by Nicole Byrd
“I have bought some shares in his voyage,” Matthew added, his tone more businesslike. He motioned to the footman for another serving of the spiced beef. “It’s not without risk, but as I said, James is as good a captain as any, and if all goes well, the profit from this trip should be a tidy one.”
Talk around the table turned to the teas grown in the Far East, then to the silks from China, the muslins from India, and the wondrous spices from the Spice Islands that would also make up the return cargo. As the others chatted, Clarissa looked down at her plate and resolved that she would put aside her fears. Her brother had done all this for her sake; she must not let him down.
When dinner ended, Matthew called for the carriage. Clarissa went into the hallway to don her gloves and a light wrap, and tried to hide the quivers of anxiety continued to crawl up and down her spine.
Miss Pomshack bade them all a cheery good-bye and waved her handkerchief when the carriage pulled away. Clarissa sat beside her sister-in-law, with her brother across from them, and the ride to their destination seemed, despite the usual London traffic, too brief. When they arrived, they found a mass of vehicles already crowding the street, but eventually they came close enough for the coachman to pull up their team and the groom to put down the steps.
When Matthew helped them down, Clarissa looked up at the imposing house before them. Her stomach knotted, and she had to swallow hard. Lady Halston lived in style. The residence was twice the size of Matthew and Gemma’s home, and the footman at the door wore elaborate livery in a deep plum color, his powdered wig sitting precisely on his rather round head, and his expression was more forbidding than that of any nobleman Clarissa had yet glimpsed.
Aware of Gemma’s encouraging smile and Matthew’s slight pressing of her hand before he released it, Clarissa put up her chin and managed to climb the steps with a more or less steady gait. Inside, the house was full of the smells of fine perfumes and the smoky aura of many candles, as well as the stench of the new-fashioned gas lights. Lady Halston must be wealthy, indeed.
The staircase was crowded with stylish ladies and gentlemen, all heading up to the rooms where the ball was taking place. Clarissa followed Gemma and Matthew up the wide steps, and if her pulse beat fast, she hoped that the matrons who glanced at her with keen eyes, or the gentlemen who gave her veiled but obviously appraising leers, could not tell it.
When they made it to the front of the line, they paused at the entrance to the large room and waited to be announced.
“Lady Gemma Fallon, Captain Matthew Fallon, and Miss Fallon,” the footman intoned.
Lord and Lady Halston waited just inside the room to welcome their guests.
“I’m so glad you were able to come, Lady Gemma,” Lady Halston declared. “I have been so wishing to know you better.” The stout matron’s small bright eyes considered Gemma for only a moment, then her gaze darted toward the other members of their party. “Ah, this must be your husband and his sister?”
“Yes,” Gemma agreed. Muttering a polite greeting, Matthew bowed. Clarissa tried her best to perform a graceful curtsy, but she felt as awkward as an arthritic goose. Knowing that her cheeks had flushed, she prayed once again that she could just get through this evening without disgracing the people who loved her.
For herself, she had no higher ambition. A glance at the crowded room with its mass of ladies in bright-colored gowns and more sober-hued gentlemen, all equally well-clad and all seeming at ease, and the sound of the clatter of voices and the faint backdrop of music, made her nerves jangle with fear.
She found her hostess still stared at her. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Fallon.”
“Thank you for the kind invitation,” Clarissa answered, hearing the quiver in her own voice.
Then, aware that Gemma and Matthew had moved on, she forced her limbs to move and hurried to catch up with them. As she moved away from Lady Halston, who had turned to the next arrival, Clarissa drew a deep breath. One hurdle down.
Matthew accepted a glass of champagne from a footman passing with a tray full of glasses. He offered it to his wife, and then, after a slight hesitation, passed another glass to Clarissa before taking one for himself.
“Just a few sips, my dear,” Gemma murmured in a low tone. “A little wine can help to settle your nerves, but too much could be disastrous.”
Clarissa nodded and tasted the sparkling wine. The bubbles were new to her, but the taste was pleasant.
Beyond the crowd, the musicians were striking up a new tune. One couple moved aside, and Clarissa could glimpse the dance floor where a new set was forming.
“Would you grant me the pleasure of your first dance, my dear?” Matthew asked, offering his arm to his sister.
Clarissa felt a shiver of panic run through her. “Oh, not yet,” she pleaded. “You must dance first with Gemma, surely?”
Matthew smiled. “Very well, but the next one is ours.”
At least she always did better with Matthew’s quiet guidance, Clarissa told herself as she watched her brother and his wife go to join the dance form. And if—she took another sip of champagne, and then, her mouth suddenly very dry, drank the rest of the wine in one gulp—she could just slip back against the wall and study her book of dance steps, surely she could survive this. She made her way through the crowd and, glancing about to make sure that no one was staring, pulled the small book from the pocket that Gemma’s dressmaker had had orders to put into Clarissa’s new ball gown.
Clarissa set her champagne flute down on a nearby table and flipped through the pages of her form book, trying to force her mind to recall the most-used steps. Of course, she did not know which tune the musicians would play next, but—
“Miss Fallon?” someone said.
