Belle Of The Ball

by Joan Overfield

  Even though she considered the earl her enemy, Belle was not about to stand idly by while his good name was besmirched. Drawing herself up, she fixed Miriam with her haughtiest stare. "I should take care not to repeat such tattle, Miriam," she said coolly. "In the event it turns out to be a lie, you risk looking the fool."

  "Belle!" Miriam exclaimed, her angular face turning an unbecoming shade of red. "I never thought to hear you speak so to me! I thought we were friends."

  "And so we are," Belle replied, her voice not warming by a single degree. "But you must know I do not countenance gossip. It is ill bred in the extreme, and I for one do not choose to listen to it. In the future I would thank you to remember that."

  "But you don't even like Colford!"

  "Perhaps not," Belle said, inclining her head regally, "but I dislike more listening to his name being bandied about when he is not present to defend himself. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go and check on my cousin." And with that, she walked away, her back rigid with displeasure.

  Across the room, Marcus watched the exchange with interest. He'd seen Miss Portham and her ward arrive several hours ago, and as usual, Miss Portham's stunning beauty had made his breath catch. Dressed in a gown of sapphire silk, her dark blond hair swept in a sophisticated chignon, she was a sight to give any man pause. She was standing off to one side, affording him a glimpse of her exquisite profile, and his eyes lingered on the curve of her high cheekbones and the tempting bow of her full lips.

  A pity such loveliness was wrapped in impenetrable ice, he thought, recalling the one time he'd attempted to melt that ice and had all but been frozen to death for his pains. The thought of repeating the incident was tempting, and he knew a flash of disappointment that he would never have that chance. If all went as he planned, he would soon be a married man, and unlike his father, he had no intention of ever breaking his sacred vows.

  "You are rather quiet this evening, my lord," Lady Charlotte Bingingham, the widow of the duke of Bingingham, observed softly, laying a solicitous hand on his arm. "Is everything all right?"

  Marcus turned his back on Miss Portham, focusing his attention on Charlotte. "I was but thinking how depressingly young this year's crop of debs looks," he said, lowering his deep voice to its most attractive level. "The thought of dancing with one is almost indecent."

  This was a sentiment that was music to Charlotte's thirty-one-year-old ears. "I can see your point, my lord," she replied, a pleased smile playing about her full lips. "I recall thinking much the same thing last year when George's youngest boy, Harry, was trotted out. I also recall uttering a silent prayer of relief that all of this is finally behind me. Being a widow does have its advantages, thank God."

  Her candidness was one of the things Marcus most liked about Charlotte. Her marriage to a man almost thirty years her senior had been arranged, and she had never pretended otherwise. Even though it wasn't a love match, she had obviously liked and respected her elderly husband, and she'd done her best to be a stepmama to his already grown sons. She'd also been a faithful wife, something Marcus had taken discreet pains to learn. Desperate though he was to make a suitable marriage, he wasn't about to offer his name to a lady who would only shame it.

  "Speaking of Harry, how is the lad doing?" he asked, knowing Charlotte was devoted to her stepsons. "Did he buy that bay he was considering?"

  "No." Charlotte gave a warm chuckle. "I did as you suggested and mentioned how happy I was he was buying the animal so that I could borrow it. The notion of owning a horse his stepmama coveted was enough to put him off the nag altogether, thank heavens. He'd have broken his neck on the wretched beast inside of a week."

  "I had a similar feeling about a bit of blood Toby was eyeing," Marcus said, his gray eyes searching the room for his heir. The dolt had wandered off a few minutes ago, and now there was no sign of him.

  "How were you able to dissuade him?"

  There he was, standing by The Icicle and her ward. Marcus raised a commanding eyebrow. "By pointing out the horse made him look like a fat child riding an undersized pony," he replied, frowning as Toby remained where he was. "He didn't think the image proper for a Corinthian."

  Charlotte smiled in appreciation of Colford's guile. "Your heir fancies himself a Corinthian, does he?"

  "That was last year. This year the fool thinks he's Byron," Marcus muttered, realizing that if he wished for Toby to meet Lady Bingingham, he'd have to fetch him himself. He turned to the duchess with an apologetic smile.

