A Heart's Rebellion

by Ruth Axtell

  Would Mr. Marfleet be there? She had seen no sign of him in the intervening week. And had not missed his company! She hoped he was absent this evening. She wanted—needed—to meet other eligible gentlemen.

  If she were ever going to get over Rees Phillips, she needed to meet men who were handsomer and better than he. No more falling in love for her. But she needed to prove she could win a man’s heart, so she could forget Rees and cease to torture herself over the felicity he had found with his French bride.

  Their stuffy rented carriage finally pulled in front of the well-lit grand entrance of the limestone mansion fronting the wide square.

  The footmen handed them down, and they went up the steps to the wide marble foyer. Jessamine brought her quizzing glass up to her eye and surveyed its large dimensions, vaster than the whole ground floor of Lady Bess’s town house.

  One footman took their wraps and another led them up the broad circular staircase, following the many people going up before them. Bright candlelight flickered from hundreds of gilt wall sconces and dozens of crystal chandeliers.

  When they reached the ballroom entrance, Jessamine saw it already held a crowd. She needn’t have feared calling attention to herself. In this crush no one would notice her or her new gown.

  It would be like the rout. Standing on the side, watching everyone else enjoy themselves. Her spirits sank to the toes of her satin slippers as they waited to be announced. So much sacrifice for a new ball gown that just blended in the vast array of colorful gowns.

  Once the butler had intoned their names, they entered the ballroom. A quadrille was playing and the dance floor was filled with sets of dancers.

  “What an elegant crowd,” Lady Bess said once she found them a place along the gold satin wall. “The Fortescues are one of the finest families.” She craned her neck, looking around with her quizzing glass. “I knew his father once upon a time.” Her eyes twinkled. “He had a tendre for me. Oh, there is Lady Swanborough. I must say hello to her later. I don’t see Mr. Marfleet. I’m sure he will be in attendance. You mustn’t dance more than twice with him,” she warned them both with a tap of her fan.

  There seemed to be an awful lot of young ladies, all vying for attention. With the added advantage of family name and portion, it didn’t matter what kinds of gowns they wore, Jessamine concluded as she surveyed the crowd.

  A passing footman carrying a tray loaded with refreshments stopped before them.

  “Thank you,” Lady Bess said with a smile, taking a glass of orgeat from him. “Take some, my dears. You’ll soon develop a powerful thirst from dancing.”

  Megan took a glass of lemonade. Jessamine eyed the crystal goblets. “What is this?” she asked the footman, pointing to a pretty pink liquid in a widemouthed glass.

  “It’s champagne, miss.”

  Jessamine had never tasted champagne. She remembered a comment of Lady Dawson’s: “I only drink pink champagne.”

  On the heels of it came her father’s gentle voice, admonishing his congregation against the excess drinking of spirits.

  Silencing the voice, Jessamine reached out and took a glass. Perhaps the champagne would bolster her courage. She was determined that her efforts to present a new image of herself would not be in vain.

  As of tonight, her life would change.

  “It matches your gown,” Megan said.

  Jessamine held the glass up, liking the way the tiny bubbles rose to the surface of the pale pink liquid. “So it does.”

  Lady Bess raised her glass. “May you meet many eligible bachelors worth at least one thousand!”

  After lifting their glasses in the toast, Jessamine took a careful sip. The pink liquid tickled her tongue and tingled down her throat, spreading warmth throughout her body. Liking the sensation, she took another small sip.

  “Careful, my dear, champagne is heady stuff.”

  “I will,” she promised, lowering her glass. Already she felt able to conquer, if not the world, then this ballroom.

  The dance floor filled again. Jessamine tapped her foot to the lively music, wishing she could be dancing.

  “I don’t see Mr. Marfleet or Mr. Emery,” Lady Bess said, her quizzing glass eyeing all the gentlemen passing them by.

  Megan rose on tiptoe. “Neither do I. I wonder if they came. I haven’t seen either since the dinner party, but then neither have we been invited anywhere.”

