by Fran Baker
She burst through the door with an uncharacteristic flurry. “Oh, Francie, I’ve just been speaking with Mama and—” Catching sight of their two figures, she halted midway into the room and stood flushed with confusion.
A flash of irritation raced through Francie, instantly replaced by a flood of guilt. Though she had been enjoying her tête-à-tête with Sir Thomas, it certainly gave her no right to feel annoyed over an interruption. Particularly over an interruption from his fiancée! Francie covered her guilty start with a beaming smile as she rose from her chair to greet her sister.
“Yes, Mary dearest, what is it?” she prompted, noting the acute distress passing over Mary’s round features like clouds over a troubled sky. “You were looking for me, were you not?”
“Yes. No. That is—” Mary stammered in evident agitation.
Puzzlement sketched Francie’s brow as she watched her young sister strive for composure. Her bewilderment was mirrored in the baronet’s square features as he, too, stood up to greet Mary.
“If you seek to be private with your sister, Miss Mary, I shall be happy to remove myself,” he offered.
“No, no,” she answered, taking a deep breath and smiling prettily at them both. “I am being silly, I know. I was looking for you, Francie,” she admitted, taking a seat upon the frayed sofa. “I have been speaking with Mama about attending Lady Rockhill’s ball, but she says she is promised to the Duchess of Oakwood’s card-party that evening and cannot chaperone me.” Mary raised her cornflower-blue eyes from the pleat she had been making in the skirt of her king’s-blue day dress to fix them on her sister’s face. “And Mama has said you will not go. But if you do not go, how am I to attend?”
Francie regard her sister in some surprise. Usually Mary did not care where they went. She was content to follow in their mother’s indolent steps, meeting the Society that Mama chose for her. But the look of entreaty in Beth’s eyes was clear. She cared very much about going to Lady Rockhill’s champagne ball, and Francie did not know how she was going to refuse her.
Refuse her, however, Francie meant to do. She had been firm in her determination not to attend such functions. Although she had told her mother she was too long upon the shelf to enjoy such occasions, Francie knew a part of her could not bear to see Sir Thomas and Mary dancing and laughing together while she sat hopelessly removed from such gaiety. Just thinking of it brought an edge to her voice when she responded.
“There are plenty of other parties and balls to attend this season, Mary. Surely you’ll not miss one ball.”
“But I will!” countered Mary with rare animation. “You must escort me to Lady Rockhill’s, Francie, you must!”
“What start is this?” Francie wondered aloud as she gazed speculatively at her sister. “I’m sorry, Mary, but you know I do not intend to go about during my stay in Town.”
Mary’s crestfallen expression gave evidence to her disappointment. Her head dropped and her hands fluttered over her dress once more as she said into her lap, “Could you not make an exception this one time. It means a great deal to me.”
“But why?” Francie insisted. “Why should this one ball be any different from all the others?”
“Because he will be there,” Mary replied, jerking her head up. As soon as the words left her mouth, scarlet streaked over her creamy cheeks, and her hands flew to cover them. “I mean—I mean—”
“I believe, Miss Hampton, that Miss Mary is trying to say she has learned that I am engaged to Lady Rockhill for her ball,” Sir Thomas broke in smoothly. He stepped over to where Mary sat on the sofa and caught the hands hiding her cheeks. “My dear, you have paid me a vast compliment and I am certain that Francie would not wish to spoil it for you.” As he spoke he lightly brushed his lips across the backs of her hands, and then laid them gently on her lap. Straightening, he turned to stare at Francie with a raised brow. “Would you, Miss Hampton?”
“Oh, but I—I did not bring any evening wear with me from Norfolk,” she protested. Her nerves felt numb at the sight of that brief tenderness between them How could she possibly bear an evening filled with such moments? She searched Mary’s expressive features. Could she have been wrong? Could it be that Mary did, indeed, carry a secret tendre for her fiancé? Francie had not thought it possible, but if Sir Thomas’s presence at a ball meant so much to her . . .
“We have agreed to have done with arguments, have we not, Miss Hampton?” the baronet reminded her. “Miss Mary wishes very much to attend this ball, and I would very much appreciate your making it possible for her to do so. Come, I would consider your agreement a gesture of peacemaking that would convince me that you do not, in fact, despise me after all.”
