by Mary Balogh
Dear Reader,
Between 1985 and 1998, I wrote more than thirty Signet Regency romances, most of which have long been out of print. Many of you have been asking me about them and hunting for them, and, in some cases, paying high prices for second-hand copies to complete your collections of my books. I have been touched by your interest. I am delighted that these books are going to be available as e-books with lovely new covers and very affordable prices.
If you have read any of my more recent books, the Bedwyn saga, the Simply quartet, the Huxtable series, the Survivors’ Club series, for example, you may wish to discover if my writing has changed in the course of the past 30 years or if my view of life and love and romance remains essentially the same. Whatever you decide, I do hope you will enjoy being able to read these books at last.
Mary Balogh
www.marybalogh.com
“Dancing With Clara” Copyright © 1994 by Mary Balogh
DANCING WITH CLARA First Ebook edition June 2017 ISBN: 978-1-944654-04-7
All rights reserved. No part of the Ebook may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both copyright owner and Class Ebook Editions Ltd., the publisher of the Ebook. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Dancing with Clara
Mary Balogh
Class Ebook Editions, Ltd.
New York, NY
Table of Contents
Cover
Dear Reader
Copyright
Title page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
More from Mary
Author Biography
Also by Mary
COMING SOON
Courting Julia
Tempting Harriet
The Constant Heart
Chapter 1
Bath in the summertime. It was a beautiful city, perhaps the most beautiful in all England. The Honorable Mr. Frederick Sullivan conceded that point. Nevertheless, he had frequently felt during the week he had spent there that he would rather be anywhere else on earth. That was a rash exaggeration, of course. He consoled himself with the realization that he could probably think without any great effort at all of a dozen places on earth he would like a great deal less. Suffice it to say that he was not enjoying being in Bath.
He had taken up residence at the York Hotel, though perhaps it had been somewhat extravagant to do so, had paid his courtesy call on the Master of Ceremonies, had paid the subscription that gave him access to all the gardens and libraries and social events of the city, and had had the satisfaction of seeing the announcement of his arrival in the Bath Chronicle. He had visited the Pump Room and both Assembly Rooms, had strolled in Sydney Gardens and in the Royal Crescent, had read the newspapers at one of the circulating libraries, and had in short done everything that one was expected to do when in Bath.
He was bored.
He could, of course, be at Primrose Park in Gloucestershire for the wedding of his cousin, the Earl of Beaconswood, to Julia Maynard. Surprisingly, he had been invited. Or perhaps not so surprisingly, when one considered the fact that the family had always been close and neither Dan nor Jule would want to cause any upset within family ranks by pointedly omitting him from the guest list. But he had not accepted. He had penned an excuse and left it for them when he departed from Primrose Park. He was quite sure that the two of them would be breathing as great a sigh of relief as he was. That was one wedding he had certainly not wanted to attend.
Or he could, of course, be in London, though it was summertime and not at all the fashionable time to be there. He could be at Brighton, then. That was the fashionable place to go and the place where he would choose to be if he were free to go wherever he pleased. There would be the company of friends and acquaintances there and plenty of activities with which to amuse himself. But he could not go there.
His creditors had found him at Primrose Park before he had left there more than a week ago. How much more easily they would find him and pester him if he went to Brighton. And yet if he did not go there, how was he to bring himself about and acquire the money with which to pay off all his debts? Or the most pressing of them anyway—no one would expect a gentleman to be totally without debt. He would be considered queer in the head.
There was really only one way to bring his fortunes about in Bath. He had tried gambling and seemed even to have run into a streak of good luck. But his winnings were more frustrating than exhilarating. Playing deep was strictly forbidden in Bath. Gaming was intended to be merely a pleasant social exercise there. And so his winnings in total would make scarcely a dent in the smallest of his debts. No, one did not come to Bath in order to recoup one’s fortune at the tables. One came to Bath to look for a rich wife.
The best place to do that, of course, was London during the Season. The great Marriage Mart. It seemed the obvious place at which Frederick should shop. But for two particular reasons he could not do so. First, he could not afford to wait until the following spring to find himself a wife. It was likely he would be in debtors’ prison long before then unless his father paid his debts for him—he shuddered at the thought. Second, no father or guardian, looking out for the interests of his daughter, would give even the smallest consideration to the suit of the Honorable Frederick Sullivan.
Frederick could only hope that his reputation had not followed him to Bath. But whom was he to find there, anyway? The story that Bath had become home to staid octogenarians and folk of shabby gentility seemed hardly exaggerated. The only youngish women of any beauty he had encountered since his arrival were all very obviously without fortune. In the course of the week he had narrowed down his matrimonial possibilities to three, none of which was particularly appealing. But then, he reminded himself, he was not considering marriage from motives of romance or love or personal gratification.
