A Season for Love

by Blair Bancroft

  Grimly, Caroline followed her step-mama up the few steps into Almack’s. What her papa could possibly see in that towering Amazon she could not imagine.

  Yet, in spite of Caroline’s determination not to be impressed by her first glimpse of this pinnacle of every young lady’s aspirations, her private thoughts came to an abrupt end as they entered the ballroom. Due to her own personal inclinations, as well as the denigrating remarks she had heard about Almack’s, she had come prepared to scoff. Now, she wondered, unaccustomedly meek, if her false expectations were further proof that she was indeed nothing but a country mouse in fancy dress. For, truly, Almack’s was breathtaking.

  Candles gleamed from a multiple array of double-tiered chandeliers. The windows were so tall their gleaming gold-fringed burgundy swags topped the musicians in their gallery high above the dance floor. Delicate gilded designs decorated the walls, with an occasional marble statue adding a touch of the classical to the decor. And the people . . .

  They were so magnificent Caroline’s heart surged when she looked at them. They might be vain or vicious, shallow or erudite, filled with ennui or vivacious enough to dance the night away. They might be handsome or winsome, eighteen or eighty. She found them all quite wonderful.

  Was she slipping down into a sea of vanity, succumbing to the lure of false façades, seduced by a panoply of colors, the lilt of music, and the chatter of a world that shattered the silence in which she had lived for so long?

  Was she in danger of becoming as shallow as all the others?

  As shallow as her papa who helped run the country and the war?

  As shallow as her step-mama who had endured living in the midst of war itself?

  Enough! Caroline did not care for the trend of her thoughts. Nor was Almack’s the proper place to contemplate such uncomfortable revelations. Either she was being drawn into a world she had been taught to abhor or the glitter of the ton hid a number of persons who were not as frivolous as they appeared.

  A gentleman was bowing before her, offering his arm. Tony! He had promised to come, but Caroline had feared he might forget.

  “Allow me to show you the premises, such as they are,” the viscount said. “The supper room is always of interest, I believe, and a few more secluded, if insignificant, chambers where a young lady is best not to find herself alone with a gentleman.”

  “Yet you wish to show them to me.”

  Lord Frayne shrugged, his handsome face supremely innocent. “I believe they are suitably filled with people at the moment. I was merely offering a general warning about antechambers. Since you are not enamored with the idea of marriage, you do not wish to find yourself in a position so compromising an immediate betrothal is your only recourse.”

  “At Almack’s?” Caroline scoffed.

  “Anywhere,” Tony solemnly assured her, while deftly guiding her steps toward the quietest and most deserted of the antechambers he had recently scouted. “Now this,” he pronounced, “is exactly where you do not wish to be seen with an eligible gentleman. Parson’s mousetrap will snap you up.”

  “Are you not eligible?” Her eyes swept over him, noting his attire was as elegant as her papa’s, though he wore a jacket of deep blue instead of black, a blue a shade darker than his eyes. He looked quite splendid. Caroline’s heart sighed, even as she managed to school her face to the expected indifference.

  “I am family.” Viscount Frayne stated the obvious with just a hint of smug satisfaction. Then—at last—he seemed to throw off the stiff demeanor he had donned for Almack’s. Clasping his hands behind his back, he examined her from head to toe, his eyes lingering, Caroline thought, just a bit too long over her décolletage. “And, besides,” he drawled, “did you not wish to explore some of the more dangerous elements of society?”

  “Somehow—perhaps because you are my step-mama’s brother—” Caroline informed him tartly, “I had not thought you were one of them.”

  “Touché, my dear.” Tony chuckled. “And I have been highly remiss in not telling you how lovely you look tonight. A veritable diamond of the first water.” He lifted her hand, gloved in elbow-length ivory kid, and kissed the air just above her knuckles.

  Caroline was well aware she had never looked better in her life. Although she was too porcelain-skinned to wear white well, ivory suited her to perfection. Over her gown of peau de soie with tiny puffed sleeves and a bodice so minuscule Miss Tompkins had gasped when she saw it, fell a half-skirt of ivory tulle elaborately embroidered in gold. Caroline’s slippers were also gold. Her décolletage was emphasized, rather than filled in, by two strands of ivory pearls her papa had presented to her that afternoon, along with matching earbobs. Pearls were also entwined in her honey gold hair.

