The Unaccomplished Lady Eleanor

by Wendy Burdess

  Eleanor was amazed to see that the girl did not so much as flinch under his contemptuous scrutiny.

  ‘Oh, I am sure it will, sir,’ she replied with a blatantly false smile. ‘There are so many people of consequence here - the Duke and Duchess of Swinton, for example – that one could not fail to enjoy oneself.’

  Eleanor gasped loudly at the audacity of the girl. How dare she remind James of her threat? Had she no shame at all? Suddenly she realized that her godmother and Madeleine were both eyeing her suspiciously. She hastily feigned a cough. James and Felicity, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious to those around them, locked in a fierce battle of wits. Eleanor was the only spectator aware of the insidiousness weaved through their apparently innocent exchange. The battle continued as James smiled serenely at his opponent.

  ‘Ah, yes, the Duchess of Swinton. It is some time since I have seen the lady. I trust she is in good health?’

  ‘The finest, sir. As is the duke, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ nodded James, ‘and I am very glad to hear it. I shall look forward to seeing them both later.’

  ‘I’m sure they will both be delighted to see you, my lord,’ replied Felicity.

  ‘Ah, the Duchess of Swinton,’ sighed Lady Carmichael. ‘Now there is a most … elegant and … decorous lady,’ she remarked, casting a disparaging look at Madeleine’s audacious gown.

  Madeleine, immediately alerted to the unspoken criticism, affected a saccharine-sweet smile. ‘Then I, too, shall look forward to meeting this Duchess of Swinton. I wish to acquaint myself with all of James’s friends.’

  ‘All of them?’ snorted Felicity incredulously. ‘How very … admirable.’

  Evidently sensing the younger girl’s scorn, Madeleine glared frostily at Felicity before rearranging her features into a more pleasant countenance.

  ‘James, darling,’ she cooed, gazing up at her escort through long silky lashes, ‘aren’t you going to ask me to dance? It can be so dreadfully dull standing around talking all evening.’

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ replied James, patting her tiny gloved hand, which appeared to have taken up permanent residence on his arm. ‘Please do excuse us, ladies. I am sure we shall have a chance to continue our conversation later this evening.’

  Eleanor’s eyes widened as she realized this last comment was directed, most definitively, to Felicity - a fact that the younger girl also did not fail to miss.

  She bobbed a polite curtsy. ‘Oh, I sincerely hope so, sir,’ she replied archly. ‘Do please now go and enjoy yourselves.’

  Recognizing that his point had been received and understood, James bowed courteously as Madeleine flashed a dazzling, victorious smile and whisked him away through the crowd. Only Eleanor was aware of the menacing glare that followed them as they weaved their elegant way across the floor.

  Lady Carmichael watched their retreating backs with a doleful expression. ‘My,’ she sighed, ‘Lady Madeleine and James do seem to be rubbing along well together. You don’t think they could make a match of it, do you, Lady Ormiston?’

  Eleanor observed the dowager’s lips twitching with suppressed laughter.

  ‘Who knows, Cynthia?’ she replied matter-of-factly. ‘The girl is quite charming and he seems very taken with her. He could, I think, do worse for himself. Or perhaps you had someone else in mind to shackle him to?’

  Lady Carmichael blushed to the roots of her hair. ‘Of course not, Lady Ormiston. Who on earth could I possibly wish to see James wed to?’

  Now accustomed to her goddaughter’s escape tactics, the dowager, much to Eleanor’s dismay, appeared to be keeping a very firm eye and, as she dragged her around the room, an equally firm hold, on her charge. Basing her strategy on the garden party experience, Eleanor realized that her only chance of freedom was to ply the old lady so full of alcohol that she wouldn’t give a flying fig where her goddaughter was.

  ‘Would you care for another drink, Godmother?’ she enquired innocently, as the dowager downed the last of her champagne. Before she had a chance to reply, Eleanor had snatched the empty glass out of her hand and replaced it with one she had taken earlier from a passing waiter’s tray.

  Lady Ormiston eyed her suspiciously. ‘I do hope you are not trying to get me foxed, girl.’

  Eleanor raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Of course not, Godmother. Why on earth would I wish to do that?’

