A Regrettable Proposal

by Jennie Goutet

  Chapter Ten

  Eleanor did not expect her first soirée to be a success, and therefore she was not disappointed. Lady Ingram had made no objection to the girls attending a small gathering—quite a private affair—with no more than fifteen partners standing up to dance in Mrs. Jenkins’s ballroom, saying it would give them practice for their own come-out ball in a week’s time.

  Her first peek into the room confirmed her suspicion that even an intimate London gathering was an intimidating affair. Mrs. Jenkins had grossly underestimated the number of people who would reply in the affirmative. There were nearly seventy people present, with the younger generation camped at the refreshment table and the adults closer to the fire. The warmth was welcome, coming out of the cold, but the room would soon become stifling.

  Returning Lydia’s bolstering smile, Eleanor straightened her shoulders and followed her into the room. There was no formal announcement, and no one noticed her, although she spotted more than a few pairs of eyes drawn to her friend—the men with interest and the girls with envy. Eleanor tugged at her gloves and fought to keep her expression neutral. At the very least, the numbers are evened so I needn’t fear I’ll lack for partners.

  Lydia leaned in to whisper. “I know some of the gentlemen here since I cut my first teeth. Do you see the dashing one there in the dark blue coat?” Eleanor nodded. “That’s Lord Carlton, and he has his eye on politics, besides being an earl. He spent his first year out of Oxford caring for his mother at their country estate. Everyone will be setting her cap at him now that he’s in London, but I shall introduce you, for he is friends with my cousin. He’s pleasing to look at, is he not?”

  “He is indeed, but young to be on the catch for a wife, don’t you think?” Eleanor knew Lord Carlton could not possibly notice her with Lydia nearby. She watched him make the rounds. He seemed to know everyone and pay particular attention to the older women, giving wide berth to the women his age.

  Lydia shrugged. “Perhaps. But securing his notice will be a feather in your cap.”

  Eleanor attempted a smile, her clammy hands betraying her nervousness. She was grateful for the gloves. Sir Braxsen chose that moment to approach, his copper-headed military companion in tow. “Miss Ingram,” Sir Braxsen said, “may I claim your hand for the first dance? You’d promised it to me, remember?”

  “Certainly, Sir Braxsen. It’s fortunate I keep my word. I could have given that dance away several times over.”

  “A woman who keeps her word. Now that is something.” Sir Braxsen took the dance card Lydia slipped off her wrist.

  Lydia’s frown disappeared as fast as it came, and she took Eleanor by the elbow. “Eleanor, you remember Sir Braxsen, and this is …” She tilted her face to his friend like an inquisitive bird. No wonder men love her.

  “Excuse me,” Sir Braxsen said, “This is Major Fitzwilliam. Fitz—allow me to present Miss Lydia Ingram and her companion, Miss Daventry.”

  When the introductions were made, Major Fitzwilliam pulled his eyes off Lydia and bowed to Eleanor. “Have you been claimed for the second dance? I am not free for the first, but I should very much like to dance with you if you care to.”

  Eleanor gave the major a friendly smile and handed him her card. “Already the musicians are warming up, and my dance card is still empty. So you see, you are saving me from complete humiliation.”

  He scribbled his name and returned it, creases appearing in his square jaw. “I’m at your service, Miss Daventry.” Turning to Lydia, he pinned her with his gaze. “Miss Ingram, have you any dance for me?”

  Lydia had been scanning the room and was about to whisper in Eleanor’s ear, but she was checked by the frank regard settled on her. “I’d be delighted, Major Fitzwilliam. If only to do my duty in encouraging the men who serve the king.”

  Major Fitzwilliam responded, “And if only it were not done solely out of duty, we poor soldiers might dare hope.” There was a playful intensity to his gaze that Eleanor privately felt was irresistible. This man might not have a title, but he had no shortage of charm. If he turned it on Lydia, a hardened flirt, even she might not be immune.

  Lydia laughed then, a bright tinkling sound. “You shall have your dance, major.” She appraised him more closely. “And not solely out of duty.”