  And yet Lord Frayne had not noticed her finery until now. And then he spouted a cliché so time-worn Caroline could scarce believe the words had issued from his customarily sophisticated lips. Lady Caroline Carlington, having just received the ultimate accolade from one of the ton’s most eligible young lords, stepped back and glared at her admirer.

  Tony could not believe he had brought her to this deserted room. When he had looked in a scant ten minutes earlier, there were two other couples engaged in quiet conversation. But at the moment he was alone with Caroline, his wits so scrambled he was acting more like a scruffy schoolboy than a gentleman who had been on the town for a decade. Diamond of the first water. How could he have said something so trite? No matter how true it might be. A fleeting glimpse of Caroline in the Worley diamonds flashed across his vision. No! Absolutely not. He was not taking on a leg-shackle.

  “Have you met the patronesses?” he asked abruptly, reaching blindly for the first excuse he could think of to exit the room.

  “Lady Castlereagh was kind enough to provide my voucher. Naturally, her husband is well acquainted with papa. And Lady Jersey and the Countess de Lieven have also called,” Caroline informed him through what might best be described as bared teeth.

  “Perhaps you would care to meet the others,” the viscount suggested hastily, offering his arm.

  Caroline, looking as if she, too, wished to escape, accepted his offer. Clearly, she found his behavior odd. No more so than he himself, Tony thought. Being addlepated was something he had not experienced since his salad days. He could not like it. He had taken one look at Lady Caroline, haloed by the light of a thousand candles, almost as if shimmering with the brilliance fairy magic, and felt forced to whisk her away, off by herself where only he could look at her. And now, brought rudely to his senses by the realization of his impropriety, he was throwing her back into the fray. Allowing her to be put on display before all the gentlemen who had come to London in search of a wife.

  Only the very best gentleman, he reminded himself. And promptly felt even worse. Tony had known he was in trouble since the night he had encountered a golden-haired wraith in the duke’s bookroom. He had simply not realized how serious that trouble was until this very moment.

  “Perhaps we may be granted permission to waltz.” He could not have said that! Over the past week he had suffered the torture of waltzing with Caroline as she practiced for this Wednesday night at Almack’s. And now he was deliberately compounding his distress.

  “That would be lovely,” Caroline agreed, falling off her high horse in a rush of gratitude. “Truthfully, I am terrified. It would be so much better if my first waltz were with you.”

  They had reached the patronesses, even the stiffest of whom smiled at Lord Frayne. His customary panache revived, Tony made the introductions to the patronesses, an array which included on this particular night the Countess de Lieven, Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper, Lady Sefton, and the Princess Esterhazy.

  “What a charming couple,” declared the Countess de Lieven, beaming upon them both. “My lord, I believe we must grant you permission to waltz with Lady Caroline.”

  The viscount and Caroline solemnly thanked the August patronesses, the Countess de Lieven in particular. As if on cue, the musicians in the
gallery struck up a waltz. Inwardly, Tony blanched, but his features remained perfectly bland, as those of any proper London gentleman should, no matter how severe the stress. He turned to Caroline. “I believe we are about to be the cynosure of all eyes,” he told her. “Close your eyes and picture us alone in your papa’s ballroom and all will be well.” One hand moved firmly to her waist, the other clasped his fingers around hers.

  “Everyone is staring,” she whispered frantically. “I do believe they are waiting for us to begin.”

  “Ah, no, your papa and Jen are taking the floor.”

  On a mutual sigh of relief, Viscount Frayne and Lady Caroline Carlington began to waltz.

  The Duchess of Longville, as bemused as everyone else by the sight of her brother and Caroline receiving nods of approval from the formidable patronesses of Almack’s, was startled to find herself swept onto the dance floor by her husband’s masterly hand. She gasped, nearly tripping over feet that were usually unexpectedly light for a woman of her size. The duke caught her easily, swinging her into the next measure as if she were no weight at all. Jen wanted to sink. Their first waltz as a married couple, and already she had proved herself a clumsy ox, unfit for the elegant confines of society’s most renowned assembly.