  The dowager, though, was far too perceptive. ‘Most likely so you can go wandering off on your own, getting up to all kinds of mischief. Really, Eleanor, it does not do for young ladies to go around unchaperoned at such affairs. It is most unbecoming.’

  ‘Of course it is, Godmother,’ agreed Eleanor innocently. ‘It would not do at all.’

  ‘Quite,’ confirmed the dowager stoutly.

  Sitting alongside her godmother, on the red velvet gilt chairs lining the periphery of the ballroom, Eleanor had noticed a number of young men looking in her direction. Whenever it looked as though one were about to approach her, she turned her attention to the dowager – a seemingly very effective tactic in warding off any unwanted offers to dance. As a result, though, she was feeling decidedly bored. Blowing out her breath in a huff, she slumped down in the chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

  ‘Posture, girl. Posture,’ boomed Lady Ormiston.

  Eleanor rolled her eyes and suppressed another sigh. Straightening her back, she placed her hands loosely in her lap and crossed her ankles so that she was sitting in exactly the same manner as all the other girls and their chaperons lining the walls. But while her posture may have been identical, there was one enormous difference. Whereas all the other chits were eagerly awaiting an invitation to dance from any eligible and, preferably, wealthy young man, Eleanor was waiting for the dowager to become sufficiently inebriated so she could slip off and escape the tedium.

  She slanted a sly glance at the dowager’s champagne flute. It was half-empty already. She would take another from the waiter’s tray the next time he passed by. That should be more than enough. As she scanned the room for a champagne-bearing footman, she spotted James and Madeleine gliding expertly around the dance floor. The contrast of James’s rugged, dark good looks against Madeleine’s exquisite blonde beauty distinguished them from the majority of other guests. They looked perfect together and, by the admiring looks they were receiving as they swept around the floor, Eleanor was evidently not the only one who thought so. There was one other couple, however, who were equally as striking. Dressed in her trademark white, in a sumptuous gown of diaphanous silk, the Duchess of Swinton and her husband made an equally handsome pair. Eleanor observed with interest the interaction between the two couples. Seemingly oblivious to his fellow dancers, James appeared to have his eyes fixed firmly on a spot directly above Madeleine’s head. Each time the couples swung by one another, Eleanor observed how the duchess cast him a hopeful glance attempting, very discreetly, to catch his eye. If he was aware of her intention, James did a good job of ignoring it. But while a shadow of disappointment crept slowly over his wife’s beautiful features, the duke’s expression was much harder to read. As they waltzed by James and Madeleine once more, Eleanor observed as the duke glanced down at his wife who was staring at James. Ignoring the woman yet again, James and Madeleine swung by in another whirl of shimmering gold. The duke’s features hardened slightly. Eleanor couldn’t be sure, but there was a very strange look in the man’s eyes as they briefly followed James’s back. It was something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it gave her the distinct impression that Felicity Carmichael’s threat at the garden party had not been an empty one.

  Was she the only one to notice this exchange between the three dancers? she wondered. Or was Felicity also observing them from some hidden spot? Watching James’s every move? Noticing the stir he and his beautiful guest were creating? She shuddered slightly as she recalled the girl’s baleful expression earlier. She hated to admit it, and she was certainly no simpering little goose,
but Felicity Carmichael frightened her. James had implied quite strongly that he wished to speak to the girl alone later. What had he to say to her? she wondered. Perhaps-

  ‘Excuse me, madam. May I have the pleasure of the next dance? It is another waltz I believe.’

  Eleanor’s head jerked up sharply. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she had not noticed the young man approaching her. She was not shallow enough to hold a great deal of store by looks, but this man could not, by the largest stretch of anyone’s imagination, be referred to as handsome or even remotely good-looking. He was short and podgy with greying skin, a worrying rash around his chin, and greasy fair hair, which was in dire need of a cut. Damn! She cursed silently. She had not prepared for this at all. She needed to think of an excuse and quickly. But what excuse could she possibly use that would satisfy both the young man and the dowager?

  ‘I-I’m sorry, sir,’ she stammered. ‘I, er, that is my feet are a little, er-’

  ‘Ah, Viscount Grayson,’ interjected the dowager cheerfully. ‘How very splendid. My goddaughter would be delighted to dance with you. Off you go, Eleanor dear.’

