Tangled Reins

by Stephanie Laurens

  As this was the first waltz of the Season and many débutantes had not yet been given permission to dance, the floor was relatively uncrowded and the assembled company had a clear view of the dancers. The sight of the beautiful Miss Darent in the arms of Lord Hazelmere made something of a stir, and Dorothea, gently twirling down the room, was well aware that many eyes were directed their way. She did not dare allow herself to be distracted, fearing that he would instantly ask her some outrageous question.

  As it transpired, she need not have worried. Hazelmere was, uncharacteristically, lost for words. He had thought her quite lovely in an old dimity gown with her hair down her back. Now, in every way perfect in one of Celestine’s most elegant creations, she was utterly stunning.

  Within seconds of stepping on to the floor Dorothea realised that she was in the arms of an expert, and promptly ceased trying to mark time. She surprised herself by not feeling the least bit awkward at being once again in his arms, and responded to the movements of the dance with a confidence so transparent that it drew even more attention than her beauty.

  As they moved gracefully around the ballroom Hazelmere finally remarked, ‘Does it bother you to be the cynosure of so many eyes, Miss Darent?’

  Considering this unexpected question, she looked up into the hazel eyes and with the most complete self-assurance answered, ‘Not at all, my lord. Should it?’

  He smiled and replied, ‘By no means, my dear. But permit me to tell you that in that you are somewhat unusual.’

  Misliking where this line of conversation might lead, she rapidly hunted for an alternative. She saw her sister also dancing, in the arms of a man almost as attractive as Hazelmere. ‘Who is the gentleman dancing with my sister?’

  Without glancing at the other couple, he replied, ‘Anthony, Lord Fanshawe.’

  Puzzled by a fleeting memory, she finally recognised the man she had glimpsed in the inn yard. Her eyes came back to Hazelmere. ‘Do you know him?’

  He smiled down at her. ‘Oh, yes.’ After a pause he added provocatively, ‘We grew up together, as it happens.’

  Once again her face gave her away before she guiltily caught herself up. One glance at those amused hazel eyes told her that he had not missed her thoughts, and he promptly confirmed this by remarking, ‘No, Miss Darent. We are not that much alike.’

  She was pleased that she blushed only slightly.

  Hazelmere, seeking to press his advantage, asked, ‘Are you never thrown into maidenly confusion, Miss Darent? Or is it that, at twenty-two, you no longer feel the need to adopt such missish airs?’

  This uncannily accurate reading of her behaviour was, most unfortunately, lost on Dorothea. Instead he came under the concentrated scrutiny of her clear green eyes as she promptly asked, ‘How do you know my age?’

  Mentally castigating himself for not being more careful, he was about to mendaciously attribute this information to his great-aunt. However, under the influence of that steady green gaze, he heard himself reply, ‘Mr Matthews told me.’

  ‘The rector?’ Her disbelief was patent.

  Highly amused, he could not resist continuing, ‘He loves to talk, you know. And he knows so much of what is happening in his parish. I’ve formed the habit of inviting him to dinner whenever I’m at Moreton Park.’

  Dorothea, knowing full well the rector’s failing, immediately saw the implication of these remarks. Her suspicions were immediately confirmed.

  ‘I know all about your visits to Newbury, and Aunt Agnes’s rheumatism and the trouble Mrs Warburton had with the parish fair. Incidentally, that reminds me: your Aunt Agnes sends you her love.’

  The wild incredulity in her face as she imagined his meeting her vague, shy and man-hating maiden aunt sorely tempted him to leave the subject as was. He finally relented sufficiently to add, ‘Via the rector, you goose!’

  Realising that he had accurately read her mind yet again, she found herself returning his smile. She was still smiling as they finished the dance with a flourish not far from her grandmother. Hazelmere drew her hand through his arm and led her back to Lady Merion’s side.

  Her ladyship had been staggered enough to see Dorothea in Hazelmere’s arms, but the sight of Cecily chattering amiably to Lord Fanshawe as she circled the room had made her doubt her senses. It was unheard of for two débutante sisters to stand up with two of the most eligible peers for their first waltz. More importantly, this outcome could only have been achieved by skilful manipulation of the patronesses by the two gentlemen involved. She was not sure she approved of such rapid and direct attack.

