The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown

by Julia Quinn

  That meant nothing. Clive had always had abominable manners during musicales. Susannah couldn’t remember even one in which he’d had the fortitude to keep his mouth shut throughout the performance.

  But the gossips weren’t even the worst of her afternoon callers. That title was reserved for the well-meaning souls who couldn’t seem to look at her with any expression other than one of pity. These were usually the same women who had a widowed nephew from Shropshire or Somerset or some other faraway county who was looking for a wife, and would Susannah like to meet him, but not this week because he was busy escorting six of his eight sons to Eton.

  Susannah fought an unexpected rush of tears. She was only twenty-one years old. And barely that, even. She wasn’t desperate.

  And she didn’t want to be pitied.

  Suddenly it became imperative that she leave the ballroom. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to watch Clive and Harriet like some pathetic voyeur. Her family wasn’t ready to go home, but surely she could find some quiet room where she might retire for a few minutes. If she was going to hide, she might as well do it right. Standing in the corner was appalling. Already she’d seen three people point in her direction, then say something behind their hands.

  She’d never thought herself a coward, but she’d also never thought herself a fool, and truly, only a fool would willingly subject herself to this sort of misery.

  She set her teacup down on a windowsill and made her regrets to Lord Middlethorpe, not that they’d exchanged more than six words, despite having stood next to each other for nearly three-quarters of an hour. She skirted along the edge of the ballroom, looking for the French doors that led to the hall. She’d been here once before, back when she’d been the most popular young lady in town, thanks to her association with Clive, and she remembered that there was a retiring room for the ladies at the far end of the hall.

  But just when she reached her destination, she stumbled, and she found herself face to face with—oh blast, what was her name? Brown hair, slightly pudgy…oh yes. Penelope. Penelope Somebody. A girl with whom she’d never shared more than a dozen words. They’d come out the same year, but they might have resided in different worlds, so infrequently had their paths crossed. Susannah had been the toast of the town, once Clive had singled her out, and Penelope had been…well, Susannah wasn’t really certain what Penelope had been. A wallflower, she supposed.

  “Don’t go there,” Penelope said softly, not quite looking her in the eye in the way that only the shyest of people do.

  Susannah’s lips parted in surprise, and she knew her eyes were filled with question.

  “There are a dozen young ladies in the retiring room,” Penelope said.

  It was explanation enough. The only place Susannah wanted to be less than the ballroom was in a room full of twittering, gossiping ladies, all of whom would surely assume she had fled there to escape Clive and Harriet.

  Which was true, but that didn’t mean Susannah wanted anyone to know it.

  “Thank you,” Susannah whispered, stunned by Penelope’s small kindness. She’d never spared so much as a thought for Penelope last summer, and the younger girl had repaid her by saving her from certain embarrassment and pain. Impulsively, she took Penelope’s hand and squeezed it once. “Thank you.”

  And she suddenly wished she’d paid more attention to the girls like Penelope when she’d been considered a leader of the ton. She knew what it was like to stand on the edges of the ballroom now, and it wasn’t fun.

  But before she could say something more, Penelope murmured her shy farewells and slipped away, leaving Susannah to her own devices.

  She was standing in the busiest section of the ballroom, which was not where she wanted to be, so she started walking. She wasn’t really certain where she intended to go, but she kept moving, because she felt it made her look purposeful.

  She subscribed to the notion that a person ought to look as if she knew what she was doing, even if she didn’t. Clive had taught her that, actually. It was one of the few good things she’d gained from the courtship.

  But in all her determined glory, she wasn’t truly watching her surroundings, and that must have been why she was so taken by surprise when she heard his voice.

  “Miss Ballister.”

  No, not Clive. Even worse. Clive’s older brother, the Earl of Renminster. In all his dark-haired, green-eyed glory.

  He had never liked her. Oh, he had always been polite, but then again, he was polite to everyone. But she had always felt his disdain, his obvious conviction that she was not good enough for his brother.

  She supposed he was happy now. Clive was safely married off to Harriet, and Susannah Ballister would never taint the hallowed Mann-Formsby family tree.

  “My lord,” she said, trying to keep her voice as even and polite as his. She couldn’t imagine what he could possibly want with her. There was no reason for him to have called out her name; he could easily have let her walk right by him without acknowledging her presence. It wouldn’t even have seemed rude on his part. Susannah had been walking as briskly as was possible in the crowded ballroom, clearly on her way to somewhere else.

  He smiled at her, if one could call it that—the sentiment never reached his eyes. “Miss Ballister,” he said, “how have you been?”

  For a moment she could do nothing but stare at him. He wasn’t the sort to ask a question unless he truly wanted the answer, and there was no reason to believe he had any interest in her welfare.

  “Miss Ballister?” he murmured, looking vaguely amused.

  Finally, she managed to say, “Quite well, thank you,” even though they both knew that was far from the truth.

  For the longest while he merely gazed at her, almost as if he were studying her, looking for something she couldn’t even begin to imagine.

  “My lord?” she queried, because the moment seemed to need something to break the silence.

