by Mary Balogh
Or would she be warning every lady in sight away from him?
Would he ever be in love? She doubted it. But the thought saddened her, and the very last thing she wanted to feel tonight was sadness. Besides, the boat was drawing into the bank, and Tresham was vaulting out even before it was quite there and offering her his hand, and excitement bubbled up in her again until she thought she might well be sick.
Then they were inside the gardens and completely wrapped about in magic. They walked along a wide avenue already half crowded with revelers, all of them in high spirits—there was no ennui here. There was conversation and laughter, and there were trees on either side, their branches laden with more of the colored lamps. And though the breeze was a little cool, Angeline was thankful for it, for it set the lamps to swaying slightly, and the colored arc of their lights moved with them and danced among the branches and across the path. And far above, if one tipped back one’s head, there was the blackness of the sky dotted with stars. She could smell the trees—and food. An orchestra was playing somewhere ahead.
And then they came to the pavilion with its tiers of open boxes and its semicircular set of more boxes about an open area used, surely, for dancing. And Rosalie was waving from one of the boxes, and Cousin Leonard was standing to greet them and show them to their seats, and there was everyone else to greet. Angeline and Tresham were, of course, the last of the party to arrive. Her come-out ball was perhaps the only event for which Tresham had been early his entire life. The Countess of Heyward was there and Mr. and Mrs. Lynd, Viscount and Viscountess Overmyer, Ferdinand, Cousin Belinda—though she was not actually their cousin, it was true.
And the Earl of Heyward.
Suddenly the excited anticipation Angeline had felt all day, the wonder and delight of the river crossing, and the sheer glory of her first impressions of Vauxhall all came together to be focused upon the person of one man, the quietest, least fussily dressed of any of them, as he bowed politely and wordlessly to them. It did not matter. She did not see him objectively. Perhaps she never had. She saw him with her heart, and her heart sang with happiness.
But it was a momentary rush of feelings. She would not embarrass herself by wearing her heart upon her sleeve. She was a member of a party. She smiled brightly about at everyone.
She had not seen Lady Eagan for years—probably not since Rosalie’s wedding. She was blond and slightly on the buxom side—though perhaps voluptuous would be a more accurate word. She was also beautiful in a languid sort of way, with full, pouting lips and eyes—or rather eyelids—rather like Lord Windrow’s. Bedroom eyes. If she felt either humiliated or grieved by Lord Eagan’s defection, she was doing an admirable job of disguising it.
Why had Lord Eagan run off with her maid? Now that Angeline had seen his wife, it would seem more believable if she was the one who had run off with his valet. Though looks could be deceptive. However it was, it was all very shocking and therefore vastly intriguing.
Angeline found herself seated, without any maneuvering at all on her part, between Mr. Lynd and the Earl of Heyward, and suddenly the evening air no longer felt uncomfortably cool. In fact, it felt decidedly warm and charged with energy all down her right side, which was, coincidentally, the side upon which the earl sat. She made no attempt to converse exclusively with him, though, or he with her. Conversation was general, and it was vigorous and covered a whole host of topics that included politics, both domestic and foreign, music, art, and gossip. It had none of the insipidity of conversation in the country. Angeline was exhilarated by it. How wonderful good conversation was, and how much there was to learn from it, far more than one ever learned in the schoolroom—a fact that seemed to be a contradiction in terms.
“I do believe,” she said, “that I have learned more in the month since I came to London than I did in all the years I spent with my governesses.”
“Book learning often does seem to be a useless waste of youth,” Mr. Lynd said. “But it gives us the basic knowledge and tools with which to deal with life once we have left it behind.”
“If we do leave it behind,” Ferdinand said. “We can learn a great deal from our daily lives and from our interaction with the minds and opinions of others, but there is no surer way of expanding our knowledge and experience than by reading.”
