Belle of the ball

by Donna Lea Simpson

  "Do you accept my apology?"

  Westhaven's voice was a whisper in her ear, and the small hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Reluctantly she turned back to him. What a pity he was so handsome. That, she had decided, lay at the back of her undeniable attraction to him. That must be all it was. Olivia Rowland at the end of the table was trying to get his attention, probably wanting to make sheep's eyes at him, Arabella thought acidly. It was well known that she was bored by her husband, a minor diplomat attached to the War Office, so it was no wonder she was drawn to Marcus Westhaven. He looked, in the elegant surroundings of the dining room, like a wolf in the midst of a flock of helpless sheep. The other men's finished appearances looked effete and pallid next to his rugged, lupine vigor.

  'I . . . I accept your apology, sir, now leave me alone, please!" Where the plea had come from, Arabella did not know, but it was heartfelt. She could not concentrate with him next to her. He radiated some force that held her helpless and confused in the face of it, but she could not allow it to interfere any longer in her pursuit of Lord Pelimore. It was imperative that she sew up this betrothal with no more delay.

  There was silence, and she darted a look at West-haven. He was gazing at her with indecision in his hooded gray eyes. He started to say something, then stopped. On her right, she could hear Lord Pelimore scraping the bottom of his soup plate with his spoon. She had not touched her own soup and could not bear to even think about it at that moment. There was something in the air between her and Westhaven, something hanging unsaid, something important.

  "What is it?" she whispered, looking into his eyes. The gray of them was dark, with coal flecks in their depths and a coal ring around the iris.

  "Arabella, I want to tell you—"

  "Miss Swinley, what is all the whisperin' about?" Lord Pelimore chose that moment to be attentive to his dinner partner. They were between courses, so that explained it.

  But Arabella could not afford to miss the opportunity, nor could she let him get the wrong impression about her and Westhaven. "We were not whispering, sir; Mr. Westhaven was just informing me that—that I had a curl amiss."

  "Mr. Westhaven should keep his 'informing' to himself," Lord Pelimore said, testily.

  "It was kindly meant, sir. A lady must always wish to know when her appearance is not . . . not up to scratch." She was scrabbling for conversation and sounded hen-witted at best, she thought.

  The baron stared at her. "Can't see anything wrong with your hair, young lady. You look perfect, as always."

  "Why thank you, sir."

  "Lord Pelimore has found something upon which we concur," Westhaven said, dryly. "You always look perfect. Miss Swinley."

  "I suppose your colonial ladies have no time for such nonsense as pretty dresses and bonnets," Arabella said, responding swiftly to what she fancied was some kind of implied criticism. Somehow, even a compliment from him sounded like fault-finding.

  "On the contrary; maidens will always be maidens, wherever they reside. There are some remarkably pretty girls in the Canadas, Miss Swinley."

  Somehow the answer did not please her as she supposed it ought. It promised to be a long, awkward evening. "I'm sure there are," she retorted. "And I am sure you have flirted with every one of them."

  Eight

  After dinner, as the gentlemen sat smoking cigars and drinking port, Pelimore gazed steadily at Westhaven through a cloud of smoke. Under cover of a rather loud political discussion taking place at the other end of the table, concerning the Luddite threat and what to do about it, the baron said, "What's your interest in Miss Swinley?"

  Marcus, startled, blew out a mouthful of smoke and said, "Interest? I have no interest in Miss Swinley."

  "Good. Because just between you an' me, man to man, as it were, I intend to offer for the gel."

  Staring at the much older man, his black dinner coat covered in a fine layer of gray ash, Marcus was surprised at the wave of revulsion and anger that swept through him. It really wasn't any of his business, since Miss Swinley appeared determined to have him, too. But he couldn't help himself. "Is she not—pardon me, sir, but is she not a little young for your tastes?"

