by M C Beaton
Lady Canon studied him and wondered what on earth Honoria could see in Lord Channington when there was a man like Lord Alistair around. His face had a light golden tan which, together with his bright blue eyes and golden hair, made him look seductively handsome. He was wearing a dark blue morning coat with plated buttons. His toilinet waistcoat was striped with dark blue on pale blue and bound with silk binding. His long, well-muscled legs were shown to advantage in a pair of fitting, drab-colored kerseymere breeches which were fastened below the knee with gilt buttons. His brown Hussar boots winked in the firelight, reflecting the flames in their mirror-like gloss.
She had a sudden stab of jealousy and wished for a moment the roles were reversed and Honoria was the dowager and herself the young miss.
“I am waiting for your answer,” she said.
“I am not yours to command, Lady Canon,” said Lord Alistair mildly. “It is an outrageous request and I am trying to consider it at leisure.”
Lord Alistair thought of Honey in Channington’s arms. He found the picture exquisitely distasteful.
“I will see what I can do,” he said.
“We are to go to Almack’s tonight. It would be most gracious of you to escort Honoria.”
“Miss Honeyford may not be very pleased to see me.”
“As my niece, she has no choice in the matter,” said Lady Canon, her black eyes snapping. Lord Alistair felt sorry for Honey.
“Besides,” went on Lady Canon, “Honoria is the reigning belle. It will not be considered odd in the slightest when you start paying court to her. You were used to pay court to the reigning belles as a matter of fashion.”
“That was in my salad days,” he said ruefully. “I shall call for you at nine.”
Honey, resplendent in a silver gauze ball gown embroidered with silver acorns, was blissfully unaware of her planned escort until the very last minute. She was too worried to think much about the ball because of the diamond circlet placed on her head by Lady Canon’s maid, Clarisse. Honey was sure it had been bought specially, and cringed at the thought of the money that was being spent on her.
It only dawned on her as the hands of the clock approached nine that her aunt was unusually nervous.
“Are we still waiting for the carriage to be brought around, Aunt Elizabeth?” asked Honey, after that lady had looked at the clock for the umpteenth time.
“No, my love. Merely awaiting your escort.”
“My escort!” Honey blushed becomingly. “Then do not fear. Lord Channington did not strike me as the sort of gentleman who would be unpunctual.”
“Not Channington, my love. Stewart.”
Honey did not have time to reply. The clock struck nine and Lord Alistair was ushered into the saloon.
Honey’s lips folded in a mutinous line. Aunt Elizabeth should have warned her. She, Honoria Honeyford, did not want to make her debut at Almack’s on the arm of a man who did nothing but find fault with her. She had told him to stay away from her, and he had shouted, “Gladly.” But now he was smiling down at her as if they were the best of friends.
Anger lent a sparkle to her hazel eyes and color to her cheeks.
Lord Alistair looked formidably elegant in his black evening coat and knee breeches. Breeches were de rigueur at Almack’s, the stern patronesses saying that only gentlemen with bandy legs or other defects in their extremities would be allowed to wear trousers.
Several of the young bloods had put in an appearance one night claiming to have bow legs and demanding that their legs should be examined to show they spoke the truth—all in the hope of embarrassing the patronesses.
It was they who were embarrassed when the patronesses took them at their word, inspected them, declared their limbs to be fit for breeches, and expelled them into the night.
Lord Alistair bowed and complimented Honey on her appearance. There was a tinge of mockery in his drawling voice and Lady Canon flashed him a warning look.
Honey’s first impression of Almack’s was that it was a very depressing place. The floor was not very good and the dancing area was roped off like a cattle pen. There was nothing stronger to drink than orgeat or lemonade, and the sandwiches were already curling at the edges in a tired way as if this were not their first ball.
But then, Almack’s had never wasted much money on appearances since it was first opened by that shrewd Scotchman, McCall. By keeping the price of admission high, and by pandering to the Exclusives, he soon had it well enough furnished by the most glittering members of society.
