Lady Lenora had been tempted to best her; it was obvious. Her bright green eyes had flashed with anger, but in the end, one-hundred-fifty pounds had been too much for her. For that matter, Frances’s father had been none too pleased with the amount, either, but when she made an argument about how all the money went to the poor animals at the Royal Society, her papa had firmly patted the head of his beloved Labrador retriever, cleared his throat, and nodded.
Frances turned around and straightened her shoulders. Yes. She would stop acting like a scared little fool and go be charming to Mr. Holloway. He might not be half as interesting as he’d seemed, after all. She didn’t know him that well, but it was high time to find out. She nodded firmly and made her way across the ballroom.
Mr. Holloway met her halfway. She eyed him up and down. If he’d been drinking, she couldn’t tell. But any real gentleman wouldn’t imbibe too much. And Mr. Holloway was obviously a gentleman.
“Miss Birmingham,” he said, bowing to her and causing her belly do an unexpected flip, “May I have this dance?”
Oh, no. Butterflies in her stomach. Hadn’t Annie said those pesky little insects appeared when one was madly in love? Of course it was ludicrous to assume anything of the sort under such circumstances, but their appearance unsettled Frances nonetheless.
She bit her lip and then smiled. “By all means, Mr. Holloway, you may.”
Mr. Holloway, it seemed, was a magical dancer. Quite spry for a man so tall. And he made her laugh the entire time with stories and comments about the dance as well as the other dancers.
The dancing ended and Frances knew true regret. Well, he’d been charming to her mother and he’d passed the dancing test. Both items to recommend him so far. She’d like to dance more, actually.
She was just about to mention it when she turned around and knocked straight into Lady Lenora Harcourt.
CHAPTER 5
“There you are, Mr. Holloway,” Lady Lenora’s smooth voice flowed from her berry-red lips like wine from a knocked-over bottle.
Charlie bowed. “Lady Harcourt.”
“Miss Birmingham,” Lady Lenora said, clearly acknowledging Frances out of necessity. Her nose remained pinched the entire time, however, as if she smelled something rancid.
Frances had fantasies of tripping her and then asking Charlie to dance again.
“I’m awfully sorry we haven’t had an opportunity to spend more time together this evening,” Lady Lenora said, looking up at Charlie with her big green eyes wide and batting her lashes without shame.
The nerve. Frances clenched her fist. That harlot. But Lady Lenora, no doubt, wouldn’t have bungled the fabric line.
“Yes, well, I do hope you enjoy your evening, Lady Harcourt,” Mr. Holloway replied.
Frances wanted to sink through the floor. She looked down at her pink gown. It seemed childish and silly compared to Lady Lenora’s gorgeous emerald one that brought out the beauty of her eyes. And of course Lady Lenora didn’t wear awful little spectacles. Frances had tried to go without them, but she was never able to see things as well and she didn’t like to miss anything. She’d long ago sacrificed beauty for function. Again, much to her mama’s dismay. At the moment, however, Frances wished her spectacles to perdition.
“I do hope you might be able to spare a dance for me later, Mr. Holloway,” Lady Lenora added with a catlike smile.
Frances had to bunch her hand in her skirts to keep from slapping her.
Mr. Holloway had the grace to look humble. “My apologies,” he replied. “But I’m spending the evening at Miss Birmingham’s side. Perhaps another time.”
If Frances were the swooning sort, she certainly would have done so. Instead, she gave a little toss of her head in Lady Lenora’s direction and said yes immediately when Mr. Holloway asked her for the next dance. Lady Lenora soon faded into the crowd and Charlie swept Frances into his arms.
“Why did you do that?” The question escaped her lips before she had a chance to examine it. She wanted to clap her hand over her mouth. Not subtle, Frances.
“Do what?” Charlie’s oh-so-handsome brow was furrowed.
She might as well be out with it. No use in pretending. And besides, she wanted to know. “Refuse to dance with Lady Harcourt.”
