The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown

by Julia Quinn

  David stole another glance at Susannah’s profile. He doubted she even noticed that he was watching her, so engrossed was she by the production. Every now and then her lips would part with a soft, involuntary “Oh,” and even though he knew it was beyond fanciful, he could swear that he felt her breath travel through the air, landing lightly on his skin.

  David felt his body tighten. It had never occurred to him that he might actually be lucky enough to find himself a wife he found desirable. What a boon.

  Susannah’s tongue darted out to wet her lips.

  Extremely desirable.

  He sat back, unable to stop the satisfied smile that crept across his features. He had made a decision; now all he needed to do was formulate a plan.

  When the house lights rose after the third act to mark the intermission, Susannah instantly looked to the box next to her, absurdly eager to ask the earl what he thought of the play thus far.

  But he was gone.

  “How odd,” she murmured to herself. He must have crept out quietly; she had not noticed his departure in the least. She felt herself slouch slightly in her seat, oddly disappointed that he’d disappeared. She’d been looking forward to asking his opinion of Kean’s performance, which was quite unlike any Shylock she’d seen before. She’d been certain that he would have something valuable to say, something that perhaps she herself had not noticed. Clive had never wanted to do anything during intermissions other than escape to the mezzanine where he might chat with his friends.

  Still, it was probably for the best that the earl was gone. Despite his friendly behavior before the performance, it was still difficult to believe that he was amiably disposed toward her.

  And besides, when he was near, she felt rather…odd. Strange, and breathless, somehow. It was exciting, but not quite comfortable, and it left her uneasy.

  So when Lady Shelbourne asked if she wanted to accompany the rest of the party to the mezzanine to enjoy the intermission, Susannah thanked her but graciously declined. It was definitely in her best interest to stay put, remaining right there in the one place the Earl of Renminster most certainly was not.

  The Shelbournes filed out, along with their guests, leaving Susannah to her own company, which she didn’t mind in the least. The stagehands had accidentally left the curtain slightly open, and if Susannah squinted, she could see flashes of people scurrying around. It was strangely exciting and all rather interesting, and—

  She heard a sound from behind her. Someone in the Shelbourne party must have forgotten something. Affixing a smile to her face, Susannah turned around, “Good eve—”

  It was the earl.

  “Good evening,” he said, when it became apparent that she was not going to finish the greeting herself.

  “My lord,” she said, her surprise evident in her voice.

  He nodded graciously. “Miss Ballister. May I sit?”

  “Of course,” she said, rather automatically. Good heavens, why was he here?

  “I thought it might be easier to converse without having to yell between the boxes,” he said.

  Susannah just stared at him in disbelief. They hadn’t had to yell at all. The boxes were terribly close. But, she realized somewhat frantically, not nearly as close as their chairs now were. The earl’s thigh was nearly pressed up next to hers.

  It shouldn’t have been bothersome, since Lord Durham had occupied the same chair for well over an hour, and his thigh hadn’t vexed her in the least.

  But it was different with Lord Renminster. Everything was different with Lord Renminster, Susannah was coming to realize.

  “Are you enjoying the play?” he asked her.

  “Oh indeed,” she said. “Kean’s performance was nothing short of remarkable, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He nodded and murmured his agreement.

  “I would never have expected Shylock to be portrayed in such a tragic manner,” Susannah continued. “I’ve seen The Merchant of Venice several times before, of course, as I’m sure you have, too, and he has always been a more comic sort, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “It does make for an interesting interpretation.”

  Susannah nodded enthusiastically. “I thought the black wig was a stroke of genius. Every other Shylock I’ve seen was played with a red wig. And how could Kean expect us to view him as a tragic character with a red wig? No one takes red-haired men seriously.”

  The earl began to cough uncontrollably.

  Susannah leaned forward, hoping she hadn’t somehow insulted him. With his dark hair, she hadn’t thought he could possibly take offense.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, catching his breath.

  “Is something amiss?”

  “Nothing,” he assured her. “Merely that your rather astute observation caught me off guard.”

  “I am not trying to say that red-haired men are less worthy than the rest of you,” she said.

  “Except us of the clearly superior dark-headed variety,” he murmured, his lips creeping into a devilish smile.

  She pursed her lips to stop herself from smiling back. It was so odd that he could draw her into a secret, shared moment—the sort that would develop into a private joke. “What I was trying to say,” she said, attempting to get back to the matter at hand, “is that one never reads about men with red hair in novels, does one?”

  “Not the novels I read,” he assured her.

  Susannah shot him a vaguely peeved expression. “Or if one does,” she continued, “he is never the hero of the tale.”

  The earl leaned toward her, his green eyes sparkling with wicked promise. “And who is the hero of your tale, Miss Ballister?”

  “I haven’t a hero,” she said primly. “I should think that was obvious.”

  He held silent for a moment, regarding her thoughtfully. “You should,” he murmured.

  Susannah felt her lips part, even felt her breath rushing across them as his words landed softly on her ears. “I’m sorry?” she finally asked, not entirely certain what he meant.

