The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet

by Mary Balogh

  He must trust his mother to see to it that she got through the evening unscathed.

  He listened to his mother talk as the carriage made its way through the streets of Mayfair and to Stephanie Gray replying more briefly. She addressed his mother as “Mother,” he was interested to note. He did not himself participate in the conversation. He was feeling nervous about the coming evening, he realized—and just a trifle depressed. Why was it that good manners always ensured that one kept one’s distance from the very people with whom one would most like to spend most of one’s time?

  He was surprised to find that in some ways he was beginning to look forward to being married. They seemed to be able to relax a little more when they were alone together than they could when in company with others. He wanted to hear her talk again as she had talked to him in his carriage. He wanted to get to know her. And—the thought seemed strangest of all—he wanted her to get to know him. He had always been a very private person. Nobody, he felt, really knew him. And he had liked it that way—until now.

  The carriage slowed outside the doors of his brother-in-law’s mansion on Berkeley Square.

  THE EVENING WAS going well. She had not yet set even one foot wrong, so to speak. She had done nothing to embarrass herself and nothing to shame either the Duke of Bridgwater or his mother. She had sat next to the Marquess of Hayden at the head of the table at dinner; her future brother-in-law, older than his wife by at least ten or fifteen years, was a man with an enormous sense of his own consequence. She had stood in the receiving line between the marchioness and the duke, since the ball was in honor of her betrothal, and had smiled and curtsied and tried to memorize the names of a seemingly endless stream of guests. She had danced the opening quadrille with the duke and every set thereafter with a different gentleman. She had remembered the steps of every dance and had executed them without mishap. Between sets she had stood with the duchess and a number of other ladies and gentlemen. She had never once been alone.

  It was going well. Or so Her Grace assured her. The duchess was pleased with her. She was taking well, it seemed. She looked quite strikingly beautiful—Her Grace’s words—and she looked poised and confident without in any way appearing conceited. It did not matter, the duchess assured her, that she had little conversation. The important thing was that she smiled at those who spoke to her and encouraged them with polite questions and responses. Shyness, provided it did not border in any way on muteness or sullenness, was no disadvantage at all in a lady. Quite the contrary. Everyone would know, after all, that she was being elevated on the social scale by her betrothal to Bridgwater. Her shyness would be considered becoming modesty.

  All was going well. Except that she was not enjoying herself. She tried, whenever the demands of conversation were not occupying her mind, to understand why this was so. Did she feel uncomfortable? No more than was to be expected. In fact, she was finding that she need behave not very differently from the way she had behaved throughout her years as a governess. Quiet dignity, self-containment, the ability to listen while saying little—these had been a way of life to her for six years. Did she fear that she had failed, then, that she had somehow let the Duke of Bridgwater down? No, she did not feel it. And if she did, she could not disbelieve what his mother told her. Her Grace would have been fast enough to point out any glaring shortcoming.

  Everyone had been polite to her. Many had been kind and even friendly. She had not been a wallflower as she had feared she might. She had not lacked for company between sets. No one had treated her with contempt or even noticeable condescension.

  The ballroom, with its many mirrors and chandeliers, with its numerous floral decorations, was beautiful. It was filled with elegant, beautiful people. It was the perfect scene she had always dreamed of—the sort of setting she had always imagined for Cinderella’s ball. And in many ways she was the personification of the fairytale heroine.

  Why, then, was she not quite enjoying herself? Was it because after the first set the Duke of Bridgwater had not danced with her again or come near her between sets or even shown any sign that he was aware of her presence in the ballroom? He danced every set. He mingled easily with the company, conversing with people whose identities she had forgotten. He looked thoroughly at home in this, his own environment. And he looked exquisitely elegant and handsome in black evening clothes with gleaming white linen.

  Was she hurt by his apparent lack of interest in her? No, she told herself. She had learned from the duchess during the past week—and she had partly known it before that—that it was not considered good manners among the ton for a man and his wife or betrothed to cling together as if they could not bear to be out of each other’s company in order to enjoy that of others. His behavior was no personal affront to her, but merely evidence of his perfect manners.

  She just wished perhaps that occasionally his eyes would alight on her, that he would perhaps smile at her. He had not smiled at her all evening.

  She was not allowed to waltz. It seemed that no lady was allowed to perform the dance in London until she had been approved by one of a select group of ladies. It seemed absurd that the rule applied to Stephanie, since she was six-and-twenty years of age, but the Duchess of Bridgwater had told her during the week that it would be unwise to do anything that might raise polite eyebrows—at least until after her marriage.

  And so she did not waltz. It was the only set before supper that she missed. But she was not left alone to watch everyone else dance. A lady to whom she had been introduced earlier as the wife of a particular friend of His Grace’s—she could not for the life of her remember the lady’s name—took her arm and smiled brightly and warmly at her.

  “I can remember being wild with fury during my first few balls not to be allowed to waltz,” she said, “even though I had already passed my majority. I still think it foolish beyond belief that a few social dragons can have so much power, but I have learned by now to laugh in private—or with only Francis for an audience—at such stupidities. Francis is dancing with Jane because he forgot this was a waltz and should therefore have been mine—I shall make him suffer for that later. Come, Miss Gray. You and I will stroll outside and pretend that we would not waltz even if our respective menfolk were on their knees begging us.” She laughed heartily.

