Lovers and Ladies

by Jo Beverley

  Harry looked up with an ironic smile. “Why the heat? Clyta doesn’t care whether I attend or not.” There was a ping, and the dancer’s leg went limp.

  “Yes, she does. She asked after you particularly.”

  Harry looked up from the mechanism to raise an unusually cynical brow. “If she’s developed a crush on me, I’d best stay away. You were right. We wouldn’t suit.”

  Chart walked over, picked up the automaton, and placed it on the sideboard. “She does not have a crush on you, but she’s nervous and wants a horde of handsome young men to do her proud, at least some of them not related. You’re coming.”

  Harry gave a brief laugh and rose. “If it means that much.” He went to a mirror and inspected his cravat, rearranging the folds slightly. “I suppose Lucy Frogmorton may be there. I suspect I may end up married to her.”

  Chart could feel more gray hairs sprouting by the minute.

  Clyta’s ball was to be held at the magnificent mansion belonging to her uncle, the Duke of Tyne. As the Claybury carriage set them down in front of it, Amy reflected that she might have been hasty in writing off the fortunes of the ton. Some people were obviously still very rich.

  “It is a very fine house, isn’t it?” said Sir Cedric as he assisted her down. It had turned out that he, too, had an invitation to this event and so he had arranged to escort them. On the whole, Amy was pleased. She would be able to show him she wasn’t afraid of moving in high circles, and—should the worst happen—he would form a buffer between herself and Harry Crisp.

  Amy kept to her resolution and ceased acting a part. She did not know whether Sir Cedric noticed it or not, but it had certainly not diluted his regard. Amy had no doubt he felt warmly toward her and she waited anxiously for him to address the subject of marriage. The sooner it was settled, the sooner she could go home.

  “It is magnificent,” she replied. “And with all the windows lit it looks like a fairy palace.” Feeling bold, she added, “What is your house like, Sir Cedric?”

  “Not nearly so fine as this, I’m afraid, but I think it a pleasant home. Perhaps tomorrow you and your aunt would take tea there.”

  There, thought Amy with a glow of triumph, that wasn’t so hard. “I must ask Aunt Lizzie, but I do not believe we have any engagements.”

  In fact, as they worked their way up the stairs, she began to think that she might be able to prompt Sir Cedric to speak of marriage tonight. She knew she looked her best, and the startled attention she was garnering from every quarter confirmed it.

  On hearing of the invitation, Nell Claybury had insisted on ordering a special dress for Amy, and no protest had been able to dissuade her. The kind woman was so cock-a-hoop to be going to a ball at a ducal mansion that she clearly needed to make some gesture in return. In the end Amy had given in.

  They had decided to give the order to Mrs. Littlewood, Nell’s normal dressmaker, rather than try a new and more fashionable one. The woman had easily risen to the challenge. They had all worked together to pick a design and adapt it, for, said Mrs. Littlewood shrewdly, looks like Amy’s did not need ornamenting and simplicity would serve them better than flounces.

  The gown was of cream satin under a tunic of white lace dusted with tiny golden beads. It fell smooth without flounce or fringing. On the very short bodice the beads were arranged in a pattern of leaves, and the same design decorated the puffed sleeves. Golden ribbons were woven through Amy’s curls, and around her neck she wore a pretty, delicate golden necklace set with pearls, which Nell Claybury had lent her.

  Though she had set out to look her best, as the gasps and whispers marked her progress, Amy began to feel her usual embarrassment.

  Nell Claybury leaned forward and murmured, “Goodness, it’s just like being in a play, isn’t it, dear?”

  Amy looked around and decided it was. Everyone was posing and preening, and delivering witty lines which often sounded rehearsed. Her part, it would appear, was fairy princess. So be it. She flashed a grateful smile at Nell, raised her chin, and prepared to enjoy herself.

  In the receiving line, Clyta’s parents were haughty but pleased to approve of “one of the Lincolnshire de Lacys.” Clyta was handsome in pale blue lace and bubbling with excitement and nervousness, which was a dangerous combination. “Just be yourself, dear,” Amy whispered before she had to move on.

