by Julia London
Stanhope became enraged by his loss and accused the winner, Sir William of Gosford, of cheating. Sir William took great umbrage to the accusation and lunged across the table at Stanhope. Were it not for Lord Middleton, who fearlessly threw himself into the melee without hesitation, someone might have been seriously injured, if not killed.
But by the time the survivors had made their way to the ball, the crookedness of Middleton’s pristine white silk neckcloth and the scratch on his cheek were rumored to be the result of a spat with his lover, Lady Waterstone.
Yet it was not Stanhope’s misguided accusation and subsequent fight that explained the dark look in Middleton’s eye or the unyielding set of his jaw—it was that his father had conspired to keep him from Miranda and in Lady Elizabeth’s company.
He’d only come to the ball because of his good acquaintance with the Duke of Clarence and because Miranda had wanted to attend what was considered to be one of the most important social events of the Season. Certainly no expense had been spared for it—hundreds of white lilies in magnificent porcelain vases graced small consoles along the walls. Beeswax candles lit the ten crystal chandeliers that hung over the ballroom, the innumerable sconces along the walls in the passageways, and the dozens of candelabra that lit a dozen or more sitting rooms. The ballroom floor had been polished with beeswax to provide the smoothest of dancing surfaces, and music was provided by a ten-piece orchestra set in a balcony above the dance floor.
A dozen palace rooms full of expensive French and Russian furnishings were open to an enormous number of guests—four hundred by some counts, as much as five hundred by others.
And in that crush of people, the Duke of Redford kept a steady stream of gentlemen dancers at Miranda’s side. Perhaps even more annoying, the duke stood up with Miranda himself—she could hardly refuse his request—and had instantly set tongues wagging across the palace.
What was said between the two of them Jared had no idea, for at the conclusion of the dance, his father had escorted Miranda to the opposite side of the ballroom from where he stood and then into an adjoining room.
In the meantime, Lord Robertson had brought Lady Elizabeth round, and there she stood like a silly little girl, her hands clasped before her, her wistful gaze on the dancers. “Which dance pleases you the most, my lord?” she asked Jared after a time of silence.
He looked at her and tried to imagine her as his wife. “I don’t care for one more than another.”
She lifted her chin—a bit imperiously, he thought. “I am most delighted by the quadrille.” How convenient for her—the dancers were setting up for a quadrille at that very moment.
Jared swallowed a sigh of tedium and forced a polite smile. “Would you care to dance, Lady Elizabeth?”
Her face lit up. “I should like that very much, my lord.” She was still beaming as he led her to the dance floor so they could assume their places. He hardly noticed her, however, because he was watching the door through which Miranda and his father had disappeared.
But as the music started, he turned his gaze to Elizabeth and bowed as he’d been trained to do since he was a small boy, then began the steps, taking her hand and crossing over, changing hands and crossing again, stepping forward, stepping back, and turning to his right as Elizabeth turned to her right, which left him to face the woman of the couple that formed the other half of their square.
He smiled with surprise upon seeing Lady Ava before him.
She smiled and took his hand. “Good evening, my lord,” she said as she crossed him.
“A very good evening indeed,” he said as they crossed again.
She smiled again as she stepped up, and then back, and then moved to her left to take the hand of her partner, Lord Angelsy.
Dear God, how had he missed her? She was breathtaking in an exquisitely embroidered blue satin gown that hugged her frame to its utmost advantage. Her golden hair was done up with a string of pearls that matched the teardrops at her ear lobes and her throat, and her eyes, her pale green eyes, seemed almost gray.
He hadn’t realized she’d come out of mourning.
Jared went round with Elizabeth again, who said, “I’ve very much enjoyed the work in the charity auction.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.” He’d left the work on the auction to his good friend Lady Bellingham, and knew only what he received in reports from his secretary, Mr. Bean. “I understand things are progressing,” he added, and looked again to Lady Ava, letting go of Elizabeth’s hand, turning left, and facing Lady Ava once again. As he took her hand he said, “I didn’t know you’d come out of mourning.”
