by M C Beaton
She longed for the company of either Frederica or Fanny. Why had she quarreled with Fanny? Why had she been so stupid as to try to ruin Frederica’s chances of marriage? Mrs. Rickett’s doom-laden face was no help.
Nervously Felicity checked her appearance in the looking glass again. She was wearing a gown of fine white India muslin with an overdress of gold gauze fastened with pearl and gold clasps. A rope of fine pearls glowed against the whiteness of her neck, and she wore a little pearl tiara in her curled and pomaded hair. Her face was surely a trifle too pale. She reached for the rouge pot and then decided against it.
Oh, if only there were a real Miss Callow! For a brief moment, Felicity toyed with the idea of sending a servant to say she was unable to attend. But Lady Artemis’s criticism of her book still rankled. She had to find out more about the real world. She, Felicity, did not even know what it felt like to be kissed by a man. Perhaps in the interests of literature she ought to begin by encouraging some man to kiss her. But how did you get a man to kiss you and then reject him? The critics had said her book was amusing and shocking. If she told some man she had only encouraged his advances to further her experience so she might get to work properly on her next novel, she would create more of a scandal in society than Fanny or Frederica had ever done.
Mrs. Ricketts entered to say the hired carriage was at the door. Mrs. Waverley had employed only women servants and had hired a carriage from the livery stables as she needed it, that way avoiding having men in her employ. Felicity allowed Mrs. Ricketts to put a swansdown-lined mantle about her shoulders. She picked up her reticule and fan.
The evening had begun.
As the carriage lurched forward through the crowded streets, Felicity wished she had ordered a sedan chair instead, although it was becoming increasingly hard to find one. The benefits of a chair were that you stepped into it in your own hall and were borne straight into the house you were visiting, and as the chairmen ran along the pavements, there was no danger of being stuck for hours in a press of carriages.
She was anxious to make her entrance and get it over with. The Knoxes’ house was only a few streets away, but it was a social disgrace to arrive on foot. Her carriage lined up behind the other carriages in the street where the Knoxes lived.
At last it was her turn to alight. She hesitated a little on the pavement and looked up at the house. It consisted of four stories, but it was smaller than her own, not being double-fronted. It was not overwhelmingly imposing, and there were no liveried footmen lining the steps. She saw a large party about to go in and fell in behind them, following the ladies to a room at the side of the hall where they were to leave their wraps.
Felicity felt quite old. Another Season, another batch of fresh, hopeful faces up from the country. She left her cloak with a maid and then walked back out into the hall and up the narrow staircase. The ball was in progress on the first floor. Three rooms had been joined together by dint of removing the connecting double doors for the evening and taking out most of the furniture. Felicity presented her card to a footman and made her curtsy to Lord and Lady Freddy Knox. Lord Freddy was a genial-looking young man, and his small, plump wife seemed too nervous to wonder where this Miss Callow who was supposed to be escorting Felicity had got to.
Felicity passed through to the ballroom and began to edge around the floor to where she could see a free seat against the wall.
She sat down and looked about her. A few couples were dancing energetically in the small space provided. More people were arriving by the minute, and it looked as if there would soon be no room left for dancing.
And then she saw Lady Artemis. She was standing by the door talking to a tall, handsome man. As Felicity watched, he turned and looked full at her. She studied him curiously, wondering whether to cast him in the role of villain or hero.
Definitely villain, she decided. Here was no plain yet honest hero but rather a tall, commanding man in exquisite tailoring and with a haughty, arrogant air. His eyes were as cold as the North Sea. His face was lightly tanned. He said something to Lady Artemis, still keeping his eyes on Felicity. Lady Artemis made a little moue, shrugged, and then began to lead him forward.
They came up to where Felicity was sitting, and she rose at their approach. “Miss Felicity,” cried Lady Artemis. “Where is your aunt, Miss Callow?”
“Somewhere in the press,” lied Felicity. “She recognized an old friend.”