  Complacently flicking ash off the end of his cigar, Pelimore said, "Need a young'un. Got to breed an heir. Can't abide m'nephew, an' he's set to inherit since my Jamie died last year. So, I'll just get another heir before I pop off"

  Sprawled at his ease, no one but those who knew him intimately would have recognized the coiled tension in Marcus. He felt it in himself, felt the anger that roiled through his belly at the casual assumption of right to Arabella's body, as though she would be this man's chattel, to breed and then forget. Lord, but he had been living in a freer society for too long! He had forgotten the arrogant assumptions made by those with any sort of power. Not that it did not happen in the colonies, but then he had not spent much time in York, the largest center of society in upper Canada. Most of his time was spent in a canoe charting waterways. His ideas had become positively radical, it seemed, while he had been away. Though he always did think differently from those around him. That was what had sent him away from home in the first place, his inability to conform his thoughts and beliefs to those of the people around him.

  But he must remember that just because they did not see eye to eye on much, did not mean that Lord Pelimore was without any human feeling. And so he would give this man a chance to profess some caring for Arabella, some decent pretense of affection. "What about Miss Swinley? Why her?"

  Lord Pelimore, face red from too much port, waved his hand around and said, "Look at her, man! She's a diamond! If I gotta bed a young one, it's gonna be a diamond, not some wizen-faced little spinster girl, like all the old dragons have been throwing at me lately. My money's gonna buy quality, not shabby cast-offs. Can't believe some young buck hasn't snatched her up." He rubbed his hands together. "But she'll take me. She's bin making up to me for a while now, and pretty soon I'll let her know it's worked. She can have me an' m'money s'long as she gets me an heir. I'll enjoy the gettin', too." Pelimore winked at Marcus. "Man of the world to man of the world," he said, jabbing at Marcus with the lit end of the cigar. "I don't mind telling you, I will enjoy the gettin'. Bin a long time since I had a virgin."

  A slash of hot anger coursed through Marcus. If the man hadn't been old enough to be his father, Marcus would have challenged him for such disrespectful language toward a lady. Worse than disrespectful; filthy and degenerate! But who was he to talk? He who had grabbed at her like she was some doxy to be had for a shilling or a pint of gin!

  But it was not right that a blooming girl like Arabella should wed this man, this cretinous old aristocratic lout. He refused to believe she held him in any affection. No, she was going for the biggest money pot she could find. And he did not know why he cared. If she was as money-grubbing as all that, then he should just abandon her to her fate.

  But he couldn't. And he wouldn't. Whether she liked it or not, she had a champion. He would save her from herself, and from making a mess of her life, if he could.

  The Season was progressing nicely, everyone solemnly declared. It was that most glorious of Seasons, spring in London, with not just one, but two royal weddings to look forward to. Princess Charlotte, the Regent's well-loved daughter, was set to marry a handsome young man, Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg on May 2, so 1816 would go down in history as a most propitious time for marriage. And it was a love match, everyone said.

  And then, two months later there would be another rare spectacle, for Princess Mary, one of the King and Queen's middle-aged daughters, was set to marry her cousin and long-time intended husband, the Duke of Gloucester. Perhaps not a love match, but appropriate and long overdue, nonetheless.

  There seemed to be an added sparkle of life to London society; every ball was pronounced a capital success, every girl was a diamond, every young gent a fine buck.

  And yet there was definitely something missing for Arabella. For her the Season seemed solemn and
dark and desperately wanting in joy, one long, tedious worry session.

  Except when Marcus Westhaven was around, which he seemed to be more and more. She should be cutting him; she knew it, and yet she could not do it. No matter how maddening he was, he was also charming, handsome, good-humored, and since he had learned the new steps, a wonderful dancer. Desperately in need of merriment, Arabella could not help but respond. He always seemed to know just what to say, just what to do to make her laugh. She missed him terribly during his mysterious absences, but after a few days gone, he would turn up in London again with some small gift for her, or a posy of country flowers to brighten her day.

  April, with its brilliant sunshine, drenching rain, and glorious bursts of flowers came, and the first ball of the month was the Hartford ball. She was feeling sprightly because her mother had obtained some money from their steward, enough to put off the wolves at the door, though not nearly enough to pay all their outstanding bills.

