Someone to Romance

by Mary Balogh

  Lady Jessica Archer, Gabriel was interested to notice, responded to his deep obeisance with a haughty inclination of her head, just as she had responded to him at that inn. A queen honoring a lowly subject.

  Bertie had finished with all the back slapping. “Lady Jessica Archer,” he said, noticing the direction of Gabriel’s gaze. “Netherby’s sister. The Duke of, that is. There is no point in wasting your time on her, Gabe. She will have no man, though if she does not change that attitude soon, she will be so long in the tooth no one will want her any longer.”

  “Who is that with her?” Gabriel asked.

  “That is a trick question, right?” Bertie said with a guffaw of a laugh. “Half the male guests here tonight are with her, as they almost always are. Or do you mean the woman in blue? Her mother, the Dowager Duchess of Netherby?”

  “The man in gold,” Gabriel said.

  “Don’t know.” Bertie shook his head, but one of his friends provided the answer.

  “He is Lyndale’s heir,” he said. “The Earl of Lyndale, that is. Or soon-to-be earl. The ladies cannot get enough of him. They think him a handsome devil.”

  “Ah,” Bertie said, “so that is Rochford, is it? I have been hearing his praises being sung all week. Mr. Perfection. Mr. Charming Perfection. One would think someone would change the subject once in a while.”

  “Soon-to-be earl?” Gabriel said, his eyes narrowing as he looked upon the distinctive figure of his second cousin once removed.

  “The old earl died almost seven years ago,” Bertie explained, “and his son with him. The nephew who got the title after him never claimed it and is almost certainly dead. If he is not found very soon, he will be called dead whether he is or not and there will be a new earl—that idiot’s father.”

  “Idiot, Bertie?” someone asked. “Just because he is Mr. Charming Perfection?”

  “Well, I ask you,” Bertie said, “who but an idiot would wear that waistcoat in public? It is an abomination—that’s what it is. Come along, Gabe—let me make that introduction, or the dancing will be starting and you will not have a partner for it and I will never hear the end of it after m’mother asks tomorrow.”

  The girl in question was the daughter of a dear friend of Lady Vickers, a viscountess. She—the girl, that was—was almost painfully thin and pale of both hair and complexion. It was nothing short of a crime that she had been clad in white, surely the worst possible color for her. And it was a shame that someone had tried unsuccessfully to powder over the outbreak of spots that plagued her chin. Gabriel bowed to her and her mother when Bertie introduced him, and he smiled and made conversation until, when the time finally came, he led the girl out to join the first set, still with that odd feeling that he was an uncle fondly humoring a beloved niece. He led her to the end of the line of ladies, took his place opposite her in the line of gentlemen, and tried to convey reassurance in the way he looked at her. He glanced away to see if the orchestra was about to start playing and found himself looking at Lady Jessica Archer, who was vivid and lovely among the delicate whites and pastels to either side of her in the line. She caught his eye, and he nodded to her. It would be disrespectful to his partner to look longer. But he did notice that her partner was not Rochford.

  That one glance confirmed everything he had thought about her.

  She was perfection.

  He danced the second set with Miss Parley herself, her mother having summoned him with one white-gloved hand and an imperious nod of her tall hair plumes. It was during that dance that he realized he was no longer virtually invisible as he had been at the start of the evening. Word had apparently spread about who he was—Mr. Thorne from America, as though the from America was part of his name and perhaps the most fascinating part of it. Lady Vickers, it seemed, had done her work well and aroused interest in this man who was her kinsman and godson and who had made a fortune during the years he had spent in America before coming home.

