by M C Beaton
The women caught her wide-eyed stare and glared haughtily back and then turned and said something to a very tall man who was standing with his back to the room.
He pivoted around and lifted his quizzing glass and gazed full and insolently at Amanda, who quickly raised her fan to cover her face.
When she finally found the courage to peep over her fan, he had turned his attention to the blonde lady in the clinging gown.
Amanda drew a long breath. He was like a hero from one of the gothic novels she avidly read on wet afternoons.
He had a very handsome, bad-tempered face, and every reader of romantic novels knew the hero must be smouldering and angry.
He had very thick hair worn longer than the current fashion. His gaze was steady and watchful under heavy lids. His face was strong and handsome—or rather it would have been handsome had not his mouth been compressed into such a grim line.
He had a high-bridged nose. His eyes were a pale colour, or rather they appeared to have no colour at all. He was tailored to perfection in a blue evening coat and the long skin-fitting trousers made popular by Mr. Brummell, that leader of London fashion. His sculptured cravat rose above a silk waistcoat embroidered with silver thread.
He turned his head slightly and looked full at Amanda again, who immediately blushed, feeling she had been caught out gawking like a yokel.
Richard came back carrying two glasses of lemonade. “I say, Amanda,” he said nervously. “The next dance is a Scotch reel and I think I remember it quite well. Perhaps you had better partner me. I wouldn’t want to fall over some unfortunate female’s feet.”
“Well, don’t fall over mine,” said Amanda tartly.
Considering Amanda had only ever danced with the vicar’s wife and Richard had only recently learned to dance with Amanda, they performed very well, both being endowed with a natural grace.
And since they were both still very much children, they left the floor very pleased with themselves and quite prepared to dance with anyone in the room.
After that, Amanda danced with most of the young men of the county and Richard with all the prettiest girls.
But Richard also found time to make several trips to the refreshment room, and before he realised just how much he had drunk, he had accepted a bet from his friend Tommy Potter to go and ask one of the ladies in the earl’s party to dance.
Now, it had been marked that none of the earl’s party had taken the floor. They seemed content to stare at the dancers in a haughty, amused kind of way and then turn and talk among themselves.
Flushed with wine and the thought that Tommy would have to fork out ten guineas if he were successful, Richard marched towards the earl’s group, bowed low before the dark-haired lady in the diaphanous muslin gown, and asked for the honour of the next dance.
The lady was the Honourable Cecily Devine, who had been trying to charm her companion, Viscount Charles Hawksborough, to no avail. She raked Richard up and down with a haughty assessing glance which took in his open friendly expression, the breadth of his shoulders, and the strength of his legs.
Amanda, watching breathlessly from the other end of the room, thought it was almost as if the lady were about to take out a stick and poke Richard like a prize pig.
Then Miss Devine shrugged a bare shoulder. “I do not dance,” she said wearily.
Lord Hawksborough, the tall, black-haired man who had stared at Amanda, now turned his cold gaze on Miss Devine. “You have been pleading with me for quite an hour to dance,” he said in a light, mocking voice. “I do not like contrary women.”
“Oh, but you must understand—” began Miss Devine.
“My name is Hawksborough,” said the viscount, according Richard a half-bow. “Your partner is Miss Devine.” And with that he turned his back on them.
“Oh, well,” said Miss Devine, “if I must, I must.” She gave rather a shrill laugh and allowed Richard to lead her into a set which was being made up for yet another country dance.
Miss Devine was feeling petulant and angry. She had been invited to the earl’s dreadful house party to be a partner to the viscount and he had eluded her at every turn. He had spent most of his time out riding or shooting or fishing. And her hostess, Lady Hardforshire, had gone so far as to imply her clothes were fast. But up until a few moments ago, the evening had been fun.
She had enjoyed standing with the viscount beside the fire, noticing out of the corner of her long blue eyes the shocked glances of the countryfolk as they rested on her dress. She had enjoyed their consternation when it dawned on these yokels that not one of the earl’s party was going to favour one of them with a dance. And now Lord Hawksborough had forced her to dance with this youth. But he was handsome and quite enchanting, she decided, noticing the warm admiration in Richard’s eyes as they waited for the music to begin.
She was beginning to mellow when her mouth fell open with surprise and she pushed it shut with the handle of her fan.
Lord Hawksborough was leading that peculiar little girl who had stared at him so much into the dance.
How dare he? thought Miss Devine savagely. And at that moment she saw Richard smiling at a group of youths who were winking and leering at him from the side of the floor. It was merely Richard’s good-natured friends, including Tommy, congratulating him on his success, but for the haughty Miss Devine, it was enough. She decided to pretend to sprain her ankle during the first steps of the dance.