  His head snapped to attention, as if her voice had brought him out of a slight daze. “I beg your pardon,” he apologized smoothly. “Would you care to dance?”

  Susannah found herself struck mute. “Dance?” she finally echoed, rather annoyed with her inability to come up with anything more articulate.

  “Indeed,” he murmured.

  She accepted his proffered hand—there was little else she could do with so many people watching—and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. He was tall, even taller than Clive, who had stood a good head above her, and he possessed an oddly reserved air—almost too controlled, if such a thing were possible. Watching him as he moved through the crowds, she was struck by the odd thought that surely one day his famous control would snap.

  And it would be only then that the true Earl of Renminster would be revealed.

  David Mann-Formsby hadn’t thought about Susannah Ballister for months, not since his brother had elected to marry Harriet Snowe instead of the dark beauty currently waltzing in his arms. A tiny shred of guilt over this started to niggle at him, however, because as soon as he’d seen her, moving through the ballroom as if she had somewhere to go, when anyone who took the time to look at her for more than a second would have seen the strained expression on her face, the pain lurking behind her eyes, he’d been reminded of Susannah’s shabby treatment at the hands of the ton after Clive had decided to marry Harriet.

  And truly, none of it had been her fault.

  Susannah’s family, while perfectly respectable, was not titled, nor were they particularly wealthy. And when Clive had dropped her in favor of Harriet, whose name was as old as her dowry was large, society had sniggered behind her back—and, he supposed, probably to her face as well. She had been called grasping, above herself, overly ambitious. More than one society matron—the sort who had daughters not nearly as arresting and attractive as Susannah Ballister—had commented that the little upstart had been put in her place, and how dare she even think that she might win a proposal of marriage from the brother of an earl?

/>   David had found the entire episode rather distasteful, but what could he have done? Clive had made his choice, and in David’s opinion, he had made the right one. Harriet would, in the end, make a much better wife for his brother.

  Still, Susannah had been an innocent bystander in the scandal; she hadn’t known that Clive was being courted by Harriet’s father, or that Clive thought that petite, blue-eyed Harriet would make a very fine wife indeed. Clive should have said something to Susannah before putting the announcement in the paper, and even if he was too much of a coward to warn her in person, he certainly should have been smart enough not to make a grand announcement at the Mottram ball even before the notice appeared in the Times. When Clive had stood in front of the small orchestra, champagne glass in hand as he made his joyful speech, no one had looked at Harriet, who was standing by his side.

  Susannah had been the main attraction, Susannah with her surprised mouth and stricken eyes. Susannah, who had tried so hard to hold herself strong and proud before she finally fled the scene.

  Her anguished face had been an image that David had carried around in his mind for many weeks, months even, until slowly she slipped away, forgotten amid his daily activities and chores.

  Until now.

  Until he’d spied her standing in the corner, pretending she didn’t care that Clive and Harriet were surrounded by a bevy of well-wishers. She was a proud woman, he could tell, but pride could carry a person only so far until one simply wanted to escape and be alone.

  He wasn’t surprised when she finally began to make her way to the door.

  At first he’d thought to let her pass, perhaps even to step back so that she would not be forced to see him witnessing her departure. But then some strange, irresistible impulse had pushed his feet forward. It didn’t bother him so much that she’d been turned into a wallflower; there would always be wallflowers among the ton, and there was little one man could do to rectify the situation.

  But David was a Mann-Formsby to the very tips of his toes, and if there was one thing he could not abide, it was knowing that his family had wronged someone. And his brother had most certainly wronged this young woman. David would not go so far as to say her life had been ruined, but she had clearly been subject to a great deal of undeserved misery.

  As the Earl of Renminster—no, as a Mann-Formsby—it was his duty to make amends.

  And so he asked her to dance. A dance would be noticed. A dance would be remarked upon. And although it was not in David’s nature to flatter himself, he knew that a simple invitation to dance on his part would do wonders to restore Susannah’s popularity.

  She’d appeared rather startled by his request, but she’d accepted; after all, what else could she do with so many people watching?

  He led her to the center of the floor, his eyes never leaving her face. David had never had trouble understanding why Clive had been attracted to her. Susannah possessed a quiet, dark beauty that he found far more arresting than the current blond, blue-eyed ideal that was so popular among society. Her skin was pale porcelain, with perfectly winged brows and lips of a raspberry pink. He’d heard there were Welsh ancestors in her family, and he could easily see their influence.

  “A waltz,” she said dryly, once the string quintet began to play. “How fortuitous.”

  He chuckled at her sarcasm. She’d never been outgoing, but she had always been direct, and he admired the trait, especially when it was combined with intelligence. They began to dance, and then, just when he’d decided to make some inane comment about the weather—just so they would be observed conversing like reasonable adults—she beat him to the punch, and asked:

  “Why did you invite me to dance?”

  For a moment he was speechless. Direct, indeed. “Does a gentleman need a reason?” he countered.

  Her lips tightened slightly at the corners. “You never struck me as the sort of gentleman who does anything without a reason.”

  He shrugged. “You seemed rather alone in the corner.”

  “I was with Lord Middlethorpe,” she said haughtily.