Charlie’s grin made Frances’s knees weak again. “As I recall, Lady Harcourt lost the bid.”
Frances couldn’t help her triumphant smile. “She did indeed.”
“And I find I’m having quite an enjoyable time with you.” Had he just winked at her? Good thing she was not a swooner.
A movement of the dance separated them momentarily, reminding Frances they’d scarcely had a chance to get to know each another. She must rectify the situation immediately. After all, the night wasn’t getting any younger. If she intended to discover whether she and Mr. Holloway suited, she must begin asking the necessary questions.
As soon as she was back in his arms, she asked, “Tell me, Mr. Holloway, what are your politics?”
He arched a brow. “My politics?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a Whig, Miss Birmingham. What are yours?”
Well, wasn’t it lovely of him to ask? How many men of her acquaintance would simply assume a woman had no political opinions to speak of? “Papa is a Tory,” she admitted, biting her lip. “But I must say, I consider my own sympathies to lie with the Whigs as well.”
Mr. Holloway inclined his head and appeared to be studying her quite intently. “Is that so?”
“The Corn Laws seem quite short-sighted if you ask me,” she added.
He was staring at her as if she’d transformed into a turnip. Perhaps she’d startled him with her frank talk of politics. But she had a great many political theories, and if Mr. Holloway disliked that in a female, then they clearly would not suit. Better to know now.
“I, too, disagree with the Importation Act,” he replied, giving her something akin to an admiring smile.
“And what is your opinion of the Luddites?” she asked.
“As short-sighted as the Corn Laws, I’m afraid,” he replied.
“See, that’s what I tried to tell Papa. But he says machinery and factories will be the death of the country.” She sighed.
“I don’t see how we can progress without investing in the ideas and machinery of the future,” Mr. Holloway replied.
Frances nodded. So, they agreed. Very good. But there was more to suitability than politics.
“Tell me. Which is your favorite of Shakespeare’s plays?” she asked, eyeing him carefully.
“Which is yours?” he countered with a grin that made those butterflies swirl through her belly.
“I asked first,” she countered.
“So you did. Let’s see.” He twirled her around and around. “I’ve always been a bit partial to A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Frances pursed her lips. “Really?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“I think it says quite a lot. That’s why I asked. A man who prefers fantasy over something gruesome and tragic.”
“Ah, so you expected me to pick Hamlet or Richard the Third?”
She considered him for a moment. “To be honest, I expected you to pick Henry the Fifth.”
He shook his head. “A noble king to be sure, but no, not my favorite. Now, I told you mine. You tell me, which is your favorite?”
“Ah, I’m solidly a devotee of All’s Well That Ends Well.”
His mouth quirked. “An optimist, are you?”
“Always.” She gave him a big smile.
“Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve always been a bit of an optimist myself,” he replied, giving her another wink that nearly made her stumble.
Frances took a deep breath, concentrating on the dance, and reminding herself to remain true to her task. “What are your thoughts on cats, Mr. Holloway?”
He furrowed his brow. “Cats? Did you say ‘cats’?”
“Yes, the household pet.”
She co
uld tell he was fighting his smile. “I’m aware of what a cat is, Miss Birmingham. But I honestly cannot claim I have much of an opinion on them.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What if a cat, who was quite mangy and hungry, mind, happened upon your doorstep?”
He appeared to consider it for a moment. “I’d look about for his owner.”
“What if he had no owner? What if he were quite alone in the world? Oh, and what if it were quite cold outside as well?” She eyed him carefully.
“Mangy and hungry, you say? No owner? And it’s cold?”
She nodded resolutely. “Quite.”
Mr. Holloway sighed. “In that case, I’d have no choice but to take him in, bathe, and feed him.”
Her eyes went wide. “You would?
“I would. Why, Miss Birmingham, are you a devotee of the cat in addition to the works of Shakespeare?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never been particularly partial to cats, to be honest, Mr. Holloway, but when one arrived on my doorstep in the exact fashion in which I’ve just described, why, that’s exactly what I did. Took him in, fed and bathed him, and you see, now I appear to own a cat.”