He thought of Julia Maynard and how he had tried to coerce her into marriage at Primrose Park, and grew cold at the thought. He preferred not to think about it.
There were three possibilities in Bath. There was Hortense Pugh, the youngest of the trio, seventeen years old, plump and pretty and singularly unappealing. She was the daughter of a hat manufacturer who had made himself very wealthy and thought to establish himself socially by marrying his only daughter to a member of the beau monde. Father and daughter were courting him with single-minded devotion. He should rush into the marriage with mindless gratitude. It was exactly what he needed. But he could not keep himself from thinking that even debtors’ prison might be preferable to the girl’s vulgar and empty-headed prattle for the rest of his life. The superior state of her wardrobe and her jewelry box were her chief topics of conversation.
Lady Waggoner would be more to his taste. A buxom, handsome widow who was perhaps seven or eight years his senior, she was also in possession of a sizable fortune. And she fancied him. He had had enough experience with women to know that he c
ould climb into her bed any night he set his mind to doing so. The prospect was distinctly appealing. But would she marry him? That was the key question. The woman was as expert at dalliance as he was, he guessed. He suspected that she might be just as adroit at avoiding marriage. He might waste the summer on an affair that would be satisfactory physically but in no other way. He could not afford to take the chance.
That left Miss Clara Danford—perhaps the most distasteful prospect of the three. And perhaps, too, the wealthiest of the three. Her father, a gentleman, had made what was reputed to have been a fabulous fortune with the East India Company in India, and had left everything to his daughter on his death. She was in her mid-twenties, Frederick guessed, perhaps no older than his own twenty-six years. She had been courteous when he had arranged an introduction to her at the Upper Assembly Rooms one afternoon, and had appeared quite ready to converse with him for a few minutes during each morning after that at the Pump Room. It might be altogether possible to persuade her into marriage. From their first meeting he had taken great care to use all his practiced charm on her.
And yet the thought of marrying Miss Danford could make him break out in a cold sweat. He stood in the Pump Room early one morning—fashionably early—-conversing with a few newly made acquaintances and amusing himself with observing the distaste with which those who drank the waters raised their glasses to their lips. And watching Clara Danford at the other end of the room, talking with her faithful companion, the young and pretty and lamentably unwealthy Miss Harriet Pope, and with Colonel and Mrs. Ruttledge.
He must go and talk with her, he thought. There was no time for a leisurely courtship. He must close his mind to his reluctance for the match and press onward. She was as unlovely a woman as his eyes had ever dwelled on. She was thin, probably from the inactivity caused by her condition. She was crippled and was always seated in a wheeled chair whenever he saw her. Her arms were thin and her legs, outlined against the light wool of her morning dress, looked as if they were too. Her face was thin and unnaturally pale. From what he had heard, she had lived for several years in India with her father and there had contracted the illness that had left her an invalid.
She had too much hair. On any other woman perhaps it would have been seen as her crowning glory, being thick and shining and very dark. But it was too heavy for Miss Danford’s head. And her eyes were too dark for such a pale face. He had thought at first that they were black, but they were in reality a dark gray. They would be fine eyes in a different face. Or perhaps they were fine anyway. Perhaps he was adversely affected by the fact that they looked so directly and so deeply into his own whenever he spoke with her that it seemed they were stripping away the carefully imposed mask of charm that he wore for her, and seeing the truth.
She was no prize for any man—except for the enormous fortune that was now hers. Frederick excused himself from the group with which he stood and strolled gradually closer to her across the Pump Room, nodding and smiling at acquaintances as he went.
There were three matrimonial possibilities in Bath. And yet he could narrow them down to one without any great thought—and felt his breath constricting with near panic. Miss Clara Danford.
He fixed his eyes on her as he drew close, in the way he knew could melt nine female hearts out of ten, or perhaps ninety-nine out of one hundred, and smiled the half smile that he knew could make those melted hearts beat at double time.
She looked back at him from those eyes that could seem to see beyond the artifice, and smiled.
* * *
“Here he comes,” Harriet Pope said as Colonel and Mrs. Ruttledge moved away to begin a promenade about the Pump Room and Mr. Frederick Sullivan left his group at the other side of the room almost at the same moment and began strolling slowly their way.
“Yes,” Clara Danford said, “as you predicted he would, Harriet. And I did not disagree with you, did I? Come, you must confess that he is by far the most handsome man in the room. In all of Bath, in fact.”
“I have never denied the fact,” Harriet said.
“No.” Clara smiled slightly and looked up at her friend. “Your objection to him is only that he is also probably the most unprincipled man in Bath. I have not disagreed with that, either.”
“And yet you will persist in encouraging him,” Harriet said.
“He is very handsome,” Clara said.
Harriet tutted. “And knows how to use his looks,” she said.
“Granted.” Clara smiled at her again.