The twist in his smile matched his wry tone. Looking from his strong features to the receding crimson tide on her sister’s delicate face, Francie knew she would give in. But she did so with great reluctance.
“Oh, very well. If it means so much to you, Mary, I will escort you to Lady Rockhill’s ball. But,” she added, stemming the flow of joyous gratitude from Mary’s lips, “I warn you it is the only ball I mean to be coerced into attending for the duration of my stay, so you had best make the most of it.”
“Oh, I shall, I shall!” Mary vowed, jumping up to embrace her older sister in a fierce hug. “Thank you, Francie! You are the dearest of sisters! And thank you, Sir Thomas, for I am persuaded it was your coaxing, not mine, that produced Francie’s agreement.”
His deep blue eyes seemed to reflect his rueful acceptance of this praise. His lips curved upward, and then spread apart, devastating Francie with one of his most charming off-center smiles. “I shall be awaiting Lady Rockhill’s ball with a new anticipation. Miss Hampton, Miss Mary,” he said with a bow to each before collecting his gloves from the mantel and departing.
Mary danced out behind him, bestowing upon Francie a smile that seemed as nervous as it was apologetic. Francie, however, gave herself over to wishing she could despise Sir Thomas Spencer. She, more than anyone, had every reason to. But flying in the face of all logic, Francie found she could not hate him.
Chapter 4
Four nights later, Miss Frances Hampton sat on the plush velvet of a gilded chair and watched with a smile set firmly on her lips as Sir Thomas Spencer entered upon a waltz with her sister Mary.
Francie’s eyes followed the motion of the pair across the tiled floor, focusing at first on the triple hem of pleated ruffles that furled against Mary’s white silk stockings. Unwillingly, Francie’s gaze traveled up over the celestial-blue muslin gown to fix on the radiant glow of her sister’s face. Beside the soft brown curls of Mary’s carefully arranged hair her cheeks glowed a becoming pink, and an intimate smile lifted her full lips. The smile was solely for her partner and, observing it, Francie felt like an intruder.
She forced herself to look away, but within moments her eyes were drawn irresistibly back to Sir Thomas. Though most men held themselves stiffly when they danced, the baronet moved with a fluid grace that seemed effortless. Although it had become more and more the fashion for men to wear black evening trousers, with only a few old fogies retaining the style of knee-breeches, Lady Rockhill’s view of correct evening wear demanded that men appear at her door looking ready to attend a function at court or to step through the doors of the rigidly exclusive Almack’s. And while men whose legs were spindly or bowed might decry Lady Rockhill’s demands, Sir Thomas certainly had no cause to do so.
White embroidered stockings and black satin breeches accentuated the athletic shape of his long, muscular legs. A sapphire velvet coat emphasized not only the breadth of his shoulders, but also the intensity of his deep blue eyes. From the top of his carelessly brushed black waves to the tip of his black evening pumps, Sir Thomas appeared the quintessence of the beau ideal.
As Francie realized the direction of her thoughts, she glanced back at her sister and again caught Mary’s smile. Francie’s hands clenched over the small fan in her lap.
The meaning of that smi
le was obvious. There could no longer be any doubt, Francie concluded with a wave of melancholy. Mary had succumbed to her fiancé’s attractions. Over the past four days, Francie had begun to suspect it, for her sister’s eager anticipation of this ball had been quite unlike Mary’s usual tranquil acceptance of circumstances about her. During the whole of today, Mary had shone with an inner excitement, her soft blue eyes glinting with unusual brilliance. The opportunity to dance in her beloved’s arms, as she was now doing, had given the young miss a pretty animation, and Francie wondered dismally why this fact should cast her into the dismals.
Staring at the copper spangles threaded through the silk of her splayed fan, Francie wished she had not come. Though she knew she did not have the least affection left for Sir Thomas, it pained her deeply to watch her sister being gammoned by his all-too-powerful charm.
The faint hiss of nearby whispers attracted her attention. Although she could not hear the content, Francie immediately raised her head high. Should anyone gossip about her sister waltzing with her own former fiancé, she, at least, would not add fuel to the malicious fire. Fixing a smile on her lips, she regarded the crush of fashionable people present with all the appearance of one who has never enjoyed herself so much. Bejeweled ladies vied for the favors of dandified swells. Sashes of rose-colored silk festooned the fluted colonnades, as well as the massive curved staircase leading up to it. Champagne flowed freely. Vibrant festivity surrounded Francie, and again she wished she had not come.
