Belle of the Ball
Joan Overfield
Belle of the Ball
Joan Overfield
Copyright 1993, 2014 by Joan Overfield
This book is dedicated to the memory of Jerri Skeen, who fought the good fight with both courage and laughter. Please, if you do nothing else for your loved ones, have a yearly mammogram and examination. You mean more to the world than you may know.
Belle of the Ball
"You need to learn, Miss Portham, I am neither saint nor sinner, I am simply a man."
And I am a woman, she longed to scream, although shyness and fear held her silent. She bit her lip and reached deep down inside herself for the cool self-possession that had served her so well in the past.
"I am aware of that, my lord. And it is to that man I wish to make my apologies. I said terrible things to him and I am hoping he will find it in himself to forgive me. Do you think he will?"
"I am sure he will," he replied, not trusting himself to touch her again. . . .
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Author
One
London, 1816
"I f there is one thing in this life of which one may be reasonably certain," Mrs. Georgiana Larksdale began, turning a steely gaze upon the quiet young woman sitting opposite her, "it is not if a disaster may strike, but when."
Miss Arabelle Portham glanced up from the tract she'd been perusing, her delicate blond eyebrows gathering in a frown as she puzzled over the dramatic pronouncement. Only seconds before, her distant cousin had been discussing the latest fashions from Bond Street, and now she was uttering prophecies like some latter-day Cassandra. It made no sense, unless . . .
"Ah, I see," she said, her brow clearing as understanding dawned. "Your toe is paining you."
"It is my ankle," Georgiana corrected, lifting the hem of her gown and offering the affected limb for Belle's inspection. "The poor thing has been throbbing like a sore tooth, and I need not tell you what that portends."
Indeed she did not, Belle thought, fighting back a smile. For as long as she had known Georgiana (the sister-in-law of one of her numerous cousins), the older woman had held firm to her belief that her body was possessed of preternatural abilities, and a twinge could predict everything from a shower of rain to catastrophes of biblical proportions. She was especially fond of the catastrophes, and Belle knew there was nothing she liked more than when circumstances proved her correct.
"Perhaps it is only the gout," Belle suggested, fixing a pointed glance at the eclair in Georgiana's hand. "Dr. Philiby did warn you to avoid rich foods, did he not?"
"Dr. Philiby is an old fool," Georgiana muttered, although Belle noted she returned the custard-filled pastry to the tray. "I know the gout when I feel it, and this is quite different, I assure you. Disaster is poised to strike us, and I would be failing in my Christian duty if I did not warn you."
The smile that crept across Belle's face would have astounded those members of the ton who had dubbed her "The Golden Icicle." "As you say, Georgiana," she replied, her usually cool voice warm with tolerant affection. "You may consider me warned, and on my head shall the consequences rest."
Suspecting Belle was mocking her, Georgiana gave her a sharp look. "You may scoff if you like, young lady," she said, waggling an admonishing finger, "but if Napoleon had a toe like mine, he'd never have been fool enough to ride into Waterloo."
This was too much even for one with Belle's icy control, and she gave a delighted chuckle. "If Napoleon had your talent, Georgiana, we'd all be speaking French," she said, her golden-brown eyes dancing with laughter. "Now, stop being so gloomy and tell me what you think about my plans for Julia's coming out."
"Rather late to ask my opinion of anything, considering the chit is to make her bows tonight," Georgiana grumbled, abandoning discussion of her aching ankle with obvious reluctance. "Which reminds me, however were you able to secure a voucher for her? I would have thought Almack's to be quite above her touch."
"Above hers, perhaps, but not above mine." Belle's mild response gave no hint of the effort it had cost her to secure one of the highly prized vouchers. She'd pleaded, bargained, and schemed, but in the end she had triumphed over the patronesses' opposition. Whatever their original objections to admitting a young beauty "two steps removed from the shops" (the countess's exact words), they were too wily to let an heiress like Belle slip through their fingers. Her threat to avoid Almack's if Julia was not admitted had proven most effective, and Belle was cynically amused by the power her fortune commanded.