  He did nothing but raise his eyebrows, since they both knew that the aged Lord Middlethorpe was not generally considered a lady’s first choice of escort.

  “I don’t need your pity,” she muttered.

  “Of course not,” he agreed.

  Her eyes flew to his. “Now you’re condescending to me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, quite honestly.

  “Then what is this about?”

  “This?” he echoed, giving his head a questioning tilt.

  “Dancing with me.”

  He wanted to smile, but he didn’t want her to think he was laughing at her, so he managed to keep his lips down to a twitch as he said, “You’re rather suspicious for a lady in the midst of a waltz.”

  She replied, “Waltzes are precisely the time a lady ought to be most suspicious.”

  “Actually,” he said, surprising himself with his words, “I wanted to apologize.” He cleared his throat. “For what happened last summer.”

  “To what,” she asked, her words carefully measured, “do you refer?”

  He looked at her in what he hoped was a kindly manner. It wasn’t an expression he was particularly accustomed to, so he wasn’t quite certain he was doing it right. Still, he tried to look sympathetic as he said, “I think you know.”

  Her body grew rigid, even as they danced, and he would have sworn that he could see her spine turning to steel. “Perhaps,” she said tightly, “but I fail to see how it is any of your concern.”

  “It may be that it is not,” he allowed, “but nonetheless, I did not approve of the way you were treated by society after Clive’s engagement.”

  “Do you mean the gossip,” she asked, her face perfectly bland, “or the cuts direct? Or maybe the out-and-out lies?”

  He swallowed, unaware that her situation had been quite so unpleasant. “All of it,” he said quietly. “It was never my intention—”

  “Never your intention?” she cut in, her eyes flashing with something approaching fury. “Never your intention? I was under the assumption that Clive had made his own decisions. Do you admit, then, that Harriet was your choice, not Clive’s?”

  “She was his choice,” he said firmly.

  “And yours?” she persisted.

  There seemed little point—and little honor—in lying. “And mine.”

  She gritted her teeth, looking somewhat vindicated, but also a bit deflated, as if she’d been waiting for this moment for months, but now that it was here, it was not nearly as sweet as she’d anticipated.

  “But if he had married you,” David said quietly, “I would not have objected.”

  Her eyes flew to his face. “Please don’t lie to me,” she whispered.

  “I’m not.” He sighed. “You will make someone a very fine wife, Miss Ballister. Of that I have no doubt.”

  She said nothing, but her eyes seemed shiny, and for a moment he could have sworn that her lips were trembling.

  Something began to tug at him. He wasn’t sure what it was, and he did not want to think that he felt it anywhere near his heart, but he found he simply could not bear to see her so close to tears. But there was nothing he could do besides say, “Clive should have informed you of his plans before he announced them to society.”

  “Yes,” she said, the word made brittle by a harsh little laugh. “He should have done.”

  David felt his hand tighten slightly at her waist. She wasn’t making this easy on him, but then again, he had no reason to expect her to do so. In truth, he admired her pride, respected the way she carried herself straight and tall, as if she wouldn’t allow society to tell her how she must judge herself.

  She was, he realized with a shiver of surprise, a remarkable woman.

  “He should have done,” he said, unconsciously echoing her words, “but he did not, and for that I must apologize.”

  She cocked her head slightly, her eyes almost am
used as she said, “One would imagine the apology would be better served coming from Clive, don’t you think?”

  David smiled humorlessly. “Indeed, but I can only deduce that he has not done so. Therefore, as a Mann-Formsby—”

  She snorted under her breath, which did not amuse him.

  “As a Mann-Formsby,” he said again, raising his voice, then lowering it when several nearby dancers looked curiously in his direction. “As the head of the Mann-Formsby family,” he corrected, “it is my duty to apologize when a member of my family acts in a dishonorable manner.”

  He’d expected a quick retort, and indeed, she opened her mouth immediately, her eyes flashing dark fire, but then, with an abruptness that took his breath away, she seemed to change her mind. And when she finally spoke, she said, “Thank you for that. I accept your apology on Clive’s behalf.”

  There was a quiet dignity in her voice, something that made him want to pull her closer, to entwine their fingers rather than merely to hold hands.

  But if he’d wanted to explore that feeling more closely—and he wasn’t certain he did—his chance was lost when the orchestra brought the waltz to a close, leaving him standing in the middle of the ballroom floor, bending his body into an elegant bow as Susannah bobbed a curtsy.

  She murmured a polite, “Thank you for the dance, my lord,” and it was clear that their conversation was at an end.

  But as he watched her leave the ballroom—presumably off to wherever it was she’d been going when he’d intercepted her—he couldn’t quite shake the feeling—

  He wanted more.

  More of her words, more of her conversation.

  More of her.

  Later that night, two events occurred that were very odd, indeed.

  The first took place in Susannah Ballister’s bedroom.

  She could not sleep.

  This would not have seemed odd to many, but Susannah had always been the sort who fell asleep the instant her head hit the pillow. It had driven her sister batty back in the days when they had shared a room. Letitia had always wanted to stay up and whisper, and Susannah’s conversational contributions never amounted to anything more than a light snore.