Ferdinand, Angeline remembered, had done rather well both in school and at Oxford. She tended to forget that and assume that he was only a very handsome but rather shallow rakehell. How dreadful to do one’s own brother an injustice. She stared curiously at him. She really did not know him well at all, did she? They were brother and sister and yet they had lived so much of their lives apart. How sad it was.
“School often seems dull and irrelevant to life,” Lord Heyward said. “But what we learn there gives us the grounding for a richer appreciation of life when we grow up. You are quite right about that, Augustine. How could we appreciate a poem or a play, for example, if we had not learned what to look for as we read? We could hope to be entertained, I suppose, but our minds, our understanding, our souls would remain untouched.”
“Oh,” Angeline said, “then all those tedious, tedious lessons in which Miss Pratt dissected a poem or play line by line and explained the meaning and significance of every word help me to appreciate poetry and drama now, do they? And is pure enjoyment to be despised?”
“Oh, bravo, Lady Angeline,” Lady Overmyer said. “Why read a poem or watch a play if one is not entertained by it? What do you have to say to that, Edward?”
“It sounds to me,” he said, “as though those lessons of yours were merely tedious, Lady Angeline, and were in grave danger of killing your interest in literature for all time. But there is a way of teaching that informs and guides and leads and encourages and excites the pupil at the same time. I was fortunate enough to know a few such teachers.”
“I had such a governess when I was a girl,” Cousin Rosalie said. “But she was a rarity. I have realized that since.”
“Learning was painful enough when I was a girl,” Cousin Belinda said, fanning her face. “Must we now talk about it?”
There was general laughter, and the conversation swept on to something else.
Their supper was brought to the box soon after, and they feasted upon a variety of sumptuous foods, including the wafer-thin slices of ham for which Vauxhall Gardens was famous, as well as the strawberries with clotted cream.
“Why does food always taste so much more appetizing out of doors?” Angeline asked.
The question led to a lively discussion.
“All I know,” Mrs. Lynd said to end it, “is that you are quite right, Lady Angeline, and it must be the reason why most of our eating is done indoors. We would all weigh a ton in no time at all otherwise.”
Everyone laughed. Everyone appeared to be having a wonderful time. Angeline looked happily about her and glanced at Lord Heyward. He was smiling at his sister. This, she thought, was the happiest night of her life.
And then the orchestra, which had been playing quietly all evening, struck up a more lively tune to signal the beginning of the dancing.
They played a waltz tune, and Angeline gazed wistfully on as Tresham led Cousin Belinda onto the floor, and Cousin Leonard followed with Lady Heyward, Mr. Lynd with Rosalie, and Ferdinand with Lady Overmyer. Angeline had been granted permission to waltz at Almack’s within the past week and could now officially dance it anywhere. And it was the most divine dance ever invented. Dancing it in the outdoors would surely be simply … heavenly.
“Well, Edward,” Mrs. Lynd said, “it would be too lowering for you to waltz with your sister. You must dance with Lady Angeline instead, then, and I shall twist Christopher’s arm and he will waltz with me. A certain amount of exercise is good when one is out of doors, I have heard. It fills the lungs with good, clean air and counteracts the effects of stale air breathed in when one sits in a box doing nothing. And it aids the digestion.”
She winked at her brother as Lord Overmyer got to
his feet.
“I was about to ask you anyway, Alma,” he said. “You are looking very fine this evening.”
“Why, thank you,” she said as he led her away. “Flattery will win you a dancing partner any evening of the week.”
Lord Heyward was also on his feet, and for one moment Angeline was assailed by an almost irresistible longing. But only for a moment.
“Oh,” she said, “you look like a drowning man who has been up for air twice and is about to descend for the third and final time. I shall save your life. I do not wish to waltz.”
He sat down again.
“I do know the steps,” he assured her.
“I know all the keys on a pianoforte and every note on a sheet of music,” she told him. “But somewhere between my eyes and my head at the one extreme and my fingers on the other, the message gets lost. Or scrambled anyway. I was the despair of my governesses. It seems I can never ever be a proper lady if I am not an accomplished musician.”