"Well, it certainly is kind of you to sponsor Julia," Georgiana said. "She is no closer a relation to you than I am."
"Her mother was very kind to mine after my father's death," Belle said, feeling a familiar stab of pain as she remembered those bleak days. "I don't know what would have become of us had Cousin Rachel not paid our passage back from Spain. Certainly no other member of the family seemed inclined to help."
Georgiana glanced away, her rouged cheeks suffusing with color, and Belle was instantly ashamed. Not of what she had said, but because she'd allowed her emotions to show. She'd spent years perfecting her mask of icy indifference, and it distressed her that she'd allowed it to slip even for a moment.
"Speaking of Julia's coming out, it is only six weeks until her ball," she said, hiding her distress behind brisk efficiency. "I'm sure I shall have everything in hand by then, but I would appreciate your going over the final plans. I've never hosted anything so grand, and I would hate to make a foolish mistake."
Before Georgiana could comment, the door to the library opened, and a petite beauty with blond curls floating about her face came scurrying into the room. "I am so sorry to be late, Aunt, Cousin," she said, favoring each lady in turn with an angelic smile, "but Madame Lorraine has only just this moment completed alterations on my ball gown. I trust I didn't keep you waiting overly long?"
"Not at all, dearest," Belle assured her, thinking the apology was a great deal like Julia herself. Sweet, sincere, and graceful. The chit would do well, she decided, with almost maternal pride.
"Madame Lorraine indeed," Georgiana retorted as Julia took her seat. "These mantua-makers like to give themselves French handles so that they can charge the highest prices for their goods, but don't think I don't recognize a Yorkshire accent when I hear it. Such duplicity would never have been allowed in my day, I can tell you."
Rather than arguing, Julia merely smiled, her expression sweet as she turned to Belle. "I wish to thank you for the diamonds, Cousin," she said, her thick lashes sweeping over her deep blue eyes. "Simon would insist I not accept them, but I know you only wanted to give me a memento of this evening."
"Thank you, Julia," Belle said, grateful her gesture had been accepted in the spirit in which it was intended. She knew only too well what it was like to be on the receiving end of grudging charity, and she wouldn't have wished to offend either Julia or her stiff-necked elder brother.
"Speaking of Simon, when might we expect to see the wretch?" Georgiana asked with feigned disinterest. "It is shocking, the way that lad ignores his family."
"He is in the country visiting one of his investments," Julia explained. "He is planning a visit to America to buy cotton for his mills, but he assures me he will be here for my coming-out ball."
Talk of the ball carried them comfortably through the next hour, and as Julia and Georgia
na eagerly discussed the merits of various young men of the ton, Belle allowed her thoughts to drift to the coming evening. Despite her cool assurances to Georgiana, she couldn't help but feel some trepidation at the thought of introducing Julia to Society. The girl was so sweet, without an ounce of artifice to her, that Belle greatly feared she would be hurt by the sometimes cruel sophistication of the Polite World. Her own wealth could protect the girl only so far, and she knew there were those out there who would already be sharpening their claws in vicious anticipation.
For one moment she was wildly tempted to gather Julia up and rush back to her country estate and safety, but in the next moment her pride reasserted itself. Just let one of those cats attempt to scratch her ward, she vowed, her chin coming up with determination. Julia was her responsibility, and the first person foolish enough to threaten her would soon learn the folly of his actions. If the ton thought The Golden Icicle unable or unwilling to protect her own, they were about to learn otherwise.
"Almack's," Mr. Tobias Flanders mumbled in tones of painful resignation. "Really, sir, how can you be so cruel? You must know I'd rather be at m'own hanging than here in this wasp's nest. Couldn't you have come alone?"