  However, she was not immune to the glory of the undoubted triumph. Sally Jersey had stopped on her peregrinations about the rooms and, nodding towards Hazelmere and Dorothea, had whispered in her ear, ‘He’ll have her, you know. Never known Hazelmere to stand up for a first waltz before!’

  Lady Merion, watching the elegant couple as they drifted past, Dorothea laughing up at Hazelmere, both blithely unaware of the surrounding company, rather fancied that Sally, for once, was right.

  Two glowing young ladies were very correctly returned to her side, from where they were claimed by their partners for the next dance. As both Hazelmere and Fanshawe had been acquainted with Lady Merion from birth, neither attempted to disappear without paying their respects. With the sweetly smiling Maria, Lady Sefton sitting at her ladyship’s side, the conversation remained on a general plane until Lady Sefton claimed Fanshawe’s arm to go in search of her daughter-in-law.

  Lady Merion promptly seized the opportunity to remark to Hazelmere, ‘Well, you certainly don’t let the grass grow under your feet!’

  He smiled in the thoroughly maddening way he had, then said, ‘I take it you’re not perturbed by my interest?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd! You know perfectly well you’re one of the biggest prizes on the marriage mart!’ His question unsettled her. This was fast going, indeed! ‘But you must by now know that my granddaughter is highly unlikely to ask my opinion on the matter.’

  ‘True. Nevertheless, I would be bound to consider your opinion, even if she did not.’

  ‘Very pretty talking, indeed!’ she responded, not entirely displeased.

  Seeing Fanshawe returning, she dismissed them both, adding with a laugh as they both bowed elegantly before her, ‘I’m sure you can think of more exciting ways to spend your evening.’

  Towards the end of the ball Mr Edward Buchanan appeared at Dorothea’s side. She forced a smile to her lips as he bowed over her hand.

  ‘My dear Miss Darent! A delightful pleasure! I’m afraid, my dear, that I’m not a dancing man. Perhaps you would care to walk about the rooms with me?’

  Ferdie, standing beside her, goggled.

  With the most heartfelt relief, Dorothea, cool regret in her tone, said, ‘I’m afraid, Mr Buchanan, that I’m engaged for all the dances this evening.’

  ‘Oh?’ He was genuinely surprised.

  Luckily young Lord Davidson approached at that moment to claim her for the cotillion just forming. With the barest nod to Mr Buchanan, she laid her hand on Lord Davidson’s arm and moved away.

  Ferdie stared at the strange Mr Buchanan. Feeling the scrutiny, Edward Buchanan blushed slightly. ‘Friend of a friend, you know. In the country. Dare say Miss Darent could use some hints on how to go on in London. Not up to snuff and too many of these young blades about, y’know. But now I’m here I’ll keep an eye on her, never fear.’

  ‘Oh?’ said the elegant Ferdie Acheson-Smythe in his chilliest voice. With the barest inclination of his fair head he walked away.

  Chapter Five

  After his waltz with Dorothea, Hazelmere, mindful of the eyes upon him, danced with three other young ladies newly presented to the ton. Of these, two were diamonds of the first water, but both lacked the fire and wit to attract him as the lovely Dorothea did. Feeling the familiar boredom rising, and being debarred by convention from waltzing with Miss Darent again, he looked for Fanshawe. Hearing the music for the secon
d and last waltz of the night start up, he scanned the dancers and easily picked out Miss Darent in the arms of Lord Robert Markham. It was definitely time to leave. Spying his friend in a group by the door, he made his way to him, and together they left for White’s.

  The small hours of the morning saw them wending their way home through the deserted city streets. They had played Pharoah and Hazelmere had held the bank. Consequently he had risen from the table a cool five hundred guineas richer. However, his thoughts were not concerned with his customary luck with the cards, but with his potential luck with a certain green-eyed young lady. Fanshawe was similarly occupied in wondering which of her numerous qualities was most responsible for making Cecily Darent so attractive. Together they crossed Piccadilly and headed up Bond Street in companionable silence.

  Hazelmere finally broke this to say, ‘Well, Miss Darent appears to have successfully quashed all the rumours.’