  Or maybe she was certain, and she just couldn’t believe it.

  He smiled slightly. “A woman like you should have a hero,” he said. “A champion, perhaps.”

  She looked at him with arched brows. “Are you saying I should be married?”

  Again that smile. The knowing curve of his lips, as if he had a devilishly good secret. “What do you think?”

  “I think,” Susannah said, “that this conversation is veering into astonishingly personal waters.”

  He laughed at that, but it was a warm, amused sound, completely lacking in the malice that so often tinged the laughter of the ton. “I rescind my earlier statement,” he said with a broad smile. “You don’t need a champion. You are clearly able to take care of yourself quite well.”

  Susannah narrowed her eyes.

  “Yes,” he said, “it was a compliment.”

  “With you one always has to check,” she remarked.

  “Oh, come now, Miss Ballister,” he said. “You wound me.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. “Please,” she said, grinning all the while. “Your armor is quite up to the task against any verbal blow I might strike.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” he said, so softly that she wasn’t certain she’d heard him correctly.

  And then she had to ask—“Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes,” she said, not even certain why the answer was so important, “you are. And considering how opposed you were to my marrying your brother, I can’t help but be suspicious.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “I know you said you weren’t opposed to the match,” Susannah said, her face almost expressionless as she interrupted him. “But we both know you did not favor it and that you encouraged him to marry Harriet.”

  David held still for a long moment, considering her statement. Not a word that she had said was false, and yet it was clear that she understood nothing of what had transpired
the previous summer.

  Most of all, she did not understand Clive. And if she thought she could have been the wife for him, perhaps she did not understand herself, either.

  “I love my brother,” David said softly, “but he has his flaws, and he required a wife who would need him and depend upon him. Someone who would force him to become the man I know he can be. If Clive had married you—”

  He looked at her. She was staring at him with frank eyes, waiting patiently for him to formulate his thoughts. He could tell that his answer meant everything to her, and he knew that he had to get it right.

  “If Clive had married you,” he finally continued, “he would have had no need to be strong. You would have been strong for the both of you. Clive would never have had any reason to grow.”

  Her lips parted with surprise.

  “Put simply, Miss Ballister,” he said with startling softness, “my brother wasn’t worthy of a woman like you.”

  And then, while she was trying to comprehend the meaning behind his words, while she was trying simply to remember how to breathe, he stood.

  “It has been a pleasure, Miss Ballister,” he murmured, taking her hand and gently laying a kiss on her glove. His eyes remained fixed on her face the entire while, glowing hot and green, and searing straight into her soul.

  He straightened, curved his lips just far enough to make her skin tingle, and quietly said, “Good night, Miss Ballister.”

  Then he was gone, even before she could offer her own farewell. And he did not reappear in the box next to her.

  But this feeling—this strange, breathless, swirling feeling that he managed to stir within her with only a smile—it wrapped itself around her and didn’t leave.

  And for the first time in her life, Susannah wasn’t able to concentrate on a Shakespearean play.

  Even with her eyes open, all she could see was the earl’s face.

  Chapter 3

  Once again, Miss Susannah Ballister is the talk of the town. After achieving the dubious distinction of being both the most popular and the most unpopular young lady of the 1813 season (thanks, in whole, to the occasionally vacuous Clive Mann-Formsby), she was enjoying a bit of obscurity until another Mann-Formsby—this one David, the Earl of Renminster—graced her with his undivided attention at Saturday night’s performance of The Merchant of Venice at Drury Lane.

  One can only speculate as to the earl’s intentions, as Miss Ballister very nearly became a Mann-Formsby last summer, although her prefix would have been Mrs. Clive, and she would have been sister to the earl.

  This Author feels safe in writing that no one who saw the way the earl was looking at Miss Ballister throughout the performance would ever mistake his interest as fraternal.

  As for Miss Ballister—if the earl’s intentions are noble, then This Author also feels safe in writing that everyone would agree that she has landed herself the better Mann-Formsby.

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 31 JANUARY 1814

  Once again, Susannah could not sleep.

  And no wonder—My brother wasn’t worthy of a woman like you? What could he have meant by that? Why would the earl say such a thing?

  Could he be courting her? The earl?

  She gave her head a shake, the sort meant to knock silly ideas right from her mind. Impossible. The Earl of Renminster had never shown signs of seriously courting anyone, and Susannah rather doubted that he was going to start with her.

  And besides, she had every reason to feel the utmost irritation with the man. She had lost sleep over him. Susannah never lost sleep over anyone. Not even Clive.

  As if that weren’t bad enough, her restless night on Saturday was repeated on Sunday, and then Monday was even worse, due to her appearance in that morning’s Whistledown column. So by the time Tuesday morning came along, Susannah was tired and grumpy when her butler found her and Letitia breaking their fast.

  “Miss Susannah,” he said, inclining his head ever so slightly in her direction. “A letter has arrived for you.”

  “For me?” Susannah queried, taking the envelope from his hand. It was the expensive sort, sealed with dark blue wax. The crest she recognized instantly. Renminster.