"No, I could not," snapped Marcus Wainwright, the earl of Colford, his dark auburn eyebrows meeting over his nose as he cast his heir an impatient look. "Lady Bingington is going to be here tonight, and she hinted she wanted to meet you."
"Don't see why," Toby muttered, his bottom lip thrusting forward in a pout. "You're the one courting the lady, not I."
Marcus's gray eyes frosted over in annoyance. 'Toby, might I remind you of what will happen to Colford if I fail to make an advantageous marriage?" he warned, his voice dangerously soft. "I should think that as my heir, you'd want to do everything within your power to insure the estate remains intact."
Rather than bending to his cousin's command, Toby merely looked indifferent. "Wealth," he said in the bored accents of one who had known only privilege and comfort, "such a common preoccupation. As a poet, I am far above such considerations."
Marcus's lips tightened in fury, and he gave careful consideration to tossing his pompous cousin down the Grand Staircase. He could almost see Toby bouncing backside over breakfast down the steps, perhaps bowling over a couple of dowagers in the bargain . . . A half smile touched Marcus's mouth at the image, but in the next moment he was reluctantly rejecting it. The lady he was studiously courting was a pattern card of propriety, and he much doubted she would care for the scandal such an action would cause. Toby was safe . . . for now.
Thoughts of Charlotte led, as they always did, to thoughts of his estate, for without the one, there was no way he could hang on to the other. Colford was teetering on the edge of destruction, and Marcus knew everything hinged on the coming Season. He had to make a marriage of convenience, he reminded himself grimly; there was no other choice.
"Almack's." Julia's voice was full of wonder as she glanced wide-eyed about her. "Oh, Cousin, I can scarce believe I am here!"
Belle hid a smile at Julia's expression. "Believe it, my dear," she said, unfurling her fan with practiced grace. "Now, stop gawking, else you risk being taken for a provincial."
"But I am a provincial," Julia replied, although she did her best to follow Belle's instructions. "Simon said I should always remember where I came from, so that I won't forget where I must go."
"That sounds like something he would say," Belle agreed with reluctant admiration, "but I would ask you not to repeat it too loudly. I fear there are few here who share Simon's rather interesting view of the world."
The next several minutes were given over to introductions, and Belle was smugly proud of the interest Julia aroused amongst those present. Her fortune and beauty as well as her connection to Belle might have drawn them at first, but it was obvious it was Julia's kindness and charm that made them stay. Watching Julia dazzle one young man after the other, Belle felt a momentary pang of envy as she remembered her own introduction to Society.
Fear had left her so stiff and cold that she'd spent most of the evening in the corner, watching unhappily as others enjoyed themselves. She'd wanted more than anything to join them in their revelry, but years of guarding her emotions from her avaricious relations had left their mark. She could only stand in miserable silence, her face frozen in a haughty mask as her heart ached for an acceptance she could not find.
That night set the pattern for the rest of the Season, and the more people commented on her standoffish behavior, the more she withdrew into an icy shell. Balls and soirees became an agony to be endured until finally she surrendered, stoically accepting the role Society assigned her. By the time the odious earl of Colford christened her The Golden Icicle, her heart was already encased in a cage of frost.
The memory of that occasion still had the power to bring a flash of anger to her eyes. It had been at one of the last balls of the Season, and she'd fled out onto the balcony to escape the crowds and the appalling heat. She'd thought herself quite alone when she turned around to find Lord Colford watching her from the shadows. He'd been only a viscount then, although one would never have guessed it from his arrogance, and that arrogance had been much in evidence as he continued watching her. Finally he pushed himself away from the stone balustrade and advanced lazily toward her, his smile mocking as he gave a low bow.
" 'Well met by moonlight, proud Titania,' " he murmured, his gray eyes resting on her face. "Or should I say, proud Miss Portham? Although you do look so much like a fairy queen in that charming dress, I am sure you can forgive my confusion."
