The dance ended and Lord Harrison, bowing mockingly low, returned Henrietta to Lady Fuddlesby.
Lady Fuddlesby was putting off the moment when she must tell her niece what had occurred, desperately hoping something would happen to alter matters.
Henrietta was praying she would suddenly become invisible. She turned to her aunt and in a small voice begged, “Please, my lady, something is amiss. You must tell me what I have done.”
Lady Fuddlesby kept a social smile pinned on her face. To show in front of the company how very upset she was would only add unnecessary fuel to the fire. So through a cheerful grin she said, “Someone said you were... well, not in looks.”
“I do not understand,” Henrietta responded, bewildered.
Lady Fuddlesby could not bring herself to repeat what the duke had said. “Well, dear, it is all quite horrid and so very untrue. Why, I never heard such a load of nonsense! What can have possessed the man to make such a corkbrained statement, I cannot say.” Lady Fuddlesby would have babbled on but was cut off by her niece.
“My lady, I shall scream if you do not tell me at once what was said of me!”
“Oh, very well,” Lady Fuddlesby said, resigned. “You are bound to hear it sometime, I imagine. But you know, my dear...” She stopped, quailing before the steely look in her niece’s eyes. Then she went on in a rush. “It was a comparison someone made, quite unjustly. It was said your parents could do better giving you a Season in Newmarket rather than London. Implying you looked like a horse ... which you do not! I am certain there is some explanation.” As if to herself, she added, “Perhaps he was in his cups, although he had nothing but tea at my house.”
Henrietta sat openmouthed, trying to assimilate her aunt’s words. Then a suspicion too terrible to contemplate formed in her mind. She asked faintly, “Who? Who said this appalling thing?”
“Well.” Lady Fuddlesby twisted her lace handkerchief to shreds. Tears came to her eyes, but she blinked them back before anyone could see them. “I am sad to say it was the Duke of Winterton.”
Henrietta’s eyes opened wide and she gripped the edges of her gilt chair until her hands whitened with the effort. She thought she could feel the very blood rushing through her veins. How could he? Why? How had she given him a disgust of her? And then as she remembered how she had dreamed about him, she reached a trembling hand up to cover her eyes in shame.
At that moment, the Duke of Winterton made his entrance into the ballroom with Colonel Colchester. Giles was the epitome of elegance in his indigo evening coat. His cravat, tied in the Oriental with a diamond pin in its folds, rose from a snow-white waistcoat.
Colonel Colchester, looking stately, greeted an old army friend and in a matter of moments had the unsavory story of the duke’s words regarding Miss Lanford.
At the same time, Lady Peabody hailed the duke. At her side was her daughter Betina, who blamed the duke for her broken arm, which hung in a sling.
“Your grace,” Lady Peabody said, simpering, “you are such a wit.”
The duke’s eyes half closed.
When this compliment brought no comment from the duke, Lady Peabody went on. “’Tis vastly diverting... Miss Lanford, a Season at Newmarket.” She and her daughter tittered, all the while shooting amused looks in Henrietta’s direction.
The Duke of Winterton’s eyes snapped open, and for the first time he recalled his ill-chosen words to Lord Kramer. He mentally cursed the fop for repeating them.
He managed to disengage himself from the pushing Lady Peabody and her foolish daughter. As he made his way to Colonel Colchester’s side, his gaze roamed the room until he located where Miss Lanford sat. Then he stopped short and stared.
Good God! She was lovely. There was an air of innocence about her, making all the other women in the room look old and tired. What a pity, he thought, that she was only a squire’s daughter. But a horse? No one should have taken his remarks seriously, he decided, absolving himself of any misdeed.
“Well, my boy, what are you going to do?” Colonel Colchester, now standing beside him, asked.
The duke leveled his quizzing glass at a passing lady, much to her delight. “Do? About what, dear sir?”
The colonel felt himself becoming irritated. The duke was too puffed up with his own consequence. “Giles!” Seeing he had the duke’s attention, he went on. “Have you heard what is going around about little Miss Lanford?”
“Ah, yes. I declare it grows tiresome when one’s every comment is spread about.”