  Francis, Stephanie thought frantically, allowing herself to be led away. He was Lord Francis Something. Lady Francis Something looked at her as they left the ballroom and crossed the terrace to descend the steps into the garden. She laughed again.

  “Oh, that remembered look,” she said. “That who the devil are you, but I do not dare to ask look. I am Lady Francis Kneller, Miss Gray, but I would far prefer to have you call me Cora. Titles used to terrify me, and so it is rather ironic that I married one. You did need rescuing, did you not? Just for a short while? I could see it. And of course the Duke of Bridgwater would never do anything as improper as spend the evening at your elbow. He used to awe me into incoherence—I lived at the duchess’s home, you know, for part of one Season while she attempted to find me a husband. Not Francis—I am a merchant’s daughter and could not think of looking so high. But Francis had the misfortune to decide to amuse himself by bringing me into fashion, and dreadful things happened to force him into offering for me. Can you imagine a worse fate?”

  Stephanie felt rather as if she had been caught up in a whirlwind. Lady Francis Kneller was taller than she and far more amply endowed. She was not pretty—her features were too bold—but the word “handsome” leapt immediately to mind.

  “No, I cannot,” Stephanie said.

  Lady Francis looked sharply at her. “Oh dear,” she said, “I have opened my mouth and stuffed my slipper—my lamentably large slipper—into it, have I not? How Francis will shake his head ruefully and refrain from scolding me when I tell him what I just said to you. It is exactly what happened with you and His Grace too, is it not? We were quite incredulous when we heard. His Grace has always been very adept at avoiding matrimonial sna
res and fortune hunters. And so he was snared accidentally by a wealthy heiress who happened to be a governess before she inherited. You cannot imagine how pleased I am, Miss Gray—may I call you Stephanie? You are just what he needs. Someone to throw him slightly off balance, so to speak. He has always been just too perfectly balanced for his own good. That is why I have always stood in awe of him, though not so much lately. Francis has derived so much amusement over the past six years from the great dithers I go into when I meet a title—especially in light of the fact that he is himself a duke’s son—that I have learned to laugh at myself too. It is either that or bash his head in, Stephanie, and how could I do that to my beloved Francis?” She laughed gaily.

  The strange thing was that Stephanie found herself laughing too, with genuine amusement. How refreshing it was to find that there was someone human at the ball—she did not stop to ponder the strange thought. And she remembered now that Lord Francis Kneller was the gentleman with the coat of a delicate spring green satin and with the laughing eyes. He had been noticeable in a ballroom full of gentlemen who were wearing either black or dark sober colors. It was no wonder his eyes laughed if he lived with Cora, she thought.

  Lady Francis squeezed her arm. “All will be well, you know,” she said. “I promise you, though it is very stupid to do so when I cannot know the future. But when two people are forced into marriage, each feels guilty and apologetic to the other, and both make an extra special effort to make the marriage work. If you think a governess-turned-heiress and a duke an unpromising combination, as I am sure at present you do, then imagine what my situation was, Stephanie. A merchant’s daughter and a duke’s son and brother. But Francis and I are now the dearest of friends and hold each other in the deepest affection. You must not allow them to intimidate you, you see. The Duchess of Bridgwater is a wonderful lady—she was remarkably kind to me all because I had apparently saved her grandson’s life—but she can be intimidating. I found her so, and I can readily believe that she is ten times more so to someone who is about to marry Bridgwater. She means well. But you must not allow it to happen. You must remember that there is nothing wrong—and nothing inferior—about being a governess or a merchant’s daughter. I have no patience with snobbery.”

  Stephanie smiled. “You are very kind, Cora,” she said. “I am much obliged to you for suggesting that we come outside for some air. I feel considerably better.”

  “There,” Lady Francis said, squeezing her arm, “you will feel the better for getting all that off your chest. A person always does. I have been only too glad to lend a sympathetic ear. I will call on you, Stephanie, and you must call on me. I shall like it of all things. I sometimes feel a little lonely in town—lonely for adult company, that is. I have four children, you know, all below the age of six, and I dote on their company. But when in town I insist that Francis go about all those dull gentlemanly pursuits that gentlemen set such store by, even though he always tries to be noble and insist that he would be far happier with me and the children. One has to understand men, Stephanie. They do not understand themselves half the time, I do declare.”

  Stephanie was chuckling again. She found that for the first time all evening—perhaps all week—she was relaxing and even feeling a measure of enjoyment. But the music of the waltz wafting from the ballroom into the garden had ceased. That particular set was at an end, it seemed.

  “Ah,” Lady Francis said, cocking her head to one side and listening, “it is time to go inside again. Time for me to scold and sulk over the fact that Francis danced our waltz with Jane. No matter that she is one of my closest friends. He is not to be forgiven.”

  When they had entered the ballroom and Lord Francis joined them immediately, bowing and smiling at Stephanie and extending his arm for his wife’s, the latter tapped the arm with her fan and scowled.

