Lady Pamela

by Amy Lake

  Lady Pamela grinned at the cousins, thinking that even Maximilian's Hessians could not dampen her spirits tonight. The ongoing tumult in her heart, the tumult engendered by the weeks of constant contact with the duke, had indeed-as Amanda feared-brought her to the breaking point, but the effect of this was not what Lady Detweiler might have imagined.

  Now that she was finally and completely broken, Lady Pamela felt her spirits soar.

  What did it matter? What did any of it matter?

  She had enjoyed herself before, she had enjoyed herself with the Earl of Ketrick-how could she ever have denied it!-and she was going to enjoy herself again. Tonight, at this ball.

  No more self-recrimination and doubt. No more trying to pretend that she was someone she was not. She had been Lord Tremayne's mistress, his chère amie, and if that left her a fallen woman in the eyes of Lord Torrance, so be it. ‘Twas not a single thing she could do about the matter now, and there were many gentlemen in the haut ton who took a similar view. She would dance with them. She would dance with all of them.

  Lady Pamela's eyes glittered as she stepped from the carriage. She did not see Lady Detweiler give her a worried glance. She saw nothing but the bright lights of the ballroom shining above her, and the sounds of the orchestra beginning to tune.

  * * * *

  Lady Millicent managed to find Annabelle in the crush, after insisting to her parents that she be allowed a few minutes to socialize before the dancing began. Her father had frowned, but said nothing else, and Milly and Belle were now skirting the edge of the ballroom, looking for Lady Annabelle's brother and, hopefully, the Marquess of Leight.

  A tall man with cropped blonde hair caught Belle's eye. He was dressed in an elegant coat of grey superfine, and was standing slightly apart from the crowd, talking to Jonathan Sinclair, the Marquess of Luton.

  "Goodness,” she said to Milly, “who is that gentleman? He's gorgeous."

  "I don't know...” said Lady Millicent, her attention only half paid to what her friend was saying. She was looking for Lord Peabody, hoping to have a word with him before the earl could intervene.

  If she could only explain what had happened, thought Milly. Clarence would understand, she knew he would. He would fight for her hand. Lady Millicent had a brief vision of Lord Peabody standing up to her father and demanding that Millicent be his, of Lord Peabody challenging Lord Castlereaugh to a duel.

  She said as much to Lady Annabelle.

  "Good heavens,” said Belle. “Do you want to kill him?"

  The two girls continued circling the room, ducking behind one of the large potted palms whenever the earl's attention threatened to turn in their direction.

  "Belle! There he is!” said Lady Millicent excitedly. “There's Lord Peabody!"

  Lady Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Milly, we don't have time—"

  "Oh, but I need only a moment!” Lady Millicent protested. “I must tell him that I am being forced to marry Lord Castlereaugh! I'm sure if Clarence only knew—"

  "There's Jason,” said Lady Annabelle, catching sight of her brother. “Perhaps he has news of the marquess."

  Belle caught Lady Millicent by the hand and pulled her forward, trying to catch Jason's attention as they moved through the crowd.

  "Clarence!” cried Lady Millicent.

  Lord Peabody was suddenly in front of them, smiling nervously.

  "Lady Millicent,” he said, extending one thin leg. “Lady Annabelle."

  "Oh, Lord Peabody, I'm so glad you've arrived,” said Milly. “I must speak with you."

  "Er...” managed the viscount. He reddened, and his attention shifted suddenly to a point behind her. She turned around.

  Lady Millicent's father stood there, and with him, Lord Castlereaugh.

  * * * *

  The strains of a waltz floated over the waiting couples, and Lady Pamela smiled up at Viscount Carroll.

  "I'd be delighted,” she said, extending her hand. She felt light-hearted. She felt at her ease, even knowing that Peregrine Carroll was a rogue and a rake-hell, and famed in the ton for his collection of high-born mistresses. Even though he had once tried to add her to that collection. He was, in fact, a gentleman whom she had rarely favored before this evening, but he was also handsome and good fun.

  Why not? thought Pam. And it had taken so little effort on her part. A smile in the viscount's direction, a lifted eyebrow, and it was done, he was at her side within moments.

  So easy.

