Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Lady Grace?” Sykes raised his hand a little higher. She glanced at his face. Perfectly expressionless, except for the eyebrows which jumped impatiently toward his wig.

  “Grace…” Aunt Katherine sounded as if she were considering shoving her out the door, perhaps with her delicate foot applied to Grace’s not-so-delicate derriere.

  Grace sighed. Clearly, she had no choice. She was condemned to brave the duke’s ballroom.

  She took Sykes’s hand and left the safety of the carriage.

  Thank God! Kate had thought Grace was never going to get out. She followed her niece down the stairs, pausing when her foot reached the pavement. She looked up at the Duke of Alvord’s London townhouse.

  Lud! It was just as she remembered it, glowing with the light of hundreds of candles. Magical. How could Grace not be enchanted?

  Grace did not look the least bit enchanted. She was standing by the green iron fence, arms crossed, scowling at the receiving line. It was so long it had spilled out the front door.

  Oh, dear. Apparently the servants’ gossip was correct. All the ton wanted to see the American female who was living under Alvord’s roof—and see whether Alvord’s unpleasant cousin would create a delicious scene. That had been one advantage of hiding away in the country. The local gossips were not as vicious as their London counterparts.

  Well, there was no point in standing here on the walk like blocks.

  “We shall not be late, Mr. Sykes.”

  Why was the man grinning at her? And he had a distinctly cat-in-the-cream-pot look. Her stomach tightened.

  What did he know that she didn’t?

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, nothing, my lady.” His grin widened. “I’m just thinking the evening might hold a surprise or two.”

  A surprise? She did not like surprises.

  Perhaps she should have followed Grace’s lead and stayed in the carriage. Her stomach tightened further until it was a rock-hard knot.

  Dear God! Sykes couldn’t mean…No, of course not. Yet the gleam in his eyes was most pronounced.

  He couldn’t mean that Mr. Alexander Wilton would be in attendance?

  No. She was letting her imagination run away with her. Alex never came to Town. She knew—she’d been reading the London gossip columns for years. And William would not have let her bring his daughter to London if there was the slightest chance they might encounter a Wilton. He hated that family with a passion that hadn’t dimmed in twenty-three—no, thirty-one—years.

  Sykes put up the stairs. “You know,” he said quietly, so quietly she had to strain to hear, “Lord Oxbury—your dear departed husband, not the current bast—” He coughed. “Well, the old lord wouldn’t want you to mourn him too long. He’d want you to find happiness.”

  “Uh—” Her eyes must be starting from her head. Why was Sykes bringing up this topic?

  “He knew he was too old for you.”

  “Oh, no. I mean, I don’t, um—” Had Oxbury confided in Sykes? Well, they were of an age, and she’d always wondered if their connection was closer than master and servant.

  “He would never want you to spend the rest of your life alone.”

  “No, uh, of course, um, that is, I hadn’t thought—”

  But she had thought. She looked away. Surely the light was too uncertain for Sykes or Grace to notice her flushed cheeks?

  She hadn’t…she had barely admitted it to herself, but she had thought…only in a general way, of course…that while Grace was looking for a husband, she might also take a glance around the ton’s ballrooms. Oh, not for another husband necessarily—though Oxbury’s heir was certain to make living in the Dower House miserable—but, well, she was a widow, and widows were allowed—almost expected to take—certain…liberties.

  She’d admit she’d had Marie lace her stays a little tighter than usual—a little tighter than comfortable. Stupid! She’d wanted to look young again, slim and virginal and seventeen. Impossible. Worse, futile. Marie could tighten her stays until the strings broke, she’d still have a deep crease between her brows, lines at the corner of her eyes, threads of gray in her hair…

  Forty. She was forty years old. Too old for—

  Just too old.

  Well, this was most certainly not a conversation to be having on the public walk in front of the Duke of Alvord’s townhouse with half the gossiping ton milling about—and half their coachmen loudly urging Sykes to get the bloody move on, mate.

  “We won’t be late,” she repeated, firmly.

  Sykes winked, then clambered up next to the coachman. “Right. Have a pleasant evening, my lady.”