  It was not, of course, her first waltz with Marcus. They had partnered each other many times in the years since she had put off her mourning. But, tonight, her first visit to Almack’s as Duchess of Longville had loomed in her mind as a last obstacle to conquer. Somehow the great gawk had become a duchess, and she had taken care to dress for this auspicious but challenging occasion. Her gown of soft apricot silk was cut with utter simplicity and decorated solely with a narrow band of beadwork at the bottom of each tiny puffed sleeves and at the hem of her skirt. Above the tight bodice, which emphasized her magnificent bosom, sparkled the tiers of diamonds that comprised the necklace the duke had once shown her, the large tear-drop diamond at the bottom poised intriguingly just above her cleavage. Diamond ear drops, a bracelet, and a ring that could be seen only when she removed her gloves completed the matched set.

  Ruthlessly, Jen gathered her scattered wits, settling into the lilting steps of the waltz as other couples began to join them on the floor. Yes, there was Sir Chetwin dancing with Lady Harriet. And Emily? . . . Jen experienced a rush of relief as she saw Peyton Trimby-Ashford engaging Emily Bettencourt in conversation at the edge of the dance floor. She should have been overseeing the young woman’s Almack’s debut, which only her position as Duchess of Longville had been able to maneuver past the sharp guard of the patronesses. Yet here she was, held fast in her husband’s arms . . . Jen peeked at the duke, only to discover his eyes quite wickedly fixed on her décolletage.

  “Marcus!” she hissed.

  Shiningly innocent amber eyes lifted to meet her embarrassed, yet titillated, gaze. “Yes, my dear?”

  Jen opened her mouth, found herself speechless. She could feel an unbecoming scarlet, at odds with her apricot gown, suffusing her face.

  “A man must have some amusement at Almack’s,” the duke informed her with perfect aplomb. “Ratafia, dry cakes, and whist,” he mouthed with scorn. “Almack’s is a far cry from a comfortable gentlemen’s club, you must admit.”

  His duchess glared. “It is your daughter’s entrance into society,” she told him roundly.

  “Yes,” he agreed, swirling her into a broad turn that nearly took her breath away, “and she seems to be in good hands. As is Miss Bettencourt. So let us enjoy ourselves.”

  If enjoying himself meant he could look down her dress . . . Suddenly, Jen realized the absurdity of her protest. He was her husband. He might look down her dress all he wished. Just because he was doing it in public, giving all the old tabbies, lined up on gilt chairs against the wall, food for gossip, did not mean he did not have the right to do as he pleased. Truthfully, she had caught him looking down her décolletage a time or two before they were betrothed. As she recalled, the frissons that shook her at the time, instead of anger, had been among her first warnings that she had ceased to mourn Gordon. That it was possible she could feel attraction to another man.

  The duchess favored her husband with a sudden brilliant smile. His eyes gleamed in return, promising more than a look when they returned to Longville House. By the time the last notes of the waltz died away, Jen had been able to conquer the mist that threatened to obscure her eyes. As the sets began to form for a quadrille, the Duchess of Longville had herself in hand. She also had one more tiny reason to hope that her husband did not find her unattractive.

  Before the picnic to Richmond Park, Lady Caroline had been determined to be nothing more than polite to Miss Emily Bettencourt. How could she possibly have anything in common with a young woman who had followed an army while she herself had been snug in a thatched cottage in Little Stoughton? They had, in fact, about as many points of mutual reference as . . . as Caroline had with her step-mother. Yet not once on that long day’s journey to Richmond Park, nor during the waltzing parties the duchess had held for Caroline, Emily, and a few other carefully chosen young ladies, had Miss Bettencourt flaunted her wider knowledge of the world nor put a foot wrong in following the dictates of society. Emily Bettencourt could be described as moderate in all things. Of medium height, with hair of medium brown and eyes an indeterminate gray, she blended into any group of young ladies without standing out. She was soft-spoken, her manners impeccable, and she seemed genuinely grateful for the favor shown her by her father’s old friend, now Duchess of Longville. Truly, Caroline found it very difficult to dislike Emily Bettencourt.