“You are kind,” he said.
“And you can never be a proper gentleman,” she said, “because when you dance your legs turn to wood.”
“It is that noticeable?” he asked. “But it must be. You feigned a sprained ankle rather than have to continue dancing with me at your come-out ball.”
“I turned my ankle,” she said, “to save you from the embarrassment of having to dance on. But you danced with other partners afterward, and so my sacrifice was in vain. Can there be anything more romantic than the waltz, do you suppose? Unless it is a waltz beneath the stars and colored lamps?”
Cousin Leonard and the Countess of Heyward were gazing into each other’s eyes as they danced. They were probably quite unaware of anyone else around them—or even of the stars and lamps.
A waltzing couple must always maintain a proper distance from each other even though their hands must touch throughout and indeed the gentleman must keep one hand on the lady’s waist and she must keep one hand on his shoulder. Those hands must never move after being properly placed, even by as much as half an inch.
Angeline could hear the rules listed in the severe voice of Miss Pratt, who had taught her the waltz even though she very strongly disapproved of it.
There was not even a sliver of air between Tresham and Lady Eagan as they waltzed. And not only his hand was resting on her waist. His whole arm was. Her hand was not on his shoulder at all, but against the back of his neck. There were only a few slivers of air between their faces.
Angeline sighed inwardly and fanned her face. And she wondered if Tresham had accepted his invitation only because Cousin Belinda was to be here. Was it possible that he had seen her since Rosalie’s wedding?
“Romantic?” Lord Heyward said in answer to her question. “It is just a dance.”
She looked at him sidelong.
“Do you not believe in romance, Lord Heyward?” she asked.
He hesitated.
“I believe in love,” he said, “and commitment and affection and fidelity and … comfort. I believe in happy marital relationships. I know a few, though not as many as I could wish. But romance? It sounds altogether too giddy to me, the sort of thing that leads people into falling in love, whatever that means, and acting without considered judgment and often ensuring an unhappy life for themselves trapped in a lifelong connection that quickly reveals romance and falling in love to be just a sad illusion. I have known a few of those connections.”
Oh, dear.
Angeline fanned her face again.
“Perhaps,” she said, “it is possible to be happy and in love, Lord Heyward. Perhaps romance can lead to love and affection and commitment and … What else did you list? Ah, yes, and to comfort. In a rare case. Do you not think?”
“I have no evidence of that,” he said. “But I suppose it is human nature to wish that you were right. To hope that you are right. It is perhaps wiser always to try to think and speak and act with good sense and judgment.”
“But wishes, hopes, and dreams are what give us the will and the courage to go on,” she said. “I would not want to go on without dreams.”
He was looking directly at her, she found when she turned her head toward him, having just witnessed Tresham for the merest moment denying even those few slivers of air space between his face and Belinda’s.
“Dreams can only lead one astray and cause ultimate despair, Lady Angeline,” he said. “But you are young. You have just made your debut into society, and the whole of a possibly glittering future is ahead of you. I would not wish to deny you your dreams. But have a care. They can be dashed in one impulsive moment.”
Oh, she thought as she gazed into his eyes, what had he dreamed? And what had happened to dash those dreams? He spoke as though he were not young.
But he believed in love. And she had seen that it was true. He loved his family.
He just did not believe in romantic love. How foolish of him.
She smiled brightly at him.
“I will not force you to waltz, Lord Heyward,” she said, “but I will sigh and look thoroughly forlorn if you do not at least offer to take me walking. We are in the loveliest place in the whole wide world, and I have scarcely seen any of it.”
He got to his feet again and offered his arm.
“Neither have I,” he said. “This is my first visit here too.”
“Then we will explore together,” she said, rising and taking his arm and glancing Rosalie’s way. Over Mr. Lynd’s shoulder, Rosalie met her glance and nodded her approval. Mrs. Lynd was also smiling their way.