  “Sykes!”

  The man just waved as the horses moved off.

  “What was that about?” Grace had walked over to stand next to her. At least the odd scene with Sykes had taken her out of her sulks for the moment.

  Kate shrugged. “I don’t know. One of Sykes’s odd starts, I suppose.”

  “Sykes has odd starts?”

  “Well, not that I’d noticed, but being in London can do strange things to a person.” It was certainly doing strange things to her. She was actually considering…well, something.

  “Yes.” Grace was nodding. “Very strange things. I think we should go home immediately.”

  “Nonsense. We can’t go home—you saw Sykes just left with the carriage.” Lud! People were starting to stare at them. “You were eager enough to enjoy the Season before we came.”

  Grace’s brows snapped down. “I was never eager. I was angry. I came to spite my father.” She looked back at the receiving line. “But he was right. I will be a laughing stock.”

  “You will not. And don’t frown, you’ll give yourself wrinkles.”

  Grace, ignoring her advice as usual, scowled at her. “How can you know the ton won’t laugh me out of that ballroom?”

  Kate took as deep a breath as her too-tight stays would allow. Patience. She must strive for patience. It was nerves that were making Grace so tetchy.

  “I can’t know the idiots won’t laugh, but I do know they won’t chase you from the room. You must simply look down your nose at them. You are an earl’s daughter, after all. Show some backbone.”

  Her tone was sharper than she’d intended, but Grace was not the only one on pins and needles this evening. Why had Sykes mentioned surprises?

  A slight breeze brushed her cheek. The noise of the street—the creak and jingle of harnesses, the rattle of wheels on cobbles, the shouts of the coachmen—competed with the drone of conversation that drifted from the receiving line and out of the open windows.

  She’d stood here twenty-three years ago, eager for excitement and surprises. Only seventeen, in her first—and last—London Season, she’d had her head full of silly dreams of handsome men and stolen kisses. Of love and marriage. Of happily ever after.

  Of fairy tales! At least Grace stood in no danger of falling prey to such airy dreams.

  “Come on, Grace,” she said. “We need to join the receiving line.”

  Grace made an odd noise, a cross between a snort and a gag. “Join that revolting collection of fops and toadies?”

  “Shh!” What was the matter with the girl? Did she want to marry that boring neighbor William had picked for her? “You’ll meet scores of eligible young men tonight. Aren’t you the least bit—?”

  “Look at me, Aunt Kate.”

  “I have been looking at you.” She tilted her head back to look again. Grace’s copper-colored hair was gathered high on her head, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful—except for the frown marring her forehead and turning her full lips down at the corners. “You know, some small semblance of conviviality would not go amiss.”

  “Aunt Katherine, I could smile until my face cracked, it would make no difference. No one would notice. No one would see. In case you haven’t made note of it, I tower over everyone.”

  “Surely not everyone, Grace. There are tall gentlemen among the ton.” Alex’s
face flashed into her memory, but she banished it immediately. “There’s sure to be some here tonight.”

  “Aunt Katherine, this is not the first ball I’ve attended. We do have some society in Devon. I know how the women will whisper and the men will stare.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  “Yes, they will. They are.”

  “What?”

  Grace looked significantly toward the receiving line. A fop in a hideous canary waistcoat had his quizzing glass to his eye and was directing it at Grace’s—

  “Oh!”

  Kate stepped briskly in front of her niece. Let the mutton-headed nodcock inspect her glaring countenance instead.

  “Stupid coxcomb! Just ignore him, Grace.”

  “But Aunt Katherine—” Grace sighed. Aunt Katherine didn’t understand. How could she? She was small and delicate. She’d never had to listen to women gasp and giggle when she entered a room. She’d never seen men’s eyes widen—and then widen more as they focused on the most prominent part of her anatomy.

  Height was not her only notable attribute.

  Thank heavens she’d been able to convince the mantua maker to fashion a high neck on most of her gowns. It had been a challenge. For some reason the woman—and even Aunt Katherine—had had the ridiculous notion that displaying her…charms for all the world to see was a good idea. Had they never observed how gentlemen behaved? If she wanted any hope of conducting a rational conversation with a member of the opposite sex, she needed to cover her two most prominent distractions.