  The two girls were part of a crowd clustered around the duke and duchess when Emily leaned close to Caroline’s ear. “Do you know where the ladies’ retiring room is?” she whispered. “I fear Mr. Trimby-Ashford stepped upon my flounce. I have pins in my reticule, but . . .” Emily’s voice trailed off, she bit her lip.

  After a quick consultation with the duchess, Caroline led Emily unerringly toward the proper antechamber, finding herself absurdly proud of this minor ability to negotiate the maze of London society better than her companion who had once managed to negotiate the wilds of the Iberian Peninsula, albeit at the tag end of an army. Unfortunately, an array of dowagers and other elderly watchdogs of the ton’s strict rules and regulations, were seated like a row of pouter pigeons just outside the door of the ladies’ retiring room. Their voices, many of them raised because the ladies could no longer hear how loud they had become, followed the girls inside.

  “Wasn’t that Longville’s gel?” quavered one.

  “Yes, and that upstart colonel’s daughter with her,” another replied. “Can’t imagine why the duchess took her up.”

  “What else can you expect?” sniffed a third. “A family willing to accept a cuckoo in its nest will tolerate anything.”

  Caroline and Emily had planned to retreat to the inner chamber of the retiring room in order to pin up Miss Bettencourt’s torn gown, but the conversation in dowagers’ row froze them in place. Eavesdroppers might not learn any good of themselves, but it would have been inhuman not to listen to this particular exchange.

  Outside, a fourth, more moderate voice, spoke up. “Pray be careful what you say. ’Tis said the boy is the duke’s image.”

  “Fools see what they wish to see. I, for one, do not plan to acknowledge him.”

  “You would be wise to rethink that position,” counseled the voice of moderation. “Longville is a powerful man.”

  “Who should have a legitimate heir,” her opponent shot back.

  “Surely the sister knows her own brother,” a new voice contributed.

  “The mother was very odd,” declared the most vicious of the dowagers. “Who is to confirm the legitimacy of either of them?”

  Caroline felt Emily’s hand clutch hers. Evidently, her step-mama’s protégé, forgetting her own insult, was offering sympathy for the greater offense against Lady Caroline and her family. “Perhaps we should go,” Emily offered, tugging g
ently on her hand.

  “No.” Caroline’s feet remained stubbornly planted to the carpet. “I wish to hear every last word.”

  “Lady Caroline—” Emily urged.

  A voice rose above the others outside the door. Strong, forceful . . . familiar. “The boy has his papa’s face and his mama’s eyes. He is as legitimate as the day is long. If I claim him as my grandchild, there can be no more discussion of the matter,” pronounced the Dowager Duchess of Longville, who had arrived in time to hear most of the remarks that had offended the ears of her granddaughter and Miss Bettencourt.

  Caroline, who had never thought to see the day when she could feel an ounce of affection for the dowager duchess, bowed her head in thanks, making a vow to call on her grandmother this very week. She looked up to find Emily Bettencourt’s modest good looks bathed in a smile of relief and . . . something more. They had both been insulted, Caroline realized. They each had backgrounds that were outside the ton’s usual acceptable boundaries. They were the same age, each still lacking the town bronze necessary to survive a London season. Of course, Emily was probably in search of a husband, Caroline mused, grasping at some reason to continue her indifference to the duchess’s young friend.

  Caroline returned Emily’s smile, which had become questioning. “Give me the pins,” she said, holding out her hand. “Let us mend your gown so we can return to the ballroom and dazzle all the gentlemen.”

  Miss Bettencourt’s smile brightened into radiance as she recognized what was undoubtedly a great concession on the part of Lady Caroline. The two girls entered the inner chamber of the retiring room, each aware of a new-found rapport forged over the viciousness of London scandalmongers.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Uncle Tony!”

  “Unc’a Tony!”

  Laurence, Marquess of Huntley, bounded down the sweeping curve of the front staircase at Longville House. In his wake, a small figure in a pastel blue gown and sparkling white pinafore valiantly struggled to keep up. Laurence took the last two steps in one great leap to the tiles below and threw his arms around the viscount’s knees. Miss Susan Wharton, pausing mid-stairs to catch her breath, managed the first plea. “We want to go with you,” she called, her voice rising to a near wail.