“May I present the Marquess of Darkwater. Lord Darkwater, Miss Felicity Waverley.”
Felicity curtsied and the marquess bowed. “Would you care for some refreshment, Miss Waverley?” he asked.
“That would be very welcome,” said Lady Artemis, quick to include herself in the invitation.
And then Felicity saw Mr. Fordyce, Lady Artemis’s exfiancé. He was standing in the doorway. He was a small man with neat features and a trim figure. Lady Artemis’s pansy brown eyes widened in alarm. “I am sure I see Lady Dunster signaling to me,” she said, and quickly wove her way between the groups of onlookers and dancers to make her escape.
“Would you like me to present myself to Miss Callow first?” Felicity realized the marquess was asking.
“No, there is no need to bother her,” said Felicity. “She is a very old lady and does not like to be troubled when there is no need.”
“Meaning that you have decided for yourself I am safe and respectable?”
“Meaning that, yes, I should like some refreshment and, no, I do not think it necessary to trouble my aunt.”
“Very well. Follow me and I will try to beat a path for us.”
The rooms were now crammed. Dancing couples were colliding with spectators. The sound of voices beat upon the air, and the rooms were suffocatingly hot. A morning room on the half landing between the ground and first floors had been set aside for refreshments. There was nowhere to sit down. Waiters who were supposed to be circulating among the guests with glasses of wine, negus, champagne, and lemonade stood helpless, trapped in the press, their trays of drinks held high above their heads. The marquess, benefiting from his height, lifted two glasses from a tray and said to Felicity, “Out again, I think. There must be somewhere we can find space.”
He led the way downstairs and paused on the bottom step. “I suggest we be unconventional and sit on the stairs, Miss Felicity. Or would you rather stand?”
“No, I am quite happy to sit down,” said Felicity. She sat on a corner of the stair, and he sat close beside her to leave room for the guests who were ascending and descending. “I do not know what is in these glasses,” he said, handing her one, “but it looks like canary.” He took a small sip. “Yes, it is, and not bad at all.”
“It is not at all like a ball,” ventured Felicity. “I spent all day wondering whether I would remember the steps of the waltz, but I fear I am not even going to be allowed to dance.”
“It is a sad crush, and the newspapers will hail it tomorrow as a success. Freddy was so afraid no one would come, he invited far too many people.” He looked down at Felicity, noticing the pureness of her skin and the delicate rise and fall of her excellent bosom. It seemed amazing that such a pure and virginal-looking girl could ever have penned the words of The Love Match.
“I am led to believe you are a supporter of the rights of women,” he said.
“Yes, in a muddled kind of way,” said Felicity candidly. “I am not much of a campaigner. Also, I have come to believe women only listen to such views when there is no hope of them being married. But the minute some gentleman appears on the horizon, they revert to simpering misses.”
“How very harsh. Most of them are not really simpering, you know. They are young and shy.”
“But it is a sad life when the sole aim of a gently born girl is to trap a husband.”
“Then why is the stern Miss Felicity Waverley appearing at such a frivolous event?”
“I weary of my own company.”
“You have Miss Callow.”
“Yes, but sh
e is so very old, you see, that she cannot attend many functions or entertain much, so I am mostly on my own. Also, I like observing people.”
“Ah, yes. Taking notes. You do not write by any chance?”
“Not I,” lied Felicity. “I enjoy reading. I thought that new novel The Love Match was very fine.”
“Well enough in its way,” he said, looking amused, “but I should be frightened to meet the authoress. I would fear she would eat me alive.”
“I am sure she is a charming lady,” said Felicity. She took a sip of her wine and studied his mouth with interest. It was firm and well-shaped. She wondered what it would be like to be kissed by that mouth.
“My teeth are all my own,” he said in a mocking voice.
“I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“You were staring at my mouth.”
“Not I,” said Felicity. “I was thinking of something else.”
“May I ask what you were thinking about?”
“Lord Darkwater!”
