“Ah, yes. The Thatchers.” He fought the trickle of disappointment as she shared news from home. God bless Banning’s faithfulness, but he didn’t want his steward the object of Lavinia’s thoughts and affection.
“Miss Ellison?” The master of ceremonies interrupted. “Some people want to meet you.”
“Excuse me.” She smiled and bowed her head.
He extracted his mother from Lady Asquith and led her back to their seats for the remainder of the concert. As soon as they were heading home in the privacy of the carriage, the steam evident in her face since Lady Westerbrooke’s performance was finally vented.
“You tricked me!” she hissed. “You knew she would be there, didn’t you?”
“Mother, Miss Ellison has many excellent qualities. I hope you can come to appreciate her as much as I do.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you saying? You aren’t thinking of doing anything rash!”
“Rash would be aligning myself with a family whose values I find abhorrent.”
“You cannot mean the Winpoole—”
“Of course I mean the Winpooles! They are shallow and self-seeking, without a care for anyone but themselves! I cannot—I will not marry Miss DeLancey. She is the last woman in the world with whom I could ever find happiness.”
“And Miss Ellison is the first?” Her voice sounded old.
“She is the only.”
“Oh, Nicholas …”
“I want you to know that I will not tolerate any more of your shenanigans concerning a lady I respect and admire so much as I do Miss Ellison.”
“But—”
“No, Mother, that’s enough! I don’t want to hear another word against her.”
Silence filled the carriage for a few minutes before his mother finally spoke. “Do you know who her grandmother is?”
He breathed in irritably. “Who?”
She told him. And his heart—and hopes—dropped like a stone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
LAVINIA LOOKED AT the mirror in horror. “I cannot! It is simply scandalous!”
Aunt Constance’s brows rose. “It is a perfectly elegant dress made by London’s finest mantua-maker! Are you criticizing her taste or mine?”
But there was so much skin! She continued to look miserably in the mirror. If only Aunt Patience was here instead of visiting in Wiltshire! “The neckline seems very low.”
“Nonsense. Necklines are lower this season.” Her aunt frowned. “You don’t believe I would ever have you dress in anything less than modest?”
“No, ma’am.”
But despite her silk dress containing layers of petticoats, delicate puffed sleeves, and rows of cream silk flowers adorning the low squared neckline, she could not help but feel almost naked. What would her father think if he could see her? “Papa—”
“I do not want to hear another word about your father, Lavinia.”
“Perhaps a fichu—”
“No!” Aunt Constance’s eyes snapped. “You have a lovely figure. Why must you insist on hiding it away?”
“I would rather be admired for my mind and character than for my appearance.”
“Hmph! I will never understand you. You’re just like your mother.”
Lavinia smiled for the first time that day. “Thank you.”
Aunt Constance sniffed and withdrew. As Charlotte chattered from her position seated on the bed, and the maid fussed with her hair, pinning it up into curls with pearl-encrusted combs, she resigned herself to the inevitable. Tonight she would endure to the best of her ability—and wear a shawl as long as possible.
Her aunt returned with a small flat box. “Perhaps this might meet with your approval. This too was given to your mama.” She slid open the lid.
Charlotte softly echoed Lavinia’s gasp. “It’s beautiful, Mama!”
Lavinia tentatively touched the exquisite necklace of pearls and diamonds. Far more substantial than her pearl cross, more like a collar, the gold filigree and swirling strands of tiny diamonds kept it from appearing too heavy. “Is it real?”
“Of course it’s real. Grace was given it by our grandfather. It was always passed to the eldest child, and so now it is for you.” She attached it around Lavinia’s neck. “I know it’s not the usual thing for a young lady to wear, but it’s not as though you’re just out of the schoolroom.”
She looked at herself in the mirror. The twinkling rows of diamonds and glossy pearls did much to hide her décolletage—but would also draw the eye. She bit back a sigh.
“Livvie, you look positively beautiful!” Charlotte’s face filled with admiration. “I cannot wait until next year when I can attend balls.”
