Dancing with the Earl (After the Masquerade)

by Ashley Stormes

  “Lord Thompson,” Cecelia said flatly, offering him a dip of her head.

  Margaret mimicked her action, wrinkling her nose at the scent of alcohol wafting off the viscount.

  “I was astonished to hear you were dancing the night away with a Scotsman,” Lord Thompson stated, stifling a large yawn with one hand while the other clutched a gold-capped cane. “Were you able to say a single word to him?”

  She opened her mouth to tell him off for his rudeness, but her throat closed up and her tongue knotted in her mouth. She tried to speak, and her face flushed as Lord Thompson grinned toothily.

  “Well, Miss Margaret?” the young viscount teased. “Is your inability to speak the reason he is not seeking out your company?”

  “Lord Thompson, that is hardly necessary,” Cecelia chided. “Lord Briarwood is—”

  “Here,” Thomas finished, taking Margaret’s arm and pulling her against his chest. “Margaret, is this man insulting you?”

  “He—” Margaret grimaced when her voice spilled out in a rush of air. Why could she address Thomas, but not Lord Thompson?

  “Yes?”

  “He has reason to say these things,” she mumbled. “There are very few men I can speak to.”

  “I would imagine that is because there are very few men deserving of your conversation,” he declared, narrowing his eyes at Lord Thompson. “Any man that insults you is not worthy of hearing your voice.”

  The viscount grimaced. “You have no right to—”

  “I have every right to defend her,” Thomas rebutted, taking her hand and positioning himself slightly in front of her. “If you were intelligent you would accept that and leave her be.”

  Lord Thompson looked as if he wanted to argue, but as Lord Rauley sidled up beside his wife and Thomas rose to his full height, the viscount decided it would be best to turn away. Margaret did not blame him; Thomas was a strapping specimen, and the glower on his face was sour enough to make her spine weaken, and it wasn’t even directed at her.

  “You do not need to give me an answer today.”

  It took her several moments to realize he was referencing his proposal.

  “Thomas…”

  He pulled her away from the Rauleys and back towards the bench, his expression serious. This time she did not sit; they simply stood with their hands clasped between them, their eyes locked and their faces tilted towards one another as if towards the sun.

  “Margaret,” he murmured, reaching up to brush his gloved fingers against her cheek. “Will you at least permit me to write my father, and tell him about you?”

  Chapter Four

  Two Weeks Later

  Back to top

  “He’s gone mad,” Neill Craig complained, wriggling about on the carriage seat in obvious discomfort.

  The Marquis of Ravenwood smiled obligingly at the younger man, Thomas’s second best friend and the second son of a Scottish earl. He had hoped that Malcolm MacEwan would be able to journey down to London as well, but Malcolm had made good his words and married Miss Brianna Smith. Malcolm had wanted Thomas there, but the marquis understood the loss of rationality a young man encountered when confronted with a woman he knew he could love for the rest of his life. He carried his smile across to his wife, Riona, and they clasped hands, her soft green eyes glowing.

  He had not expected his son to write home so soon after arriving in London, but when he received the letter he assumed it was to inform him that Thomas had already had enough of the city and was coming home. No one would blame him for such a thing, and the marquis had actually liked the thought of welcoming his son back to Scotland. Lady Ravenwood was furious that he had allowed their son to play cards at such high stakes as his removal to London, and though she had quickly added that she was glad Thomas was in London, where he might meet someone, she had also made it clear that she did not believe he was ready for matrimony. Yes, he was twenty-six, but Thomas had only recently returned from a Grand Tour on the Continent, and she was eager to have her only child at home for a while.

  So, when the marquis called his wife into the room and opened the letter from their son, they had both been astonished by what he read aloud.

  Thomas fancied himself in love, and was set on marrying the English lass in two weeks time. He wanted his parents to bring Malcolm and Neill to London so they could meet her and give their blessing, but the lass had already agreed to marry him and her father had also consented to the match, so long as they did not announce an engagement before his family could meet her.