  The major bowed, and Sir Braxsen clapped him on the back as the two men walked away. “You’re trying to steal a march on me, Fitz.”

  “Lydia,” Eleanor said in a low voice, “it seems you’ve found favor with one at least. Is not Major Fitzwilliam distinguished in his colors? He must be on furlough.”

  Lydia glanced after him. “Red does not suit him,” was all she would say. Her lingering gaze betrayed her.

  To cover an excess of nerves, Eleanor fanned herself and murmured, “It appears I’ll not be obliged to sit on the sidelines all evening.”

  “Gudgeon.” Lydia poked her side, then leaned in to whisper, “Look here. Stratford Tunstall is headed our way. I told you he got jilted? Except now he’s an earl—”

  He was here. Eleanor wanted to interrupt, but Lydia rushed on. “He’s an old family friend from back when he was a mere son of a gentleman and tradesman’s daughter. Even my mother likes him, though she couldn’t extend an invitation to his mother, of course.”

  As Lydia spoke, Lord Worthing strode toward them, his gaze unwavering as he held Eleanor’s. Her heart beat unsteadily, and she could barely find the strength to respond. “Lydia, did you not remember that my guardian was the former Earl of Worthing? I was at Worthing for the reading of the will. He and I have met, of course. No introduction is needed.” Nor desired.

  “No, indeed! I am the gudgeon for forgetting that. But you did not often speak of your guardian, so I didn’t make the connection. Still, how foolish of me.”

  Having exchanged a word with the hostess, the earl now advanced again, his face set in a frown. “He doesn’t look best pleased to see us,” Eleanor said.

  “Oh, that’s just Stratford,” Lydia whispered. “He’s so severe. He probably thinks my dress is cut too low.” Before Eleanor could reply, the earl was upon them.

  “Lydia.” He bowed over Miss Ingram’s hand. “I see you’re acquainted with Miss Daventry.” His gaze held Eleanor’s, and she forced herself to return it.

  “Indeed I am, my lord,” Lydia drawled. “How kind of you to grace us with your presence now that you’re an earl.”

  Lord Worthing cut her short with a look. “Don’t be arch, Lydia.”

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “That’s not being arch, Stratford. That is funning, which you have forgotten how to do. Very well. Eleanor is spending the London Season with me.”

  “Good evening, Miss Daventry.” Lord Worthing bowed. “May I inquire after your aunt’s ailing sister?”

  “I thank you. She is on the mend. They have taken a house in Bath so she may recuperate fully. I’m grateful to Lady Ingram for sponsoring me this Season.” I’m rambling like a ninny! Eleanor attempted to herd her disordered thoughts as the earl, after that first searing regard, seemed to look everywhere but at her.

  “You cannot do better than Lady Ingram for gaining access anywhere you might wish to go.” Lord Worthing turned to nod at an acquaintance. There was a silence until the first strains of a violin filtered through the room. “Will you both do me the honor of a dance?” He held out his hand for Lydia’s dance card.

  “Why, certainly.” Lydia handed the card still attached to her wrist and peered above his head as he leaned to write his name in one of the few remaining lines. “Look, Eleanor. There’s the Duke of Marlborough. Oh! And Sir Braxsen is coming to claim his dance.”

  Eleanor’s eyes were on Lord Worthing’s dark blond locks as he bent over Lydia’s card. It gave her time to still her jumpy nerves and realize he was just a man who need not have any significance over another, proposal notwithstanding, even if his strong jaw and broad shoulders were pleasing to look at. Lord Worthing straightened and stepped aside to allow an approaching servant
to present a tray of assorted drinks. Eleanor shook her head, but the earl accepted a glass.

  At his choice, Eleanor’s eyes widened in surprise, and a smile quivered on her lips. “Lemonade, Lord Worthing?”

  She thought to have perceived a faint blush. “I’m thirsty,” he said. He drank it in one go and then set the glass back on the tray. “Miss Daventry, your card?” Her breath caught when their gaze met again. He is just a man, like any other man. She held out her card, looking away as he wrote his name for the quadrille. It would provide a better chance to talk than the first two dances, which were both a reel.

