Chapter 4
Half of the people in her village could have fit into the front hall of Lord Yensworth’s home. The village square could have squeezed into the ballroom. Isabella clamped her lips shut so she wouldn’t gape as she was being introduced to the host and hostess for the evening.
“Yes, such a shame her father couldn’t accompany her.” Uncle Percy cast her a look of loving indulgence that almost made Isabella ill. “Fortunately Frederica agreed to oversee her young cousin’s first Season in London. There’s no better guide than age and experience.”
Isabella cast a sideways look at her uncle. Did he not realize Frederica could hear everything he was saying? He was practically declaring her a spinster while singing the praises of his niece, who was actually a year older and a far less eligible match. Isabella tried to catch her cousin’s eye to offer a bit of sympathy, but Frederica had slid behind Isabella’s shoulder, taking her proper place as overlooked spinster. The act of solidarity sparked a burning sensation along Isabella’s eyelids. Nothing would convince Uncle Percy to save Isabella’s family until he had what he wanted, and Freddie was doing everything she could to help Isabella succeed.
The necklace surrounding Isabella’s throat felt heavy and unfamiliar. She lifted a hand to graze across the jewels as she looked around the room, the reality and enormity of the task finally sinking in. There was no way her uncle’s plans would work. If the men of England’s Parliament were so easily swayed by a pretty face and a charming smile, then the fate of their country was as precarious as her family’s.
“Lord Vernham, may I have the honor of presenting my niece, Miss Isabella Breckenridge? She’s just come down from the northern counties for her first Season.”
Isabella shifted her gaze and lowered her lashes as she smiled and bobbed a small curtsy. Lord Vernham’s returning smile showed considerably more teeth than hers had. Though his teeth could certainly have used a bit more attention from his toothbrush, assuming he even had one.
“It is an honor to meet you, my dear. Your reputation precedes you, but your beauty shines even greater than those accounts.”
Isabella bobbed another curtsy with a sigh. Another general compliment to her beauty. If the men didn’t get more creative, soon it was going to become difficult to come up with new ways to say thank you. And she would never earn her new hat. “You are too kind, my lord.”
His chest puffed up. “If you are not otherwise engaged, I’d like the honor of claiming you for the first dances.”
Isabella glanced at her uncle from beneath her lowered lashes. His slight nod indicated that this was one of the men he wanted to influence, meaning this was one of the men Isabella somehow had to put in thrall.
“The honor would be mine, my lord.” As would the dishonor, but she was going to have to learn to live with that. Seeing her uncle arrange for the deed to be returned to her father would go a long way toward making this entire ordeal more palatable, she was certain.
They milled around for several more minutes, greeting people as they arrived, almost as if this were their gathering instead of Lord and Lady Yensworth’s. They’d arrived at the earliest possible respectable time. Servants had still been scrambling to change the candlesticks in the corner candelabras when they entered the ballroom.
Finally the hour grew late enough and the crowd thick enough for the musicians to play and the dancing to begin.
She encouraged Lord Vernham in whatever way she could, thankful that he required nothing more than her soft smiles and frequent nods to believe she was fully engaged in what he was saying. When he asked if he could call upon her the next day, however, she felt the mixed emotions of accomplishment and shame as she demurely agreed she would be home. There was no turning back now.
That dance was followed by another and another until she declared a need for a private moment and dragged her cousin, who had yet to step onto the dance floor, from the ballroom to the ladies’ retiring room.
Frederica was grinning. “You should hear the talk. Everyone is trying to find out more about you. I’m having to be incredibly vague, since I’ve no idea what you want people to actually know, but I’ve never been in such high demand at a ball.”
Isabella fanned herself and perched on a settee that had been pushed back into the corner of the room. “I’m glad you are enjoying yourself.”
Her cousin’s grin slipped. “Aren’t you?”
Was she? Should she be?