“I hope you’ll be more grateful than your cousin here.”
“Aunt Constance, I am ever so grateful for all your kindness. I do not wish to seem rude.”
“Yes, well”—her aunt appeared somewhat mollified—“you do look very well, which is only as you ought, as the lace and silk of your gown alone cost nearly one hundred guineas.”
Lavinia’s jaw dropped. “One hundred guineas? For one dress? Why, there would hardly be a man in St. Hampton Heath who could earn that much in a year! I am sorry, Aunt Constance, but I simply cannot—”
“Do you really want to besmirch the family name by being dressed inappropriately?”
“Of course not.” She swallowed. “But I also have no designs to impress people who need others to wear expensive clothes in order to be impressed. I cannot—”
“Enough! Let me not hear another word!”
Her aunt whirled from the room, Charlotte trailing in her wake, leaving Lavinia to remain under the mute ministrations of Aunt Constance’s maid. Her hair was patted a final time, a curl was tweaked, and she was handed her long white gloves.
“Thank you, Ellen.”
The maid dropped a curtsey and left the room.
With a deep sense of apprehension, she rose, refusing to look at the mirror, wrapped her shawl around her, and went to await her relatives as they finished their own preparations for the ball.
“Ah! Lord Hawkesbury. I am so pleased you decided to attend our little evening.”
Nicholas bowed. “I could not miss tonight.”
He glanced around the crowded room, trying not to let his boredom at his hostess’s vapidity be too obvious. As plain Jane Saville, whose father’s estates bordered Hawkesbury House, she had always seemed a flighty girl, her conversation asinine. Now Lady Bathurst, she was never known for understatement save in her approximations of the numbers who attended soirees such as these.
His gaze alighted on a group of bucks surrounding a young lady who wore an extremely modish low-cut gown. He frowned. She stood with her profile to him, but the graceful lines of her neck, the curve of her cheek, that particular hue of golden curls so artfully arranged … surely not.
“I see you are entranced also.” His hostess’s dry voice made him conscious he’d lost all semblance of interest in her story. “She is rather a fetching thing. But surely you would know that. She is from your way, I believe. A Miss Ellison?”
He strove for a neutral expression and inclined his head. “I am somewhat acquainted with her.”
The rosy lips widened. “I understood it to be far more than mere acquaintance.” Lady Bathurst waved an ivory-feathered fan. “In fact, I heard something rather scandalous about Miss Ellison.”
He forced his jaw to unclench. “Miss Ellison is a most proper young lady.”
“So proper that she spends great swaths of time in your house, unaccompanied?” Her brows arched. “Most proper, indeed.”
He gritted his teeth.
She tapped his arm with her fan. “Come, come, Nicholas. We have been friends long enough for you to know I don’t disapprove of your dalliances. But, really, a reverend’s daughter?”
“She was sick, with the smallpox.”
Lady Bathurst’s breath hissed inward and she inched away, as if the dreaded pox lurked in the very air.
“As her maid was there the entire time, I fail to see what the problem could be.” Thank God for Patience’s foresight in claiming Lily’s services.
“Hmm. Are you sure she had the pox? I fail to detect any mark at all.”
He could tell her precisely where Lavinia’s face bore the faintest trace of the ravages of her illness: an indent, halfway between the peak of her left eyebrow and her hairline.
“But then, with all those diamonds, who would pay attention to her face!”
He frowned. It was apparent the men standing near Lavinia were less interested in any necklace than in the contents of her gown which she so helpfully displayed.
“I grant you she is pretty, but a hero from the Peninsular could have his pick of any number of eligible young ladies. So thus you replace Miss DeLancey?”
“Miss DeLancey was never in any position to be replaced.”
Her head tilted, like a cunning bird about to extract a tasty morsel. “Did she know that?”
Guilt made his answer stiff. “Miss DeLancey and I would never suit.”