She said nothing, just smiled up at him with sparkling greenish gray eyes as she crossed him. He took her hand again. “You have not danced a waltz, have you?” he asked as they crossed. “For you have promised it to me,” he reminded her as they stepped forward.
“Did I?” she asked airily as she stepped back. “I don’t recall.”
He grinned at her and turned to his right to meet Elizabeth again, who said, “His grace the duke has said that you might expect as many as four hundred.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Four hundred persons at the auction on Friday,” she clarified as he let her go and she turned right.
“As many as that?” he asked, and turned right, facing Lady Ava. He took her hand and squeezed it playfully. “If you’ve promised the waltz away, I shall have to fight the gentleman for the right,” he said as they crossed, “for it is mine, fairly bargained and won.”
She laughed, her teeth flashing white between rose-colored lips, turned around, and offered her hand again. “Is that how you scratched your cheek? Fighting for a waltz?”
He chuckled, stepped forward, then back, and turned left, to a stoic Elizabeth. She said nothing—just stared hurtfully at him as he took her hand. Would that this dance end! “You must forgive me, Lady Elizabeth. I am all at sixes and sevens trying to remember where to step.”
She nodded slightly as she crossed him.
Jared finished the dance without speaking to Lady Ava again, but he couldn’t help overhearing her laugh of pleasure at something Angelsy said. He could well imagine the flirting between them—she was especially beautiful tonight, and any man with even a bit of a brain would realize the woman needed to make a match.
He really had no time to squander—for that and other more pressing reasons.
When the dance ended, he escorted Elizabeth to the side of the dance floor and excused himself, making some mention of gaming. As he walked from the room, he scanned the crowd, looking for Lady Ava, but she had disappeared from view. He was, he realized, surprisingly disappointed. There was something about the woman that continued to intrigue him.
But it was just as well—he really needed to find Miranda and assure himself that his father hadn’t done anything to harm or upset her.
Ava found Phoebe in the company of Lady Purnam and her two friends, Lady Botswick and Lady Hogan. Predictably, Lady Purnam had been quite upset by Ava and Phoebe’s decision to reenter society, and had insisted on accompanying them to the Clarence mid-Season ball when they received the invitation.
“Ah, there you are,” Lady Hogan said, reaching for Ava’s hand. “Oh my, how lovely you are. Was that your mother’s gown?”
“No, I—”
“Phoebe was just telling us that your cousin, Greer, is Mrs. Smithington’s traveling companion! What an agreeable occupation for her!”
“Yes, I think she enjoys it very much,” Ava said.
“I remarked to Lady Purnam that I thought it was something that perhaps the two of you might consider likewise,” Lady Botswick said.
Ava looked at Phoebe, then at Lady Botswick. “Traveling companion?”
“Yes, of course,” Lady Botswick said, nodding her head so that the corkscrew curls at her ears bounced up and down. “Traveling companion, or perhaps governess. Have you considered the position of governess?”
“I…No, we have not c
onsidered it,” Ava said. “Ever.”
“Oh well,” Lady Botswick said, exchanging a look with Lady Purnam. “I just assumed, what with your circumstances, you might have considered it.”
“Our circumstances?” Ava echoed, and looked at Lady Purnam. The woman turned a curious shade of pink, and Ava understood instantly that she had betrayed their confidence and had told her friends of their lack of fortune. “I can’t imagine we’d have opportunity,” Ava said, turning her attention to Lady Botswick again. “Phoebe and I hope to marry soon.”
For some reason that made Lady Hogan smile and Lady Purnam begin a very serious study of her shoes. “Ooh, I am certain that you do,” Lady Botswick said sympathetically.
Her patronizing tone made Ava bristle. Apparently, she and Lady Hogan assumed—no doubt along with the rest of the bloody ton—that she and Phoebe were no longer particularly marriageable.
“How lovely your gown,” Lady Botswick said, changing the subject. “I think I should like a glass of wine. Lady Hogan, would you care for a glass of wine?”