  Cameron was grateful that the girl’s father had managed to slow what appeared to be an inevitable match, for it gave him time to talk sense into his son.

  “He would have just met her,” Neill continued, repeating himself yet again. They had all agreed on their way to London that they would do everything in their power to change Thomas’s mind, but Cameron had not expected Neill’s continual repetition. Neill was usually quiet and witty, and his astonishing ability to remember things kept him from becoming a dull companion.

  “He cannot be serious about marrying her.”

  “I agree,” he offered, squeezing his wife’s hand and turning his gaze back to Neill.

  “It seems far more reasonable to think that he has made all of this up, and simply wants us to rescue him from London,” Riona pointed out, reaching up with her free hand to adjust one of the polished pearl pins adorning her coiffure. She always looked impeccable, and Cameron had often teased her by saying that she was born to be a marchioness, and keep him from appearing a rogue.

  “It is possible he has met someone,” Cameron corrected, “but I agree that it cannot be serious. Although, the men in our family do tend to fall quickly,” he chuckled, winking at Riona. They had practically grown up together, and had declared as children that they would marry. Their parents had not objected, since they had already arranged the marriage when Riona was born, but Cameron had never doubted that he and Riona were meant to be together. If Thomas had found a woman whom he felt similarly for, Cameron knew he and Riona would be the first to offer their blessing to such a match.

  “What is he doing out, anyway?” Neill muttered, once again adjusting his coat.

  “It is London,” Riona stated, “and he is the son of a wealthy marquis. I am certain he has received invitations to almost every party and dinner being hosted this Season.”

  “Could we not wait until he returns?” Neill pressed. “I have no desire to mingle with haughty English people.”

  Cameron rolled his eyes heavenward. Neill had always complained about society, and how he felt forced to meet others simply because he was the son of an earl. It didn’t matter that he was a second son; every woman in Edinburgh that had failed to catch Thomas’s eye had quickly sought Neill. It would be the same in London, for handsome young men were always sought after, especially when they had a healthy income and were associated with prominent families.

  “We have an opportunity to find out if Thomas is telling the truth,” Cameron reminded the restless young man. “If he is in love, where better to meet her than in public? It saves us the uncomfortable duty of calling upon her at her house.”

  Riona nodded. “At least in public we have a greater chance at avoiding a scene; all young ladies must be well behaved in London if they want to continue receiving invitations.” She smiled wryly. “I am so glad I never had to go through such a muddle.”

  Margaret immediately recognized that she was in danger. Thomas stiffened beside her, and as she followed his gaze she felt cold sweat break out on the back of her neck. There, in the doorway of Lady Beatrice’s ballroom, basking in the candlelight reflecting off of every marble and gold gilded inch of the walls, was the most beautiful woman Margaret had ever laid eyes on. While that alone could make the woman dangerous, Margaret was not afraid of her beauty.

  She was afraid of the sudden realization that Thomas’s mother had arrived in London.

  It should not have come as a surprise that Thomas’s mo
ther was in London. He had written to his parents, after all, and he had commented earlier that morning that he expected them to arrive in the next few days. Margaret was excited to meet them, and Thomas was excited to introduce everyone and spread the warm gooey feelings that had infected everyone around them. Two people could hardly be in love without spreading warm gooey feelings, and Margaret had overheard more than once—even since arriving at Lady Beatrice’s—that she and Thomas were considered the love match of the Season.

  No, it should not have surprised her to see the Marchioness of Ravenwood standing in the doorway. It should not have surprised her that the marchioness was so beautiful. And it certainly should not have surprised her when the marchioness clapped eyes on her son, and then raked her narrowed green-eyed gaze across Margaret in disapproval.

  But it did surprise her, and Margaret wanted nothing more than to go home, curl up under the covers on her bed, and cower until the marchioness returned to Scotland.