Her heart had raced at the sight of him, a fact she now blushed to recall, and her voice had been none too steady as she returned his greeting. "I thank you for the compliment, my lord, and I shall be sure to extend your appreciation to my modiste."
"You mean the cloth wasn't spun in moonlit glades by elves and sprites?" he drawled, the corners of his lips curving in a wry smile. "You disappoint me, ma'am. How sad to think such a lovely creation came from so prosaic a place as Madame DeClaire's on Bond Street."
That he was aware her gold and white silk gown had been made by Madame gave credence to the whispers she'd heard about his rakish ways, and she decided it might be prudent to return to the ballroom. She muttered a stiff excuse and made to brush past him, but instead of standing aside as a gentleman would have done, he stood his ground, his expression daring her to object.
"Sir, you are in my way," she informed him coolly, ignoring her heart hammering inside her chest. "I will thank you to step aside."
"Will you?" His eyes had glowed silver in the moonlight as he gazed down at her. "And what if I do not? Will you cast one of your spells and turn me into another Oberon?"
"Such a spell would seem superfluous, my lord, as you are already half an ass!" she snapped, and then flushed with mortification. She would have fled at that point but for the powerful hand that curled about her upper arm, staying her.
"One moment, my fairy queen." He laughed, easily controlling her efforts to free herself. "If you think I mean to allow you to leave after that, you are much mistaken. You have insulted me, my sweet, and now you must pay a forfeit."
Before she could scream, his mouth descended on hers, capturing her lips in a kiss of fiery passion. She'd been more furious than frightened at his audacity, sensing somehow that he would never really hurt her. But it was the hateful knowledge that she was actually enjoying the embrace that appalled her most, and the moment her lips were free, she brought her hand across his face in a stinging slap.
"How dare you!" she raged somewhat unoriginally, doing her best to control her agitated breathing. "If you ever touch me again, I vow I shall put a bullet through you!"
"You needn't have any worries on that score, ma'am," he responded sardonically, his hand resting on the red mark her blow had left. "A man would have to be mad to kiss an icicle . . . even a golden one. You have my word I shall keep my distance."
And so he had, she admitted, nodd
ing to a casual acquaintance who was waving at her from across the room. In the eight or so years since that momentous night, she could count on one hand the times they'd exchanged more than a few minutes of brittle conversation. Unfortunately, since he was an intimate of Viscount St. Ives, and she was one of the viscountess's closest friends, she supposed that would change, and she steeled herself for the confrontations that were sure to come.
The next few hours passed pleasantly as Belle introduced Julia to the ton. In addition to the eligible men fluttering about her, she also made sure her pretty ward made the acquaintance of several young ladies her own age. She was especially pleased to see Julia strike up a friendship with Lady Katherine Cragswell, the daughter of an old friend. Kate was as good as she was sensible, and it was Belle's hope Julia would learn to emulate the other girl's exquisite manners.
In between keeping a protective eye on Julia and making sure Georgiana lacked for nothing, Belle visited with several of her friends from previous Seasons. But as much as she enjoyed seeing them, she couldn't help but miss her dear friend Phillipa Lambert, now the Viscountess St. Ives. Pip and her handsome husband, Alex, were still in the country at his estates, but the last letter Belle had had from Pip had hinted they would be coming to London for a visit. She was sharing this bit of news with one of her friends when the lady gave an unexpected giggle.
"It's true, then," she said, her muddy brown eyes sparkling with spite. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes!"
"Believed what?" Belle asked, frowning at Miriam's unseemly behavior. After last year's debacle when the entire ton was taking bets as to whether or not Pip and Alex would wed, she had grown overly cautious to gossip of any sort.
"That Lady Bingington has set her cap for the earl of Colford, of course." Miriam gave another high-pitched giggle. "Or rather, it is the other way around. Everyone knows that precious estate of his is all but bankrupt, and he must make a marriage of convenience if he hopes to save it."
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