  "Speaking of our budding poet, I can see him standing over there worshiping at the feet of his latest muse. With your permission, I will go and pry him free. I'll only be a moment." And he stalked off before Lady Bingingham could stop him.

  ". . . not spun gold; dashed cliché, that," Toby was saying as Marcus walked up behind him. "Besides, when was the last time anyone saw spun gold, I should like to know. No, I should liken your hair to sunlight, or yellow roses; fragile and lovely. I—"

  "Toby!"

  "What?" Toby gave a leap and whirled around, his look of alarm fading as he saw his elder cousin standing there. "I say, Colford, you did give me a start," he said, laying his hand over his wildly racing heart. "What the devil do you mean sneaking up on people like that? Dashed inconsiderate, if you ask me."

  "Almost as inconsiderate as keeping a lady waiting," Marcus said, his anger hardly soothed by the look of cool annoyance he received from Miss Portham. "Lady Bingingham is waiting to make your acquaintance."

  "Oh, is that why you was waggling your eyebrows at me?" Toby asked, turning back to the ladies. "My cousin is thinking of marrying her ladyship," he confided with a conspiratorial smile. "He wants her to meet me so she'll know there ain't no boobies in the family."

  "If I wanted her ladyship to think that, then I would take very great care to see the two of you never met," Marcus retorted between clenched teeth. He knew the remark to be unkind in the extreme, but he'd been unable to help himself. There were times when Toby was so hopelessly thick, it would have taken a saint to have borne him, and a saint was something Marcus had never claimed to be.

  "That was irony," Toby explained to the blonde. "I recognize it. It's a literary device Byron sometimes uses, but I—"

  "Tobias!"

  "Oh, very well." Toby sighed, capturing the girl's hand in his. "But first let me make you known to Miss Julia Dolitan. Miss Dolitan, this is m'cousin, Lord Marcus Wainwright, earl of Colford. Miss Dolitan is The Icicle's ward, Colford."

  Toby's incautious use of Miss Portham's nickname in front of her made Marcus wince, and he vowed to have yet another word with him on the need for discretion. "Miss Dolitan"—he gave the young woman a stiff bow—"it is a pleasure to meet you. And Miss Portham, I am delighted to see you once more."

  "Yes, I can see that you are," Belle drawled, amused at his discomfiture. It was obvious he found his dense heir a trial, and she took malicious pleasure in the knowledge. Good, she thought smugly, it served the arrogant devil right.

  Marcus stiffened at the mocking note in her voice and the calculating sparkle in her gold-colored eyes. Why the devil was he fretting about her tender feelings? he wondered with a flash of irritation. It was obvious she had none. She was every bit the icicle he'd named her, and for a moment he was strongly tempted to tell her so. Unfortunately such an action would create a certain scandal and put an end to any hopes he had of winning the duchess. Swallowing his anger, he managed a cool smile.

  "If you ladies will forgive me for being rude, I must introduce Toby to Lady Bingingham. She stopped by on her way to another party, but she is in something of a hurry." And without further ceremony, he dragged his heir off to meet the lady he hoped to make his bride.

  "That went rather well, don't you think?" Georgiana asked, settling back with a sigh as their carriage pulled away from Almack's. "Didn't think it would, but it did."

  "Of course it did," Belle said, exchanging a wink with Julia. "I told you I had everything well in hand."
/>   "Maybe. But you know what the Holy Scriptures have to say about pride," the older woman retorted, unwilling to discount her throbbing ankle without a fight. "And we ain't safely home yet, you know. We could always be attacked by footpads."

  " 'Hope springs eternal,' " Belle obliged, quoting Pope with a rare grin. The night had gone well, she thought, relief making her giddy. Much as she would rather die than admit it, she had been just the triflest bit uneasy. Georgiana's twinges did have an uncanny habit of preceding some calamitous event, and she'd been holding her breath in dreadful anticipation of some disaster striking the moment she dropped her guard. That they had survived the night intact was indeed an encouraging sign.

  "And what are your thoughts of this evening, dearest?" she asked, shifting in her seat to study Julia's face. "Was Almack's everything you expected?"

  "I suppose." To Belle's surprise, Julia gave an uninterested shrug. "I thought most of the people rather flat and full of themselves . . . except for Mr. Flanders, that is."