The great George Brummell was already there, standing in a dégagé attitude with his fingers in his waistcoat pocket, talking earnestly to the Duchess of Rutland. The exercise of Brummell’s power lay in his making rules, setting tastes, establishing standards for the management of those things that the superior world considered superior to all else. Once, when a duchess offended him, Brummell said, “She shall suffer for it. I’ll chase her from society; she shall not be another fortnight in existence.”
George Brummell could not possibly have risen to such eminence in any other period in history. Society was beginning to relax now that the fears engendered by the American War of Independence and the French Revolution were over. Once more they felt secure and they needed a ringmaster to direct their play in such a way that the crude lower classes were kept out of it.
The lady patronesses were all out in force: Lady Castlereagh, Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper, Lady Sefton, Mrs. Drummond Burrell, Princess Esterhazy, and Countess Lieven.
Unlike most dowagers, Lady Canon advised Honey to steer clear of Mr. Brummell and not to put herself in the way of talking to the patronesses unless absolutely necessary. Reputations had been ruined by young misses coming across one of the despots of the ton in a dyspeptic mood. “You can never tell when someone’s spleen is going to be out of order,” as Lady Canon put it.
At first, Lady Canon thought Lord Alistair had forgotten his promise. He was nowhere to be seen among the crowd of men surrounding Honey, but Channington most certainly was.
But Honey had promised the waltz to Lord Alistair, since it seemed Lord Alistair had the power to extract permission from the patronesses to lead her in that shocking dance, and, furthermore, Honey had become worldly-wise enough not to ruin her reputation by giving Lord Alistair a setdown in the middle of Almack’s. That could wait until later.
She danced the first country dance with Lord Channington, and there was not much opportunity for conversation during the dance. But as the custom was to promenade with your partner afterward, Lord Channington made the most of the opportunity, shaking his head over the news that Honey had been escorted to the ball by Lord Alistair, and warning her delicately that Lord Alistair had a heart as hard as flint.
He then told Honey several shocking stories about the capricious cruelty of the patronesses, cleverly implying that, of course, no one would dare to harm her as long as he was at her side, and so conjured up that charming, warm feeling of security which seemed to draw the two of them closer together.
So expert was he at binding her to him that she felt quite cold and nervous when Lord Alistair took her away to lead her into the waltz.
Honey had danced the waltz before and it was no novelty to have a man’s hand on her waist. But there was something so overwhelmingly physical about the nearness of Lord Alistair’s body, and the small of her back seemed to burn and throb under the light pressure of his gloved hand. It was like those dreadful, shocking dreams. She stared at his top waistcoat button and stumbled over his feet.
“Miss Wetherall is looking at us,” came his mocking voice from somewhere above her head. “I do wish you would look up, Miss Honeyford. Your diamond circlet is very pretty, but the light from it is blinding my eyes.”
Honey looked up defiantly and found her gaze trapped and held by his own. He saw the mixture of innocence and wariness in those wide hazel eyes and felt a strange emotion which he did not recognize because he had never before felt tender or protective about any
woman he had held in his arms.
“You are very beautiful tonight,” he said without a trace of mockery. There was something in his eyes that made Honey’s spirits lift and lift, until it seemed there was only the two of them moving through a brightly colored world.
Captain Jocelyn had secured the waltz with Amy Wetherall, a young lady of whom the patronesses highly approved. He felt he would be transported to seventh heaven if only Amy would look at him just once and stop glaring at Honey and Lord Alistair.
He envied Lord Alistair, who seemed to have the capacity to bewitch women. Only look at the way Honey floated in his arms, a Honey so transformed that Captain Jocelyn saw her for the first time as the new reigning beauty of London society and not as the muddy, swearing Honey of the hunting field. He felt a pang of regret. Amy would never, ever look at him like that. Perhaps he should have courted Honey, but anyone could see she was lost to any man other than Lord Alistair.
