” she answered with a broad smile, and allowed herself to be swept up into the next set.
While they moved up the line of dancers, Sophie had a chance to study Arnaud’s cousin without being obvious. He had a ready smile for each of his consecutive partners and seemed comfortable in the glittering world of the ton.
Sophie envied his ease in threading his way among the crowd of dancers. She kept thinking through the figures of the dance and hoping she would not make a mistake. She’d practiced relentlessly with Lydia and her dance master for the last several weeks, pulling Dr. MacCloud and Arnaud into duty as partners whenever they came by to check on them. But this was different. Everyone was watching, and also judging, she feared.
Madame Bonheur’s ball gown creation was a vision in white. Gossamer light rose silk medallions danced along the bottom half of the skirt. Lady Howick had given her the simple pearls at her throat just before the guests had arrived. However, her ornamental feather headdress was another story. The longer the evening wore on, the heavier the elaborate decoration became until now her head pounded as if demon elves pummeled her with tiny hammers.
She’d lost track of the music and found herself at the top of the set again facing Mr. Bellingham. When she turned to head back to Lady Howick’s side, he touched her on the shoulder. When she whirled back to face him, he had a sheepish look on his face.
“Please stay with me for just one more set?”
She couldn’t remember how many dances they’d shared and hesitated for a moment when Lydia joined them and apologized to Sophie’s partner. “I’m so sorry, but I must have Miss Brancelli’s assistance,” and she pointed to the train on her blue silk dress.
She was holding it at an odd angle, Sophie thought, but excused herself to Mr. Bellingham. “I am so sorry about the misunderstanding. I seem to have forgotten the order of dances promised on my card.”
Once they’d entered the retiring room, Lydia launched into a tirade. “La, but I never should have left your side. That Captain Neville can be such a trial, asking so many questions about all the doors and where they lead. I saved you just in time. Dancing more than two dances with one gentleman is just not done. Everyone would have had you paired off with Captain Bellingham’s boring cousin.” She paused a few seconds for a breath before continuing. “More to the point. What was he thinking? Maybe he wants to get his hands on your inheritance more than he lets on.” Lydia placed her finger against her lips. “Hmm. Maybe that side of the family is not as well off as they would like everyone to believe. But then again, he’s just the third son.”
When Lydia stopped talking long enough for another breath, Sophie entered the breach by placing her hand over Lydia’s. “It’s my fault. This headdress has my head pounding and I lost count of the dances. With all the candlelight reflected off the crystal chandeliers, I feel like I’m in a trance.”
“I know just the thing.” Lydia took a pitcher of cold water from a stand behind a screen and poured a bit onto a soft cloth. She wrung out the excess liquid onto a folded bit of flannel. “Here. Lie down on the sofa for a moment. I’ll put this on your forehead. A woman has to hang onto her wits at a ball like this. We’re like soldiers on a battlefield. One false move and…” She made a motion like pulling a knife across her throat.
Sophie frowned at Lydia’s exaggeration and then giggled. “You’re right. There’s nothing more at stake here than the rest of our lives.”
A few minutes later they moved cautiously out of the retiring room before returning to the ballroom. Lord Howick gave them a questioning look while Lydia pulled Sophie toward where Arnaud stood guard duty near the ballroom entrance.
“Sophie has a spare dance before the last dance before supper,” Lydia said. “And it looks like you are the one listed on the dance card.”
“Lydia…” Sophie said, her tone sharp. “I never…”
“Yes, that’s what it says right here.” She flashed the card in front of both of their faces without pausing for the tiny hand-lettered list to register.
After a brief frown, Arnaud took Sophie’s hand and bowed low. “My pleasure.” And he led her out onto the floor.
Arnaud had spent many an hour, at his mother’s behest, with a dance tutor before he went to sea. Tonight, he was grateful for what he’d hated as a boy. The few times he and Cullen had been ordered to fill in as partners for Lydia and Sophie had been a much-needed refresher. The times he’d been called on to dance during his naval career he probably could count on the fingers of one hand.
The form of the current dance he shared with Sophie had her whirling in his arms several times as they worked their way up the line, exchanging partners occasionally with the other couples. Once or twice he swung close enough for a whiff of the lavender and lemon in her dark hair piled high with a few tendrils escaping to tease down her neck. He could tell the elaborate feathered headdress she wore was a trial. Once, when he
caught her frowning, he gave her a slow wink and a smile. The next time she turned to face him and come across to touch through their gloved hands, she grinned at his clumsy attempt to make her feel better.
When the dance was over, he walked her back to Lady Howick. His heart lifted a bit at the flush and look of pleasure on Sophie’s face when he left her to return to his guard post. Captain Neville waited at the entrance where he’d come to fill in while Arnaud shared the dance with Sophie. The accusing stare from his marine captain reflected what Arnaud already feared his face betrayed. He’d begun to care deeply for his charge.
Lydia stared after Arnaud’s retreating back before turning to Sophie, her eyes wide. “Well? How was your turn on the floor with Captain Bellingham?”
“Honestly,” Sophie fired back. “I’ve danced with a veritable battalion of gentlemen tonight. And you haven’t asked me what I thought of any of my other partners.”
“She’s right, Lydia. Your question is impertinent.” Lady Howick took a delicate sip of lemonade and shook her head.
“But I want to know. I’m sure they each care about the other, but they’re both too stubborn to admit their affections.” Lydia fixed her lips into a pout.
“Sometimes,” Lydia’s grandmother began. “Sometimes we have to let nature take its course.”
“Indeed,” Sophie added. “He’s made his intentions clear. There is no room for an impoverished orphan in his grand plans for his naval career. He cares not at all for me.”
“We all know that’s not true,” Lydia insisted. “What about that day your bad dog ran his mother’s cat up the tree?”
Sophie’s chest contracted as if struck by an arrow. If Lydia let loose with gossip about what had happened that day, her first ball could be her last.
Pride Of Honor: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 1 Page 12