  Jessamine lifted her quizzing glass, although part of her preferred the indistinct edges of the colorful room, the soft aureoles of the candlelight making everything appear magical.

  Everything clarified at once. The ballroom was immense, spanning the length of the mansion, she judged. Its ceiling was painted with frescoes of clouds and nymphs. Three massive chandeliers hung from it. Dozens of wall sconces lit the sides of the room.

  She studied the faces, unsure whether to feel relieved or sorry that Mr. Marfleet’s was not among them. “Nor do I,” she said, lowering her quizzing glass, “but they are not the only gentlemen here tonight.” It would be best not to see Mr. Marfleet, she decided, her hand going to her bare throat.

  What if he mentioned seeing her coming out of the pawnbroker’s shop?

  Jessamine took another sip of champagne, bracing herself for the encounter. If Mr. Marfleet was here, she’d have to trust his discretion. If he did let something slip, she’d have to brave it out.

  Lancelot eyed the crowded ballroom when he arrived with Harold. They were fashionably late since Harold had insisted they dine at his club beforehand. That had led to a stop at the faro table. Only by intimating that he wanted to see Miss Barry and Miss Phillips at the ball was Lancelot able to pull his brother away.

  He put on his spectacles now and scanned the ballroom, seeking Miss Barry. He didn’t see her and swallowed a sense of disappointment. Hadn’t they received an invitation? His mother had promised to drop a hint to the ball’s hostess, a close school friend.

  He touched his pocket, feeling the slight lump of the necklace’s pendant there. He meant to give it to Miss Barry this evening, if he could find a moment alone with her. He grimaced, wondering how she would react at seeing him tonight.

  Harold disappeared into the crowd. Deciding to wait a bit before making a foray into the ballroom himself, Lancelot backed out and headed to the card room.

  He was a coward around women, he knew, but even as he acknowledged this, he kept moving away from the ballroom, his hand patting his pocket once more.

  7

  Jessamine tapped her foot against the parquet floor to the beat of the Scotch reel. She and Megan were still standing where Lady Bess had left them when she’d gone off to the card room with a friend with the parting admonition, “Don’t sit out too many dances.”

  That had been an hour ago. Jessamine had finished her champagne, the euphoria long since worn off. The evening was promising to be like all the others since coming to London.

  When a passing footman laden with a tray of glasses crossed in front of them again, she snatched another glass of champagne. Her abrupt gesture jarred the tray and set the glasses shaking.

  The footman halted, startled at her sudden movement. She glared at him, and his features took on the impassive look of a well-trained servant.

  “Are you sure you should have any more?” Megan whispered after he’d moved away.

  Jessamine stared at her over the rim of her glass. “If I am to stand here bored until supper, yes, I think I should indeed.” She took a healthy swallow.

  Megan returned to watching the dancers.

  A moment later she touched Jessamine’s arm. “There is Sir Harold.” Her hold tightened. “He has seen us.” She raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  If he was here, it meant his brother must be too. Jessamine resisted the urge to lift her quizzing glass. Instead she took another swallow of champagne.

  A moment later, Sir Harold bowed before them. “Good evening, ladies, how pretty you both look.” His glance rested on Jessamine. “Ravishing, I sho
uld say. What have you done to yourself?”

  Her already warm cheeks felt warmer as his eyes drifted downward and lingered on her neckline. She had the urge to tug it upward. Instead, she touched her hair. “Shorn my locks.”

  “So I see . . . à la Caro.” His gaze returned to her face with a lazy smile. “I hope you don’t fall in love with Byron and make a cake of yourself as she has done.”

  “Running besotted after a poet? I can assure you I shall not be so foolish.”

  His dark blond brows drew together. “Why are neither of you dancing?”

  “Because no one has asked us,” she replied, emboldened by the champagne.