  To Chart Ashby.

  He took her hand. “Miss de Lacy.”

  “Mr. Ashby.” Amy tried to read his face and couldn’t. He was acting as if they were slight acquaintances. That was true, of course, but was that all? She had the sudden paralyzing image of Harry Crisp saying, “Who? Amy de Lacy? Oh yes. Met her in the Shires somewhere.”

  She found herself well advanced into the room with no idea how she had come there.

  “You are looking faint again, Miss de Lacy,” said Sir Cedric with concern. “I do not think crowds agree with you.”

  Amy plied her ivory fan. “You may be correct. Perhaps we could move closer to the windows.”

  Harry watched Amy numbly.

  A hum in the room had alerted him. It was nothing definite, just a change in the tone of the voices all around. It drew his attention and focused it—focused it on a vision in white and gold floating through the glittering throng and making everyone else look decidedly shabby.

  Amethyst de Lacy, smiling, at ease, and looking like a princess.

  What a fool he’d been to even imagine she would marry him. She was fit for a king, or at least a duke. He glanced sideways at the Duke of Rowanford—young and eligible.

  “Who in God’s name is that?” asked Rowanford in a reverent whisper.

  “Amethyst de Lacy of Lincolnshire,” said Harry coolly.

  Rowanford looked at him. “You know her, Harry? Care to introduce me?”

  Harry almost laughed, but then he thought, Why not? and led the way over to Amy. She was with her aunt, another older woman, and that damned banker. He wondered cynically what she’d do when she had to choose between a young, wealthy duke and an older, much wealthier banker. This should be amusing.

  She was facing away from him, so he had the advantage of surprise. “Miss de Lacy.”

  She turned quickly, pale, and with huge eyes. He remembered her looking like that in the kitchen at Coppice Farm before he’d set himself out to soothe her. What on earth was she afraid of now with friends, relatives, and the whole of Society at her back? Probably that he’d expose her for the greedy, heartless harpy she was.

  “Mr. Crisp,” she said faintly. He saw her swallow.

  He indicated Rowanford. “Beg leave to present my friend, the Duke of Rowanford, Miss de Lacy.” As she extended her hand he added, “Rowanford, Miss de Lacy.”

  He watched cynically as she chatted and promised the duke the supper dance. She was making no particular play to catch Rowanford’s interest, but then she didn’t need to. Her damn beauty did it all for her. She’d ensnared Harry dressed in a blanket, and now she had the finest gown a London modiste could provide.

  What had happened to her poverty? he wondered cynically. She’d doubtless been borrowing against expectations.

  Rowanford dug him in the ribs, “Wits wandering, Harry? You should grab a dance now before the hordes descend.”

  Harry looked to Amy for any indication of her feelings, but her face was as smooth as the porcelain features of Lady Jane. As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. “May I have the first waltz, Miss de Lacy?”

  Her eyes widened, and he only then realized she could hardly say no. “Of course, Mr. Crisp.”

  He looked so strange, thought Amy. Pale, not the least like smiling. But he had come over to her. No one had forced him. And why on earth had he asked her for a dance, for a waltz?

  She didn’t know what it was going to be like to swirl round and round in his arms. She didn’t want to think about it.

  The music finally began for the first dance, and Sir Cedric led her out into the same set as Clyta, who was partnered by her brother.
Sir Cedric rarely danced, but he had claimed “the first dance with the most beautiful woman in the room.” Amy told herself that this warm flattery sounded very hopeful and smiled up at him. He was very handsome and distinguished and fit into this company perfectly. There would be no need to blush for her husband.

  Then Harry joined them. His partner was the girl he’d been with at the Surrey Institution. She was pretty, elegant, and sparkled with vitality. She said something to Harry and he laughed with honest amusement.

  Amy couldn’t help it. She was assailed by searing, irrational jealousy. She had to know.

  She moved a step closer to Clyta. “Who is the auburn-haired woman?”

  Clyta had the tremulous blankness she always had when she was feeling nervous or guilty. “Oh her!” she said with piercing gaiety. “That’s Sophie. Lady Randal Ashby. Randal’s our cousin, isn’t he, Chart?”