The marquess looked up. Lady Artemis, slightly flushed and out of breath, smiled down at him. “You promised me a dance, my lord.”
“Did I? I really do not think there is any room left to dance, Lady Artemis.”
“Oh, but there is. You will excuse us, will you not, Miss Waverley?”
Felicity rose as well. “Of course,” she said. She watched them mount the stairs together and wondered what to do. Then she found Mr. Fordyce had joined her.
“Have you seen Lady Artemis?” he asked.
“Lady Artemis has just left with the Marquess of Darkwater. I believe they are going to try to dance.”
“What a good idea,” said Mr. Fordyce. “Will you do me the honor, Miss Waverley?”
“Thank you,” said Felicity.
They walked together up the stairs and then began to edge through tightly packed groups of people who were drinking or shouting to make themselves heard above the din.
“I do not think we should trouble to try to dance,” said Felicity. “This is more like a rout than a ball.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Fordyce eagerly, for he had just spotted Lady Artemis circling in the arms of the Marquess of Darkwater. He pulled her through a space in the crowd and onto the floor. Crammed in one corner a small orchestra was bravely playing away, occasionally hitting wrong notes when dancers collided with one of the players.
There were only three couples dancing. Felicity and Mr. Fordyce made up the fourth. When they came abreast of Lady Artemis and the marquess, Mr. Fordyce suddenly called, “All change partners.” Lady Artemis and the marquess stopped dancing and looked at him in surprise. He quickly abandoned Felicity and seized Lady Artemis about the waist and forced her to move off with him. The marquess put his arm about Felicity. “It seems you are left with me,” he said.
Couples dancing the waltz were supposed to dance twelve inches apart from one another, but the dancing space was so small Felicity found herself being crushed against the marquess. She tried to make the most of the experience. After all that was what she had come for—experience. So here she was, pressed tightly against a man. It was all very embarrassing. She felt hot and breathless. And then she very definitely felt a hand stroke her bottom. She jerked back, her face flaming. “How dare you, sir!” she hissed.
“How dare I what?” asked the marquess crossly.
“You fondled my posterior.”
He looked startled and then smiled. “Use your wits, Miss Waverley. I was holding one hand in mine and have the other firmly at your waist. Any one of the gentlemen behind you must have seen this crush as a delightful opportunity. Now, apologize.”
She looked at him, her lips trembling, for she had been badly shocked.
“Think, Miss Waverley,” he chided. “I do not have three hands.”
“Oh, you are right,” said Felicity. “I am sorry. But what a scandalous thing to do.”
He put his arm round her waist again. There was a scream from nearby them, followed by the sound of a slap. “It seems as if the bold fellow has got his comeuppance,” murmured the marquess. He piloted her smoothly round the small space, noticing the party was beginning to get out of hand. People were drinking a great deal and becoming excited and bold with the proximity of so many bodies and the heat of the rooms.
Lord Freddy passed close to them, and the marquess said, “If you do not let some fresh air in here soon, Freddy, your ball will become a romp.”
“Good idea,” said Lord Freddy. He walked toward the windows, and with the help of two footmen, raised both windows. A gale blew into the room; the candle flames streamed sideways and went out.
The ballroom was plunged into darkness. There was a little silence and then giggles and scuffles and screams.
The marquess put both arms around Felicity and held her tight. “Stay still,” he said. “Better I than some stranger.”
He could smell perfume from her hair, and he could feel her breasts pressed against his chest.
Felicity stayed very still, motionless, in his arms.
I believe she is frightened of me, thought the marquess. It’s hard to think she wrote that book, but I was there when she delivered the manuscript. Could she possibly have been delivering it for someone else?
Lady Artemis, a little way away, was struggling in Mr. Fordyce’s crushing grip. “Leave me alone,” she wailed.
“That is not what you used to cry when you lay naked in my arms,” he said fiercely. He forced his mouth against her own, ignoring her mumbled protests. Lady Artemis’s mind was screaming that she would never more be trapped into performing Mr. Fordyce’s degrading lustful exercises, yet her wanton body betrayed her and her lips grew soft against his own.