  Viscount Grayson’s mouth stretched into a wide grin, revealing a set of repulsive, yellowing teeth. He regarded Eleanor expectantly. She flashed him a fleeting smile then immediately averted her eyes to his shoes which, she noticed, were badly scuffed. A bubble of panic swelled in her stomach. What on earth was she to do? Dancing around her room with Milly was one thing, but dancing in public, in front of hundreds of people, was quite another. The music to the previous dance ended. Ladies curtsied, their partners bowed. Couples for the next dance moved on to the floor and assumed their places. The viscount held out a podgy sweaty hand to her. Eleanor’s stomach lurched as an overwhelming urge to pick up her skirts and flee the room surged through her. Then, just when she thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse, she became aware of a snide, nasally voice: ‘Good lord, man, you’re taking your life in your hands there. Or should I say your feet.’ The statement was followed by a despicable drunken chortle.

  Startled out of her panic-ridden stupor, Eleanor whipped around her head to find Derek Lovell, obviously in his cups, escorting a brazen-looking woman, some years older than himself and wearing far too much rouge, on to the dance floor. His lip was curled upward in an unattractive sneer as he swaggered past her, uttering something of amusement to his partner, which made her titter unpleasantly.

  Eleanor turned to her godmother, hoping she had witnessed Lovell’s disgusting behaviour, but the dowager, obviously expecting Eleanor to be on the dance floor by now, had engaged in conversation with the matronly chaperon on her left.

  As Lovell and his partner took their places on the dance floor, they turned back simultaneously, threw Eleanor a satirical look, then burst into laughter. Eleanor’s initial horror at her invitation was completely swept aside by a wave of indignant anger. How dare Derek Lovell insult her so? She could dance. Of course she could. She had danced quite competently in her room with Milly and even M. Aminieux had said she was good. Well, perhaps he had not actually used the word ‘good’ but he most definitely thought she was improving. She would not be sniggered and sneered at by anyone. She would show them all. She would dance with this man.

  She forced what she hoped was a pleasant smile on to her face. ‘Thank you, sir. I should be delighted to dance with you.’

  As the obviously elated viscount led her out on to the floor, swaying a little too much for Eleanor’s liking, she was aware of her legs shaking. For goodness’ sake, she chided herself, it’s just one stupid dance at one stupid ball. What could possibly go wrong? Viscount Grayson took hold of her and roughly pulled her to him, causing Eleanor to gasp. At least a head taller than he, his eyes were level with her neck. She flinched slightly as she became aware of his clammy palms upon her and the unpleasant odour of his body. Even M. Aminieux’s nauseating cologne was preferable to the viscount’s more natural approach to personal hygiene. He smelt, in equal measures, of stale sweat and whisky. The orchestra started up and the viscount began swaying on the spot. Eleanor was no expert, but this man, she recognized immediately, was an even worse dancer than herself. Either that or – more likely - he was so drunk he had forgotten his steps. Derek Lovell and his painted woman whisked past them, both tittering superciliously. Eleanor’s earlier urge to pick up her skirts and flee, returned with renewed vigour. But she couldn’t. Not now. It would cause a scene and her godmother would never forgive her. Desperately, she tried to redeem the situation by attempting to lead her partner, but the man was so fat she couldn’t shift him one way or the other. They remained hovering on the edge of the dance floor, the viscount swaying backwards and forwards, looking like he might empty his accounts at any moment. Eleanor was aware that they were attracting several enquiring looks. Tears pricked her eyes. She felt such a fool. She saw Derek Lovell and his partner waltzing around the room towards them again. If they laughed at her once more, she doubted she would be able to control her temper or her tears.

  ‘Excuse me for cutting in, sir, but may I?’

  Relief flooded Eleanor’s body. As a muttering, disgruntled viscount swaggered back through the swaying couples, most likely in search of another drink, James Prestonville drew Eleanor into his arms. Unlike the short, podgy limbs of the viscount, his were strong and muscular and quite took her by surprise. As he began swinging her masterfully around the floor, Eleanor forgot all about the viscount, all about her dance steps, all about Derek Lovell and Felicity Carmichael and every other person in the room. Every one of her senses seemed heightened and focused acutely on James: his strong arms, his broad chest, the closeness of his person. Even the smell of him - clean and fresh and overwhelmingly masculine - was having an unsettling effect on her, causing something unfamiliar to stir in the pit of her stomach. The sound of his deep voice brought her hurtling back to reality.