Colonel Colchester felt a desire to shout at his godson. He controlled himself with an effort and said, “What do you intend to do about it? Do not look at me in that bored way. Miss Lanford was pointed out to me, and we must walk over there to where she and that charming woman in pink are sitting. Behave like nothing has happened.”
His godfather’s outraged tone finally got through to the duke. He looked again at Miss Lanford and Lady Fuddlesby sitting with the chaperons, and his conscience smote him. He decided to dance with the girl and later put it about his remarks were meant as a jest. He failed to understand what the great fuss was about. Anyone could see she was attractive.
Before he could respond to Colonel Colchester, that man spoke again. “I would have thought a man in your position would have a care about what he said in public.” Playing his ace, he stated, “It is your duty, Giles, to turn the situation around and bring the girl into fashion with the social power you hold.”
“Doing it too brown, Colonel. I have already decided to do just that. Only, the next dance is about to begin. Allow me to partner the girl first, then you may join us when I return her to Lady Fuddlesby. In that way, we can all spend a few minutes in tedious social chatter ensuring the girl’s success.”
The duke took himself off, and the colonel looked in frustration at his retreating back. Even though the rank of duke deserved respect, someone needed to take Giles down a peg, he decided.
Over by the chaperons, Henrietta, engulfed in the familiar pain of rejection she often suffered at her parents’ hands, stared at the floor. This was a different kind of rejection, she decided, and made worse by its being public. She wondered if one could die of mortification.
The Denbys’ ball was a sad crush. Lady Denby had packed in as many of the ton as possible. People were standing at the edges of the ballroom talking and gossiping. As everyone realized the duke was walking in the direction of Miss Lanford, the room grew quiet for a moment, then fans fluttered and the dreadful whispering began again.
Henrietta asked herself what could have happened now and raised her head. The Duke of Winterton, looking heartbreakingly handsome, was making his way toward her.
He will not approach me, she thought wildly. But as it became evident she was indeed his goal, she quickly looked down at her lap, her heart pounding so hard, she thought it might burst from her chest.
At her side, Lady Fuddlesby saw salvation and whispered to her, “How good of him. He will set everything to rights.”
Pain coursed through Henrietta anew, but now an intense surge of anger accompanied it. How dare he! How could he have the audacity to seek her out after what he said of her? Surely he knew what the consequences of his horrible words would be to her come-out. Why, the man had no more feeling than an old shoe!
The duke was almost to Henrietta’s chair, his intention to speak with her obvious. Quiet descended on the gathering again as everyone waited in hushed expectancy.
Suddenly Henrietta knew she could not bear to exchange a single word with the beastly man. Hands at her sides, she grasped the little gilt chair she was sitting on and with a jerking movement turned the chair pointedly, presenting him with an excellent view of her back.
Sharply indrawn breaths and titters met her ears. Dimly she was aware of the duke turning and moving past her.
Next to her, Lady Fuddlesby moaned, “Oh dear, oh dear,” and fanned herself vigorously.
Across the room, Colonel Colchester raised a hand to co
ver a smile.
Chapter Four
Impertinent baggage, the duke thought furiously, forgetting his part in the contretemps. This is what one got when one associated with persons of inferior rank.
The duke walked past Miss Lanford and directly over to where Lady Clorinda Eden stood with her mama, Lady Mawbly.
Lady Clorinda, a slight smile on her pink lips, looked positively enchanting in white satin. The bosom of her gown was cut down to the very limit of the amount of flesh she could show and remain a lady. She pointed at the duke with her breasts as he approached.
The duke’s mood lightened at the vision of the creamy mounds before him. “Lady Mawbly, Lady Clorinda, you are looking exceptional this evening,” he said smoothly, directing his gaze at the daughter and certainly not at the puce-attired Lady Mawbly. “May I hope, Lady Clorinda, you have a dance for me?”
Clorinda’s golden curls and seductive bosom drew the attention of many young men, but she held her courtiers at bay, determined to dance with the duke.
“Yes, your grace, I shall be delighted.” She placed her gloved hand on his arm demurely, and they moved away, the perfect-looking couple.
