by Jaima Fixsen
“Whisky isn’t a lady’s drink,” said her father. Sophy jumped, spinning to face the connecting door. “How much have you had?” he asked.
She showed him with her narrowed fingers, unable to speak.
“You ate earlier, right?”
She nodded.
“Not irreparable, then,” he said. “Have a biscuit.” He pulled a tin out from the desk drawer.
Sophy took a bite, sprinkling crumbs across the blotter.
“Nervous?” he asked.
“Like I’m awaiting the Final Judgement,” she said.
He laughed. “Good thing it’s you then, and not me.” He took the glass from her hand and swallowed the rest, savoring it with a distant smile. “Too good to waste.”
He flicked a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth. “You should put on your gloves. It’s time.”
She tugged them on, grateful they would conceal her damp palms. “Anything amiss?” She turned in a slow circle.
“Nothing,” he said, and offered his arm.
Sophy told her shoulders to relax and her neck to lengthen as they traversed the dim corridor and stepped into the brilliantly lit ballroom. It was hard not to stare. She had seen the masses of flowers and the glowing chandeliers before retreating to her hideaway. The magnificence of the room now, filled with guests dressed in the first style of elegance, stunned her. It couldn’t be real. It seemed much more likely that the whole scene had been spun out of sugar, ready to crumble at a touch or melt with a splash of water.
They entered the room as the music fell silent, stepping into the open space of the clearing dance floor. Through the parting crowd, Sophy saw Lady Fairchild presiding on the far side of the room, waiting for her to be delivered to her side. Everything was precisely calibrated; she stood beside Lady Fairchild for only a moment before Jasper stepped forward.
“My dance, I think, Sophy?”
Obediently, she transferred her hand from Lord Fairchild’s arm to Jasper’s so they could promenade around the room before the next set.
“What did your mother do to you?” she asked. “Are you a changeling? You don’t even look bored.”
Jasper laughed. “She swore she’d leave me alone for a sennight if I did as I was told.”
Sophy acknowledged a benign smile from one of Lady Fairchild’s friends with a nod, turning again to watch Jasper. “You’ve stopped riding with us in the mornings. Are your nights so busy?” she asked.
“I haven’t wanted to intrude,” he said, with his best slippery charm. “Your rapprochement with the pater is so touching.”
Sophy looked at him, trying to decide how much he was teasing her. “It’s certainly surprising.” Lowering her voice, she added, “I asked him about my mother.”
Jasper halted, pausing to remove an invisible fleck from the sleeve of his jacket. “Oh? What did he say?” His voice was as diffident as ever, but Sophy felt uneasy.
“It wasn’t so much what he said, just that he understood how I still miss her.”
“Excellent,” Jasper smiled. “Come, it’s time to take our places.”
He led her into the set, ending the conversation and leaving Sophy trying to unravel the subtext. It was a country dance, a real concession for Jasper, who danced about as regularly as a lunar eclipse. He was surprisingly adept, skipping through the figures without a single misstep, with no signs of shortened breath. Sophy felt her own flush, but she colored at everything. The music stopped; they exchanged courtesies and he steered her to one of the windows to stand in the cooler air.
“Impeccable!” he said.
“Why, thank you,” Sophy said, falsely coy.
“I was talking about me. I think I’ve acquitted myself well enough for this year.”
Sophy hid her laugh behind her fan, relieved they were being their usual selves once more. “You would leave me standing by the dowagers with the Misses Matcham?”
“I shall be happy to oblige you if you have any free dances, but I have every expectation of not being needed. Come, she’s expecting us. You know that look.”
“Better than you. I see it more often.”
It was easy to feel confident, floating on Jasper’s breeze. If she could keep him with her all evening, she would have no qualms. But Mr. Beaumaris was in position at Lady Fairchild’s elbow, waiting for her. Steeling herself for the coming encounter, Sophy reminded herself there was no reason not to treat him exactly the same as Jasper.
“Are you off, now that your duty is done?” Sophy asked.
Jasper gave her a wounded look. “No. I’ll stay at least another half-hour, though I risk acquiring a permanent twitch from so much time under my good mother’s eye.”
