A Matter of Class

by Mary Balogh

  “Vulgar?” he suggested. “Uncouth?”

  “Annoying,” she said. One white-slippered foot was tapping a tattoo on the wooden floor of the balcony. She opened her fan with a flourish again. “As though all this were a joke.”

  He shrugged.

  “I always have preferred comedy to tragedy,” he said.

  The orchestra began playing, and the dancers within bowed and curtsied and pranced into vigorous action. It was one of those country dances that tested one’s endurance. A number of nondancers stood, as though by chance, close to the French windows, one eye and one ear turned to the balcony. If they could have stretched out their closer ear as they could an arm, they would surely have done so.

  “Step closer,” Reggie said.

  “What?” She looked startled, and her fan stilled again.

  He reached out one hand toward her and, after regarding it suspiciously for a few moments, she set her free hand in it. He closed his fingers about hers. Through her glove her hand was warm and slender.

  “Step closer,” he said again.

  “Why?” She looked at him with considerable wariness, but she took three-quarters of a step in his direction.

  He inhaled the subtle scent of lilies-of-the-valley. “I believe,” he said, “the ton would be thrilled—scandalized and thrilled—if I were to steal a kiss from you.”

  The light was behind her. He could not swear that her cheeks were aflame, but he guessed they were. Certainly her eyes widened.

  “You would not dare!” she exclaimed.

  “Would I not?”

  He regarded her lazily and guessed that a sizable number of the ball guests were already fully aware that they were on the balcony together, he and Lady Annabelle Ashton, and that they were holding hands and standing rather indecorously close to each other. How very foolish high society was. It was quite willing to condone almost any vice, provided it was performed discreetly and privately. It was titillated and outraged by any mark of apparent affection between two people who were affianced.

  Especially two who had been forced together under scandalous circumstances.

  “It would be unpardonably vulgar,” Lady Annabelle said.

  “Which is what the highest sticklers expect of me,” he said. “It is even what they want of me so that they may go on their way tonight satisfied that they have not wasted an evening of the Season on the usual bland entertainment.”

  “We should go inside now,” she said. “I am chilly.”

  “Liar,” he said. Her hand had turned hot in his, though whether with embarrassment at the thought of being kissed or desire that it happen was not clear. “And a kiss would have another positive result. It would restore some sympathy for you, especially if you were to return to the ballroom immediately afterward, smiling bravely but in obvious distress. You would be seen to be suffering dreadful consequences for your great indiscretion.”

  “You are enjoying all this, are you not?” she said from between her teeth.

  He thought about it. Actually he was.

  “And you are not enjoying yourself?” He gazed deeply into her eyes, shadowed as they were by the darkness of the night.

  “Papa has made it very clear to me,” she said, “that if I am ever to be fully forgiven by the ton, there must not be even a hint of scandal in my behavior for the rest of my life.”

  “I will not stand for such a boring wife,” he said. “You will have to choose between Papa and me.”

  “No,” she frowned. “I will never do that. I have never been willing to do that.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “But you will owe me obedience after we are married,” he reminded her—just to be provocative.

  He was not disappointed.

  “If you ever try to hold me to that ridiculous marriage vow,” she said, bristling visibly and raising her voice, “I will fight you to the death with every weapon in my arsenal. And don’t think I do not possess a few.”

  Someone—Reggie did not turn his head to see who—had stopped strolling a short distance away on the balcony and was giving them unabashed attention.

  The unhappily betrothed pair were already quarreling.

  Reggie grinned.

  “That sounds promising,” he said, waggling his eyebrows and keeping a wary eye on her fan.

  “I mean it.”

  She obviously did. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes glared. Her one hand was rigid in his own. The other tightened predictably about her fan.

  “I sincerely hope you do,” he said soothingly. “You can fight me any day you want, Lady Annabelle Ashton—or any night for that matter. Especially any night.”

  Indignation did marvels for the bosom of a lady wearing stays and a flimsy gown. Hers heaved and looked for a moment as if it might pop free of her bodice. Alas, it did not happen. But it drew Reggie’s eyes, and it heated his blood.

  “This is not kind of you,” she said, lowering her voice again.

  Kind?

  He searched her eyes, but they were huge pools of shadow and darkness.

  “Is it not?” he murmured.

  “No.” There was a slight tremor in her voice.

  He pulled slightly on her hand and lowered his head and set his lips to hers. They were soft and warm and slightly moist. He set the tip of his tongue to the seam at the center of her lips and pressed it hard and deep into her mouth.

  She made a low and startled sound in her throat.

  He withdrew his tongue and his lips and released her hand. He leaned back against the rails again and smiled at her with half-closed eyes.

  “Very nice,” he said and wondered where all the air had gone in their vicinity.

  He must not get an erection. That would be going too, too far into vulgarity. He had to use all his willpower to avoid one, though. For the merest moment she had sucked on his tongue.

  She was staring at him, with parted lips and hands balled into fists at her sides. She would be fortunate if her fan did not snap in two.