  She had not won the battle entirely. Three of her ball gowns had scandalously low necks, but she was confident that the problem could be remedied by the judicious use of fichus.

  “Come, Grace.” Aunt Katherine linked her arm through hers. “You’ll have a splendid time once we are finally inside. London is as different from Devon as chalk from cheese.”

  Doubtful, but there was little point in arguing the matter. No point, actually—as Aunt Katherine had pointed out, the carriage had left. She was stuck here. She could while away the hours amidst the potted palms and chaperones considering how best to persuade Aunt Katherine to let her forgo the Season’s myriad social entertainments. She would much rather spend her limited time in Town viewing the sights. This might be—most likely was—her last opportunity to see London. When she wed John, she must be governed by his wishes, and he wished never to stir from Devon and his bloody beautiful gardens.

  They joined the receiving line behind a small blonde woman who looked to be close to Grace’s own age and two older females.

  “The rumors are ridiculous, Charlotte.” The shorter of the two older females—the one with the sharp, beaklike nose—sniffed, causing her remarkable nostrils to flare. “Alvord won’t marry the American.”

  The blonde shrugged. “Really, Mother, I didn’t think he would.”

  “I don’t know.” The other woman was almost as tall as Grace, but thin and bony. “She is the Earl of Westbrooke’s cousin.”

  The blonde and her mother stared at the third woman.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Huffy.” The mother’s nostrils curled up as if she smelled something particularly offensive. “She’s the daughter of Westbrooke’s black sheep uncle and some Scottish merchant’s spawn. Compared to Rothingham’s lineage and my own—well, there is no comparison, is there? Alvord would have to be a complete flat to choose that…mushroom over Charlotte.”

  “Well, yes, I see your point—”

  “Of course you do. It is as obvious as the nose on my face.”

  Lud, the woman hadn’t actually said that, had she? Grace turned her startled laugh into a cough immediately, but it was too late. She’d caught the woman’s attention. Hard little eyes glared up at her.

  “Have we met, Miss…?”

  “Lady Grace Belmont,” Aunt Katherine said, stepping closer and glaring back at the woman, “the Earl of Standen’s daughter. And I am her aunt, Lady Oxbury.”

  “Hmm.” The nostrils flared. “Lady Oxbury. So it’s been a year already since Oxbury died?”

  Aunt Katherine could look rather impressively haughty herself. “Indeed. I put off my widow’s weeds two months ago.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I heard your name, Mrs…?”

  Huffy drew in a sharp breath.

  The nostrils flared again. “Of course, it has been so long since you’ve graced the ton with your presence, we can’t expect you to be au courant, can we? How many years has it been, Lady Oxbury?”

  “A few.”

  The woman smirked. “Quite a few.” She raised her massive nose higher. “I am the Duchess of Rothingham.” She nodded at the blonde. “This is my daughter, Lady Charlotte.” Lady Charlotte yawned and played with her fan. “And my friend, Lady Huffington.”

  Lady Huffington nodded slightly, puffing out her scrawny chest as though she were especially proud to be called the duchess’s friend.

  The duchess raised her eyebrows and twitched her nostrils at Aunt Katherine. “What, may I ask, brings you to Town, Lady Oxbury?” Her smirk grew. “Husband hunting, perhaps?” She made an odd sound, something between a hiccup and a throat clearing that might have been meant as a giggle. “I’ve heard the new earl is not so delighted to have inherited his cousin’s relict along with the title.”

  Bloody hell! The woman might be a duchess, but that gave her no right to be insulting.

  “Now—ouch!” Aunt Katherine had trod on her foot! Grace turned to glare at her aunt, but Aunt Katherine ignored her.

  “I’m here to chaperone my niece, of course, Your Grace.”

  Surely Aunt Katherine wasn’t trying to turn the harpy up sweet, was she? She wouldn’t sink that low!

  Apparently she would.