  Never before had Margaret feared that she would be unable to speak to another female, and never before had it been so important that she make a good impression. She wanted—needed—Thomas’s mother to like her. If the marchioness disapproved…

  It wouldn’t matter that Thomas had brought her flowers every morning. It wouldn’t matter that he had recited such lovely poetry, or walked with her through Hyde Park every morning and every afternoon. It wouldn’t matter that they had whispered and giggled during three operas, or that he danced at least three times with her at every ball they attended. It wouldn’t matter that he had dined with her no less than every night since they first met. None of that would matter, and nor would her maddening feelings for him, if his mother disapproved. Margaret could protest and declare her love for Thomas in every language known to mankind, but it would not have any effect if the Marchioness of Ravenwood frowned upon her.

  It certainly wouldn’t matter that Margaret had already assured Thomas that marrying him would make her the happiest woman in the world for the rest of eternity. Thomas was loyal to those he loved, and if his mother said he needed to find someone better than a baron’s daughter, heaven help her if Margaret didn’t tell Thomas to listen to his mother. She loved him because of his dedication to his family, and if marrying her tore him from those that raised him she would never forgive herself. If her father disapproved of the match, Thomas would not recommend eloping in an effort to be with her. He would remain by her side and do everything in his power to convince Lord Nettlby that he was perfect for her. It terrified Margaret, but she would have to do the same, and stand tall and proud until the Ravenwoods allowed her to marry their son.

  She would never know where she found her courage, but she straightened her spine and held her chin higher as Thomas’s mother placed a hand on her husband’s arm. Margaret steadied her breathing while she waited for the pair to make their way across the ballroom, and she used the time to properly examine her future parents-in-law.

  The marchioness had startling almond-shaped green eyes, the outer edges gently tilted up. Dark brown hair, the same shade as her son’s, was arranged in what appeared to be a braided crown, pearl pins glowing softly in the candlelight and graceful curls cascading around her cheeks and caressing her neck. Margaret thought she looked like a Greek goddess come to life, and she admired the marchioness’s disdain for the overly pompous powdered updos still worn by many of the older women in the ton. Mulberry velvet clung to every curve, ivory lace ruffled around her hem and elbows. She wore a very simple necklace made of a tartan ribbon and a pearl drop, and the only other jewellery Margaret could see was a gold ring, also capped with a pearl.

  The marquis shared his wife’s powerful aura—an aura she had noticed about Thomas when she first saw him—but he carried himself like his son when Thomas was comfortable with his company. Lord Ravenwood wore his kilt with a grin, as if daring anyone to question his choice of apparel. Margaret recalled that the Dress Act had been repealed in ’82, and she mentally applauded the Scotsman for supporting his heritage while in London. She did not understand why the kilt had been banned in the first place, unless the English had been afraid that their women would see Scotsmen in kilts—Lord Ravenwood looked very dashing. His eyes were the same shade of dark blue as Thomas’s, and though his jaw was square and strong it was also kindly as he met Margaret’s eyes.

  There was another in their company, a young man following hesitantly, his blue eyes almost a dark velvet in colour. Thomas bent his head slightly when she glanced up at him in question.

  “Neill Craig,” he whispered, taking her hand. “One of my best friends. This must mean that Malcolm has already married Brianna,” he added.

  Margaret nodded, recognizing the names. He had told her about his lost card game to Malcolm MacEwan, and Margaret was eager to thank the friend that had ensured she would meet Thomas. Thomas had spoken highly of Neill, but Margaret knew he would be upset that his best friend had both not waited for him to return to Scotland to attend Malcolm’s wedding, and not come down to see Thomas married.

  If, of course, the Ravenwoods thought her suitable for their son.

  She had been living the past two weeks as if in a dream, blissfully going through each day without understanding just how special a gift she had been given. As she twined her fingers through Thomas’s, she vowed she would never again take his presence in her life for granted. She loved him, and she wouldn’t be frightened away from him by his queen-like mother and her disapproving frown.