  ‘You have no need to thank me, madam.’

  Eleanor was a little taken aback by the arrogance of his tone. ‘For what exactly?’

  ‘Why, for rescuing you of course.’

  Indignation pulsed through her. ‘I can assure you I did not need rescuing, sir.’

  James raised his brows. ‘That, I can assure you, is not how it looked to me.’

  Unflinching, Eleanor met his gaze. ‘Then perhaps your eyesight is failing.’

  His lips twitched. ‘Are you implying, Lady Eleanor, that you would rather I had not interrupted your … dance with the viscount?’

  Her eyes shined defiance. ‘It was somewhat presumptuous of you.’

  James’s eyes narrowed. ‘Was it indeed? Then I take it you were enjoying his company?’

  ‘And why would I not? The man was quite … quite … charming.’

  ‘I see,’ he replied, his features hardening slightly. ‘Then in that case, please accept my sincere apologies for spoiling your evening.’ The sarcasm in his tone was obvious.

  At that moment the music stopped and he abruptly released his hold of her. Despite herself Eleanor experienced a stab of disappointment. Observing the usual courtesies, he bowed before her and she dipped a curtsy.

  ‘I have no need of a protector, sir,’ she declared, as she straightened. ‘I am quite capable of looking after myself.’

  James regarded her coolly. ‘Of that I have no doubt, Lady Eleanor,’ he said, before turning his back to her and strutting purposefully across the dance floor.

  Eleanor was pleased with herself. Despite her relief at not having to spend a second longer in the repulsive viscount’s presence, she was not going to add to the already excessive ego of James Prestonville and act like a simpering goose. She had shown him that she was a strong, independent woman, in no need of male intervention. So why then, did she feel so utterly deflated?

  ‘Eleanor, what on earth happened to the viscount?’ demanded the dowager as Eleanor approached her chair alone.

  ‘He had to retire, Godmother. He was a little … indisposed.’

 
; ‘Hmph. I do hope you didn’t discourage him, Eleanor. Whether he was indisposed or not is of no import. All men have their little indiscretions, girl, as you will soon learn. The point is that the man showed some interest in you. And you could do worse. Viscount Grayson is an extremely wealthy man. He owns several large estates in both the north and the south of England. Indeed, I would go as far as to say that he is swimming in lard.’

  ‘More like he has eaten too much lard,’ muttered Eleanor.

  ‘What was that, girl?’

  ‘Nothing, Godmother.’

  NINE

  Half an hour and two glasses of champagne later, the dowager was sufficiently befuddled and preoccupied for Eleanor to slip away unnoticed. She had no idea where to go only that the atmosphere in the ballroom was stifling her and she felt in desperate need to escape it.

  She decided to explore the house, venturing up the branching staircase on to the first floor landing. Several doors led off the landing, one of which was ajar. Eleanor approached it and peeped inside. The room was decorated in green damask and brightly lit. In the centre was a round table around which were seated four ladies and six gentlemen – among them Derek Lovell. They were engaged in a game of cards, with several players having large piles of notes and coins in front of them. Derek Lovell, however, did not. From the little Eleanor knew about gambling it was clear from the man’s lack of notes and coins and from his fidgeting, that things were not going his way. He held his head in his hands, weaving his wiry fingers through his greasy pale-red hair. As another member of the set, whom Eleanor took to be the banker, turned over a card, Lovell muttered something Eleanor was grateful she could not hear. Then he dropped his head on to the table. Eleanor felt no sympathy for him. The man was a contemptible toad.

  Deciding to put as much distance as possible between herself and Lovell, she made her way back down the stairs, along a corridor and through a small sitting-room which had its long windows open to the garden. For a town house in the centre of the city, the garden was surprisingly large, separated on either side from its neighbours by a tall stone wall. The space immediately behind the house formed a perfect square with a wall dividing it from the rest of the garden, through which one could enter via an arch.