Tresham was whispering something in Cousin Belinda’s ear. At least, Angeline assumed he was whispering. He would not need to speak aloud when his mouth was one inch away from her ear.
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT was entirely his fault, Edward admitted to himself later. He acted with uncharacteristic impulsiveness, and he reaped the consequences.
They strolled up the main avenue along with dozens of other revelers. Vauxhall Gardens was really not half as bad as he had expected. Perhaps it would look tawdry, or just very ordinary, in the daylight, but at night it had its appeal, he had to admit. The colored lamps were a particular inspiration. And the straight, wide avenue and the trees that bordered it were impressive and well kept. Everyone appeared to be in high spirits, but there was no obvious vulgarity. No one was noticeably foxed. The music formed a pleasant background to conversation.
It seemed to be a place intended purely for innocent enjoyment. There was nothing really wrong with that, was there? Sometimes life was to be simply enjoyed. He was enjoying himself. It was a surprising admission, but when he tested it in his mind, he found it was true.
Lady Angeline Dudley chattered on about everything in sight. Edward found that he did not mind. He even enjoyed listening to her enthusiasm. Sheer innocent exuberance was all too rare a commodity, he thought. Most people of his acquaintance were, to a greater or lesser degree, jaded. Including, perhaps, himself.
There must be something very pleasant about being able to go even beyond enjoyment to see all this as magical, as she clearly did, to be filled to the brim with unalloyed happiness. He almost wished he could be like her. It felt strangely … what was the word? Comforting? It felt strangely comforting to be within her aura, to have all that chatter, all that exuberance, all that sparkle directed at him—dull old sobersides that he was.
He had been feeling rather down for a few days and consequently had alarmed his family by neglecting to attend either a ball or a soiree they had particularly wanted him to attend. Though they had consoled themselves with the fact that Lady Angeline Dudley would be here tonight in the most romantic of settings London had to offer. He had called upon Eunice and had taken her out walking. And, after listing all the reasons he could think of—it had seemed like an impressive list to him—why it made perfect sense for him to marry her and her to marry him, he had made her a formal proposal.
She had said no.
She had listed reasons of her own, none of which h
ad sounded nearly as convincing as the items on his list. But the depressing fact was that she had refused him, and that she had told him he must not ask her again, that he must forget her and do what he knew very well he ought to do and choose someone more eligible. Someone like Lady Angeline Dudley, whom she found herself liking very well indeed, even if the girl was no intellectual giant.
“She is good-natured, Edward,” she had said, “and certainly not unintelligent. And she has a quality of—Oh, what is the word I am searching for? Of light or joy or something. Whatever it is, it is enchanting. It makes me smile. She makes me smile.”
Eunice was not usually lost for words. And she was not, generally speaking, a person to throw around words such as enchanting and joy.
So he was going to have to turn his mind to the serious business of selecting a bride. Someone who was not Eunice. Or Lady Angeline Dudley either. Of that he was determined. Lord, she found even the waltz romantic. He would kill that sparkle inside her within a fortnight if he married her.
After the first few minutes she was alternately chatting and silent beside him. But it was an eloquent silence on her part and surprisingly companionable on his. He felt no need to rush in to fill it each time. She gazed about them with wide eyes and parted lips, drinking in all the sights and sounds.
And then, looking ahead, he saw three men in the middle distance heading their way, and even from this far away he could tell that they had been drinking rather more than was good for them. And even from this far away it was clear that they were ogling the ladies they passed and making remarks that were annoying a few of the gentlemen with those ladies. They were clearly trouble waiting to happen.
And one of them happened to be Windrow.
Edward contemplated turning abruptly back before Lady Angeline saw them. He considered moving inexorably onward and dealing with trouble if it came. That, though, might involve drawing unwelcome attention their way, since he certainly would not countenance any of those three men looking at her or speaking to her with disrespect. For himself he would not mind a bit of trouble, but he would mind for any lady who was under his escort.