They had talked about him before. Particularly the evening before, after he had sat with them for tea at the Upper Rooms, having sat with Miss Hortense Pugh for a while first.
“He is a fortune hunter,” Harriet had said with some scorn. “He is in search of a wealthy wife, Clara. Miss Pugh or you.”
Clara had agreed. Even apart from her crippled state, she knew that she had no looks with which to attract a gentleman of Mr. Sullivan’s almost godlike appearance. If he was going to be smitten by love, then surely his eyes would turn to Harriet, who was undeniably lovely with her very fair hair and delicate rose-petal complexion. Yet he had scarcely glanced at Harriet since his introduction to them almost a week before. Of course he was a fortune hunter She had met a few in her time, mostly before the death of her father. She had only recently emerged from her year of mourning for his death.
“I suppose,” she had said, “that it is permitted to marry for wealth, Harriet. A man who does so—or a woman—is not necessarily a blackguard.”
“Mr. Sullivan is,” Harriet had said. “Those eyes, Clara, and that smile. All the charm.”
Yes, the eyes were dark and looked on the world from beneath heavy eyelids. And the smile revealed very white strong teeth. The charm was just that, but devastatingly attractive even so. His person was even more so. Tall, athletically built, with long legs, slim hips and waist, and powerful chest and shoulders and arms—it would be difficult to find a single fault with his looks. Dark hair, from which a truant lock frequently fell across his forehead, strong, handsome features, and those eyes and that mouth—it seemed almost unbelievable that one man could possess such total beauty. And health and strength.
“He is beautiful,” she had said.
“Beautiful!” Harriet had looked at her with some surprise and laughed. “That is a word for a woman.”
It suited Mr. Sullivan. Though there was nothing even remotely feminine about him.
“You must discourage him,” Harriet had said. “You must let him know in no uncertain terms, Clara, that you recognize him for what he is. You must send him on his way. Let Miss Pugh have him. They deserve each other.”
“Sometimes,” Clara had said with a smile, “you can be quite nasty, Harriet. Poor Miss Pugh is merely trying to move up in the world. And Mr. Sullivan is trying to secure a fortune for himself. Why not mine? I have little enough use for it. And I would have all that beauty in exchange.”
She had laughed at Harriet’s horrified expression and made a joke of the matter. And yet, thinking about it afterward, she was not quite sure that it had been a joke. She spent most of her life on a chaise longue at home or in a wheeled chair when out. She had Harriet for company and several other friends, mostly couples, mostly older than her own twenty-six years. Her prospects of marrying were slim. Her prospects of marrying for love or even affection were nonexistent. The only man who would consider marriage with her was the man who had an eye to her fortune.
She was lonely. Dreadfully lonely. And she had needs that were no less insistent than they could be in other women despite the fact that she had no beauty and was unable to walk. She had needs. Cravings. Sometimes she was so lonely despite Harriet's friendship and despite the existence of other good friends that she touched the frightening depths of despair.
She could have Mr. Frederick Sullivan. She had realized that on their first meeting. If he had thought to court her with some tact and patience, he was wasting his time. She had known from the first why he had e
ffected the introduction to her and why he visited the Pump Room each morning, after her daily immersion in the waters of the Queen’s Bath. He wanted to marry her. He wanted control of her fortune.
She had always turned from fortune hunters without even a second thought. In other words, she had always turned from every suitor she might have had. Mr. Sullivan was the first to whom she had given any consideration at all. He did not love her or feel any affection for her. Probably he did not even like her or hold her in any esteem at all. Perhaps he even cringed from her. That was the reality of the situation, which must be faced if she were to be mad enough to consider marrying him. Perhaps he never would feel any affection for her.
It would not be a good marriage. It would never be the sort of marriage she dreamed of just like any other woman. But would it be better than no marriage at all? That was the question that had plagued her all night. She was not in love with him, she thought as he drew closer across the Pump Room and almost visibly turned on the charm with which he always dealt with her. She could never be in love with a man who played a part and one who came to her only because of her money. But he was beautiful and strong and healthy and she was wondering if the combination would prove irresistible. She rather thought it might.
“He is so very beautiful,” she said to Harriet now before smiling at his approach. He was too close for Harriet to have a chance to reply.
“Miss Danford.” He took her thin cool hand in his, decided not to raise it to his lips, but held it with both his own for a few moments longer than was necessary. “I trust you did not take a chill in going to the Upper Rooms yesterday?”
“When the day was so warm?” she said. “No, sir, I thank you.”
He relinquished her hand to straighten up and make his bow to Miss Pope. If only the two figures could be switched, he thought regretfully. If only it were Miss Pope who was in the chair and in possession of the fortune. But Miss Pope, he had discovered from discreet inquiries, was the daughter of an impoverished widow, whom Miss Danford had met and befriended several years before while in Bath with her father.