“No girl could ask for a better brother,” Sophy mocked.
“So long as you know it.”
When they reached Lady Fairchild, Jasper bestowed a kiss onto Sophy’s hand and greeted his mother with a smile that was more a baring of teeth. “Lovely to see you, Madam,” he said, and turned away.
“Good evening, Alistair,” Sophy said, taking his arm and returning to the dance floor. At this rate, she would pass the entire evening without speaking to Lady Fairchild, her chaperone. “What did Lady Fairchild promise you in exchange for your kind attention to me?”
“Two bottles of her husband’s best smuggled brandy and a promise to wear a crimson turban to Mrs. Goring’s Venetian breakfast.”
Sophy made a face. “She’d never in her life attend any party of Mrs. Goring’s, much less in a turban. Stop bamming me.”
“Never. By the by, does Lady Fairchild know you use that term?”
“Of course not.” Sophy rolled her eyes. “So are you going to tell me, or not?” She would be more easy with him once they had laid their cards on the table. If only he wasn’t capable of that sly look that made her feel so wobbly.
“I think not. Surely the pleasure of your company is motivation enough.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” she said, refusing to return his smile. “When’s the last time you danced with a girl fresh out of the school room?”
“Quite possibly never,” he said. “Shall we?” And he took her hand, leading her into the forming set.
She didn’t know where to look. If she met his eyes, she blushed, and if she looked away, Lady Fairchild would think she was being rude. Maybe she would gradually become accustomed to him, like one did to a hot bath, inch by inch. Just then Alistair smiled and quirked his eyebrow at her, as if he knew the direction of her thoughts. Sophy dropped her eyelids immediately, but her cheeks betrayed her with a scorching flush. If she could just observe him from a distance instead of having to look at him and take his hands all the time, it would be so much easier. Pinning on a bright smile, she swept out every thought except for the steps. They were dancing the cotillion and a misstep would be a disaster.
Mr. Beaumaris was not as tall as he looked, she realized, passing by him as she wove through the dancers. Oh, he was not short, but his posture and bearing made him seem larger than he really was. Not like Tom Bagshot, who slouched in his chair and surprised one with his towering height once he unfolded himself.
The dance ended. With exactly the correct amount of polite nothings, Alistair returned Sophy to Lady Fairchild’s side, just in time for her to accept an invitation to dance from Mr. Beadle, one of the widowers on Lady Fairchild’s approved list.
Unfortunately, Mr. Beadle’s decision to wear side whiskers only exaggerated the egg-like aspects of his round head. As he bounced down the line of dancers, Sophy could think of nothing but Humpty Dumpty. She danced the next set of country dances with Jasper’s friend Mr. DeClerc and remembered not to accidentally call him Boz. She stood out the next dance, sipping a glass of lemonade in the crowd of ladies gathered around Lady Fairchild, who occupied the best vantage point in the room.
The Matcham girls, who lived not far from Cordell, exchanged polite greetings with Sophy. Never exactly friends, they were decidedly cooler in town. Eager to escape a silence
that was growing uncomfortable, Sophy turned away, expecting to see Lady Fairchild but finding Miss Lowell instead.
“Good evening, Miss Prescott,” she smiled.
She must be hunting Jasper. There was no other reason for Miss Lowell to seek her out again to ply her with impertinent questions.
“Do you still enjoy London, Miss Prescott, or has it begun to pall?” She spoke with the faint contempt that young ladies in their second season reserved for yearlings like herself.
“Of course I do, very much,” Sophy said. She would not pretend to be fashionable this time. It had only given Miss Lowell more amusement before. “I have been to the Opera since we spoke last and never seen a grander spectacle.”
“One’s first visit is quite astonishing.” Miss Lowell closed her fan and rested it on her lips. “What a shame you were never brought to London before. You told me that you spent your youth at Cordell, but I’ve forgotten where you spent your childhood.”
Sophy’s eyes narrowed. “In Herefordshire, with my mother.”
“And is your mother from that county?”
“No. She went to Herefordshire solely on my account. Before that, she lived at Cordell. She was governess there. Is there anything else you wish to know?”