He laughed. “I see. And what is your cat’s name?”
She giggled. “His name is LaFew.”
Mr. Holloway threw back his head this time when he laughed. “Ah, so you are a fan of All’s Well that Ends Well. ’Tis a better name than Romeo, I suppose.”
“I’ve always thought so. I never imagined I’d own a cat, truthfully, but LaFew is quite reasonable, and he even gets on well with Papa’s dog, Henry.”
“Not named after Henry V?” Mr. Holloway asked in mock surprise.
“Yes, indeed.”
The dance ended then, and Frances wished they had more time to speak. She’d been having such a grand time laughing with him. And he’d surprised her with the answers to her questions.
Mr. Holloway escorted her to the sidelines and turned to face her. “Would you care for some punch?”
“Not particularly,” she replied, glancing about hesitantly.
“Some teacakes?”
“Normally I would say yes, but no, not right now.”
He rocked back and forth on his heels. “Would you care to…? Care to…?” He laughed quietly.
Frances’s head snapped up. “What is it Mr. Holloway?”
“Miss Birmingham, it seems I am fresh out of ideas of what to offer to do with you next. Do you have any?”
Frances blinked at him twice. Oh, he’d just given her the perfect opening, had he not? The perfect opening to lead into the second part—the secret part—of her plan to see if they were, indeed, compatible.
“Why, yes, Mr. Holloway,” she replied. “I’d like it ever so much if you would escort me outside. Alone.”
CHAPTER 6
Charlie cleared his throat and stared at her. “Outside?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
He considered her words for a moment. Miss Birmingham must know as well as he that young ladies didn’t ask gentleman to escort them outside alone. What was she up to? Very well. There were a handful of couples already outside in the balcony. The weather wasn’t quite cold enough to preclude it, but Charlie could be certain the gentlemen had been the ones to steer them to that particular location, and watchful mamas would be closely eyeing the French doors to ensure their charges did not go outside. Alone. With any man.
“I need some air, you see,” Frances added.
Charlie nodded. “By all means.” It was the only gentlemanly thing to do. When a young lady informed a gentleman that she must go outside for a bit of air, he took her. Simple as that.
He had to admit, she’d surprised him during their dance, asking him all of those questions as if she was writing a piece for the Times. And so many of the questions had been well-informed and quite intelligent. A young woman who disagreed with her own father’s politics was a young woman who’d bothered to study and learn and decide for herself. Most interesting. Miss Birmingham obviously wasn’t your average silly miss who cared about nothing more than fripperies and ball gowns, that much was certain.
Charlie had to admit a certain admiration for her. A bluestocking over a belle any day. Now Miss Birmingham was surprising him yet again with her request that he take her out to the balcony.
He glanced around, looking for Miss Birmingham’s mother. That lady was pleasantly preoccupied in conversation across the room. Capital. He put his hand on Miss Birmingham’s elbow and guided her along. They walked along the sideline of the dance floor, past the refreshment table, the trays filled with glasses of champagne and lemonade, and finally, to the French doors that led to the balcony. “After you,” he said with a nod, and Frances preceded him into the night.
The sharp sting of the cold air found Charlie’s face. He led Frances to the far side of the balcony with his hand on the small of her back. For the first time he noticed her scent. Just the hint of cinnamon and some type of sweet flower. Honeysuckle, perhaps? He breathed it in. Her hair was caught in a soft bun on the back of her head and the tendrils that fell along her smooth neck were inviting. He longed to reach out and curl one around his finger.
Charlie shook himself. What was he thinking? He was being positively indecent with Annie’s best friend. Fine, she may have asked him to escort her outside, but that didn’t give him leave to take liberties.
Frances reached the balustrade and then turned to face him, her face glowing prettily from the candles that dotted the balcony and the silver gleam of moonlight.