Freddie sat on the settee, her hip pressed against Bella’s. She reached out her hand and wrapped their gloved fingers together. “Perhaps if you tried thinking of them as potential suitors, instead of voters for Father’s cause, you would feel better about the situation.”
Would she? There were an awful lot of lies that Freddie didn’t know about. She could never expect a man to overlook the fact that everything he thought he knew about her was wrong. Not to mention all the other difficulties that would arise if said man wasn’t wealthy enough to save her family. “Even if I found a man I could love, how could he possibly understand the need to keep all the other men around? Uncle Percy said the vote isn’t going to be for several weeks yet.”
Freddie shrugged. “You wouldn’t be the first popular girl to make the men wait while she enjoyed her Season.”
Bella frowned. It seemed so . . . so . . . mercenary. “I suppose.”
“Besides, many of these men are quite plump in the pocket. Perhaps they’d be willing to settle the debt for you.”
She couldn’t admit that she’d considered just such a thing. But since any man Isabella could relate to wouldn’t be of the aristocracy nor able to get her brothers into the schools her uncle could, any such thinkings were nothing but castles in the air. Much like the history her uncle had concocted for her. Not that Isabella had shared that part with her cousin. Frederica was already displeased with her father. There was no reason to make her hate the man. At the end of the Season Isabella would leave, but he would still be a significant fixture in Frederica’s life.
So she smiled and said nothing.
With a squeeze of encouragement, Frederica rose. “We should return to the ballroom.”
She couldn’t. Not yet. Just a few more minutes to breathe, and then she would return to the glittering ballroom and gather as many suitors as she could—men who would come calling, giving Uncle Percy a chance to convince them they needed to vote for the new apothecary law. Just a few more minutes and this nagging sense of guilt would go away. “You go. I’ll be along in a few moments.”
“If you haven’t returned by the end of the next set, I’m coming back to drag you out.”
Bella grinned. “Fair enough.”
Once Freddie left, Isabella took a moment to look around the retiring room. She wasn’t the only lady needing a break from the dance floor. But whereas the men couldn’t seem to wait for an introduction, the women looked like they’d be happy if she took the next mail coach back to Northumberland.
What would they think if they knew she agreed?
Of all the social events that played out in London, balls made the least sense to Griffith. They were always massively crowded, so the chances of finding the person you actually wanted to see that evening were small, unless you’d arranged a meeting prior. Talking was difficult, what with the music and the people coming in and out of conversations in order to join the dancing.
And for a man who was looking to court, they made even less sense.
With gemstoned bodices and jeweled hair clips scattering the light from the multitude of candles, the finery in the room was enough to blind a man. Even the plainest of women could look exquisite with such trappings, and when the artificial beauty collided with natural beauty, men tended to lose their wits as well as their sight.
Clusters of impaired men crowded the ballroom, each with a glittering jewel at their center, the men pushing themselves to outdo each other to win the attention of the fair maiden. Griffith frowned. How could a man possibly form and know true fe
elings and opinions in an environment like that?
Griffith listened as the bailiff announced his presence. After greeting his host he stepped to the side, allowing the flow of people to pass him and make their way farther into the ballroom.
He hadn’t decided if he was ready to declare his intent to marry by escorting his woman of choice onto the dance floor tonight, but given the betting book at Brooks’s, all eyes were likely to be on him to see if he would.
Except they weren’t.
With his greater than average height, Griffith could see over the heads of most of the event’s attendees, and there was no denying the fact that something in the back of the room was drawing more attention than he was.
Someone.
And that someone was a girl.
He supposed he should call her a woman, but she was most definitely young enough to be a girl. And she was lovely. Even at this distance, her beauty was unmistakable. The shape of her face and form, the way she tilted her head and gracefully lifted her arm to delicately fan her neck—Griffith was male enough to appreciate the picture.
And experienced enough to know that it wasn’t a painting he wanted to be a part of. His younger sister, Georgina, had been an Incomparable. The most precious Diamond to ever grace the ballroom according to some. There was little doubt that his sister had just been dethroned.