“I would indeed.”
The two ladies excused themselves, leaving Phoebe and Ava to glare at Lady Purnam. “You told them of our situation?” Ava asked. “How could you?”
“I did no such thing!” Lady Purnam said, looking quite uncomfortable. “When the subject came up, it was clear that they already knew. I am guilty in that I did not deny it.”
“Really, Lady Purnam.” Phoebe sighed.
“I wouldn’t ask that you deny what is true, Lady Purnam, but I should hope that as our mother’s dearest friend you would not confirm it,” Ava said sternly.
Lady Purnam looked very chagrined, and she grabbed Ava’s wrist before she could turn away. “You mustn’t be so cross, dear. In truth, your situation seemed to be well understood by most long before even I knew of it.”
“I see,” Ava said coldly. “The vultures gathered as soon as Mother died, did they? If you will please excuse us.”
“Ava, darling, please—”
“I really must speak with my sister.”
Lady Purnam sighed and dropped her hand from Ava’s wrist. “Very well. But you harm only yourself in pretending your situation is rosier than it is,” she said, assuming a high-handed tone. “It does you not a bit of good to flit about society as if things were the same as they were before your mother died, for they are not. Your situation has been drastically altered, and the sooner you accept it, the sooner you may find a proper situation.”
“Thank you for your unsolicited advice,” Ava said tightly, and grabbed Phoebe’s hand, pulling her away from the stunned and meddlesome old woman.
“We are doomed,” Phoebe said, resigned.
“No we aren’t, Phoebe,” Ava insisted. “You will not believe that. We are not doomed!”
“What will save us, Ava? Your grand scheme of marrying a marquis hasn’t quite come about, has it?”
It was true that Ava had heard nothing from Middleton since the delivery of the flowers. Even the work on his charity auction, which she had so foolishly assumed would include only him and her, had been a disaster. The good souls working on the event seemed to be a string of women he’d been associated with at one time or another, including Elizabeth Robertson. The only saving grace for Ava was that Grace Holcomb had volunteered to help so that she had at least one friend among the group.
“You’d best hope Sir Garrett doesn’t greet Lord Downey when his ship docks,” Phoebe snapped irritably.
Ava’s stomach clenched. She’d had such high hopes for tonight, but then Middleton had arrived looking a bit disheveled, and the rumor had circulated he’d had a spat with his lover. He’d had his eyes on Lady Waterstone all evening, had danced with her, and even now, Ava could plainly see the two of them, not fifteen feet away, deep in conversation with Lord Harrison.
Worse, when he wasn’t dancing with Lady Waterstone or admiring her from a distance, he was in the company of Elizabeth Robertson.
Ava turned her back on the sight so that she wouldn’t have to see him smiling so charmingly at Lady Waterstone.
She’d all but given up hope before the quadrille, but she had been heartened by his expression upon first seeing her, as if he was genuinely surprised and delighted to encounter her there.
“It’s not working, Ava,” Phoebe said morosely. “Your marquis is obviously in love with Lady Waterstone and about to offer for Elizabeth Robertson. I hardly think there is room for a third woman. You must think of someone else—or perhaps Lady Botswick is right. Perhaps we should consider taking positions as governesses—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ava said irritably, stung by the notion that Phoebe could be right, that they could very well be striving toward nothing more than a fantasy. “I won’t give up so easily. What of your gowns?”
“It’s scarcely enough to see us through.”
“Then Greer will help us—”
Phoebe sighed with exasperation. “We haven’t heard from Greer since she left!”
“But we will,” Ava said, growing angry with her sister. “And besides, there is any number of gentlemen who might offer for one of us.”
Phoebe shook her head. “The only man who will offer without regard for fortune or connections is Sir Garrett.”
Ava snorted.
“I know how hard you have tried, Ava,” Phoebe said earnestly. “But it is clearly hopeless.”
“It’s not hope—”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Ava.”