  Fanshawe glanced sideways under his lashes at his friend. ‘Do you intend to have her?’

  Hazelmere checked slightly in his stride. The hazel and brown eyes met for an instant. Then he chuckled. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘Frankly, yes.’

  ‘I suppose, as it’s virtually obligatory to play by the rules, given it’s the start of the Season, my interest will hardly remain a secret for long.’

  ‘No. You’re right. We’ll have to play by the rules.’

  ‘We?’ His friend’s preoccupation since meeting Cecily Darent had not escaped Hazelmere. ‘At the inn I mentioned Miss Darent’s sister more in jest than design.’

  ‘I know that! But she’s a deuced taking young thing, all the same. Not in the class of your Dorothea, but attractive none the less.’

  ‘Oh, granted! In the absence of Dorothea, Cecily would bear off the palm. But satisfy my curiosity. Does she, like her sister, engage in—er—a conversational style bordering on the improper?’

  ‘Lord, yes! Asked me straight out how I’d jockeyed Countess Lieven into giving her permission to waltz, and then floored me by asking why!’

  Entertained by this evidence that a predilection for such conversation was a Darent trait, Hazelmere asked, ‘And what did you answer?’

  ‘Told her ‘twas on account of her beautiful eyes, of course!’

  ‘At which she laughed?’

  ‘Exactly. Lovely sound.’ After a pause Fanshawe continued, ‘You know, Marc, I can’t understand why all these mamas turn their daughters into such simpering misses you can’t exchange two sensible words with. Bores us all to tears and they wonder why. Well—look at the Tremlett girl! Dashed good-looking chit. But as soon as she opens her mouth I’m off! And just look at our set. Besides the two of us, there’s Peterborough and Markham, Alvanley, Harcourt, Bassington, Aylsham, Walsingham, Desborough—oh, and a host of others! And they’re just our set, let alone the younger ones. All of us are either titled or well connected, independently wealthy, and all of us have got to marry sooner or later. Yet here we all are, over thirty and still unattached, purely because there are so few chits with more wit than hair.’

  ‘Which is exactly why,’ concluded Hazelmere, grasping his erratic friend by the elbow to steer him around the railings of Hanover Square, ‘we’re going to assiduously attend all the ton crushes this Season.’

  ‘Good God!’ uttered his lordship, much struck by this logic. ‘You mean they’ll all be after the Darent girls?’

  ‘You’ve just said it yourself. We’re all on the lookout for suitable brides and we’re all eligible. The Darent sisters are outstanding candidates on any man’s terms. You and I, dear boy, have merely stolen a march on the rest. And I’ll be much surprised if they don’t try and make up lost ground very quickly. I rather think Markham has already made a start.’

  ‘Yes, saw that too. And Walsingham was there as well.’

  ‘I predict by tomorrow night the whole crew will have gathered. Which, if you’re serious about the younger Miss Darent, is going to keep both of us on our toes.’

  They had come to the corner of Cavendish Square and paused. ‘What’s on tomorrow night?’ asked Fanshawe sleepily.

  ‘The Bedlington rout. Why not come to dinner and we’ll go on together?’

  ‘Good idea.’ He yawned. ‘See you then.’ And, with a nod and a wave, he headed off to his rooms in Wigmore Street, leaving Hazelmere to stroll the short distance to his house.

  Entering with his latchkey, he made his way upstairs, to be greeted by his very correct gentleman’s gentleman, who went by the totally unsuitable name of Murgatroyd. He had never managed to convince Murgatroyd, a dapper and decidedly top-lofty individual, that he need not wait up for him, and that he, Hazelmere, was perfectly capable of getting himself to bed. As by various subtle references Murgatroyd had made it plain that he considered his lordship’s clothes required far greater care than his lordship was likely to bestow on them, he had finally capitulated, as in all other ways Murgatroyd suited him very well.

  Snuffing out the candle and listening to the footsteps retreating down the carpeted corridor, Hazelmere crossed his arms behind his head and stretched luxuriously, smiling as he thought of a particular pair of brilliant green eyes. Tony had given voice to his own thoughts on their way home. There was going to be heavy competition for those young ladies’ favours and most of it from highly experienced players. As things stood, he could certainly not be sure of winning the lady’s heart. And, he admitted to himself, for reasons he was not entirely sure of, and quite definitely for the first time in his life, that was something he very much wanted to do.