  “Who is it from?” Letitia asked, once she’d finished chewing the muffin she’d popped into her mouth just as the butler had entered.

  “I haven’t opened it yet,” Susannah said testily. And if she was clever, she’d figure out how not to open it until she was out of Letitia’s company.

  Her sister stared at her as if she were an imbecile. “That’s easily remedied,” Letitia pointed out.

  Susannah set the envelope down on the table beside her plate. “I will deal with it later. Right now I’m hungry.”

  “Right now I’m dying of curiosity,” Letitia retorted. “Either you open that envelope this instant or I will do it for you.”

  “I am going to finish my eggs, and then—Letitia!” The name came out rather like a shriek, as Susannah lunged across the table at her sister, who had just swiped the envelope in a rather neatly done maneuver that Susannah would have been able to intercept had her reflexes not been dulled by lack of sleep.

  “Letitia,” Susannah said in a deadly voice, “if you do not hand that envelope back to me unopened, I will never ever forgive you.” And when that didn’t seem to work, she added, “For the rest of my life.”

  Letitia appeared to consider her words.

  “I will hunt you down,” Susannah continued. “There will be no place you may remain safe.”

  “From you?” Letitia asked dubiously.

  “Give me the envelope.”

  “Will you open it?”

  “Yes. Give it to me.”

  “Will you open it now?” Letitia amended.

  “Letitia, if you do not hand that envelope back to me this instant, you will wake up one morning with all of your hair cut off.”

  Letitia’s mouth fell open. “You’re not serious?”

  Susannah glared at her through narrowed eyes. “Do I look as if I’m jesting?”

  Letitia gulped and held the envelope out with a shaky hand. “I do believe you’re serious.”

  Susannah snatched the missive from her sister’s hand. “I would have taken several inches off at the very least,” she muttered.

  “Will you open it?” Letitia said, always one to remain intractably on subject.

  “Very well,” Susannah said with a sigh. It wasn’t as if she was going to be able to keep it a secret, anyway. She’d merely been hoping to put it off. She hadn’t yet used her butter knife, so she slid it under the flap and popped the seal open.

  “Who is it from?” Letitia asked, even though Susannah hadn’t even yet unfolded the letter.

  “Renminster,” Susannah said with a weary sigh.

  “And you’re upset?” Letitia asked, eyes bugged out.

  “I’m not upset.”

  “You sound upset.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Susannah said, sliding the single sheet of paper from the envelope.

  But if she wasn’t upset, what was she? Excited, maybe, a little at least, even if she was too tired to show it. The earl was exciting, enigmatic, and certainly more intelligent than Clive had been. But he was an earl, and he certainly wasn’t going to marry her, which meant that eventually, she would be known as the girl who’d been dropped by two Mann-Formsbys.

  It was more than she thought she could bear. She’d endured public humiliation once. She didn’t particularly want to experience it again, and in greater measure.

  Which was why, when she read his note, and its accompanying request, her answer was immediately no.

  Miss Ballister—

  I request the pleasure of your company on Thursday, at Lord and Lady Moreland’s skating party, Swan Lane Pier, noon.

  With your permission, I will call for you at your home thirty minutes prior.

  Renminster

  “What does he want?” Letitia asked breathlessly.

  Susannah just
handed her the note. It seemed easier than recounting its contents.

  Letitia gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Susannah muttered, trying to refocus her attention on her breakfast.

  “Susannah, he means to court you!”

  “He does not.”

  “He does. Why else would he invite you to the skating party?” Letitia paused and frowned. “I hope I receive an invitation. Skating is one of the few athletic pursuits at which I do not appear a complete imbecile.”

  Susannah nodded, raising her brows at her sister’s understatement. There was a pond near their home in Sussex that froze over every winter. Both Ballister girls had spent hours upon hours swishing across the ice. They’d even taught themselves to spin. Susannah had spent more time on her bottom than on her skates during her fourteenth winter, but by God, she could spin.

  Almost as well as Letitia. It did seem a shame that she hadn’t yet been invited. “You could just come along with us,” Susannah said.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t do that,” Letitia said. “Not if he’s courting you. There is nothing like a third wheel to ruin a perfectly good romance.”

  “There is no romance,” Susannah insisted, “and I don’t think I’m going to accept his invitation, anyway.”

  “You just said you would.”

  Susannah stabbed her fork into a piece of sausage, thoroughly irritated with herself. She hated people who changed their minds at whim, and apparently, for today at least, she was going to have to include herself in that group. “I mis-spoke,” she muttered.

  For a moment Letitia didn’t reply. She even took a bite of eggs, chewed them thoroughly, swallowed, and took a sip of tea.

  Susannah didn’t really think her sister was through with the conversation; Letitia’s silence could never be mistaken as anything but a momentary reprieve. And sure enough, just when Susannah had relaxed sufficiently to take a sip of her tea without actually gulping it down, Letitia said:

  “You’re mad, you know.”

  Susannah brought her napkin to her lips to keep from spitting out her tea. “I know no such thing, thank you very much.”