As often happens when anger is released in a childish action, Henrietta was now assailed by a wave of shame. Lady Fuddlesby magnified this feeling by repeatedly mumbling, “Ruined, we are quite ruined.”
“My lady, I beg your pardon. I feel awful that your kindness to me has been repaid in this manner. Please forgive me,” Henrietta beseeched, laying a hand on her aunt’s arm.
“Oh dear, you cannot have done yourself any good by turning your back on the duke. I admit the provocation was great, but how we are to come about now, I cannot say,” Lady Fuddlesby lamented, shaking her head.
“It occurs to me I have denied myself the knowledge of his intention in approaching me. I wonder if he meant to offer some sort of explanation for his behavior,” Henrietta mused. One that would allow her to forgive him, so he might once again reign favored in her fantasies.
This jumble of emotions continued to war in Henrietta’s petite bosom. She bit her lip at the sight of the duke and a beautiful blonde moving to take their places in a set forming on the dance floor.
Across the room was the famous leader of the ton, Beau Brummell. His hair was a light brown color and his expression disdainful. He wore no jewelry and was attired in faultless evening clothes. Gossip pronounced the tying of his cravat, which was starched to perfection, sometimes took two to three hours.
He was in conversation with his friend Lady Jersey, one of the patronesses of Almack’s. She queried, “What do you think of the Duke of Winter-ton’s remarks regarding Miss Lanford?”
Brummell artfully took a pinch of his favorite snuff, Martinique, from a beautifully ornamented snuffbox. He was annoyed by the duke’s social power. “It was in poor taste for Winterton to be cutting up a fetching young girl’s hopes like that. Miss Lanford showed him, though. Courageous girl.”
Seeming to come to a decision, he added, “I will step over and solicit her hand for the next dance. That will secure her place in Society. Excuse me, my lady.” He bowed to Lady Jersey, who watched with interest while he made his way to Miss Lanford.
Lady Fuddlesby saw him coming. Not one to speak harshly to anyone, she was in the middle of a rare state that caused her to say, “Henrietta, it is Mr. Brummell. Do not make a goose of yourself!”
Even growing up in the country, Henrietta knew of Beau Brummell. She looked up in awe as the famous Beau stood before them, an amused look on his face. He’d heard Lady Fuddlesby’s warning to Henrietta.
“Good evening, Lady Fuddlesby. I pray you and that delightful fellow Knight are in good health?” he asked pleasantly. Brummell loved animals, so he looked with fondness upon someone who doted on her cat as Lady Fuddlesby did.
“Oh, you are too kind, dear sir! We are both well. May I present my niece, Miss Henrietta Lanford?”
In a carrying voice Brummell replied, “Miss Lanford, I am delighted to make the acquaintance of such a refreshing example of English womanhood. Would you honor me with this dance?”
Henrietta blushed to the roots of her hair. She rose and walked out onto the dance floor with Beau Brummell.
Their dance together caused yet another sensation. Observing Society’s interest in Miss Lanford and the Duke of Winterton, Lady Denby felt happily her ball would be the talk of London for days.
Henrietta thought Mr. Brummell was very much the gentleman. He teased her with amusing stories about various members of the assembled company, putting her at ease. She did not know what inspired his generosity but was grateful to him for bestowing his attention on her, and performed her part in the dance with style.
When the dance was over, they promenaded around the room, and just as Brummell was leading her back to Lady Fuddlesby, Henrietta turned to look up at him, a solemn expression on her face. “Sir, I most sincerely thank you for your kindness.”
Well pleased, Brummell spread it about Miss Lanford’s charming face matched a charming disposition. Fickle Society grew convinced the Duke of Winterton had played some kind of mischievous trick on them, and Miss Lanford was quite justified in her set-down of him.
The duke observed Brummell and Miss Lanford’s dance with a measure of relief. He felt the responsibility of bringing her into fashion lifted from his shoulders.
Now Henrietta did not lack for partners. Still smarting, she refused to look in the Duke of Winterton’s direction. However, this resolve perversely made necessary a constant need to know his whereabouts, so she might look the other way.