The door gliding closed behind her indicated she’d only recently returned to the ballroom, which was probably the only reason Griffith had been able to get a clear look at her. Within moments men were making their way in her direction, drawn like ants to a dropped morsel of cake at a picnic.
Even some of the men around Lady Alethea migrated over to the newcomer.
Yes, Griffith had certainly been right to remove all the Diamonds of the First Water and the Incomparables from his consideration. He had no wish to make a scene such as those men were doing.
His pleasure was short-lived, however. In order to get to the place he wanted to be, he was going to have to wade through the lady’s admirers anyway. Miss St. Claire was standing less than three feet away from the woman drawing everyone’s attention, though the growing throng was likely to push her farther away soon.
He watched her, waiting to see how she would handle the situation, wanting verification that she was indeed the woman to quietly enrich and support his dukedom while presenting a social presence worthy of his standing.
The only daughter of the Viscount of Pontebrook, Miss St. Claire appeared more than capable of accomplishing Griffith’s requirements. She stood near enough the dance floor to show she was inclined to participate but not so close as to appear desperate. She was smiling and talking to a young couple beside her. When the song ended, the couple left her and moved to the dance floor. Miss St. Claire didn’t look around in hasty unease, trying to find someone else to occupy her time—she simply stood. A peaceful oasis in the midst of a ballroom of chaos.
He wouldn’t call her beautiful or even striking, with a rather large nose and bland brown hair, but she was presentable and not unattractive, even though he didn’t experience the same spark of admiration he had moments ago for the other woman. The light orange of her gown did little for Miss St. Claire’s complexion, but it was fashionable and tasteful. There were certainly worse choices in the room.
Yes, Miss Frederica St. Claire would do nicely.
If he could get to her.
Griffith worked his way around the edge of the ballroom, past the corner of spinsters and a cluster of recently arrived soldiers, a more common sight these days. Now that the war was over, everyone was inviting the officers to social events as an act of patriotic goodwill.
Miss St. Claire was turned in profile to him, watching the commotion beside her with a smile on her face, almost as if she found the entire spectacle as ridiculous as he did.
He cleared his throat as he came up behind her. “Good evening, Miss St. Claire.”
She turned with a look of expectation that changed to astonishment as her gaze climbed up and up until it met his face. “Your Grace! Good evening.”
For the first time in his life Griffith finally understood the inducement of dancing. Were he a dancing man he could simply ask Miss St. Claire to dance, and they would have something to do while they discovered common topics of conversation. Since asking her to dance would likely be tantamount to publicly proposing to her, he wasn’t quite willing to do so yet.
That didn’t mean, however, that he had a different question ready to ask her. He had obviously not thought through the potential difficulty of this part of his plan.
As the silence stretched she dropped her gaze to his left, still facing him but apparently unwilling to look him in the eye as the awkwardness stretched between them. He liked the courage that showed. Perhaps he could find a way to tell her so. Compliments always put his sisters in a better mood, but he didn’t think Miss St. Claire would believe him if he expounded upon her great physical beauty.
There really was nothing for it. He was going to have to ask her to dance.
“Miss St. Claire?”
She returned her gaze to him with that serene smile, but then something beyond Griffith’s arm drew her attention away again.
“Would you do me the great honor—”
He let his words stumble to a halt as he realized she wasn’t listening. Her eyes fixed on a point behind him. They widened, and she turned paler than he’d ever had the misfortune to witness someone do.
And then she fainted.
Chapter 5
Griffith moved to catch Miss St. Claire when her eyes rolled back in her head. He took one staggering step sideways as she fell into his arms, and he couldn’t help the self-deprecating grin that formed as he looked down at her. He’d known breaking his social stoicism would be a surprise to everyone, including the lady in question, but he hadn’t thought he’d elicit such a shock.