  “Was last time I thought about it,” said Chart dryly. “Calm down, Clyta.”

  Clyta calmed like a pricked bubble. Really, thought Amy as the music began, a Season could be cruel torment for someone like Clyta. She had the feeling her friend had been doing a little scheming and was nervous about it, but she could hardly task her with it when Clyta was already in a state.

  Besides, she and Harry had met and the world had not ended, and Harry was dancing with a safely married lady.

  It was only as she curtsied to Sir Cedric that she saw him glance thoughtfully at Harry Crisp. She set out to charm his mind away from the subject.

  Amy’s next partner was the Duke of Rowanford, who had turned greedy and demanded another dance before the supper one. She smiled to think how delighted Aunt Lizzie would be to see her dance twice with a duke. He was even that rare specimen, a young and handsome duke, with wavy brown hair and rather soulful dark eyes.

  “You smile?” he asked. “Why?”

  “Because I have finally met a duke,” Amy said in her new spirit of honesty. “My family have always been of the opinion that I should marry a duke.”

  After a startled moment he laughed. When the dance brought them back together he said, “Are you not afraid of being thought bold, Miss de Lacy?”

  “Why is that bold? I’ll go odds half the women in this room think they should marry a duke.”

  He grinned. “I’d have to cut myself into tiny pieces. There aren’t many of us available.”

  “That,” she pointed out, “is why you are so sought after, your grace.”

  He laughed again. “You are set on deflating my pride, I see. Pray tell me, Miss de Lacy, where have you sprung from?”

  “Chelsea,” she said blithely as she danced off into a new pattern.

  As they promenaded afterward he said, “Are you, like Cinderella, going to disappear at midnight, Miss de Lacy?”

  “I hardly think so, your grace. But don’t expect to see me again at these events. I only came to oblige Clyta Ashby. In fact, I think I should go and speak to her, if we could progress in that direction.”

  It was as they worked their way toward Clyta that Amy realized she had created great problems for herself this evening. She had promised to be with her friend, but that would throw her in with Chart Ashby, and doubtless Harry Crisp as well. Moreover, this would not allow much opportunity to work a declaration out of Sir Cedric. To make matters worse, the duke seemed inclined to attach himself to her, and Sir Cedric might gain the impression that she was throwing him over for bigger game.

  It might, of course, stimulate jealousy, but Amy judged Sir Cedric as too cool and mature to allow himself to be manipulated by that base emotion.

  When they arrived at the group which centered on Clyta, Amy saw that Harry’s dancing partner, Sophie, was there along with the handsome blond man of the Surrey Institution. She was introduced to Clyta’s cousin Lord Randal Ashby, son of the Duke of Tyne, who owned this house.

  Was it her imagination the Ashbys looked at her with particular attention?

  As she tried to calm Clyta and bolster her confidence, Amy was most uncomfortable herself. These were Harry’s friends and they must know of her wretched behavior. What did they think of her?

  Where was he?

  The music struck up for the first waltz and Harry appeared at her side, face guarded. “This is our dance, I believe, Miss de Lacy.”

  As she turned to go with him, she saw astonishment of varying degrees on the faces around.

  “I am sure there is no need for this dance, sir,” she said coolly as he led her onto the floor. “I am quite willing to pretend some sort of indisposition.”

  His face was a mask of courtesy. “I asked you to partner me and you accepted. There is no need to fuss.”

  “I could hardly refuse without seeming intolerably rude.”

  “I would not have thought such considerations would bear heavily upon you, Miss de Lacy.”

  Amy gasped and would have stalked away except that he grasped her wrist, and that brought her to her senses. Perhaps it was his intention after all to make her an object of scandal, but she would not play into his hands.

  She looked at him and smiled. She placed her hand upon his shoulder.

  He took her right hand in his left and placed his other at her waist, looking at her as if she were an unexploded bomb. They began to dance.

  Perhaps it was the glittering room and the fine company, but the waltz had never been like this before. It had been danced in Lincolnshire—greatly daring—at informal hops and the occasional assembly, but Amy had always preferred the country dances. They were more fun.