  R

  There was only one other name on Miss Daventry’s dance card, Stratford saw, now that he’d turned his attention to it instead of her hastily averted face. Her profile was appealing with a decided chin that matched a pert nose and a tendril of light-brown hair next to her cheek. With only one name, it seemed he need not be afraid she would be hounded by fortune hunters. He dropped Miss Daventry’s card and let it dangle from her wrist.

  “Worthing!” Lord Carlton came to his side, a young chub who’d regularly come up to London during school leave. “When I saw you at Tatt’s, you’d not mentioned you’d be attending.”

  Stratford coughed, darting a surreptitious look at the man, who, though likable, had never possessed an ounce of discretion. “I hadn’t made up my mind then to come, but there were some people I wished to speak to this evening.” He shot a hopeful look at Miss Daventry, but she was studiously watching the dancing couples. It wasn’t going to be easy after so many weeks, but honor demanded he make an apology, and the promised dance would be his best chance.

  With a natural address, Lord Carlton put his hand on his heart and bowed to the ladies. “Miss Ingram, grant my heart’s desire and introduce me to your friend?”

  Lydia, flirting at her finest, gave a delicate snort. “Pay him no heed, Eleanor. Lord Carlton led my cousin into all manner of mischief during their years at Cambridge, I’m told. It seems he has at last turned respectable. Very well, Lord Carlton, I present my dearest friend, Miss Daventry.”

  Lord Carlton’s eyes widened in mock affront. “You malign me, Miss Ingram. That was two full years ago and is now a thing of the past.” He nodded to Sir Braxsen, who had come to claim Lydia’s hand, and then said, “Miss Daventry, would you do me the honor of according me a dance this evening?”

  “Of course, Lord Carlton.” Miss Daventry’s voice was soft as she handed him her dance card. Stratford was surprised by Carlton’s interest, and he scrutinized Miss Daventry. Perhaps it was because she was so petite and it made one wish to protect her, or because she met one’s gaze frankly, without being coy.

  Stratford frowned. He might have judged her safe from fortune hunters too soon. If Carlton, who had no need of her money, were interested, there was no telling how many others would come forward. The man would have her all the rage before long.

  Continuing with his conquest as if Stratford didn’t even exist, Carlton bent his head toward hers. “Miss Daventry, this next dance is a reel and no one has put his name down for it. I hope you will not be shocked, but I claimed this dance as well as the last one of the party.”

  She answered with a smile of her own, eyes dancing, and Stratford was bewitched. He didn’t know her face could light up that way. “Thank you for sparing me the disgrace of sitting this first dance out, Lord Carlton.” The musicians began the prelude, and Miss Daventry put her hand on Carlton’s arm to join the other couples in the set, leaving Stratford prey to the looks of more than one hopeful mama whose daughter lacked a partner.

  When Stratford was finally able to claim his dance with Miss Daventry, he nearly lost his courage. Only a dogged sense of determination to right a wrong led him to continue. They took their places in the set, and while waiting for the music to start, he leaned down, knowing the loud buzz of conversation would make his words private. “Miss Daventry, please allow me to apologize for proposing to you.”

  A smile was whisked away before he caught it—he was sure of it. Why would she find humor in words that were so difficult for him to utter? Then, after a minute’s reflection, Ah. I apologized for proposing, not for the manner in which I proposed.

  The dance had begun and as they circled each other, hands clasped, she answered. “You need not, my lord. As I imagine it won’t happen again, we can both pretend it hadn’t happened at all.”

  They changed partners, and when the dance brought them back together, Stratford blundered on, hoping to dispel Miss Daventry’s frown. “I don’t make a habit of proposing to ladies almost at first sight. My only other experience with proposing was done after two years’ acquaintance.” He paused. “Of course it didn’t end well either.” His whole body felt hot with embarrassment, a regular pattern around her, it seemed. He hadn’t meant to say that.

  “Did you propose to her while you were in your cups, my lord?” A shock went through him as the dance separated them again. He took the hand of another lady in the set and wondered what was behind that tone. Miss Daventry was a schoolgirl miss—his sisters’ age—but her words whipped his already smarting conscience.