  "My dear Lady Pamela,” said the viscount. “To what do I owe this unexpected honour?"

  "Lud,” replied Pam, tossing her head. “Whyever not? ‘Tis been an age since we danced."

  Lord Carroll merely smiled. “As you say, my lady,” he replied, and he swung her into the waltz.

  * * * *

  The earl had found them. Lady Millicent looked up into her father's red, angry face.

  Oh, Clarence, she was thinking. Clarence, say something. But Lord Peabody seemed to shrink under her father's narrowed-eyed gaze, and he began to back away, making a series of muttered and nearly inaudible apologies to Milly and Annabelle.

  "Your pardon ... must be off ... promised a dance to my sister, you know..."

  The earl caught Lord Peabody's arm. Clarence yelped.

  "Oh, stay a moment, my dear boy,” said Milly's father. “Do stay. Can't have you running away without a good chat, now can we?"

  Millicent's eyes widened. Her father had never admitted to Lord Peabody's existence before this very moment, let alone made claims to talk with him. But the earl's attention now turned to her.

  "My darling girl,” said Lord Chambers. “Lord Castlereaugh has asked for the honour of the next quadrille."

  Lord Castlereaugh extended his hand. His eyes raked Millicent from head to toe, and the sense of discomfort she always felt with this gentleman increased. Lady Milly dared not look in Lady Annabelle's direction, knowing that Belle was outraged on her behalf, and liable to say something shocking.

  "Oh, but—” began Milly. She had promised the next dance to Lord Peabody. Or, she had intended to do so, if Clarence had only asked.

  But he had not asked, had he?

  "Oh, heavens, Lady Millicent pledged the quadrille to Lord Peabody ages ago,” said Annabelle.

  Lord Peabody did not look happy at this information.

  "I'm sure the young gentleman won't mind,” said Lord Chambers, with a nod in Clarence's direction. “Will you, Lord Peabody?"

  "Oh. No. No, of course not,” stammered the viscount.

  And Lady Millicent discovered Lord Castlereaugh's hand under her elbow. She repressed a shudder as his grip tightened, and she felt his fingernails dig into her skin. At least it would not be the waltz. If she danced with him now, perhaps she could avoid the waltz.

  As Lord Castlereaugh continued to tug on her arm, leading her out onto the dance floor, Lady Millicent saw her father turn to Clarence.

  "Lord Peabody,” the Earl of Banbridge said. “A moment of your time, if I may."

  * * * *

  Lord Torrance was becoming more and more aggravated. He had yet to exchange a word with Lady Pamela, who had not taken a moment's respite from dancing. He had seen her sweep by on the arms of a caddish-looking fellow, and heard her voice, her laugh, floating above the crowd.

  This, thought Benjamin, was not the way friends treated each other. She should have stopped, at least, to say her good evenings, to see if he was well ... The draperies for the music room had arrived just that morning, and she'd not seen them, he'd wanted her advice as to how they should be hung.

  He and Lady Pamela had spent nearly the whole of the past month together, and now ‘twas as if she barely remembered who he was. Did she even mark his attendance? Benjamin had known the moment she entered the ballroom, had expected to find her before him momentarily, or whiling away her time at the edge of the dance floor, awaiting his request for the waltz.

  But he would not go running to her like a love-sick puppy. He would not.
Lady Pamela was the darling of London, she was the one familiar with the whims of the haut ton-she should be the one to greet him at this benighted society ball.

  "Good heavens,” came a voice at his side. “Whatever are you waiting for?"

  Amanda Detweiler stood there, her regard quizzical.

  "Lady Detweiler, forgive me, I'm in no mood—” began the duke.

  "You may save the righteous protestations and claims to indifference,” said Amanda. “You are no farther above the fray than the rest of us."

  "I cannot imagine what you mean."

  "Poppycock,” said Lady Detweiler. “And Lady Pamela's dance card will be full three times over if you do not extend yourself."

  Benjamin felt his temper begin to fray and, suddenly too annoyed to pay the usual guard to his words, he risked speaking openly to Lady Detweiler. “I have extended myself, as you say, for the whole of this past month. If she does not know my feelings by now, there is nothing more to do."