  “You had better run along,” he said, “looking like a brave, smiling martyr. On second thought you had better not run. A lady never runs, does she? I shall claim a waltz with you later in the evening.”

  She turned without a word and walked back into the ballroom, her steps unhurried, her posture perfect. He would wager half a fortune she was smiling and looking coolly about her, avoiding eye contact with no one.

  Always and ever she had pluck.

  And she was making her way, he could see, toward his mother.

  He had behaved as he would have been expected to behave. He had been almost but not quite vulgar. He had been forced into this marriage by his own extravagance, but he was not above taking advantage of the fact that his betrothed was beautiful and desirable.

  That was how everyone would see it.

  His mother would be pleased, though perhaps a little anxious lest he dishonor Lady Annabelle more than she had already dishonored herself. His father would be ecstatic. Her mother would be cautiously optimistic. Her father…

  Well, there was no pleasing Havercroft. It was best not to waste time trying. Not that he always did what was best.

  Lady Annabelle had set both her hands in his mother’s, and Ma was beaming happily and affectionately at her. He could not see his betrothed’s expression.

  On the whole, Reggie thought, this ball was probably a success. The ton would engage in happy speculation about whether they hated each other or felt some attraction to each other. Their parents would see that they were circling warily about each other, partly hostile, partly civil, partly willing to settle for some amicable sort of arrangement since their marriage to each other was not to be avoided.

  He pushed himself away from the rail and strolled back into the ballroom. This current set would be ending soon and he was going to have to make himself agreeable with some other partners before he claimed his betrothed again for the waltz.

  He stared down several male smirks from those gentlemen who rarely
danced but always parked their persons in the best place from which to observe scandalous goings-on upon which to report in numerous fashionable drawing rooms the following day.

  His eyes settled upon Lady Havercroft, who was standing alone and observing the dancing with a smile that appeared to contain equal parts haughtiness and wistfulness. He suspected that the haughtiness was part of a mask she frequently wore. She was not unlike her daughter in that way.

  He made his way toward her.

  She did not deserve unhappiness. Lady Annabelle was her only daughter—her only child. The events of the past two weeks—not even so long—must be deeply distressing to her.

  He must do his best to charm her, to console her, to convince her that her daughter might yet expect some joy out of life—with him.

  Yes, he really must.

  6

  Four Years Ago

  On the day after her eighteenth birthday, Annabelle went for a walk alone. She had to sneak away when no one was looking, for the house was still full of aunts and uncles and cousins who had come to stay for the occasion. Inviting them had been her papa’s way of consoling her for not being allowed to make her come-out during the spring Season. But she would be eighteen in August, she had protested when he had left for London with her mama just before Easter. And so she would be, he had agreed, chucking her under the chin as though she were still a child, and by this time next year she would be ready to make her curtsy to the queen and enjoy all the entertainments of a Season. But this year she would remain at home, and they would celebrate her special birthday by inviting as many family members as were able to come.

  And of course her birthday really had been a jolly romp. Several young people from the neighborhood had come for the party yesterday. They had even danced in the drawing room. And Jamie Sewell had found the opportunity to kiss her. It had been her first-ever kiss. And she liked Jamie. She had even woven a few romantic dreams about him recently. But the kiss had been disappointing. His dry lips had pressed so hard against her own that her teeth had bruised the flesh on the inside of her mouth.

  So much for romance. And so much for Jamie.

  Miriam Sewell, Jamie’s sister, had mentioned—in a low, conspiratorial voice to a group of young ladies—that Reginald Mason was at home and that he was more gorgeous than ever. They had all gasped and giggled. Caroline Ashton, Annabelle’s cousin, had asked who Reginald Mason was and was he coming to the party, but she asked the question at normal volume and was urgently shushed by everyone else in the group. Everyone knew that the name of Mason was not supposed to be uttered at all at Oakridge Park.

  That was all that had been said on the subject apart from a whispered explanation to Caroline and more stifled giggles.

  But Annabelle had lain awake thinking about him long after going to bed. Reggie. She had scarcely set eyes on him for four years. They had been friends as children, until she had been caught some distance from the house one day and had been appointed a new, more vigilant young nurse to replace her old nurse, who had gone into retirement in a cozy cottage provided, with a pension, by Papa. And Annabelle and Reggie had been friends again for three summers when they were older. Not that they saw each other frequently during those years. He was not often at home, and sometimes when he was, she was away. And since they had never made any definite arrangement to meet, they often missed each other, going to the oak tree by the river on different days. It had not mattered. They were not bosom pals.

  It had not mattered to him. It had always mattered to her. She had fallen violently in love with him when she was twelve, though she would not have admitted it for worlds—not to anyone at all, even Miriam, her closest friend. And it was all very well for people to laugh at the idea of a twelve-year-old falling in love. It was all very well to speak with amused contempt of puppy love. It could still be intense and enduring. She knew. It had happened to her.