  After he had returned Miss Parley to her mama’s side when the set was over, Lady Parley suggested she introduce him to someone else. “I know you are new to town and know virtually no one, Mr. Thorne,” she said. “That will change after this ball, I do assure you. But in the meanwhile, perhaps I may present you to Miss—”

  “Perhaps Lady Jessica Archer, ma’am?” he suggested before she could finish. He had spoken impulsively. There were even more men gathered about her now, after the second set, than there had been at the start. Why would he wish to swell their numbers? He did not wish it, of course. He had no intention of becoming one of her hangers-on, vying with a dozen others for one of her glances or—pinnacle of all happiness—one of her smiles. His only intention was to marry her.

  But first, an introduction.

  “Of course,” Lady Parley said, and like a ship in full sail she set off across the ballroom, her hair plumes announcing her approach so that the cluster of men split apart to allow her access to the lady in their midst. Ladies, that was. There was another young woman with Lady Jessica, a very slender, dark beauty dressed in a gown of pale spring green.

  Both watched their approach. Lady Jessica Archer closed her fan and slightly raised her chin. It was clear to Gabriel that by now she had recognized him as the man who had given up the private parlor for her use at that inn, albeit somewhat ungraciously.

  “Lady Jessica, Lady Estelle,” Lady Parley said, “I have the pleasure of presenting Mr. Thorne, who has recently returned from America. Lady Jessica Archer and Lady Estelle Lamarr, Mr. Thorne.”

  “Lady Jessica. Lady Estelle.” Gabriel bowed to them, though with none of the ostentation his cousin had displayed earlier.

  Lady Estelle Lamarr greeted him with a smile and a curtsy before turning to a blushing young man who had touched her arm and seemed intent upon inviting her to dance the next set with him.

  Lady Jessica acknowledged Gabriel with the same slight inclination of the head he had seen twice before. “Mr. Thorne,” she said.

  Lady Parley was hailed by someone to their left and hurried away with a murmured apology.

  “For how long were you in America, Mr. Thorne?” Lady Jessica asked.

  “For thirteen years,” he told her.

  “A long time,” she said. “You must be delighted to be back home.”

  On the assumption, perhaps, that America was a wild and lawless land? “I suppose I must,” he said.

  Her eyebrows arched upward. “You only suppose, Mr. Thorne?” she asked him, and she looked slightly amused.

  He thought about it. “I only suppose, Lady Jessica,” he said. “I also suppose it is possible that I miss being home.”

  She tipped her head to one side and tapped her fan against her chin. “Ah,” she said, “I catch your meaning, sir. America is your home too. Will you be returning, then?”

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  The amusement in her eyes deepened and she drew breath to speak. But the blushing young man was leading Lady Estelle Lamarr onto the ballroom floor, and another man from Lady Jessica’s court had stepped closer and was clearing his throat.

  She ignored him for the moment, but she did not say whatever she had drawn breath to say. She looked inquiringly at Gabriel, perhaps waiting for him to ask for a later dance.

  He did not do so. It seemed probable to him that every set was already spoken for and that it might give her great pleasure to tell him so. Or perhaps he was attributing to her a spitefulness that was not part of her nature. Anyway, it was too late now. Her partner had bowed to her and reminded her that the next set was his. He looked at Gabriel with a pointed frown, and it struck Gabriel that her whole court of admirers was viewing him with less than welcoming amiability.

  “Your servant, Lady Jessica,” he said, and turned to stroll away.

  Bertie had not danced at all and apparently had no intention of doing so. “One attends balls because it is expected of one,�
� he told Gabriel. “And because at the start of a Season it is always good sport to look over the new crop of young hopefuls come to market. The trouble is, though, that one is then expected to dance with ’em.”

  Gabriel chuckled.

  “But come along,” Bertie said. “I’ll introduce you to old Sadie Janes’s granddaughter. Third on m’mother’s list. There is just time before the dancing starts.”

  Gabriel joined him again after dancing with the girl, a pretty little thing who had a tendency to go tripping off in the wrong direction and then to giggle when she caused confusion among those performing the steps correctly.

  “Lady Estelle Lamarr, Bertie,” Gabriel said. “Who is she?”