“You may release me now,” said Felicity crossly. “The candles are being lit.”
He let her go a little, but kept one hand at her waist. Those normally cold eyes of his were lit with a mocking, teasing look. “This ball is going to become very wild,” he said. “Do you not think we should find your aunt and leave?”
Felicity looked about her, at the flushed faces and glittering eyes, and shook her head. It was too good an opportunity to observe society at its worst. She knew from gossip that this occasionally happened. Bound as they all were by the strict laws of conventions, by the many social taboos, occasionally the ton would rebel and kick up their heels. Glasses were being snatched off trays as soon as they appeared, and toasts were being drunk. Lady Artemis, Felicity noticed, was no longer dancing stiffly in Mr. Fordyce’s arms but was sinuously swaying. Both their faces were hot and flushed, and their lips looked swollen.
“I cannot stay with you all evening, even at such an affair as this,” said the marquess. “It would occasion comment. Come. Let us find Miss Callow.”
“I will look for her myself,” said Felicity, and pulling free, she disappeared into the crowd. Lord Freddy hailed the marquess again. “What am I to do?” he said. “They will take the house apart.”
“Serve only lemonade,” said the marquess. “That will soon cool their fever.”
Lord Freddy nodded and soon could be heard calling to the footmen.
Felicity was meanwhile deciding to make her escape. The press of people was too much and the noise of so many voices deafening.
And then a young man smiled down at her and said, “May I help you, ma’am? You seem in need of protection.”
Felicity looked up into his face, and then smiled back. Here was the hero of her book. He had a square, plain face, a snub of a nose, clear blue eyes, and thick unruly fair hair. His figure was stocky, and his cravat was limp.
“Thank you,” said Felicity. “I was on the point of leaving.”
“Then follow me and I will take you downstairs,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Bernard Anderson.”
“And I am Felicity Waverley,” said Felicity. “Do you really think you can get me out of here? There appears to be a solid wall of people between us and the stairs.”
“Follow m
e,” he said. He lunged at the crowd with such energy that people squeezed to either side to let him past, and Felicity quickly followed. She took a deep breath of relief once they had reached the comparative peace of the stairs.
“May I fetch your mother or your chaperon?” he asked.
“You are very kind,” said Felicity. “But my aunt, Miss Callow, is an eccentric old lady, and I fear she has already left without me.”
“But you have a carriage?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Anderson.”
“Then I shall escort you to it.”
As they stood on the step waiting for the carriage to be brought round, Felicity found herself very much at ease in Mr. Anderson’s company. He prattled on about what a sad crush it was and how Lord Freddy had commanded the waiters and footmen to serve nothing but lemonade, but had forgotten to tell his wife, who had promptly countermanded the orders.
When Felicity’s carriage arrived, he begged leave to call on her and Miss Callow the following day. Felicity thought quickly. She would need to receive him as Miss Callow, but as Miss Callow she could sing her own praises. So she thanked him prettily and said she looked forward to seeing him.
Mr. Anderson made his way back up the stairs, but before he reached the top he found himself confronted by his mother.
“What were you doing with Felicity Waverley?” demanded his mother. Mrs. Anderson was a big, imposing woman with big, imposing breasts that were thrust up by her corset so much that her heavy bulldog chin appeared to be resting on them.
“I was escorting her to her carriage, Mother,” said Bernard mildly. “I promised to call on her tomorrow.”
“You will do no such thing,” said Mrs. Anderson. “Those Waverley girls are foundlings and bastards. And there is no dowry there. For it is rumored Mrs. Waverley ran off and left that one penniless.”
Bernard’s face fell. “She is awfully pretty,” he mumbled.
“But portionless,” said his mother. “Come. We are going home. You know you must find an heiress, Bernard, yet you waste your time squiring the most unsuitable female at the ball!”