A sharp cry rose from his left, and several young men stepped quickly aside as the beautiful woman he’d noticed before pushed them out of the way. She stood frozen at the edge of her group of anxious swains, mouth open and eyes wide as she took in the fallen Miss St. Claire now resting in Griffith’s arms. Up close she was even more stunning than she’d been from across the room. Possibly the most stunning creature God had ever made.
If Helen of Troy had looked anything like this woman, the Trojan War suddenly made a lot more sense.
The difficulty Griffith had tearing his gaze away from her was a bit disconcerting, given the fact that his potential wife lay unconscious in his arms. He straightened, then tightened his hold on Miss St. Claire’s body, fingers digging into the gauzy orange overlay and creasing the white silk of her gown beneath. She needed air and space to breathe, neither of which she was going to get in a ballroom full of people who had broken free of their surprise and started pressing in to find out what exactly had gone wrong.
“Freddie!” The alluring young lady hurried forward and placed a long-fingered hand on each pale cheek of the woman in his arms. That she could even do so startled him into realizing that she was tall as well as beautiful. With her coiffure mere inches from his face, he noticed that her hair had depths of another color catching the candlelight, moving it from simple blond to a unique shade of gold. Was it a trick of the lighting? Would it look more blond or red when it was down?
The thought slammed through Griffith’s body with the force of a running plow mule. He did not want to see this young woman’s hair down, did not even want to consider being curious. Those were the sort of mind-numbing thoughts that drove men to pick unsuitable brides.
“She needs to get out of here.” He yanked on the reins of his mind and brought it in to focus on the issue at hand. This fainting incident made him a little concerned in his choice of Miss St. Claire, but he would reserve final judgment until they’d had a few more encounters. If she fainted at every one of them, he’d have to avoid her for the sake of her own health if nothing else.
“Through here. Ther
e’s a small parlor where Lady Yensworth’s maid repaired my gown earlier.” A hint of red touched the young lady’s cheeks and she ducked her head as she realized she’d been discussing a wardrobe issue with him. She even blushed prettily, with none of the splotchiness that so often occurred on other ladies’ faces.
The young woman opened the door and held it as Griffith ducked his head and swept through, careful to angle Miss St. Claire so she didn’t bump the frame. The hall was lit up with candles, drawing a silent sigh of relief from Griffith. If the hall was lit, it meant people would be passing through. He couldn’t afford to mar his reputation by being alone with a set of unmarried women at the very moment he’d decided to enact his plan to procure a wife.
A maid was just exiting the room the other lady was leading Griffith to.
As Griffith laid his burden on the settee in the small room, the beautiful girl who had led him there held a rushed, whispered conversation with the departing maid.
“She’s going to bring water and a blanket and some smelling salts, if she can find them.”
Griffith knelt by the settee and watched the woman cross the room, her entire regard focused on the insensate Miss St. Claire. Where his attention should be as well.
“Freddie? Freddie, are you all right?”
The woman, whose name Griffith should probably learn since he was practically alone with her and she appeared to be an intimate acquaintance of his potential bride, knelt next to the settee and started yanking at her glove. How many suitors had she turned her back on to be in here now? It was one thing to show concern in a room full of people, but now her audience was limited to him.
“I am the Duke of Riverton.” He almost winced at the harsh and clumsy sentence. Introducing himself was not something he did very often. The rules of society said that mutual acquaintances should make the introductions, but in truth most of London already knew who he was, making the introductions a moot point.
The girl glanced up at him. Her smooth, creamy skin and light hair were set off by blue-green eyes rimmed with a darker, near black color. A straight, thin nose perched between her eyes and over a set of delicate pale pink lips. She was, in short, perfection. The sheer purity of her face and complexion spoke of her youth and inexperience, something Griffith didn’t want to deal with. He’d already raised two sisters after the untimely death of his father. He did not want to have to raise his wife too.
An Inconvenient Beauty Page 5