Thrown off pace by Sophy’s blunt rejoinder, Miss Lowell regained her stride. “Is there anything else interesting about you?”
“Not especially,” Sophy said. “Mine isn’t a terribly interesting story. Most people know exactly where I spring from, but they have the good manners not to inquire. Of course, I need have no secrets from a particular friend like you.”
Sophy opened her fan and turned her eyes towards the dance floor in time to see Alistair walking towards them. Passing Miss Lowell with a bow, he came to Sophy’s side. She couldn’t help exulting, just a little. Miss Lowell might be determined to wed a title, but she was surely as susceptible to Alistair’s good looks as anyone else.
“Dear coz.”
Sophy did not normally like Alistair’s lying endearments, but the chagrined look in Miss Lowell’s eyes made her gladly accept this one.
“Back again?” she asked.
“I’ve let the other gentlemen have a turn.” Laughing would ruin the game, Sophy knew, but she was sorely tempted. How ridiculous he was.
Miss Lowell looked like she was ready to swallow her tongue. She was not used to being ignored. Sophy decided it was an experience which would greatly improve her character.
“Will you dance?” Alistair asked.
Sophy declined without looking at Lady Fairchild. She was not allowed to waltz.
“May Sophy take a turn around the room with me then?” He spoke to Lady Fairchild this time, not her.
“Dear boy, you needn’t ask,” Lady Fairchild told him, closing her fan and tapping it against her shoulder.
He smiled and held out his hand. “Come, Sophy.”
“My,” she said, once they were out of earshot. “What will you order me to do next?”
“Dance this waltz with me.”
“Not on your life,” she laughed. “Lady Fairchild would skin me alive.” His eyebrows flew upward, so she added, “Even though I’m well below the notice of the patronesses of Almack’s, she won’t have me looking fast, waltzing without their permission. So I won’t be doing any waltzing, ever.”
“Shame,” Alistair said. “You’d make a delightful armful.”
She couldn’t hide her exasperated look. She was grateful, but wished he knew when to stop.
“Is it odious to you, walking about a ballroom with me?” he asked.
“Not at all,” Sophy said. “Being seen on your arm does me great credit. You do tend to draw eyes.”
“Flattery, Sophy?”
She made a bald reply. “Yes.”
“I will pay you a compliment in return,” he laughed. “Contrary to your suspicion—don’t deny it, I can read it on your face—I am not paying court to you at my Aunt’s behest. You are most charming, tonight more than ever.”
Robbed of speech, Sophy looked away, feeling blood rush into her cheeks. No one was close enough to hear. They had moved out of the crowd to the doors opening onto the terrace and the dark garden beyond. Sophy stopped dead. “It’s more than my life’s worth to leave this room,” she said.
“I so admire your frankness,” Alistair said. “You don’t know how refreshing it is. Do you think I’m a fool? We shan’t be missed. My aunt trusts me.”
“Should she?” Sophy faltered, as he whisked her outside. The air was cool after the heat of the ballroom, causing goosebumps to rise on her arms. Her heart thumped like she’d just finished one of the jauntier dances.
Alistair laughed. “I like you, Sophy.” Drawing her nearer, he lowered his voice. “I like you very much.”
It wasn’t fair, Sophy thought. She was no match for him. Surely he was about to pinch her on the arm and laugh at her for believing him.
“Are you going to let me kiss you?” he asked.
She could not think.
“Afraid?” he suggested, when she made no reply.
“Of course not,” Sophy snapped. Resolutely shutting her eyes, she rose on tiptoe, colliding their lips with bruising force. He retreated a step, laughing and rubbing his lip with his index finger.
“You don’t shy away from fences, do you?”
She hoped his lip hurt like blazes. “Don’t mock me,” she said, turning away to hide her face. The lights and music of the ballroom beckoned her and she moved to flee.
“Wait.” Alistair caught her arm. “You misunderstand—” but she didn’t stay to hear. Shaking free, she slipped past the French doors and wove through the crowd, out of the ballroom and up the stairs to the family rooms.