She closed her eyes, took a breath, and turned around to face Sir Garrett. He was smiling broadly, his hands wringing his ever-present kerchief. “I…I thank you for the dance earlier this evening, and I agree that I should not ask again, as your dance card is quite full,” he said, bobbing his head at her.
“Thank you for understanding, sir,” she said.
“I only meant to inquire if you know…” He paused, dabbed his forehead, and then glanced at the ground. “That is to say, if you are aware of when your stepfather shall make his return to London.”
Her heart began to pound, and Ava looked at Phoebe. “Ah…”
“We do not know, sir,” Phoebe said quickly. “It might be as long as a month. Perhaps even longer.”
“Oh,” Sir Garrett replied, grimacing a little. “That is rather unfortunate, for there is a matter I should like to discuss with him at once.” He glanced up, put his kerchief to his temple, and smiled hopefully. “I think you know what matter that is, Lady Ava.”
Ava could only gape at him as she groped for Phoebe’s hand.
“Good evening, Sir Garrett,” a deep voice intoned, reverberating throughout Ava’s body, flooding her with an enormous sense of relief and reprieve. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, turned her head, and saw his brilliant hazel eyes and warm smile. She smiled, too, and curtsied. “Good evening, Lord Middleton.”
“Lady Ava,” he said politely. “Lady Phoebe,” he said, inclining his head to Phoebe before shifting his gaze to Ava again. “I hope you haven’t promised all your dances to Sir Garrett, madam, for you had promised me the next dance.”
“Oh,” Sir Garrett said, looking very surprised. “Oh, yes, of course.” He looked at Phoebe. “Lady Phoebe, would you do me the honor?”
Phoebe blinked, then managed to smile as she glanced at Ava. “Thank you,” she said, and put her hand carefully in Sir Garrett’s paw so he could lead her onto the dance floor.
Middleton held out his arm to Ava. “You promised,” he said with a wink.
“I never promised, my lord,” she said, smiling up at him, “but I should be delighted.” She put her hand on his arm.
He instantly covered it with his own, squeezing it as if they had an intimate friendship. “If I may, you are beautiful in blue, madam.”
The compliment thrilled her. She had spent quite a lot of time on her appearance, making Lucy redo her hair twice. “How kind of you to say so.”
“When we last met, I hadn’t realized
that your period of mourning was nearing its end,” he remarked as he led her onto the dance floor.
“Ah, but you might have known it were you to attend the meetings for the auction,” Ava said, and sank into perhaps the best curtsy of her life as they took their positions.
He laughed and bowed, then took her hand and lifted her up. “It seemed as if there were enough good souls—far better than mine—to plan the event. I didn’t think that more than my name was needed,” he said, and as the orchestra began the first strains of the waltz, he slipped his arm around her waist and took her hand in his.
“I suppose you are right,” Ava said as she put her hand on his unpadded shoulder. “Your presence might have incited a brawl.”
He laughed as he gracefully led her into the music.
Ava glanced around them as they began to waltz—she could see more than one head swiveled in their direction, the looks of blatant curiosity. The marquis could do nothing without its being remarked upon by a host of people, she realized. That should have made her more circumspect, but Ava didn’t have the luxury of time to be coy or demure. If he’d heard of her plight and found her unsuitable, she would prefer to know it sooner rather than later so that she might devise another plan for her and Phoebe and Greer.
Unfortunately, while Ava had always enjoyed the attention of gentlemen, she’d never been as bold as she thought she must be now if she were to gain the marquis’ undivided attention.
She glanced up at him. He was smiling down at her, a lock of his golden brown hair skating over his eye as they moved. He was an excellent dancer, his movement fluid, his hand firm on her back, gently guiding her one way, then another. He seemed amused by her perusal and raised a brow, and Ava felt the burn of inexperience in her cheeks.
“Thank you for the roses,” she said. “They were beautiful.”
“Ah. I am glad you enjoyed them. There is an unwritten rule among men, you know—beautiful roses must be given to beautiful women.”
She blushed. How odd, but it felt as if her feet were moving on air. “You are too kind, sir.”