  And she was wearing a new gown fashioned from a bolt of cloth her mother said she had obtained for nearly nothing. It was sea green, close in color to her eyes, and it had a shimmer of gold through it. With some rescued lace from a dress that was hopelessly out of fashion and could not be worn, she felt like a new woman. She and her mother drew up to the Hartford residence that night in the Leathornes* elegant carriage, both in reasonably good spirits. As she often did, her mother disappeared immediately as they entered.

  Arabella stood on the landing above the ballroom and glanced around looking for some acquaintance, hopefully Eveleen, who was supposed to be back in town any day now. But the first person she saw was Marcus Westhaven. He approached her and she saw the admiration in his eyes. It gave her a thrill down her spine to see the way his gaze lingered, and the fire that flared deep within the charcoal of his eyes. Ever since the dinner at the Howlands' he had been attentive and courteous, still always there, but with a supportive smile and a compliment He walked with her and talked with her, almost as if he were courting her. She could become accustomed to such treatment. His small gifts were never out of keeping with their friendship, his conversation was never distressing. For the moment the fiction that had seemed a natural part of their relationship was absent

  Her mind wandered for just a moment What would it be like to have a husband like Marcus? Would he always be this attentive, or would their marriage devolve into the sullen frigidity she had observed between some couples? But no, she must not ponder such topics as marriage to Marcus Westhaven. She would just enjoy the days and evenings of freedom, while Lord Pelimore, forced to return to his country manor to solve some problem or another that he had explained in protracted detail in a note he had sent to Arabella along with an enormous bouquet of flowers, was absent. Her mother would not plague her until her prospective husband was back.

  "You look like a spring morning," Westhaven said, taking her hand and holding her away from him as he gazed admiringly at her. "That green is lovely, but not nearly as beautiful as you are."

  How was it that a young lady as experienced in town flattery as she, should be so flustered every time Westhaven said something kind? Arabella felt her cheeks flame. "Thank you, sir. May I say that you look very handsome yourself." And he did. For so poverty-stricken a gentleman, he always appeared "bang up to the mark," as cant would say it. Of course, a man only needed one good evening suit and he was set for the Season, but still . . . She eyed him curiously, noting his snowy white linens and perfect mathematical. "Your valet is to be congratulated."

  He chuckled. "I shall take the compliment on myself, as I have no valet. A poor man must fend for himself. And my hotel does my laundry."

  Why was it that she always hoped some circumstance had changed, that he had found out his inheritance was going to be wealth beyond his wildest dreams rather than a few hundred pounds? Wishful thinking she supposed. Silly, really, because even if he had been wealthy and tided, he was not to be trusted, at least not for her needs. Marcus Westhaven did not play by the rules. She required a beau she could count on to marry her, not just flirt with her, and for her purposes Lord Pelimore was that man. She sighed and took Mr. Westhaven's proffered arm, and they descended the steps into the ballroom.

  Just enjoy the moment, she repeated to herself. Just enjoy the moment.

  Another squeeze, Marcus thought disparagingly. What was it about the upper crust that they relished being packed together like seamen at a mess table? The Hartford ball, to which he had been invited because of one of his invaluable letters of introduction—he could have played upon his family name and antecedents, which were very good indeed, but this way was quicker and less complicated—was one of the premier occasions of the Season, and he had known Arabella would attend. In that he was not disappointed.

  He had waited in a fever of anticipation near the door, lingering out of sight until the mother disappeared, and then approached her. This last week or so had been enlightening. Never had he wholly given himself up to pleasure and gaiety for so long a time, and never had he enjoyed dissipation more. He began to see how addictive it could be, devoting oneself to dancing, drinking, playing cards, and escorting pretty women.