She shut herself in a dark room, clenching and unclenching her hands, willing the blood to drain from her face before she had to rejoin Lady Fairchild in the ballroom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Misbehaving
Sophy was still churning with fury and embarrassment the next morning. She had managed to avoid Alistair the rest of the evening, ignoring his attempts to catch her eye. By pretending to fall asleep in the carriage, Sophy had delayed the inevitable post-mortem with Lady Fairchild, but she would certainly want to discuss the ball today. Sophy could not speak of what had happened to anyone, least of all Lady Fairchild. What would she say if she learned her own nephew had taken her outside and kind of—almost—kissed her?
He wouldn’t have tried such a thing with a respectable female, she thought angrily. Then reason took hold of her. Of course he would. He had probably done the same thing with scores of ladies. Next time, she would introduce his face to her fist.
Next time? What a joke! She’d been so clumsy, he’d never want to repeat that experience. Which was all to the good, because she certainly had no intentions of allowing him to ever—ever—be alone with her again.
Summoning a surly Betty, Sophy stalked to Curzon Street before Lady Fairchild awoke, arriving unconscionably early to call on Henrietta. Fortunately, Henrietta had no questions. She was full of her own schemes. Sophy knew Lady Fairchild would not approve of a Covent Garden masquerade, but Henrietta was not so particular.
“As long as we have suitable escorts there will be nothing untoward,” she assured Sophy. “And we will be masked, so you needn’t worry that anyone will find you out.”
It was tempting. Lord and Lady Fairchild were attending a reception at Carlton House this evening, and there of course, they could not bring Sophy.
“It will be easy,” Henrietta said. “Tell her you will be here, having dinner with me.”
“I don’t have a costume.”
“Pfftt.” Henrietta dismissed this objection. “I have masks and dominos already. Take a look.” Henrietta passed Sophy a bandbox containing two masks buried under an assortment of feathers and scraps of ribbon. The long cloaks she spread out on the bed for inspection.
“I’ll take the pink,” Henrietta said, fingering the thin sil
k. “Mama always says it is my best color. You can wear the other.”
It was a brilliant turquoise blue. Sophy imagined herself whirling through the dances, wonderfully anonymous under her mask. “Percy agrees?”
“Haven’t I said so? I’ll invite Jasper. He owes me something, after leaving my party early last night.”
“All right,” Sophy said. With a bounce of excitement, Henrietta threw her arms around Sophy, knocking the bandbox off the bed and waking her sleeping infant. Scooping him from the cradle, she set him on the bed and she and Sophy set to work soothing him, dangling ribbons and bits of finery for him to snatch and drool over.
“You will have a famous time,” Henrietta promised. “Wait and see.”
Sophy returned home in the afternoon to change her clothes for evening dress, feeding Lady Fairchild a story about a dinner party with Percy and Henrietta. But when she arrived for the masquerade at their house, Sophy was greeted with an unpleasant surprise. Jasper was not there.
“He wouldn’t come,” Henrietta said, interpreting Sophy’s horrified look as one of surprise. “So I recruited Alistair instead.”
“Cousin Sophy,” Alistair said, urbane as ever. “I’m happy to be of service.”
Constructing a reply was impossible. She glared at him instead. “Is Jasper unwell?” she asked, turning back to Henrietta.
“He’s sulking over something, the beast,” said Henrietta. “It will pass sooner if we ignore him. Don’t you think, Percy?”
“You know I don’t interfere between you and your brother,” Percy said. “Take Sophy upstairs and get ready so we can be off. Did you bring a mask, Beaumaris?”
Henrietta whisked Sophy upstairs. “Isn’t it fortunate that Alistair could come? All the ladies will be ready to scratch your eyes out.”
Sophy’s answering laugh was weak, but Henrietta was too busy to notice, directing her maid to bring a pair of diamond drops for Sophy’s ears.
“They’re pretty,” Sophy said, turning her head before the mirror so the jewels could wink at her.
“Aren’t they?” Henrietta allowed her maid to affix her mask and rearrange her curls. The same service was performed for Sophy and then they were both put into their dominos and the strings tied. It was a good disguise, Sophy concluded, with the hood drawn over her hair. She felt bolder under her gold spangled mask, a fortunate circumstance with Alistair in the party. She would do her best to ignore him.