  Now, spinning in Harry Crisp’s arms, surrendering to his direction, trusting to his skill, she felt the magic touch her and knew why so many were still scandalized by it. Such rapturous feelings must be wrong.

  She was irresistibly carried back to their short time of harmony—shared laughter, kindness, a kiss—but when she looked up at him, he was a stranger.

  She wished the mask would fall and reveal the man she had spent that afternoon with, he in shirtsleeves, she in a blanket. Though there could be no future for them, could they not be friends? Reviewing their path to this bitter point, she had to admit that a great deal of it had been her fault. Her feelings had frightened her, and she had lost control and struck out to drive him away.

  She made a decision and forced out the words. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” he asked coolly, not even looking at her. “You dance as beautifully as anyone would expect.”

  “For being intolerably rude,” she persisted. “If that is how you see it.”

  He glanced down and raised a brow. “Is not that how you see it?”

  Amy kept a hold on her temper. “Perhaps. But chiefly, I was being honest,” she said.

  “So was I.”

  “When?” she asked, confused.

  “When I called you a bitch.” He smiled and executed a particularly dizzy turn.

  Amy gasped and tried to pull out of his arms, but he was too strong for her. “Going to hit me again?” he asked through a tight smile. “Not here, you’re not.”

  “I wouldn’t put myself to the trouble,” snapped Amy, giving up the struggle and refusing to look at him. “Your manners are beyond correction.”

  “Was that what you were trying to do? You might try to teach by example the next time.”

  “There will be no next time.”

  “Ah, no,” he said. “Both Forbes and Rowanford have excellent manners, I’m sure. I think I’ll set up a book on which one you’ll pick. Are you willing to give up a few hundred thousand in ready cash for a coronet, or is it really just the money that counts?”

  Amy refused to speak to him, though she remembered to keep a small, tight smile on her face.

  “Of course Rowanford also has the advantage of being childless,” he carried on. “Sir Cedric’s hopeful offspring will doubtless cut up rough at seeing the family fortune trickling through your fingers. Have you got into it already? Such fine feathers, and a very pretty necklace.”

  T
he music ended, thank God. Amy would have walked away, but he took a grip on her arm, which she couldn’t break, and said, “I will, of course, escort you to your aunt.”

  As they approached Aunt Lizzie, Amy said, “You understand, of course, that I will never agree to dance with you again, Mr. Crisp.”

  His smile was chilly as he bowed. “My dear Amethyst, you will never be asked.”

  With willpower she had never before been aware of, Amy smiled as he walked away, and as she took a seat by her aunt.

  “I was never so surprised!” declared Lizzie. “Fancy you standing up with him and acting as if you were nothing but casual acquaintances.”

  “That is all we are,” said Amy, her jaw aching with the smile.

  “With a proposal and a red face between you,” said Lizzie skeptically. “Oh well, I never did think to understand you, Amethyst. Even in the cradle you were contrary. Now, what about that duke?”

  “What about Sir Cedric?” countered Amy, looking around. She was in an excellent mood to bring the man to the point.

  “He was dancing with Nell. Really, Amethyst. You can’t turn your nose up at a duke. He’s warm enough—I’ve made inquiries. Think what it would be for your sisters and Jasper to be related to a duke.”

  Oh heavens, thought Amy. She’d never thought of the power of connections. Was it her duty to weigh title against cash just as Harry Crisp had implied? She had no time to consider it, for her next partner came to claim her, and after that was the supper dance.

  She knew the fact that the duke was standing up with her for the second time was being noticed. She supposed he was the catch of the Season and she really should make some effort to reel him in. She even liked him, for he seemed thoroughly pleasant for such an exalted personage.

  She spent most of the dance pondering her reluctance to try to snare Rowanford. She decided it was that it wouldn’t be fair to cheat such a man out of the warmth he deserved, and she felt no particular warmth for him. Sir Cedric was a simpler case and would be content with what she had to offer.

  Having made up her mind, Amy was anxious to be back in her prospective husband’s company.