  Lady Detweiler raised her eyebrows. “I do not believe,” she told the duke, “that your feelings were ever in question."

  "Well, then—"

  "But your esteem, on the other hand...” She trailed off, and shrugged.

  Why was he so angry? Why were Lady Detweiler's words so infuriating?

  "My esteem? My esteem?” retorted Benjamin. “Does she fancy herself a miss from the schoolroom, swooning at the first harsh word? She has been out in the world, and my regard for her, which is exceptional, seems able to change nothing."

  He had raised his voice, but it went unnoticed in the crowded, noisy ballroom, and Amanda Detweiler had never been one to cringe at the words of an angry male.

  "Your regard is finely drawn,” answered Lady Detweiler, “and comes at a price. There are others who may take a wider view. Peregrine Carroll, for example."

  The duke stared down at her, loathe to take this bait, but unable to stop himself. “I do not know that gentleman,” he said finally.

  "Lady Pamela and Lord Carroll shared the waltz."

  Silence greeted this. Then—

  "Would you have me make a fool of myself?"

  "A fool? To look love in the face and deny it, that is the fool."

  Benjamin took a deep breath. “So you say,” he told her, and walked away.

  * * * *

  Lord Chambers smiled in grim satisfaction as he watched his daughter and Lord Castlereaugh make their curtsey-and-bow, and step through the first bars of the quadrille. He was sure that Castlereaugh had understood his earlier remarks, was sure that Millicent's suitor knew what would be required of him later in the evening.

  The Marquess of Leight! Pah, thought the earl. ‘Twould never answer, and the absurd scheme must be nipped in the bud. He would have told his daughter exactly that from the first mention of the marquess, had he not been so tired of the chit's downcast glances and threatened tears. The earl had no time to waste on female sentiment. He had a surfeit of weeping and remonstrance from his wife.

  So he had dissembled and stalled, and suggested hope to Millicent where there was none.

  Ironically, the earl had a better opinion of Lady Annabelle's marital plans for Milly and the Marquess of Leight than even Belle herself. The marquess was related by marriage to the Fitzroys, notoriously soft-hearted and, at his age, could very well be in the market for a wife. The earl could only imagine the scene, Lady Millicent batting her eyelashes, a tear slipping down her cheek, and that harebrained Annabelle Fitzroy in the background, whispering horrible descriptions of Milly's fate at the hands of Enoch Castlereaugh.

  No, the results of such an encounter were unpredictable, and potentially at odds to the earl's requirements. The marquess was rich, true enough, but he was not the sort of man who would be persuaded by Lord Chamber's financial exigencies, nor desperate enough for Millicent's charms to make a hurried marriage. ‘Twould not do. Millicent would marry Lord Castlereaugh, and after this evening, the earl anticipated an early wedding.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  At midnight, the Lincolnshires’ ball was just reaching its stride, and the ballroom floor was more crowded than ever. Lady Millicent had managed, with Annabelle's help, to avoid Lord Castlereaugh for more than an hour, but the next waltz hung over her like a cloud, for her father had insisted she share it with that gentleman.

  As a consequence, the pleasure Milly usually took in a grand ball was deserting her, even though Lady Annabelle had been as good as her word, and introduced her to the Marquess of Leight. He had asked her hand for the pastorelle, and Lady Millicent found him handsome, and pleasant company, albeit shy.

  "Cry!” Belle had hissed, as they stood next to each other in the chaîne des dames. But Millicent, despite the distressful circumstances, found that she could not shed false tears. She and the marquess had chatted amiably after the pastorelle, but had hardly the time to make a better acquaintance before a be-turbaned dowager arrived at his side, her sad, sallow-faced daughter in tow, and spirited him off to dinner.

  Even Lady Annabelle's stratagems, it seemed, went forfeit to a matchmaking mother.

  And, at any moment, the orchestra might begin the waltz. Millicent sighed, and wished she could run away. Some parents sent their sons on a tour of the continent before allowing them to marry, or settle into a profession. Why could she not do so? She would love to travel, thought Milly. Love to see Italy, and Spain, and the south coast of France, of which she had heard so much.

  Anywhere but London. Anywhere but here.

  * * * *

  They were waltzing. Again. They were arguing. Again.