“So, Mr. Holloway,” she said, stepping toward him and scrunching up her nose in an adorable way that he suspected was meant to keep her spectacles from slipping but made him want to count the freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose. “Tell me, what is your fondest dream in this life?”
Charlie opened his mouth to give a cursory response, but he quickly closed it again. What was his fondest dream in this life? Had anyone ever asked him such a probing question before? He doubted it.
The interesting thing was that he knew the answer. Had known it since he was a small boy. He’d just never told anyone about it before. It had always seemed silly and unimportant. But now, standing here, gazing into Miss Birmingham’s lovely blue eyes, he was tempted enough to answer.
“The truth is I’ve always wanted to be a tutor.”
Frances blinked rapidly. “A tutor?”
“Yes. I enjoy books and studying immensely and want to share what I’ve learned with others. Especially with children who are not so fortunate as to be able to afford private tutors.” He shook his head. “It’s funny. I’ve never told another living soul that until tonight.”
A slight smile touched Miss Birmingham’s lips. “Don’t worry. Your secret is perfectly safe with me. A tutor? Really?” she asked softly.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yes. I know the son of an earl isn’t expected to want such a thing, but … well, you asked and I answered, Miss Birmingham. I’ve always wanted to be a tutor. I suppose you think it daft.”
“Not at all. I think it’s absolutely lovely,” she breathed instead, making Charlie take a step back.
Why had he admitted such a thing to a young woman he barely knew? Her response had surprised him. Miss Birmingham seemed to think it quite noble of him. For some reason he was immensely glad she had asked. Telling her was like having a great weight lifted from his chest. It felt good … freeing, powerful.
“Since you’ve shared your secret, I’ll tell you something about me,” she added. “Something I’ve never told another living soul, either. Then we’ll have a pact, never to share our confidences with anyone else.”
Charlie nodded. Smiling at her, he shook her hand when she held it out to secure the pact. Why was he agreeing to it? Even more disconcerting, why did it feel so right?
“Very well,” he said, pumping her hand and trying to ignore the soft feel of it through the fabric of her glove.
She leaned forward, and the wisp of honeysuckle scent went straight to Charlie’s brain. Something else went directly to another point south on his body when her warm breath stirred the hair near his ear. “I’ve always wanted to be a writer,” she whispered.
He leaned farther in, entranced by her. “A writer?”
“Yes, an author really.” She straightened up then and stopped whispering, and Charlie wished she hadn’t.
“I write everything down in my journal, and I must admit I have an awful habit of listening in on other people’s conversations. But I can’t help it. My imagination is always at work. I think of stories behind everything. Mama says my eavesdropping will be the death of me.”
He cleared his throat and straightened up too. “Oh, I shouldn’t think it so dire, as long as you are merely searching for fodder for your next story.”
“I am.” She sighed. “But Mama thinks the time I spend writing is foolish. That’s why I’ve never told her. I dream of writing a novel someday.”
Some dormant protective instinct awoke in Charlie all of a sudden. “I don’t think it’s foolish at all. If you want to be an author, you should be.”
“Do you truly think that?”
“Absolutely. Why not? Emma was written ‘by a lady” was it not?”
She looked so surprised Charlie wondered if she might need to sit down.
“You’ve read Emma?” she asked breathlessly.
“I have. And I’m not ashamed to say I greatly enjoyed it. Well done, that.”
She gave him a tentative smile. “I must say, Mr. Holloway. You’re not what I expected.”
“I’m not?” He turned away and faced the French doors. Everyone inside the ballroom was busily talking and laughing. His breath was a puff of white smoke in the cold air.
“No. And I hope you will not mind if I ask you something else.”
He turned sharply to face her again. “Ask me what?”
“Were you … were you disappointed when Lady Lenora didn’t win the auction?”
Charlie blinked at her. What sort of a gentleman would he be if he answered yes to that question? But the truth was, no. No, he was not in the least sorry that Lady Harcourt hadn’t won.
A Secret Affair Page 3