  They were brought back together by the music, and he tugged at his dignity. “Please accept my sincere regrets for proposing to you in such an unworthy manner. As you said, it shan’t happen again.”

  The dance separated them once more. Impossible to talk this way. What had possessed him to try? He was barely conscious of his own partner as he watched Miss Daventry in animated conversation. Why was she so silent around him? When they were joined after the promenade, her words were subdued. “I thank you for your apology. Of course it won’t. We need say nothing more.”

  He looked at her downturned eyes, and something compelled him to insist. “Pardon me, Miss Daventry, but … do I have your forgiveness for my ungentlemanly behavior? It is important to me.”

  The music had stopped, and she removed her suddenly trembling hand from his arm. “My lord—” Her husky voice was difficult to hear over the crowd. He leaned in and felt the warmth of her face, her breath tickling his cheek, his unexpected desire to put his arm around her waist. Perhaps with the air between them cleared, they might share some future dances. A Season in London could possibly be enjoyable.

  She seemed to struggle within herself, finally biting her lip before raising her eyes to his. “Perhaps this is not very Christian of me, but I should like to see your repentance before returning an answer.”

  The gleam in her eye provoked him into a startled laugh. “Was the lemonade not repentance enough?” he asked, a smile still playing on his lips. Then he grew serious. “I see I shall have to labor to earn your good opinion of me.” The couples dancing cleared the floor to make room for new ones, and he took her arm, conscious of her nearness.

  At that instant, the voices grew in volume, and he looked up. A vision of loveliness had entered the room in pale green, crowned with golden curls and a delicate tiara of emeralds. Judith Broadmore. So she, too, had been invited to this intimate gathering of people. Stratford would not trust that descriptor again when attached to a London assembly. He would not have come, even for the apology, had he known he would be thrown in such close quarters with Judith.

  Miss Daventry was studying him with a crease between her brows. He had to say something. “I’m afraid I must leave. I promised to meet a friend for dinner and am past due.”

  Other couples were joining up for the next set, and Lydia, mercifully, was still on the sidelines, rapping a gentleman’s sleeve with her fan. “I will bring you to Lydia,” he said.

  At Miss Broadmore’s entrance, Eleanor felt a stab of dismay. In a day dress, Miss Broadmore was beautiful enough to turn eyes, but in an evening gown she was nothing short of stunning. Never had Eleanor been so chagrined at her own curves, short stature, and plain brown hair.

  The dance was over, and the brief glimpse she had behind Lord Worthing’s facade now seemed imagined. They were once again at Lydia’s side, and hi
s face was a mask as he turned to leave.

  “Well, if that isn’t like Stratford,” Lydia huffed. “Not even a proper farewell.”

  Eleanor’s gaze trailed Lord Worthing as he bid the hostess good night and left without turning back. He did not speak to Miss Broadmore as he passed, but Eleanor saw his profile as he acknowledged the woman. She was sure the look he cast at this Venus was one of longing.

  Miss Broadmore also watched him leave. Then, with swaying hips, she followed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lord Worthing, wait.”

  Stratford had retrieved his cloak and was on the steps leading to the street when he turned to see Judith hurry after him. He did not relish having this conversation, but better it be now at the beginning of the Season so there was no ambiguity between the two of them.

  “Miss Broadmore.” He completed the last three steps to the street and waited for her to reach his side before giving her a short bow.

  She seemed to be breathless as she curtsied, and he wondered if she was nervous. He had never seen her other than entirely sure of herself, but perhaps some of the confidence that came with being a young, beautiful woman disappeared after a few Seasons and no successful matches.

  That errant thought disappeared as Judith smiled at Stratford and slid her hand into his arm. No, it seemed her confidence was still in place. Her touch was painful, as much for the memories it evoked as for his certainty she was not the one he wished to be holding.

  “I am delighted to see you have not only arrived in London at the start of the Season but are also out socializing. I did not have such high hopes for you.” Judith gave his arm a playful squeeze as she spoke, and Stratford did not respond right away. Knowing what one must say did not make the words any easier to get out.