  Lady Pamela had been aware of the duke's presence since the moment she entered the Lincolnshires’ ballroom, but Lord Torrance had ignored her for what seemed like hours, until she had convinced herself he meant it so, meant it to be a declaration of what they did not mean to each other. She had found her feet straying in his direction more than once, but stopped herself, and moved away, and accepted dance after dance until she was exhausted and flushed, and ready to break down either in laughter or in tears.

  Then she sensed his approach-finally-and felt his presence at her side, his eyes seeking hers. She forced herself to throw him an easy, cheerful glance, a glance friends might give each other, enjoying such a ball.

  He had smiled in return. She thought he smiled, but perhaps she was deceived, for ‘twas no more than minutes, now, since she had followed him to the dance floor, and his smiles were gone.

  Had she even intended to accept his hand for the waltz? Lady Pamela was no longer sure, for Lord Torrance had extended his arm, and she had taken it, and for minutes afterward she was aware of nothing but the feel of her fingers in his, the fire of his touch at her back.

  Had he even asked?

  At first, they had chatted amiably enough, although perhaps more haltingly than usual.

  "I wouldn't have thought this many people could fit into a single room and still dance,” Lord Torrance had commented. “Is no-one ever injured?"

  "Only if Lord Burgess is present,” said Lady Pamela, with a chuckle.

  "Ah."

  "Will you now chide Amanda for exaggeration?” Pam asked him, aware that her friend had made the Lincolnshires’ ball into the be-all and end-all of a London autumn.

  "I suppose not,” he answered. “Although I think Lady Detweiler may rejoice in such events more than I."

  Pam fell silent, although he had smiled, and wondered what Lord Torrance meant by this. Did he find present company disagreeable?

  The duke seemed to sense her apprehension. He hastened to add, “I take great pleasure in dancing, I assure you. I meant only to say that I also value quiet evenings at home."

  "As do I. But it is something uncommon, don't you think, for so many people to come together for the enjoyment of one another's company?"

  "Yes,” remarked Lord Torrance. “I noticed that you were enjoying yourself."

  Lady Pamela's breath caught in her throat. A rebuke? she wondered, and then called herse
lf foolish for seeing insult in the commonplace.

  "'Tis what one does, at a ball,” she told Lord Torrance, a bit stiffly. “I'm surprised you find it worthy of comment."

  Why would the duke have anything to say of her behavior when he had been ignoring her the entire evening? What right had he to judge her conduct, when he had not even bothered to approach her, to offer a simple greeting? He was a duke, the Duke of Grentham. It was his place to seek her out, and she had no cause to run after him, a fine lady, like a schoolgirl miss attending her first soirée.

  The duke said nothing for a moment. Then—

  "And I see that Lord Carroll is a favorite of yours,” he added.

  "Lord Carroll-!” This, thought Lady Pam, was the outside of enough. First he had insulted her in regards the Earl of Ketrick, and at least with him, ‘twas true, she once shared affection. But Peregrine Carroll! Was she never to have an innocent dance without risking the duke's disapproval?

  "I believe that is the gentleman's name. You seemed quite cozy, waltzing,” said Lord Torrance.

  Unwise words. Perhaps Lady Pamela should have realized that the duke had no idea of her brief history with Peregrine Carroll. How could he have known, after all? Known that Lord Carroll had made an improper suggestion, shortly after the end of her relationship with the Earl of Ketrick. Known that she had refused him in terms that left no doubt of her feelings.

  If Lord Torrance had seen Lady Pamela slap Peregrine roundly across the face, or seen that gentleman's chagrin at having made so egregious a miscalculation, he might have been less troubled by Lady Detweiler's cheerful, deliberate meddling. For his words were born of jealousy, and if Lady Pam had thought the matter through, she would have seen it.

  Pamela was too angry for such considerations. She would have stopped, then and there, and left him. But the duke was too swift for her. He continued the dance, his arm at her back, his hand tightly gripping hers.

  "I intended no offense,” said Lord Torrance.

  "Do you spy at me?” she hissed. “Do you ruin every small bit of joy? Is this to be my reward for the time I have spent at your home, the hours I have freely given you?"