The voice was mellow and deep and decidedly masculine—and somehow familiar. Caught with her practice book out and feeling as awkward as the most callow of schoolroom misses, Clarissa froze, the incriminating volume still clutched in her hand. She looked up.
Oh, bloody hell. It was the autocratic stranger from the alley! Would he give away her secret, her brief and undignified masquerade? Trying to read his expression, Clarissa stared at him. She could throw herself on his mercy, but the firmness of his jaw and lips did not bode well for that plan. His deep brown eyes held a sparkle of intelligence and perhaps humor, if he would let down his guard, but she had the feeling such moments were rare. Clad in a black evening coat, impeccable white linen, and smooth tan-colored pantaloons, he was just as appealing as he had been in day clothes, but this time, if he made her heart beat faster, she thought it was mostly from fear. Mostly.
While she tried to think what to say, he continued, “Would you do me the honor of a dance? My cousin would be pleased to perform the—ah—proper introductions.”
Was he laughing at her? She took back what she’d thought about his sense of humor! It was bloody wicked, it was.
And she still clutched the book. “You’re most—most kind, b—but I was waiting for my brother—” Stuttering, Clarissa tried to shove the small volume back into her pocket before he noted it.
“I am Whitby—”
“Oh, dear!” a woman nearby exclaimed, dabbing at a drop of wine on her skirt.
The man turned his head for a moment, and Clarissa saw a scar on the left side of his face. But she noted it absently because she felt jolted with horror. The earl of Whitby, Lady Halston’s cousin? This was the high and mighty social arbiter whom the ladies had discussed at Lady Gabriel’s tea—and the same man who had seen her in the alley pretending to be a housemaid? Oh, bloody hell. Oh, help. She felt numb all over.
She dropped the book. It fell to the polished wood floor with a bang that seemed, to Clarissa’s ears, to echo through the whole chamber.
He turned back to her and his expression looked stiff. As any gentleman would, he bent to retrieve the book. No, no—he must not see that she had been studying the forms—Clarissa lunged to reach it first, and somehow managed to tr
ip over her own feet.
She hit the floor with a much louder thud than the book had produced. As ill fortune would have it, the melody dipped at the same moment to a trill of soft notes which did little to mask the unexpected sound.
All around her, faces turned. A laugh rang out, then another, and then came an artificial and awkward silence. And into it, Clarissa spoke clearly.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
Four
The unseemly words seemed to echo across the room. Dominic winced. Could the girl neither mind her tongue nor keep her feet? Whether her birth was respectable or not, this obvious lack of grace, coupled with the brawl he had witnessed on St. James Street and the escapade in the alley, did not bode well for his good intentions. How could he help her if she did not help herself?
And if it was his scar that had made her so nervous—He knew his marred face was an unsightly prospect, but he had never knocked a lady off her feet before! She had made a spectacle of them both. He drew a deep breath and tried to control his annoyance as he bent to offer her assistance.
“Miss Fallon?”
She ignored his hand, staring at the polished floor as if she could not believe her current position. Well, neither could he.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Fallon, are you hurt?”
More people had turned to look, and now even those in the midst of the dance seemed to notice. Dominic saw a well-made man with fair hair and a sun-bronzed complexion break away from the pattern of dancers moving smoothly across the floor. Pausing only to wait for his lady to come to his side, he came quickly forward.
“Clarissa, what happened? Are you injured?” When she did not respond at once, the man—it must be her brother, Captain Fallon—turned his suspicious gaze toward Dominic. As if this were his fault!
“I believe she lost her footing,” Dominic explained, knowing that his tone sounded stiff.
“Can you rise, my dear?” the lady asked. She bent down and helped the girl at last to her feet.
Her face flushed, Miss Fallon nodded. She still did not speak, although she clutched the small volume in her hand. He wondered absently what she was doing with a book at a dance. Had the girl no concept of what was expected?
Had she had the breath knocked out of her, or was she simply so mortified that she had no words? He found either explanation plausible, though hardly an excuse.
“I will leave you to the fond support of your family, Miss Fallon,” he told her. “I hope we can have the pleasure of a dance later in the evening.”
Her cheeks still aflame, she nodded. Was she mute? Or had no one ever taught her that she must forge ahead through any mishap? Much of the crowd around them still watched and listened; they would take their cue from her. She should have made light of her fall—as ignominious as it undoubtably was—or at least pretend to swoon. A lady could always get away with a swoon. But he could hardly tell her that now.
Trying to maintain his own savoir faire, Dominic bowed to them all, then watched as the females hurried away toward an anteroom that would give them refuge from the stares of the partygoers. Miss Fallon’s brother followed.
Dominic motioned to a footman, who brought him a glass of wine. Taking a sip, he schooled his expression to one of well-bred indifference.
Someone came up; it was young Galston, and the cub was chuckling. Devil take the man!
“I think you have your work cut out for you,” the younger man suggested. “Not very light on her feet, is she? The fallen Miss Fallon, in fact.”
Standing nearby, a stout man in a green coat chuckled.
“Not so loud,” Dominic snapped. “Do you wish to make my task totally impossible? If so, you are hardly acting in a sporting manner.”