Her smile grew sly. “Well, tonight I can see why Miss Ellison might suit better.”
“Miss Ellison holds to the highest principles.”
“How dull.”
“I hold to them also.”
“Oh. Well, that is a bore.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “I understand she holds musical aspirations?”
“Not just aspirations. She is very gifted.”
“But really, Nicholas, a reverend’s daughter?”
“Jane, your interest in a country miss is most fascinating. If you will excuse me?”
She laughed. “Yes go, get reacquainted—if you can. Miss Ellison has caught many an eye, it appears!”
He bowed and departed, smiling grimly at that truth. Lavinia was surrounded by admirers, no doubt being flattered about everything from the color of her eyes to the style of her gown. As he made his way around the room he thought back to those times in his drawing room and library when they’d shared many an in-depth conversation about the vapidity of the social set. But looking at her now, that innocent sparkle drawing people like bees to nectar, he wondered if she’d forgotten.
He angled between the Marquess of Abbotsbury and an elegant young Corinthian and bowed. “Good evening, Miss Ellison.”
She turned, and he caught the full splendor of the jewels, serving as a dazzling signpost to the low neckline of her gown. Why didn’t she cover up? His eyes lifted to meet hers.
“Good evening, Lord Hawkesbury.” The gray eyes were soft, tinged with something like relief. “I’m so glad to see an old friend among so many new ones.”
Hurt twisted his heart. He was but an old friend? He held out a hand. “Miss Ellison, would you do me the honor of a dance?” At least if she were with him he might be able to protect her from the ogling of lascivious rakes such as these.
“Oh. I regret nearly all my dances are promised.”
Disappointment cut keen as a saber.
She offered an apologetic smile. “Perhaps we may talk later. I have left the waltz free, because I knew Papa would not want me to dance that.”
The words rushed out. “And do you always consider your father’s sensibilities?” His gaze flicked to her neckline.
Hurt filled her eyes as she flushed and inched away. “Excuse me.”
And before he could apologize, the very rich and eligible Marquess of Abbotsbury whisked her away.
The nauseous feeling in his stomach intensified as the night progressed.
Unwilling to dance with anyone else, he wandered to the cardroom, but card playing lent itself to gossip he could ill afford to hear, and besides, he could barely afford to throw away money, especially when the stakes played for were so high. He moved to the ballroom and forced himself to ask some acquaintances to dance, but those diamonds kept drawing his attention to Lavinia again and again. She whirled around the dance floor, as light as a feather drifting in the wind, more beautiful, more alive than any other lady present, the animation only pausing partway through a quadrille when she caught him watching. Her hurt expression sent shards of ice to his heart.
Shame prevented him from approaching her during the first waltz she sat out. Instead, he endured conversation with fellow officers from Peninsular days, all the while wishing he had the courage to talk to her, so she’d grace him with smiles instead of the homely young lady she conversed with.
“Stamford! Stop staring at the pretty miss and attend to us.”
He dragged his gaze away to frown at the major and several lieutenants.
“Is it true she’s the daughter of a reverend?”
“Yes.”
“I wish to God all reverends had such daughters! Y’know, she rather puts me in mind of a young actress I had the pleasure of spending a considerable amount of time with when we first returned. Same hair color, similar form.” The captain’s smile turned sly. “Quite enchanting.”
“That DeLancey miss is staring daggers at you again, Stamford.”
Which was another reason he preferred to skirt the perimeter. Evasion was the best form of prevention as far as she was concerned.
“So it is true you threw Miss DeLancey over for the other. Can’t blame you, though. Did you see those jewels?” The major uttered a mild oath. “She must be worth a tidy fortune!”
“And a tidy armful I wager, eh, Stamford?” There was a round of sniggers.
His jaw clenched. “Miss Ellison is lovely, it is true. It is also true she is innocent, and anyone who questions her virtue will have to answer to me!”
He stalked away to their muttered apologies, finding a quiet place near the Palladian window where he could pull himself together. He was a fool, a jealous fool. He should leave. He could not stand to see Lavinia smile at another man, let alone dance with him. His hands clenched.