  “Where is that slowtop brother of mine?” He craned his neck around. “I swear he was following me just now. Ah, well, I’ll find him presently. In the meantime—” He snagged the arm of a passing gentleman. “Reggie, I need your services.”

  Sir Harold turned back to them with a flourish. “May I present Reginald Layton. Reggie—Miss Phillips, Miss Barry.”

  The handsome young man bowed to each then asked Megan, “May I have this dance?”

  Sir Harold made a courtly bow to Jessamine. “Can you content yourself with me until I find my wayward brother?”

  “You mustn’t feel obliged to ask me—”

  “Nonsense. It is my pleasure. Come, let’s set down your drink and kick up our heels.”

  They followed the other two onto the dance floor and joined a set.

  It was a lively dance that kept them moving constantly so she did not have to worry about talking to Sir Harold but for brief snatches.

  The champagne made her giddy but light on her feet as well. “How is your sister?”

  “Delawney?” he said. “She never comes to these things. She is worse than Lancelot. She refused a season and now is squarely on the shelf and says she doesn’t care.”

  “Refused a season?” Jessamine could scarcely imagine it, especially if one’s parents were as important as the Marfleets.

  “Said she couldn’t abide being looked at by a bunch of worthless gentlemen who had the temerity to judge if she’d make them a suitable wife.”

  By the time the dance ended and he asked her for the next, the new quadrille, Jessamine felt better. After that, Sir Harold introduced her to another friend. Mr. Allan led her out for a country dance.

  At the end of it, the slower strains of a waltz began.

  She had never danced the waltz. It was not permitted at the assemblies at home.

  “Do you know the waltz?” Mr. Allan asked her.

  She shook her head.

  “There is nothing easier.”

  She refused to try it, but he stayed with her. She studied the couples as they moved in the short march that preceded the dance. As each one paired off and went through a set of graceful movements, Jessamine was enthralled. What would it be like to be held in one’s partner’s arms as he twirled and promenaded one in a small circle?

  An image of Rees filled her thoughts. No! She mustn’t think of him. She tried to conjure up someone else, and all she succeeded in doing was picturing Mr. Marfleet. He would probably step all over her feet.

  When the waltz ended, two acquaintances of Mr. Allan’s stopped by, and he introduced them, Lord Fane, whom they called “Cubby,” and Mr. St. Leger, a tall, dark-haired man who appraised her through his quizzing glass.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” he drawled after a full minute of perusing her.

  “Allan said you are from West Sussex?” Cubby asked her.

  “Yes, a small village.”

  “It is a pretty countryside,” St. Leger said, dangling his quizzing glass.

  “Are you familiar with it?”

  “No, I can’t say that I am.”

  She couldn’t help smiling at his droll reply.

  “How do you find London?”

  “London is . . .” She searched for a word. “Crowded and cold.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at an exaggerated height. “Do you find it cold?”

  She smiled. “Not physically, not at this time of year.”

  “Ah, you mean its citizens. We shall have to remedy that so you do not take an unfavorable impression back with you to your hamlet.”

  Her tongue loosened by the champagne she had drunk earlier, she asked, “And where are you from?”

  “My family hails from Nottinghamshire for the last several centuries. Since Henry I, to be specific.”

  “No outlaws among you?”

  He eyed her appreciatively. “None in such noble lawbreaking endeavors as Robin Hood. But we do boast many questionable characters throughout the age. Our portrait gallery is filled with these reprobates.”

  She couldn’t imagine living in a house with its own portrait gallery, much less knowing her ancestors from so long ago.

  After a moment, he said, “Excuse me if I don’t ask you to dance, but I find it exceedingly nonsensical to be cavorting about an open area for amusement.”

  “Why then do you come to a ball?” Mr. Allan asked him with a smile.

  “To watch the ladies cavorting,” he drawled, his gaze taking in Jessamine’s gown.

  “That’s quite all right,” she managed. “I have been cavorting for a good hour and could stand a rest.”