While she began to wonder where Lord Baddick was, that gentleman entered the ballroom in happy ignorance of all that had transpired in his absence. He had spent the early part of the evening in the arms of a dashing young widow, Lady Hoare. Her appetite in the bedroom proved voracious and she had been loath to release him from her clutches.
Therefore, it was a somewhat weary Lord Baddick who hastened forward to Henrietta, at Lady Fuddlesby’s side. “You are breathtaking this evening, Miss Lanford,” he declared, raising her gloved hand to his lips. “I am come to claim my dance.” He held out his arm to her and she accepted it, eyes sparkling up at him.
“With pleasure, my lord. I began to think you had forgotten your promise when you were so late in arriving.”
“Never! I was delayed helping a friend in need.”
Lord Baddick’s presence and compliments did much to restore Henrietta’s spirits. She would not care what the duke thought of her.
It was the supper dance and Henrietta, despite her resolve not to care two straws for the duke, felt compelled to fill Lord Baddick’s sympathetic ears with the tale of the duke’s perfidious behavior and Mr. Brummell’s subsequent rescue.
Lord Baddick spoke passionately. “Shall I call Winterton out, Miss Lanford? You have only to say the word.” He felt secure in making this rash statement, knowing Miss Lanford would never agree to it.
“Oh, no, my lord!” She swiftly denied him. But the Fantasy Henrietta indulged in a gratifying dream in which the two handsome men fought a duel over the slur to her name. Then she brought herself back to reality with a sharp self-admonition not to think of the duke as handsome after what he had done.
The dance ended and Lord Baddick led her to a place at one of the long tables in the supper room. He filled a plate for her and one for himself, then signaled a footman for champagne. Henrietta placed a little bit of everything from her plate on her fork, as was the custom. She had never tasted champagne and, sipping the wine cautiously, found it pleasing.
“Have you seen much of London since your shopping expedition?” asked Lord Baddick, making polite conversation while his hazel eyes stripped her naked. He noted with growing anticipation her innocence was in sharp contrast to the charms of Lady Hoare.
“No, Lady Fuddlesby and I have been busy with my wardrobe and have kept quite at home.”
She glanced to the head of the table where the Duke
of Winterton was seated next to the blonde he had been dancing with. It seemed to Henrietta the top half of the lady’s gown was missing, it was cut so low. She then dropped her startled gaze back to her plate when her eyes met the duke’s cool gaze regarding her steadily.
At the duke’s end of the table, Clorinda’s next dancing partner presented himself, much to the lady’s annoyance, and took her away. Colonel Colchester seated himself next to his godson, looking after Clorinda with a faint air of distaste.
“My boy, you have still not given Miss Lanford your apology. I know she behaved a bit too spiritedly when you approached her, but can one blame her?”
“Good manners must always override one’s emotions,” Winterton replied stiffly, forgetting that when he’d vented his frustrations in front of Lord Kramer, he committed the very crime of manners he now claimed to deplore.
At his godfather’s frown, he sighed with an air of resignation. “You are right, sir, in that the lady is due an apology, much as it rankles me. How was I to know that prancing fool Kramer would make a piece of work over nothing? And what is Miss Lanford doing with an ugly customer like Baddick?”
The colonel glanced down the table curiously. “Why, what’s wrong with him?”
“It is not generally known, but I happen to be aware of Baddick’s unsavory exploits when it comes to women.” With a speculative look he continued, “I wonder that he has resorted to seducing virgins. There was a story going around after Christmas. I cannot bring it to mind and will have to inquire,” the duke finished, and then wondered why he should concern himself with Miss Lanford’s suitor.
Colonel Colchester rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he wondered the very same thing.
In the ballroom, Lord Baddick escorted Henrietta to Lady Fuddlesby, saying, “Miss Lanford, I beg you will promise me another dance.” Then, dropping his voice, he discreetly whispered in her ear, “I wish I might have a thousand dances with you!”
Henrietta wondered why the feel of his breath on her ear did not affect her as ardently as such things always did the heroines in novels. She attributed this lack of feeling on her part to the unusual circumstances of the evening. “Yes, my lord,” she replied, and curtsied.
A Crime of Manners Page 5