The patronesses languidly waved their fans and whispered that Lady Canon must be addled in her upper chambers to allow her niece to waste time with Lord Alistair Stewart.
The dance came to an end and Honey looked dizzily up at Lord Alistair. He smiled down at her in a caressing way and said, “Let us go and find some horrible refreshment. The cakes they have at Almack’s are reputed to have seen more balls than I. I feel one should try to eat one of the things if only to send it at last to an honorable grave.”
“I would like some lemonade,” said Honey dreamily. “I am very thirsty.”
He led her to a sofa in the corner of the room and sat down next to her. “Aren’t you going to fetch anything?” asked Honey.
“Not I. The minute I leave your side you will be snatched away from me. I will find someone else to do the work. Ah, Channington. The very man. Miss Honey is parched and craves a glass of lemonade.”
“Your servant.” Lord Channington bowed to Honey and darted away to fetch the lemonade.
“You see how easy it is?” said Lord Alistair. “Now I do not have to exert myself in the least.”
“But Lord Channington will expect to join us.”
Lord Alistair smiled at her sweetly but did not reply.
Lord Channington came back, nearly spilling the lemonade from the glass in his haste.
There was only room on the sofa for Honey and Lord Alistair, so Lord Channington had to stand in front of them.
“May I beg you for the next dance?” asked Lord Channington.
“Miss Honeyford is fatigued,” said Lord Alistair, “and, besides, she cannot dance while holding a glass of lemonade.”
Honey opened her mouth to say she would like to dance with Lord Channington very much, but Lord Alistair went on, “Furthermore, Channington, there’s Brummell signaling to you.”
Lord Channington twisted about. “I cannot see George,” he said.
“Course you can’t,” said Lord Alistair languidly. “He is over there, behind that pillar, under the musicians’ gallery.”
Lord Channington bowed and moved off. Several other gentlemen came up to ask Honey to dance, but Lord Alistair said, “You must all go away this instant. Miss Honeyford has promised to sit quietly with me and drink her lemonade. You cannot possibly want to offend me by taking her away.”
Honey turned to him after her gallants had left and said in a hard little voice, “You do not own me, my lord.”
“I have a prior claim on you,” he said. “I saved your life. You are bound to me by ties stronger than iron.”
“I am bound to no one.”
“I would keep you by me, Miss Honeyford.”
“Why?” said Honey sharply.
“What a disconcerting female you are. When a gentleman pays you a compliment, you do not glare at him like a scalded kitten and demand, ‘Why.’”
“I told you to keep away from me,” said Honey, “and you shouted, ‘Gladly.’”
“My dear Miss Honeyford, I can no more keep away from you than the moth from the flame,” he mocked. “I was seduced a long time ago by your fiery temper, your repellent hat, and the adorable way you glare at me. Bother! It seems we set the fashion. Miss Wetherall and her gallant have just sat down on the other side of the pillar. The young man is dazzled, but the fair Amy will begin to talk very loudly and clearly for our benefit.”
“For your benefit,” said Honey.
“I am persuaded Miss Amy would not give a rap for me were she not so jealous of you.”
“Jealous of me?” Honey felt a warm glow.
“Oh, yes, very much so. Ah, there goes the laughter. Now comes the joke.”
“So much do the Irish consider their own eggs, Captain Jocelyn,” came Amy’s voice, “the superior in sweetness and flavor to those in England, that some Irishmen will not allow that an English hen can lay a fresh egg.”
A burst of hearty laughter from the captain greeted this joke. Then he said, “Miss Wetherall, your eyes are like stars…”
“The Irish are so funny,” went on Amy in an even louder voice. “‘I am very bad, Pat,’ said one poor fellow, rubbing his head, to another. ‘Ah! Then, may God keep you so, for fear you should be worse,’ was the reply.”
“Indeed! Jolly good. Hah, hah,” said the captain with more duty than mirth.