  “And some refreshment too, I’ll be bound. All that jumping about the dance floor must have you parched.”

  “Indeed it has,” she admitted. “I had a glass of champagne but have no idea where it went . . .” She glanced about her, but it had long since been cleared away by a footman.

  “No matter. I shall fetch you another.” Before she could protest that a lemonade was all she desired, he signaled a footman then took a glass of champagne and handed it to her. “For the parched lady.”

  She looked longingly at the lemonade but said nothing, taking the glass from him. She didn’t want to appear unsophisticated.

  “For myself, there is nothing like a punch,” Cubby said, taking the small glass from the tray.

  Mr. Allan raised his glass to her, and the others followed suit. “To a country miss—may she soon dance her first waltz.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  She smiled shyly and took a sip, determining that she must learn the waltz.

  Mr. St. Leger lowered his glass. “A country miss come to town. How delicious. We shall be most happy to initiate you into the ways of the city.”

  She joined in their laughter even though she knew they were teasing her. But at least she was no longer standing against the wall.

  Soon more gentlemen approached, and she found herself surrounded. To her surprise, she made them laugh with her pert remarks.

  By the time the music started again, she was being called a wit. One of them asked her for a dance. After that she lacked no partners for the next two sets. She had not had such fun in an age. If her season continued like this, soon Rees’s memory would fade.

  As Cubby turned to lead her off the dance floor, she came face-to-face with Mr. Marfleet.

  “Good evening, Miss Barry.”

  His black evening clothes of tailcoat and breeches, white waistcoat and neckcloth were as elegant as the other gentlemen’s. His unruly red hair was neatly brushed, but he wore his spectacles, reminding her again that he was a clergyman and botanist. She remembered her own spectacles, but insisted that didn’t signify, since she had now learned to handle a quizzing glass.

  “Good evening, Mr. Marfleet.”

  “Hallo there, Lance. You here tonight too?” Cubby, his plump cheeks red with exertion, eyed him in surprise. “I didn’t know you were back—from where was it, Arabia?”

  Mr. Marfleet spared him a brief look. “India. Hello, Cubby.”

  “I heard you were laid up with a fever. Only seen you a few times with Harold. Wouldn’t think dancing was quite the thing if you’ve been abed.”

  “I’m over it now, thank you.”

  An awkward pause descended.

  Mr. Marfleet’s attention returned to her.

 
; He seemed to be looking at her bare neck—or was it her neckline? Would he notice her quickened heartbeat thumping against her chest?

  “I didn’t see you earlier,” she said, then could have bitten her tongue. He would think she had been looking out for him.

  “I was in the card room.” His gaze stayed fixed on her.

  Once again, her hand rose to her neck to fiddle with her necklace before recalling that it was not there. “We saw your brother some time ago.” That was worse. It sounded as if she was reproaching him for not looking for them sooner. To banish that impression, she waved a hand. “He is around here if you are in search of him.”

  He smiled faintly. “I am not, thank you all the same.”

  When Mr. Marfleet didn’t move or say anything more, Cubby took her lightly by the elbow. “If you will excuse us—”

  Mr. Marfleet put a step forward, blocking their path. “I wanted to ask you for the next dance, Miss Barry.”

  “I—I’m sorry, I feel a bit fatigued.” In truth, she felt a bit too queasy to dance anymore.

  “I see. I shall not trouble you further.” With a clipped inclination of his chin to them both, he left them.

  “Poor old Lancelot, such an old parson. It sticks out all over him. Nothing at all like Harold or the rest of us. Suppose it was inevitable, being the second son and all, to be obliged to enter the church.”

  She stiffened. “There is nothing wrong with entering the church.”

  “But no one expected him to take it to such lengths. Going off to India, upon my word.” He shook his head, his jowls trembling above his starched shirt points.

  “Perhaps he felt compelled to.” She bit her lip, annoyed that she found herself defending Mr. Marfleet.

  Cubby blinked at her. “What’s that?”