  “I am in a towering rage,” she said. “Am I not, Stephanie?” But she immediately gave the lie to her words by grinning broadly at her husband and linking her arm through his. “Stephanie is terrified of the Duke of Bridgwater, Francis. I have been consoling her.”

  “Oh dear,” Lord Francis said and grinned back at his wife before looking a little uncertainly at Stephanie.

  It was not clear to Stephanie whether his concern was over her mythical terror or his wife’s consolation. But she caught the duchess’s eye at that moment, smiled at Lady Francis, and made her way across the room. Now that she was inside again, though, she felt even more discontented than she had before. It was something Lady Francis had said, she thought. She frowned to bring back the relevant words. Lady Francis had said a great deal altogether.

  You must not allow them to intimidate you.

  There, that was it.

  They were intimidating her. Both of them. Oh, they were both kind, just as Lady Francis had said. But intimidating too.

  Suddenly, Stephanie could not bear the thought of standing next to the duchess for more endless minutes, smiling and listening to the conversation of those who came to make her better acquaintance. She could not bear the thought of dancing again just yet, nor could she bear to watch the duke, her fiancé, quite oblivious to her presence, converse with everyone, it seemed, except her and dance with yet another lady. It seemed to her that the evening was interminable, that it would never end.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured to Her Grace, “I shall be just a few minutes.”

  But she knew even as she hurried away to the ballroom doors and through them that she had no intention of returning until she felt she could avoid doing so no longer. It was the occasion that was overwhelming her, she thought as she tried to find a place in which to be by herself for a while. But all the small rooms on either side of the ballroom and the landing itself were occupied. She hurried down the stairs, trying to look as if she had a destination in mind. Perhaps, she thought belatedly, she could have gone back out into the garden. There had not been many people out there when she had strolled with Lady Francis. But she could not go back to the ballroom now and out onto the balcony without the risk of being seen. Perhaps she could find her way out from downstairs.

  She did not find the garden door. But she did find something even better—a conservatory that was both dimly lit and deserted. She found a large plant almost as big as a palm tree and sank down onto a chair conveniently placed behind it, hiding her from the door.

  All week she had been oppressed by a sense of obligation to the Duke of Bridgwater. She had felt deeply in his debt. She had thought to try to repay that debt at least in some small way by making herself into the sort of woman who could be his duchess. She had worked hard. Except in one or two very minor matters concerning her clothes, she had argued over nothing. She had accepted whatever the duchess had told her. She had absorbed everything and had adapted her own behavior and attitudes to what was now expected of her.

  She had dressed earlier this evening in a flutter of nerves. Not so much nerves over the ball—though there had been that too, of course—as nerves over what he would think of her. She had imagined how he would look at her, what he would say. Surely, he would be pleased. She had tried so hard.

  Had he been pleased?

  Yes, he had. She had seen approval in his eyes when she was coming down the stairs. When he had taken those few steps toward her as she reached the bottom and stretched out his hand for hers, all had seemed worthwhile. She had been like a child waiting for a parent’s coveted praise.

  Miss Gray. I almost did not recognize you.

  Praise would follow. He would applaud her taste in dress and hairstyle—both were slightly plainer than Her Grace had wanted, though her own wishes had been respected.

  You have performed a miracle, Mama.

  Yes, Stephanie thought now, staring ahead of her, oblivious to the beauty of the exotic plants about her. Yes, she had forgotten. But that was what had prevented her from enjoying the evening—just that—long before they had even arrived at the Marquess of Hayden’s mansion. She felt hurt all over again, as she had fel
t hurt then.

  It was his mother who was to be applauded. Just as if she, Stephanie, was an object. Just as if everything had been done to her and nothing by her.

  You look magnificent … If you remember everything that I am sure she has told you during the past week, you will do very well this evening.

  Now she could not stop remembering.

  If you feel a little uncertain at any time, remember who you are. Remember that you are my betrothed and that soon you will be the Duchess of Bridgwater.

  Was that her identity, then? Her sole identity? She was his betrothed, his future duchess. But yes, of course. That was what the past week had been all about, had it not? Erasing everything else about her that was not that one thing. All her lowly and embarrassing past was to be blotted out as if it had never been.

  And she had concurred in the transformation.

  Did she regret it, then?

  She sat for a long time without knowing the answer. She lost track of time. Although the music from the ballroom was clearly audible in the conservatory, she failed to notice when the one set ended. It was a voice that finally startled her back to the present.

  “Miss Gray?” the voice said.

  He was alarmingly close. Of course he would have to be. From the doorway he would not have seen her. He had come right inside, looking.

  “Miss Gray?” the Duke of Bridgwater said again. “You have been gone from the ballroom for a long time—since well before the start of the last set. I grew concerned. So did my mother. This is not quite the thing, you know.”

  She drew a deep breath and looked down at the fan she had been clutching unconsciously in her lap. She had the choice between ripping up at him, or apologizing, she thought. It would be unfair to do the former—what he said was quite right. It was one of those rules that had been instilled into her all week. But she would not apologize. You must not allow them to intimidate you.