  “Dorchester’s daughter,” Bertie explained. “The Marquess of Dorchester, that is. She has a twin brother. He is over there with her now. The tall, dark one.” He pointed inelegantly. “The marquess is with the Duke and Duchess of Netherby. The duke is the one with very blond hair and all the rings and diamond pins and the jeweled quizzing glass. I would give a great deal to get a look at his whole collection of glasses. It must be worth a fortune.”

  He looked very different from his sister, Gabriel thought.

  “Lady Jessica is his half sister,” Bertie said as though he had read Gabriel’s thoughts. “Her mother was a Westcott. The duchess was also a Westcott, but there is a long story attached to that. I’ll tell you one day, though I am bound to get all the details mixed up. Ask m’mother. She will tell you. The next set is a waltz. Do you know the steps?”

  “You think they may not have crossed the Atlantic?” Gabriel asked.

  “Well,” Bertie said, “I have not learned ’em, and I have never done more than dip a toe into the Atlantic. Dancing face-to-face with the same woman, making conversation while avoiding treading on her toes, is not my idea of a good time.”

  “It might be,” Gabriel suggested, “if you fancied the woman.”

  Bertie shuddered and then let off one of his guffaws.

  Perhaps he would see if Lady Jessica Archer was free to waltz, Gabriel thought. But when he glanced across the ballroom, he observed that someone else was already bowing before her and extending a hand for hers.

  Lady Estelle Lamarr was still standing with her brother—they looked very much alike, though he was a full head taller than his twin—and two very young men. She was laughing and patting one of the latter on the arm. A remarkably pretty young lady, and the daughter of a marquess.

  “I have this one, Bertie,” he said. “You may take a rest from your matchmaking duties.” And he approached the group and was introduced to Viscount Watley, the twin, and to Mr. Boris Wayne and his brother, Mr. Peter Wayne, who were, according to Lady Estelle’s introduction, her sort-of cousins. She did not explain in what sort of way that was.

  “May I beg the honor of this waltz, Lady Estelle?” Gabriel asked. “If you have not promised it to someone else, that is.”

  “There you are, Peter,” she said while the whole group laughed over a joke Gabriel had not heard. “The reprieve for which you prayed no more than a few moments ago. Thank you, Mr. Thorne. That would be delightful. Peter claims to have two left feet, but I do not believe it for a moment.”

  She was not a young girl, Gabriel thought as he waltzed with her. He would put her age at twenty-one or twenty-two. Here was someone else, then, who was in no hurry to make her choice and marry. She was the daughter of a marquess. She was prettier and livelier than Lady Jessica Archer. More approachable. Perhaps . . .

  But he had the strange feeling that though he had come here tonight in order to look about him for marriage prospects, his mind was already made up.

  Really?

  When he did not know the woman and did not much like what he saw? When it seemed to him she did not like what she saw?

  Yes, really.

  His mind was made up.

  Five

  Louise, Dowager Duchess of Netherby, Jessica’s mother, went the following afternoon with her sisters, Matilda and Mildred, to call upon their mother. Eugenia, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, had lived for the past two years with her sister, Edith, who was celebrating her birthday today. It was not surprising, therefore, that the three sisters were not the only callers. Their former sister-in-law, Viola, Marchioness of Dorchester, and a cousin, Althea Westcott, were there too.

  The conversation moved through a number of topics while they all sat about the dining room table, partaking of tea and pastries and cake. Inevitably the discussion included the Parley ball last evening. Four of them had been present for it—Louise, Mildred, Viola, and Althea—and those who had not were eager to hear all the news and gossip. There were always some newcomers to talk about this early in the Season.

  “Peter danced four sets,” Mildred said, speaking of her middle son as she eyed a pastry that oozed cream before choosing a more sensible slice of seedcake instead, “including one with Miss Parley herself. The poor boy was very nervous about making his debut into society, though one rarely hears anyone talk about a man making his debut, does one? Thomas congratulated him this morning at breakfast for not having trodden upon anyone’s toes. But apparently Miss Parley trod upon his, and he has the bruise to prove it.”