Accordingly, as soon as she danced across the set to join Richard, she stumbled artistically. But the floor had been enthusiastically covered in a whole snowstorm of French chalk by the village boys before the dance, and it was slippier than it had ever been before. So instead of subsiding artistically, one foot skidded out from under her and she landed up at Richard’s feet, banging into his legs.
He bent to pick her up, but she struggled furiously away from him, and in an effort to reach forward and help her, he overbalanced and slipped on the treacherous floor and landed full on top of her.
“I am so sorry,” said Richard, struggling to his feet, red with embarrassment. Amanda, who had just joined hands across with Lord Hawksborough in a neighbouring set, stopped suddenly and stared in consternation at her brother. Lord Hawksborough tugged impatiently at her hands, but Amanda refused to move.
“You oaf!” screamed Miss Devine. “You great clumsy yokel!” She turned her eyes languishingly in Lord Hawksborough’s direction. “Take me away from these peasants,” she cried.
Amanda tore her hands from Lord Hawksborough’s and rushed to her brother’s defense.
“You slipped deliberately,” said Amanda roundly. “You, madam, are the peasant. Come, Richard!”
“You forget,” said the cool voice of Lord Hawksborough at her elbow, “that this dance is promised to me.”
Amanda looked around wildly. The music had stopped, the dancers had stopped. Miss Devine was on her feet and her mouth was opening, and Amanda felt sure some really terrible words were about to come out of it. “Darling Richard,” said Amanda hurriedly, “Aunt Matilda wishes some refreshment. And we are spoiling the dance.”
She turned to Lord Hawksborough and held out her hands. “Forgive me, sir,” she said sweetly.
The music struck up again. Richard turned on his heel and strode off smartly in the direction of the refreshment room, his face flaming. Miss Devine rejoined her companions at the fire.
Lord Hawksborough automatically went through the motions of the dance, his mind busy with angry thoughts.
He wished he had never come. The visit had been a disaster and the earl’s miserly table a disgrace. There had been bad shooting and worse fishing. The company had been spiteful and dull.
He had only accepted the invitation because he was to escort his sister and mother to London from nearby Bellingham, where his sister had been attending a seminary for young ladies. He had not wanted to dance but had felt obliged to when Miss Devine had forcibly brought it to his attention that the behaviour of the earl’s
company was uncivil to say the least. And so he had asked this strange little girl who looked so like a fairy princess to dance. But his fairy already had her country lover if that “Darling Richard” was anything to go by. If the earl wished to patronise the country people, let him do it on his own in future! The viscount was prey to a violent fit of indigestion, an unromantic complaint which made him look increasingly brooding and sinister.
Amanda found herself becoming disappointed in him and also a little bit afraid of him. He was not at all romantic, she decided. She did not like his eyes. They were very pale, like pale silver, and he had rather a fixed look.
Lord Hawksborough performed his part of the country dance with grace, despite a feeling that a great lump of burning-hot lava was lodged somewhere under his cravat. He could never remember having felt so spleenish before. But then, he could never remember having eaten such terrible food or drunk such bad wine as he had at the Earl of Hardforshire’s home before.
Supper was announced immediately after the dance, and he gave a silent groan. He did not want to eat. He did not want to fight among the jams and jellies in the next room. He wanted to go home and take rhubarb pills and forget that such a place as Hember Cross ever existed.
The guests were already jostling and pushing into the refreshment room. With a sort of weary courtesy, he held out his arm to Amanda.
“I can find Richard to take care of me, if you would rather not,” said Amanda.
Lord Hawksborough turned and looked hopefully about. “Since your Richard is not in sight,” he said with a sigh, “I cannot very well abandon you.”
Amanda longed for the courage to say she did not want to be escorted by any gentleman so obviously reluctant to do so, but his weary hauteur, his grand manner, and his great height intimidated her and so she shyly put a hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her to the supper room.
Lord Hawksborough found them two empty seats at the end of a long table, and half-closed his eyes against the repulsive sight of so much food and drink being piled haphazardly on so many plates. One large young lady in pink had actually helped herself to meat and jelly and cream all at the same time.
He filled a plate with cold meat and vegetables and handed it to Amanda. He poured himself a glass of wine and shook his head when Amanda asked him timidly if he was not going to have anything to eat.
Voices rose and fell about them. The earl, the countess, and their other guests were absent.
Lord Hawksborough looked down at the diminutive figure of his companion and wondered how she managed to stay so slim. She was eating food at an enormous rate.
He tapped his quizzing glass against his empty plate and said, “What do you do for amusement, Miss… er…?”
“Colby,” said Amanda, glad her mouth was momentarily empty. “Miss Amanda Colby.”
“I am Hawksborough. What do you do to pass your country days, apart from attend assemblies?”