  “This is Lady Grace’s first Season.” Aunt Katherine actually smiled at the despicable duchess.

  Grace clenched her teeth, clasped her hands, and counted to ten. Lady Charlotte snorted along with her mother. Well, really, Grace couldn’t blame them. She was ridiculously old for a debutante.

  “How”—the duchess glanced at Lady Huffington and raised her eyebrows to her damn turban—“nice.”

  Lady Huffington snickered.

  Grace counted to twenty.

  The line advanced, and the duchess’s august party stepped through the front door, thankfully turning their elegantly attired backs on them.

  Grace bent to her aunt and hissed, “I can’t believe you didn’t kick that old harridan in the shins.”

  “Grace!” Aunt Katherine sent a furtive glance at the duchess’s back. “Shh! We don’t want to annoy the duchess.”

  “You may not. I don’t give a flying fig whether I annoy her or not.”

  “Well, you should. You don’t want to make such a powerful enemy.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It is not ridiculous.”

  The gentleman and lady behind them paused their conversation to look at them. Aunt Katherine took Grace’s arm and urged her forward.

  “London is not Standen, Grace. Everyone knows you in the country; your reputation and your father’s title protect you from malicious gossip. But here in Town…Well, the duchess could ruin your Season before you step into Alvord’s ballroom.”

  “Gammon! I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “Believe it.” Aunt Katherine’s mouth formed a thin, straight line.

  “But they are just in front of us. They can’t—”

  “They can.” Aunt Katherine’s mouth twisted. “Gossip runs like fire through straw in London.”

  Her voice held a distinctively bitter note. Had she been scorched by the ton’s tittle-tattle? How could she have been? As the duchess had said, it had been years since Aunt Katherine had been in London. Was that why she had stayed away, because of some ancient on dit?

  Impossible. Aunt Katherine was the pattern card of composure and restraint. Even when she’d been arguing with Papa at Standen, trying to persuade him to allow this trip, she hadn’t rai
sed her voice. No, surely Aunt Katherine had never done a scandalous thing in her life.

  They stepped into the entry hall then and Grace’s mouth dropped open. She snapped it closed when she felt Aunt Katherine’s surreptitious tug on her arm.

  She was not completely green. Papa was an earl, after all; Standen was a large, stately pile. She had been to a number of balls and parties, but nothing compared to this.

  The broad marble staircase, sweeping up from the wide entry with its black and white patterned floor, was crowded with men in precisely fitted black coats and snowy white cravats and women in debutante white or gowns of brilliant colors, their heads adorned with turbans or flowers or ostrich feathers, their necks dripping with jewels. And the noise! The sound of so many conversations reverberated, becoming a roar. It was hard to imagine how anyone could understand a word.

  She and Aunt Katherine made their way slowly up the stairs—Grace looked back to see that people were still coming in the door—and down the receiving line. The duke was young—not yet thirty at a guess—and tall, taller than she, as was the Earl of Westbrooke. Even the American girl, the earl’s cousin, Miss Sarah Hamilton, was roughly Grace’s height, though of a slighter build.

  “See,” Aunt Katherine said as soon as they’d stepped through the wide double doors into the ballroom, “you did not tower over the duke or the earl or even Miss Hamilton. You have been in such a pucker over nothing.”

  “Hmm.” Could it be that she wouldn’t stand out here as she did at home? She looked out over the crowded ballroom and felt a small frisson, a slight shiver of excitement. Perhaps this trip to Town would not be a complete disaster. Perhaps Papa was wrong. “I might have overreacted slightly.”

  “Might have?” Aunt Katherine shook her head. “There’s no ‘might’ about it. I thought you were not going to leave the carriage.”

  “Well—”

  “And now look.” Katherine made a small, graceful gesture encompassing the ballroom. “You have all of society at your feet.”

  “Until we descend these stairs and join the crush.”

  Katherine grinned. “True. So take a moment before we do”—they stepped aside to let another couple, just free of the receiving line, pass down the steps to the ballroom—“to look. I see a number of tall gentlemen—and I daresay they see you.”