“Dear me,” murmured Lord Alistair. “We must move, or she will not stop, and here comes Colonel O’Connell, who is noted for his choler. One of Miss Wetherall’s jokes would give the poor man an apoplexy.”
He rose to his feet and held out his arm.
“No, Lord Alistair,” said Honey firmly. “You are paying me too much attention and it is not the thing. You are driving away all my other suitors.” She got up. “I do not know what possessed my aunt to encourage you in this way.”
He turned and faced her, standing very close to her. “Promise me the next waltz,” he said.
She took his arm and began to walk to, the edge of the dance floor with him. “Promise,” he whispered, “or I shall take you in my arms right in front of Sally Jersey and kiss you until you scream.”
“You would not dare.”
“Do not put it to the test.”
She looked up into his eyes, seeing all the tenderness and amusement there, and something else she could not recognize. She weakly found herself promising him the next waltz.
Lord Channington, leading her into the next country dance, found her strangely abstracted. When he promenaded with her after the dance, he had to repeat things twice. Honey was floating about in a daze.
“Perhaps it will serve my ends,” thought Lord Channington cynically. “When she finds out Stewart does not mean to marry her, she will come rushing to my arms.”
Perhaps the only guest at the ball who was not firmly convinced that Honey and Lord Alistair were falling in love was Lady Canon. Having never been in love herself, she was incapable of recognizing that emotion in others. Sophy, Honey’s mother, had fallen deeply in love with Sir Edmund. Lady Canon had been distressed by her beautiful young sister’s marriage to a country gentleman of no particular fortune, and felt she herself had made up for this lapse by carefully allying herself with the wealthy Sir Angus Canon, a man considerably older than herself who had had the good taste to take himself off to his Maker after only five years of marriage, and to leave his widow all his worldly goods. Lady Canon often thought of her husband with deep affection.
As a young widow, she had enjoyed various discreet flirtations without ever once letting her head rule her heart. It was a pity Honey was so like her mother, but, with good luck and good guidance, the girl should be persuaded to settle for a suitable match.
Even if Lord Alistair had been interested in marriage, his rank was too high above Honey’s to take the matter seriously.
Lord Alistair was holding Honey in his arms once more as they circled in the steps of the waltz. She appeared more relaxed in his company and even raised her head and laughed at something he was saying.
It would do her standing in society no harm, reflected
the worldly-wise Lady Canon, when it came about that Lord Alistair was not interested in her. Any girl he had favored with his attention automatically became the rage. Brummell might dictate who was in and who was out, but Lord Alistair’s interest decided which was the most attractive girl.
He must have a mistress somewhere, reflected Lady Canon. A man like Lord Alistair would certainly not lead a celibate life. Again, she felt that little pang of jealousy but did not recognize it for what it was, since she had hardly ever been jealous of any woman in her life.
“Why did you go to the Park so early?” Lord Alistair was asking Honey.
“I felt I had to get some fresh air,” said Honey. “I could not sleep. And please do not lecture me on the folly of going out without a footman. I am now reformed. I am become civilized, you see.”
“No more pistols, hangings, brandy, or cheroots?”
“No more hangings. How can people wish to see such a spectacle?”
“Thousands go every day. A friend once told me he got an exhilarating feeling from seeing other people die and knowing he himself was still alive.”
Honey shuddered. “Perhaps that explains the behavior of my servants. They are all decent, God-fearing men.”
“Think of something else,” urged Lord Alistair. “What do you think of the famous Almack’s?”
“Very fine,” said Honey cautiously, “and not so grand or terrifying as I had imagined.”
“Very terrifying for most, I can assure you. The fear of being excluded haunts them all.”
Honey sighed. “It seems so petty. If I were a man, I should not care for such amusements. I would stay in the country and never come to London.”
“You crave the simple life?”
“Do not mock me. A home where one can be free and happy is a wonderful place.”
“You sound wistful, as if that home is something lost to you. You will soon have a home of your own, and children.”