He glanced across the crowded room and encountered the Marchioness of Exeter’s scathing stare. He inclined his head to Lavinia’s aunt and moved outside to the terrace. He himself was proof that what his mother said was right: the Hawkesbury family would always be as dung to all those associated with the Duchess of Salisbury. He dragged in fresh air, but it helped only a little.
Because regret, always regret, weighed his soul down again.
Lavinia watched the earl’s departure with pain. He looked so sternly handsome in his black tailcoat and snowy starched neckcloth, but his disappointment in her made her want to weep. Pride had held her head high so far, but if she did not escape soon, she would crack.
She turned to the girl beside her. “Please excuse me, Miss Windsor. I must have my skirt attended to. It has been lovely chatting. I do hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”
“Thank you, Miss Ellison.” Her plain face wreathed in a smile. “I feel much better now.”
Lavinia’s smile became brittle as she walked across the room. People kept watching her, women whispering, men staring at her chest, their eyes sliding all over her body, their glances dirty, hot, and soiling. Once she’d glimpsed Clara’s white face before the crush hid her from view. The air felt stifling, sticky with gossip and speculation. Her head ached from finding polite ways to fend off men who wanted introductions so they could dance. One foolish fellow had even proposed!
She stumbled to a small withdrawing room where a maid was prompt in sewing the small tear in her train that Lord Asquith, whose dancing possessed more enthusiasm than skill, had torn. The maid finished but Lavinia retained her seat in the corner and closed her eyes.
A group of ladies entered, their murmurs echoing around the salon. “… pretty young thing, but fast. Terribly fast, I believe.”
Lavinia rose. She should go. Tucked away here she could not be seen—
“I understand Constance was shocked by her arrival.”
“Out of the blue, after being hidden in the country for so many years.”
Her breath caught. These ladies referred to her?
“Well, apparently she had a mo
st unusual upbringing. Not at all what you’d expect from the Westerbrookes. I imagine Her Grace would not be amused.”
Her Grace? Aunt Constance was a marchioness, not a duchess. Who—?
“I understand she has her claws into young Hawkesbury. Frederica Winpoole was telling me how her girl was all but promised to him when this chit waltzes in and snatches him away.”
“Scandalous, I call it!”
“He is a man, though. You saw her in that dress tonight.”
“And he does need to marry money. And judging from the size of her gems he’ll have plenty of that, I dare say.”
“That is, if her highness ever agrees!”
There was a cackle of laughter, the sounds of a door closing, then silence.
Lavinia pressed her lips together. Her eyes burned. Mortification seared her cheeks. How much of what those women said was true? She had felt uncomfortable in the gown since first donning it. She had known the Winpooles would not take competition lightly. But Nicholas wanting her for her money? She shook her head. She had none. Aunt Constance had money. Her mother’s jewels would be worth something, but Nicholas had begun to pay her attention long before she had ever worn a pearl. Had he known something earlier? Were all his attentions a ploy to persuade her of his care?
“Excuse me, miss?” The maid reappeared, worry knotting her brow. “I was concerned when you did not come.”
“Thank you.” She rose unsteadily and placed a hand upon the wall for balance.
“Are you unwell? Is there someone I can fetch?”
“Thank you, no. I shall be quite well directly.”
She staggered to the ballroom where the whirling figures and noise only exacerbated her lightheadedness. People called to her but she did not hear; touched her but she shrugged them away. Her senses swam. She would never dress like this again. Never!
“Miss Ellison?”
She turned, bumped into a tall figure dressed in black. She stared at the snowy neckcloth unseeingly.
“It is a lovely neckcloth, is it not?”
She glanced up. Richard DeLancey smiled, his eyes fixed on hers, not dipping to her necklace—or neckline. Relief made her smile warmer than it might otherwise have been. “Good evening.”
The Elusive Miss Ellison Page 27