“Sorry,” Galston said, though he sipped his wine and looked totally unrepentant. “A few careless words, amazing the damage they can do.”
Dominic frowned.
“I will have you know I have already had a dance with your cousin, Miss Mawper. I was charm itself. Anyhow, she seems to be quite recovered from my thoughtless remark of a few weeks ago.”
As he spoke, he glanced to the side. The man in green was speaking to two ladies, and now all three laughed again. The damned jest would go through the whole party in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Dominic thought in dismay. He turned to Galston.
“But I meant what I said. If you deliberately obstruct the Ton’s acceptance of the lady in question, there will be more at stake than a silly wager, Galston. I will most surely hold you accountable.”
Galston sobered, and his tone sounded uneasy. “I say, old man, when you look like that, I expect you to pull out your cavalry saber. Take a powder, do. Honestly, my lips are sealed.”
It was probably already too late, Dominic thought, as Galston murmured a farewell and slipped away to disappear into the crowd. Of course, the girl was likely a lost cause, anyhow. Why had he ever pledged himself to try to make a difference? He knew the answer, but it did little to dissipate his annoyance. Ah well, she was nowhere in sight. Perhaps there was another lady here whose life he could blight. Dominic turned back to survey the partygoers.
He chatted politely with two young women until presently, the hostess herself appeared at his side. He turned to her, letting his mask slip for a moment, but it only earned him another rebuke.
“Why are you wearing such a frown, Whitby? This is a party; you should be merry, Cousin. You will frighten away half my guests!”
Irritated at such nonsense, he glared at her, then forced his expression into a stiff smile. “Is that better? Or perhaps I should simply take myself away so I do not wreak further havoc upon your merry gathering.”
“Sarcasm does not become you, Cousin,” she told him, her tone reproving. “If you leave early, that will imply that my ball was too boring for words.”
“Nonsense. Anyhow, I always leave early,” he retorted.
“Which is another reason you must not do so tonight,” she shot back. “And what did you do to that poor girl to make her topple to the floor? They are calling her the ‘fallen Miss Fallon,’ you know, a dreadful jest, if sadly apt. She is going to have a hard time of it.”
He almost groaned, but bit back the too-revealing reaction.
“I invited her only because of your request. Why do you have an interest in her? Which she doesn’t seem to return, if you alarm her so much that she falls at your feet—and I do not mean in the usual sense.” Lady Halston’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. Fanning herself, she swept her crimson fan in an arc and awaited his answer.
He could not, of course, tell her about the bet with Galston. For two gentlemen to wager on a lady was a scandalous action—not that it hadn’t happened before. But he wasn’t about to admit such an ungentlemanly deed.
“I, um, wished to know her better, that is all,” he said. “A moment of curiosity that I am now regretting, if you insist on knowing the whole of it.”
“Then I have wasted an invitation,” she answered calmly. The fan flashed again, and his cousin watched him over the top of it. “You do not have a tendre for her? She is not your type at all.”
“Of course not. And do I have a type?” he countered. “I didn’t realize I was so easily predicted.”
“You prefer sophisticated, elegant, often older women who return your casual flirtations without undue emotional involvement and do not expect any lasting commitment, which you have avoided like the plague. Avoided so thoroughly, in fact, that if you do not take care, you will find yourself going unmarried to your grave and your title passing to that idiot nephew of yours,” she predicted. “I saw your sister last week, and she told me that her pride and joy had fallen off his horse into a mud puddle in the middle of Hyde Park—”
The fan in her pudgy hand suddenly paused. She stared at him. “Whitby! You are not thinking of setting up your nursery at last?”
“Certainly not,” he told her, his tone sharp.
But Lady Halston continued to observe him, and her finely plucked brows puc
kered. “The family is not particularly distinguished, but they are not beyond the pale, either. Captain Fallon married a marquess’s sister, shocking the Ton by reaching so high. You could do worse. On the other hand, you could also do much better,” she pointed out. “You, of all people, forgetting your rank?”
“Do not speak of me as if I am a top-lofty moron with no more to consider than a breeder of pugs!”
She stared at him in surprise. “I am very fond of my pugs. But, Whitby! You do have feelings for her.”
He looked away. “I have told you, I don’t even know her. I simply dislike being lectured to. And I have a perfectly sound understanding of what I owe to my family name.”
She appeared unconvinced. Dominic closed his eyes for a moment—why must he have such thick-headed relatives?—and remembered the look of fear on the girl’s face, which had first lured him into this mess. And in the alley he had felt a moment of desire that—no, it would be madness. And now all he had accomplished was her further distress. His wartime missions had been simple by comparison! He sighed, then gave his cousin a slight bow.
“You are not leaving?” she asked in alarm.
“No, indeed. Heeding your instructions, Cousin, I shall smile upon your guests and help establish your ball as a rousing success.”
“I should chide you for vanity,” she answered, her expression conflicted. “Except the problem is, you indeed have the power to do just that.”
“You’re welcome,” he said dryly and turned away to speak charmingly to as many ladies and gentlemen as he could, to even dance with a few of the ladies, so that when he next solicited the hand of Miss Fallon, he hoped it would not cause further remarks from gossipy old cats. He had to try.