  Lady Bedlington’s rout was a gala affair attended by everyone who was anyone. The eccentric hostess was gratified to receive Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe, as well as a quite astonishing number of their associates. Not only were these gentlemen in attendance, but they also all arrived fairly early.

  In the ballroom Hazelmere kept the head of the stairs in view. As Dorothea and Cecily appeared there he adroitly disengaged from the conversation around him and, without the least haste, made his way towards the stairs, his arrival at their foot coinciding with that of Miss Darent.

  Seeing him coming towards her, Dorothea smiled and then curtsied as he bowed before her. She resolutely ignored the fluttering nervousness that made breathing strangely difficult.

  Raising her hand to his lips, Hazelmere dropped a gentle kiss on her fingers, managing to turn the courtesy into a caress. He did not release her hand but turned it to flip up the dance card hanging from her wrist. These tiny cards with the order of dances listed with a place for each prospective partner to inscribe his name were much in vogue, and all the best hostesses invariably provided the débutantes with a copy, slung on a riband with a tiny silver-encased pencil attached.

  ‘Miss Darent! You appear mysteriously free for all the dances tonight. However, I suppose I shall have to be content with just one waltz—the first, I think?’

  As she laughingly assented he duly wrote his name in the appropriate spot, then, releasing her hand and turning to survey the descending multitudes of her admirers, continued in a voice lowered so that only she could hear, ‘And, as a reward for being so early, I really think I should be allowed to escort you to supper, don’t you?’

  Dorothea did not reply, but her eyes met his in amused enquiry.

  Correctly interpreting the glance, he answered, ‘Quite proper, I assure you.’ With a smile he moved away to make room for the hordes of gentlemen wishful of securing a dance with the lovely Miss Darent.

  As he did so he noticed, as he had predicted, Markham, Peterborough, Alvanley and Desborough among the throng. In the crowd around Cecily Darent he could make out Lords Harcourt and Bassington, as well as Fanshawe, who had executed a similar tactic to his. This was not a matter for surprise; they had discussed it over dinner. Satisfied with their success, they both moved away to claim their partners for the first dance.

  Dorothea had no chance to ponder the wiles of the Marquis, being claimed for every dance and attended
assiduously by a coterie of admirers. She was thoroughly enjoying herself and consequently looked radiant in a bronze silk dress covered by transparently fine tissue faille, shimmering whenever she moved. The high-waisted style suited her slender figure, making her appear more startlingly beautiful than ever. More than one furious mama wondered why Celestine never suggested such designs for their daughters.

  Unaware of this sartorial jealousy, Dorothea noticed a distinct and disturbing change in the quality of her partners. At Almack’s, with the exception of the Marquis and Lord Markham, these had been charming young lads not much older than herself, who were in awe of the beautiful and self-possessed young lady and entirely amenable to allowing her to control both conversation and action. Tonight the majority of her partners were older, of the same vintage as Hazelmere, and with that came a great deal more difficulty. Some, like the gentle Alvanley, were no problem, and she quickly came to regard them as friends. Others, like wild Lord Peterborough and the rakish Walsingham, she was much more wary of. When, more than midway through the evening, Hazelmere came to claim her for the first waltz, rescuing her from Lord Walsingham’s side, she went into his arms with a sensation much akin to relief.

  Thoroughly appreciative of the situation, he could not resist remarking, ‘Rather heavier weather tonight, Miss Darent?’

  For an instant the hazel and green eyes met. Then Dorothea, in a voice every bit as languid as his, replied, ‘Why, no, my lord! I find it all most entertaining.’

  ‘Trying it on just a little too thick, my child,’ he murmured.

  Dorothea hit back, wide-eyed innocence writ large on her face. ‘My lord! Such cant terms. How improper!’

  Hazelmere laughed, then immediately returned to the attack. ‘If we’re to discuss impropriety, my dear, why is it that, try as I might, I cannot recall a conversation with you that has not been improper?’