  She had never fallen out of love with him, in fact, even though they had not met since the summer she was fourteen and he seventeen. Oh, she had not sighed over him every day of those four years. Sometimes she did not even think of him for days at a time, and she looked forward with some eagerness to having a string of beaux after she made her come-out. But there was always a part of her heart that softened into tenderness when she did think of him, or on the rare occasion when she spotted him in the village or at church, which he did not attend much any more.

  She walked alone the morning after her birthday because sometimes the fact that Mama and Papa and her aunts and uncles and older cousins treated her as if she were still a child was irksome. And because she had not enjoyed her first kiss and wanted to avoid Jamie if he walked over to the house with Miriam, as he had said he might. She rather feared that he had enjoyed the kiss and hoped to pursue some sort of courtship with her, though Papa would have something to say about that, of course. And she walked alone because Reggie was at home and she had not seen him and probably would not do so before he went away again.

  She wandered through the trees to the east of the house, trying not to admit to herself that she was heading for the river and the oak tree. She went there quite often, actually. It was a beloved place, soothing to her soul. It was also the place where she could indulge rather melancholy dreams.

  She walked to the oak tree when it came into sight and set her hand against the ancient trunk. She liked the idea that the tree had probably stood in the same place for perhaps a few hundred years, living and enduring. She set her forehead against the bark and inhaled.

  It was not a perfect day. Although the air was warm enough, there were clouds overhead, and the wind was brisk enough to ruffle the surface of the river.

  She wandered to the bank and kneeled down to gaze into the water. She could not see any fish today. Perhaps they had found some cozy spot in which to shelter until the water was calmer. She trailed the fingers of one hand in the water. It was not cold.

  She remembered a skinny little boy, his drawers almost falling off his nonexistent hips, crashing into the water as he leapt from the tree. She smiled at the memory.

  “A penny for them,” a deep male voice said.

  She looked up, startled. He was standing at the other side of the river, looking breathtakingly splendid in a form-fitting coat and tight pantaloons and shining Hessian boots. He looked far more suited to tea in the drawing room than a tramp in the outdoors. His hair, thick and dark, was fashionably disheveled. Though perhaps that was accidental. The wind was blowing it about his head. He wore no hat. His features were chiseled and handsome. He was a man now. He must be twenty-one years old.

  “You have given up trespassing in your old age?” she said, smiling at him.

  “Maybe I will when that time comes,” he said, “but not a day sooner. Shall I come over there?”

  “How?” she asked.

  “There is a bridge higher up,” he said, pointing to his right.

  “There is?” She knew of no bridge.

  “Come and see.”

  He grinned at her and turned to walk along the bank on his side. She kept pace with him on her side.

  “It was my eighteenth birthday yesterday,” she said, lest he think she was still a child.

  “Yes, I know,” he said. “Did you enjoy your party’?”

  Ah, he knew about that, did he? He must be the only young neighbor who had not been invited.

  “I did,” she said.

  “And did you have lots of gifts?” he asked.

  “I did,” she said again. “I had a diamond on a silver chain from Mama and Papa. I will wear it at my come-out ball next spring.”

  “And be the belle of the ball,” he said. “But you would be even without the diamond. You have grown into a lovely woman.”

  There! Another gift, the most precious of all.

  “Thank you, Reggie,” she said. “You have not turned out so badly yourself.”

  She laughed lightly, and he joined in.

  “There it is,” he said, pointing ahead,
and she could see that it was not a bridge to which he had referred but rather a collection of large, flatfish stones embedded in the river bottom and poking above the surface of the water. They were stepping stones of a sort, she thought, though they looked alarmingly far apart.

  “You will fall in,” she said.

  “Watch me.”

  And of course he did not. He hopped from one stone to the other with sure footing and no hesitation at all. Within moments he was on her side of the river, looking down at her and grinning. He was maybe three-quarters of a head taller than she instead of what had seemed like three feet taller when she last saw him. And suddenly he seemed very close.

  “Hello, Anna,” he said, as if they were just meeting.

  “Hello, Reggie.”

  Her heart was pounding and there was a funny look in his eyes, and she had to stop herself from blushing and giving away her secret. How very humiliating that would be.

  “Have you had your birthday yet?” she asked him, turning away to stroll back in the direction of the oak tree.

  “I have,” he said. “In May. I am of age. My father did not give me a diamond, though. He gave me a house and park.”

  “What? “ She turned her head to look at him.

  “In Hampshire,” he said. “But with strings attached. It will be legally mine when I turn thirty or when I many, whichever comes first. In the meantime, my father retains ownership. But it is mine for all intents and purposes.”

  “Your own home,” she said. “Are you going to live there?”

  “I already do,” he said. “I have come here for a few days to sort through some of my things.”

  They were back at the oak tree. She stopped walking and leaned back against it.

  “Oh, Reggie,” she said, “you are all grown up.”

  “And you,” he said. “Just look at you.”

  He stood a couple of feet from her and did just that, letting his eyes roam over her from head to toe.

  “You grew after all,” he said, and he smiled his slightly lopsided smile—it was gorgeously attractive—and she knew he did not just mean that she had grown upward. She had been a late developer. Even at fourteen she had still looked like a beanpole.