  Thomas felt Margaret’s hand stop trembling as his parents finally met them, his father reaching out for his hand and his mother offering him a quick kiss on the cheek. He understood her reaction to his mother’s presence—Riona Gyrlington’s frown had been known to make grown men apologize for decades-old crimes—and was surprised that Margaret had managed to move past her initial fear. Even Thomas was terrified of his mother’s reaction to the news of his courtship.

  Riona did not waste any time. “So this is the girl you think you are going to marry?”

  “Mother—”

  “You have been here two weeks,” Riona continued. “I thought we raised you with better sense—”

  “You raised him with impeccable sense,” Margaret declared. “He is a fine young man and I am honoured that he chose to give his attentions to me.”

  Thomas and his father both gaped at her, astonished that she had not only managed to form complete and intelligent sentences in the face of Riona’s disapproval, but also that she had interrupted.

  They were even more astonished when Riona smiled warmly and declared, “I like her.”

  Thomas looked between his mother and Margaret several times, wishing his mouth would form words instead of opening and closing without purpose. No one had ever made his mother respond in such a manner, but he wasn’t certain if he should applaud Margaret or thank his mother for seeing just how special Margaret could be.

  Over the past two weeks he had learned that Margaret was more than a gentle, sweet, charming young woman; she was infuriatingly stubborn, hardly breathed when she started speaking, and frighteningly fond of everything of which she was fond. And she seemed to be fond of everything. He had at first despaired of hearing her warm voice, but now he realized that, if they married, he would rarely be able to get a word in against her. He did not mind—indeed, he enjoyed listening to her ramble about her passions—but he did occasionally wonder what had happened to the quiet girl he had followed around the ballroom.

  “She does have the necessary confidence,” his father agreed, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. “If you like her, I suppose the matter is settled.”

  “Shouldn’t my feelings count for more than my mother’s approval?” Thomas queried.

  “Any fool can see that you love her,” Riona dismissed, waving a hand in the air. “As soon as I walked in I realized it would be impossible to frighten you away from her.”

  “Then why—”

  “I wanted to be certain that s
he would not be frightened away from you,” Riona explained. “I could never grant my consent to a match with an easily intimidated woman. Now, Miss Nettlby, may I call you Margaret? And you must call me Riona; I tire of formalities.”

  “Of course,” Margaret agreed. She reached out and grasped her father’s sleeve with her free hand, drawing him towards Thomas’s parents with an encouraging smile; Thomas had never observed a nervous Lord Nettlby, but the prospect of conversation with the Ravenwoods appeared to have flustered him. “This is my father, Baron Nettlby.”

  “A pleasure,” Riona offered, curtsying slightly. “My husband, Lord Ravenwood.”

  The two men bowed.

  “Lord Nettlby, you have been able to observe them from the beginning,” Lord Ravenwood stated cheerfully. “Do you think they suit one another?”

  “Without a doubt,” Lord Nettlby managed, more comfortable now that he had been properly introduced. “I cannot think of a better man for my daughter.”

  “Margaret,” Thomas pulled her around his mother, “this is Neill Craig. Neill, this is Miss Margaret Nettlby, soon to be Lady Margaret Gyrlington,” he announced proudly. He grinned and added, “That really does sound wonderful.”

  “Better than Nettlby,” Margaret agreed, her blue eyes large as she smiled up at him.

  Neill raised an eyebrow as he bowed. “Tom…”

  “I love her,” Thomas murmured. “I would not have asked you to come to London if it were not serious.”

  “I understand that, but you must admit this is all rather sudden,” Neill countered. His expression contorted and he turned toward Margaret, saying apologetically, “This is nothing against you, Miss Nettlby. I am sure he would not be in love with you if you were not worthy of him, but I have never known him to make such hasty decisions, especially in a matter so important as matrimony.”