“Well, my… my lord,” began Amanda tentatively, looking quickly up at him from under her lashes. She assumed he had a title. It was very awkward when people gave just one name, but it usually meant they held a peerage. “Well, I do quite a lot at home,” she went on candidly. “You know, the washing and making jams and jellies and baking and distilling medicines, and cooking dinner, and weeding the vegetable garden and…” She broke off and bit her lower lip in confusion. It all sounded very unexciting.
She had rolled back her gloves to eat and also to hide the soiled palms. Lord Hawksborough noticed her work-reddened hands.
“What energy!” he remarked. “Have you no servants?”
“Oh, yes. A woman from the town cleans a little and a man helps with the garden.”
“And you do the rest?”
“Not alone. Aunt Matilda helps, and Richard, of course.”
This Richard must be her fiancé, thought the viscount, and yet she wore no ring.
He noticed that she had cocked her head a little on one side while her gold-and-green eyes kept sliding to the other side of the room where the boy called Richard was staring moodily at his food.
Amanda took a deep breath. “May I have some more, my lord?”
“To eat? You have a tremendous appetite.”
“I have had nothing since breakfast.”
He took her plate and piled it up again, and refilled his glass. The wine was remarkably good and Lord Hawksborough felt himself beginning to relax. He was amused by the quick sharp gestures of this strange girl. She looked like some wild animal poking its head out of its lair to reconnoitre the surrounding countryside.
He suddenly wished she would look full at him. He was not used to being ignored by ladies of any age.
“Then housework is your only amusement?” he pursued.
Amanda carefully chewed and swallowed her food before replying. “I read a great deal,” she said. “On wet days, that is. Sometimes I take out the gun and go shooting with Richard.”
“An odd pastime for a lady.”
“Not if you need something for dinner,” said Amanda, beginning to eat again and failing therefore to notice the startled look on his face.
Lord Hawksborough was surprised by Miss Colby’s honesty. Most ladies in her penurious position would have pretended to have servants, would have pretended to lead a life of leisure.
A footman placed a large steaming dish of olio almost under his lordship’s nose. Chunks of beef, fowl, partridge, and mutton floated in the brown broth. Lord Hawksborough shuddered and raised a scented handkerchief to his nose. Miss Amanda Colby said eagerly, “Oh, do you think I could possibly…?”
“Yes,” he said wearily. “You may.” But he felt he could not spoon the olio onto her plate and signalled the footman to perform the service for him.
He sat in silence while Amanda demolished her third plateful of food with a hearty appetite. Amanda at last guiltily dabbed her mouth with her napkin and sought in vain for something to say. She felt she should not have eaten so much so quickly. But she had been ravenous.
She still felt she had some room left to sample the array of gingerbread and Portugal cakes, ratafia cakes, saffron cakes, ice cream, and jellies. She had never seen so many delicacies before. But what would he think of her?
“If only you would eat something, my lord,” she said anxiously.
“So that you may not feel conscience-stricken should you fill your plate again?”
“Exactly, my lord.”
“Allow me to assist you. I have not seen such an appetite since Bartholomew Fair.”
“I am not a freak,” said Amanda stiffly.
“Not yet,” said his lordship nastily as another twinge of indigestion seized him by the throat.
Amanda’s eyes flew up to meet his for the first time. They were amazing eyes, he reflected. Wide and green with glints of gold. They reminded him of a woodland pond in the evening sunlight. They reminded him of spring sunshine flickering on the green of new leaves.
“Forgive me,” he said abruptly. “I am impolite because I am a trifle out of sorts.” He waved his hand and a footman appeared with a clean plate. He told the footman to fill it with a selection of cakes and pastries.
“Do you perform the waltz at these assemblies?” he asked.
Amanda shook her head. “I think everyone has practised the steps in secret. Even Mrs. Jolly, and she is the vicar’s wife. But no one has had the courage to perform publicly, I believe. But I am not very well versed in the social life of the county.”
“Odso! Why is that, pray?”
“I have no money.”
“Then may I suggest your Richard find work?”
“No, you may not,” snapped Amanda. Then she added in a milder tone, “It is a sore point with me, don’t you see.”
“He could always enter the army,” pursued the viscount, noticing idly that her cloud of curly hair glinted faintly with red and gold lights under the stiff, shiny green of her coronet of ivy leaves.
“He could enter prison, too,” said Ama
nda, wishing he would stop asking questions and allow her a chance to eat just one of the delicious cakes in front of her. “Of what good is the army if one has not a commission? Of what use to be degraded and flogged and beaten?”
“There are quite a number of educated young men serving in the ranks in the Peninsula,” he said quietly. “They are not all cannon fodder.”
“A fact you know from personal experience, of course?” mocked Amanda, tilting her head a little on one side and studying the elegance of his dress and the whiteness of his long hands.
“As I know from personal experience,” he said equably.