  Belle, who had been about to congratulate her ward on her acuity, gazed at her in alarm. "Mr. Flanders?" she echoed, praying she'd misheard.

  "The earl of Colford's heir," Julia provided, unaware of the effect her dreamy smile was having upon her mentor. "He is a poet, you know, and a most worthy gentleman. I quite liked him."

  This couldn't be happening, Belle thought with growing horror. Of all the catastrophes she'd envisioned, she had never considered anything so vile as her ward becoming enamored of a member of Colford's family. She remembered Georgiana's prophetic ankle and bit back a hysterical laugh. Georgiana had merely said the wretched thing ached, she thought. If Julia was in love with Flanders, the wretched thing would have throbbed with agony.

  "Colford's heir?" Georgiana was frowning in consideration. "He's not too bad, I suppose. Bit of a dolt, but I've always said it never does for a man to be too clever. I wouldn't count on his ever inheriting, though. Colford's young yet and will probably sire half a dozen sons before cocking up his toes."

  "Oh, Tobias knows the title will never be his." Julia dismissed this objection with a laugh. "He says he doesn't want the bloody thing, and I must say I admire him the more for it."

  "Julia!"

  "Well, I do." Julia gave Belle an apologetic look. "As for my saying 'bloody,' I know I shouldn't have, but I was merely quoting Tobias. He says it all the time."

  "All the time?" Belle wondered if she would have to lower herself to ask for Georgiana's smelling salts. "Do you mean to say you have met Mr. Flanders before now?"

  "Of course not," Julia denied with a pretty laugh. "No, I merely meant that from the way he said it, I could tell it was a favorite expression of his. He apologized, of course, but I told him not to mind. You ought to hear some of the things Simon mutters."

  "I can imagine," Belle said weakly, several pithy phrases occurring to her as she struggled for calm. "Julia, you can not really like Mr. Flanders," she said, deciding cool logic was the best approach. "Granted he is . . . er . . . a very handsome man, and it is not beyond credulity that you would be taken by him, but I assure you it is nothing more."

  "You think Tobias handsome?" Julia sounded surprised. "How odd. I first thought him a plump, prosy bore." She sighed again. "At least until I saw his eyes. He has quite the loveliest eyes I've ever seen, as brown and rich as mahogany. And when I learned he was a poet, I knew I had misjudged him."

  Hearing the note of girlish admiration in her voice, Belle wished she'd lowered her pride to ask for the smelling salts. She'd never felt more like swooning in her life, and the only thing that kept her from succumbing was the knowledge that she had to save her ward from the magnitude of her folly.

  The carriage was slowing, and a quick glance out the window showed they were pulling to a halt in front of her home on Harrow Square. Clearly it was too late to do anything tonight, she decided, but first thing tomorrow morning, she meant to get started at once. There was no way on this earth she would allow any member of her family to enter into an alliance with that man's family. Colford might be an earl, but she herself was not without influence. If it came to daggers drawn, they would just see who emerged the victor.

  Marcus spent the next morning holed up in his office as he went over his accounts. Selling off the last of his hunters had raised enough to pay his taxes, so he no longer had that threat hanging over his head. Now if he could just raise another five thousand pounds or so, he might make it through the next year without having to sell the clothes from his back, he thought, his mouth twisting in a bitter smile.

  He was studying some ideas for investments he'd received that morning when Toby wandered in, his cravat lying half-tied about his throat. "I need a word that rhymes with rose," he said, throwing himself into the chair facing Marcus's desk. "Can't think of anything but toes, and it don't seem proper using such a word in a love poem."

  "Toby, can't you see that I'm busy?" Marcus asked, cursing the necessity of having Toby live with him rather than putting him up in his own lodgings. "Go compose somewhere else."

  " 'Compose'; that rhymes with rose." Toby hurriedly scratched it down. "Thank you, Colford. Anything else?"

  "No, but if you don't leave this instant, they'll have to find a word to rhyme with 'strangled' when they carve your epitaph!"

  " 'Mangled' might work," Toby suggested, laying a blunt finger on his lips. "Or 'dangled.' That would suggest hanging, and—"

  "Toby" Marcus interrupted, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose, "I should hate the necessity of murdering you, but if you don't take yourself off, I am afraid you will leave me no other choice."