  In fact, Marcus found it surprisingly easy to play the beau for Arabella Swinley, even though he had precious little experience. She brought out some latent gallantry in him, some wish to make her eyes smile and her lips curve up into that delightful bow when he presented her with a posy or a poem. He had only had one London Season when he was a cub of just nineteen, before he disappointed his parents' hopes and left for the Canadas. He had never been back since, not even when news finally reached him that his parents were dead, lost at sea in a shipwreck. What had been the point? By then they had been gone for seven months; that is how long it took for the letter from the family solicitor to reach him in the far-flung wilds of upper Canada.

  And the letter merely stated that there was no money. What little there had been was required to settle up the estate of his parents. His father had lost a lot in speculating on a canal venture that had gone badly; if he had lived, it would only have been to go to debtor's prison or worse. So there had never been anything to come home for. Even this last bit of news, that he was his uncle's sole heir, would not have touched him if he had not felt a certain curiosity to see the old sod again.

  But still, no matter how enjoyable this time was, it was just one brief episode in a life that must have more meaning than that of a mere London beau. He did not intend to stay. He would be heading back to Canada as soon as his business allowed, though he supposed that was a callous way to look at the impending death of his uncle. He had, through his recent visits, conceived a certain fondness for his uncle that was unexpected, given the old man's irascibility.

  And a certain fortune-hunting beauty would not change his mind about leaving England. No matter how her eyes sparkled when they danced, or how she fit into his arms like she was meant to be there, and despite how her laughter made his stomach clench into a knot, or how her image stayed with him long into the night, in the darkness of his room at the Fontaine.

  He should not be enjoying her company so much, knowing who and what she was. What place did a scheming fortune-hunter have in his life? But still, it was gratifying to dance with her and talk with her, and know she was the most beautiful girl in the room, even if all the other men were swooning over this year's diamond, Lady Cynthia Walkerton, a girl to whom he had been introduced. She was well enough in her own way, he supposed. She was certainly beautiful, and she knew all the little tricks that were designed to make him feel manly and strong, the languishing glances, the trembling smile, but never did she talk freely, laugh like Arabella did, or touch his heart in ways he could not explain and did not want to examine too closely.

  He led Arabella into the first dance of the Hartford ball, a waltz, relishing the feel of her small waist under his hand. He gazed down into her eyes, brilliant in the chandelier-lit ballroom. What had turned her into a mercenary little schemer, when he woul
d have said she was made for finer things? She was not wanting in sense, nor intelligence. She was as smart as any woman, or any man for that matter, that he had ever met. It made him angry that she would waste her brilliance, her exquisite fire on an old poseur like Pelimore.

  "I wish I were rich," he said, casually, gazing down at the gentle curve of her cheek and the swan-like extension of her lovely white neck. She was gazing over her shoulder, scanning the crowd at the edge of the ballroom floor, and he had a feeling he knew what, or rather whom, she was looking for.

  He got the response he wanted. Her head snapped around and she looked up at him with a shocked expression.

  "W—why?"

  Suspicion hardened into certainty. "Because I can tell that even now, dancing with me to this wonderful music, you so beautiful, and me handsome, as you claim, you are scanning the room to see what wealthy game there is for you to hunt tonight. I would wish your eyes were on me, instead. If I were instantly in possession of a hundred thousand pounds, you would be gazing with rapt attention into my eyes."

  "I thought you had left off teasing me," she said, disappointment coloring her voice.

  "I am not teasing, Arabella. I am merely stating the truth. You are looking all around to see if you can find better game, someone richer than Lord Pelimore, perhaps?" His anger had grown as he spoke. He didn't know why, but he wanted to hurt her, to get under that perfect, smooth social skin she wore like armor. He wanted to see the real Arabella, as he had seen her on the terrace the night he had kissed her. He clutched her waist tighter.

  "You are imagining things, Mr. Westhaven." Her voice was icy.

  "And why is that young man near the steps staring at you? He has not taken his eyes off you since we took to the dance floor."

  She followed the direction of his nod, and he could see the widening of her eyes and feel the tightening of her hand on his shoulder. She made a slight misstep and he pulled her closer, helping her regain her footing and relishing the feel of her lithe body skimming close to his.