  They all laughed.

  “It was gratifying to see that both Estelle and Jessica danced all evening,” Viola said. Lady Estelle Lamarr was her husband’s daughter by a previous marriage.

  “It would be even more gratifying,” Louise said, “if either one of them or both had shown any particular interest in any of their partners. It is disturbing that they are both well past the age of twenty without even the prospect of a wedding on the horizon, or even a betrothal. What is wrong with young women these days?”

  “Perhaps,” Matilda said, “they are waiting for love, Louise. And if that is so, then I can only applaud their good sense.”

  “That is all very well for you to say, Matilda,” Louise said. “You do not have daughters to worry about. And do they have to wait until they are fifty-six to find love?”

  The comment was a bit unjust. That was the age at which Matilda had married Charles, Viscount Dirkson, two years ago. It had been her first marriage.

  “That is unfair, Louise,” the dowager countess said. “Matilda would have married Charles—yes, the same Charles—at the age of twenty if her father and I had not stepped in, very ill-advisedly as it turned out, to stop her.”

  “No doubt you did what you considered the right thing at the time, my lady,” Miss Adelaide Boniface, Edith’s companion, said soothingly.

  “Jessica danced with Mr. Rochford before supper,” Mildred said. “He was much in demand with the young ladies all evening. He is very handsome, and appears to be exceedingly charming too. Also well mannered. I noticed that he sought an introduction to Jessica before the dancing even began, and he did it the correct way, by applying to Louise. He was very attentive to Jessica while they danced. She looked as if she might be interested.”

  “Who is Mr. Rochford?” the dowager countess wanted to know.

  “He is soon to be heir to the earldom of Lyndale, Mama,” Louise explained. “As soon as the missing earl has finally been declared dead later this summer, that is, and Mr. Rochford’s father becomes the new earl.”

  “Yes, of course,” her mother said. “I know all about that. I had just forgotten the young man’s name. He is as handsome as everyone says he is, then?”

  “He is said to have red hair,” Edith said. “I can never quite like red hair on a man.”

  “But his is a dark red,” Cousin Althea said. “It is actually very attractive. He is very attractive. He would be a splendid match for Jessica, Louise.”

  “As she would be for him,” Louise agreed. “But I begin to despair of her.”

  “Perhaps,” Viola said, “something can be done to encourage a match with Mr. Rochford, Louise? He really is a g
ood-looking man, though I did think last evening’s choice of waistcoat rather unfortunate. Marcel, the silly man, commented that all the guests ought to have been issued with dark eyeglasses to avoid the danger of being blinded.”

  Matilda chuckled. “I must tell Charles that one,” she said.

  “The American gentleman caused something of a stir too,” Althea said. “He is Lady Vickers’s kinsman, Eugenia, and her godson—and Sir Trevor’s. He is not actually American, but he has recently returned from several years spent there. He is a fine figure of a man. Very elegant. He also was introduced to Jessica—by Lady Parley herself.”

  “He did not dance with her,” Louise said. “I am not sure he even asked. Jessica said nothing about him afterward.”

  “He waltzed with Estelle,” Viola said. “She said afterward that she enjoyed his company, though she says that of most of her partners.”

  “Rumor has it he is very wealthy,” Althea said. “Unsubstantiated rumors are not always to be trusted, of course. And no one seems to know a great deal about him or what he was doing in America—or what he did before he went there, for that matter. There is a certain air of mystery about him. I daresay that is part of his appeal.”

  “Are you thinking of him for Estelle, Viola?” Mildred asked.

  “I am constantly thinking of everyone for Estelle,” Viola said with a laugh. “But she has a mind of her own. She has yet to show any real interest in marrying.”

  “Girls are not as they were in my day,” the dowager countess said with a shake of the head.