  Toby hauled himself to his feet, his fleshy features assuming a look of outraged dignity. "There is no need to act the bully with me, sir," he said haughtily. "I only stopped by to wish you good morning. My apologies if I have disturbed you."

  Marcus thrust an impatient hand through his auburn hair and uttered a curse beneath his breath. Damned if the young puppy didn't make him feel guilty, he thought, eyeing Toby's retreating form with resignation. And the devil of it was, he was right. He had no right to take his frustrations out on the other man.

  "Toby, wait."

  "Yes?" Toby paused with his hand on the doorknob.

  "It is I who ought to be apologizing," Marcus admitted, rising to his feet. "I was wrong to snap at you like that, and I hope you will forgive me for my churlish behavior."

  Toby hesitated, unwilling to give up his role of the persecuted artist, but in the end his own good nature won the day. "Certainly, my lord," he said, savoring the taste of magnanimity. "As a poet, I quite understand black moods and all that. No harm done, eh?"

  "If you say so." Marcus was still feeling slightly ashamed. "Was there anything else you wished?"

  "Well, now that you mention it, there is one favor I should like to ask of you," Toby admitted, sending Marcus a hopeful look. "I was to ride out with Cleves Barrowby this morning, but he had to cancel. Don't suppose you'd like to go with me?"

  Marcus glanced down at the papers spread out on his desk. He'd planned to spend the rest of the morning going over them and arranging payment, but he imagined it wouldn't hurt if he was to put the task off for another day. Reaching a swift decision, he raised his eyes to Toby. "A morning ride sounds just the thing," he said, dredging up an enthusiastic smile. "Only give me a half hour or so to change, and I shall meet you in the foyer."

  Some forty minutes later, Marcus and Toby were on their mounts and cantering toward Hyde Park. In an effort to trim costs he had eliminated his London stable, and was forced to board his horses in a public stable. He knew it would prove even cheaper to hire horses as needed, but there were some economies he was still unwilling to make. Not just for appearance' sake, he admitted, reaching down to give his horse's neck a fond pat, but because he loved a good ride. Considering all the other pleasures he'd been forced to give up, he wasn't about to sacrifice his beloved horses as well.

  Although it was fairl
y early in the day, the park was already filled with riders, and both Marcus and Toby exchanged greetings with several friends. They'd just made their first circuit about Rotten Row when Toby suddenly pulled his horse to a halt. " 'It is the east, and Julia is the sun,' " he murmured, one gloved hand going to his heart.

  Marcus gave him an amused look and was about to correct him when he followed the direction of Toby's stare. "I believe the lady's name was Juliet," he said, a sardonic grin spreading across his face. "But seeing Miss Dolitan, I can see how one could become confused. She is lovely, is she not?"

  "Lovely?" Toby dismissed the paltry word with a snort. "She is beautiful, a vision, a goddess. She . . ." He ran out of superlatives and contented himself with a sigh. "She is wonderful," he concluded, his heart in his eyes as he gazed at his lady fair like a besotted knight of old.

  "Indeed." Marcus was only mildly intrigued by his heir's passionate declaration. In the few weeks they'd been back in London, Toby had fallen in love at least three times by Marcus's reckoning, and he surmised that like those "deathless loves," this infatuation would also quickly die. Although he had no great objections if it did not. For once, the object of Toby's poetic heart was actually well dowered.

  "Gad, she sees us!" Toby gave a yelp of alarm as Miss Dolitan raised her whip in greeting. "What shall we do?"

  "Return her greeting, if you count yourself a gentleman," Marcus answered, already tipping his hat in acknowledgment. His eyes strayed past Miss Dolitan to rest on her companion, and a slow, wicked smile spread across his face. Miss Portham was sitting atop a magnificent black, her slender body displayed to best advantage in a habit of mulberry velvet. Her famous blond tresses were topped by a jaunty black hat, and if the frozen look on her face was any indication, she was less than thrilled with the chance encounter. He supposed a gentleman would honor her unspoken preference and continue on his way, but as he'd never paid much mind to such dicta, he saw no reason why he should start now.