Her lips remained curved resolutely upward as the waltz faded, and Sir Thomas returned Mary to her side. She dropped her red-gold lashes to hide her eyes as Mary regaled her with gay chatter.
“You should not have refused to waltz with Lord Coombs, Francie,” Mary chastised her with good cheer as she swirled onto the gilded chair beside her. “It is the most enchanting way in which to circle a room.”
“I am certain you would not truly wish for your chaperone to waltz,” Francie responded without reproof. “Think how odd it would look.”
Sir Thomas eyed her slender figure in a most disconcerting fashion. “If you did not wish to importuned upon to dance, Miss Hampton, you should not have worn a gown which becomes you so well.”
“How very true!” Mary said on a laugh. “You are looking like a diamond of the first stare tonight, Francie.”
Though she had intended at first to wear her drabbest ball gown, complete with one of Mama’s turbans, Francie had instead decked herself most becomingly in a cream India muslin gown stitched with copper-colored silk into the short, puffed sleeves. A thin ribbon of matching silk defined the high waist, then fell in two enticing strands midway down the front of the flaring cream skirt. The gown was several years old, having originally been purchased as part of her never-used trousseau, but, as she had taken it in to accommodate her thinner figure, Francie had cleverly arranged the skirt to flare slightly more, as was the current style.
She fiddled with the ends of the ribbons dangling in her lap, not wanting to acknowledge her reasons for wearing a frock she knew enhanced both the coloring of her hair and her complexion to no little degree.
“If the pair of you are trying to turn me up sweet, you are sadly wide of the mark,” she said with a small laugh. “You must know that chaperones are by nature resistant to such flattery.”
Mary began to protest when several young bucks came to petition both ladies for the country dance forming at that very moment. Francie adamantly refused all invitations, shaking her head until her topknot of curls swayed against the rope of pearls binding it. As she was telling persistent Lord Coombs that, as she was here in the guise of chaperone, she must again refuse him, Mary broke in upon her with a breathless, “Pardon me!”
Turning, Francie saw standing next to Mary a soberly dressed gentleman who was somewhat older than herself, of medium height and build and wearing an air of somber propriety.
“Francie, I should like to present Mr. Frederick Harvey,” Mary said in a rush of words. “You may remember seeing him in the Park just after you first arrived.”
“Of course,” Francie fibbed. She did not remember him, but then few people would remember a face that had so little to distinguish it from the ordinary beyond a small cleft in the chin. His brown hair, cropped very short, was not arranged fashionably, and his hazel eyes appeared quite drab. He looked utterly respectable and utterly dull. Francie raised her white-gloved hand to his. “How do you do, Mr. Harvey?”
He bent ceremoniously, took her hand, held it for precisely the proper length of time before releasing it and intoning, “I am honored to meet you, Miss Hampton.”
A sparkle of amusement crept into her emerald eyes. What a stiff young man, to be sure.
“May I request the honor of this country dance with Miss Mary Hampton?” he asked gravely.
“Certainly, Mr. Harvey,” Francie replied, matching his tone. As the pair departed, the corners of her lips t witched, and she only barely smothered a gurgle of laughter. The laugh became a choke, however, as her hands were clasped abruptly and she was pulled to her feet.
“I believe, Miss Hampton, it’s time we danced.” Sir Thomas began to lead her toward the set that was forming.
Even this casual contact of his gloved hands on hers produced an unexpected rush of emotion. Her breath caught in her throat, and her pulse leapt wildly in response. She dug in the heels of her satin slippers and attempted to free her hands from his.
“I don’t intend to dance this evening, sir!”
His eyes inspected hers intently for a short time, then with a dazzling smile, he released her with a half-bow. “As you wish, Miss Hampton.”
She had not expected victory. As her hands fell abruptly to her sides, the sarsenet shawl that was draped from elbow to elbow slid downward. Grasping the thin silk, she ignored her inner disappointment that he’d give up so easily and returned to her chair with as much dignity as she could muster under his mocking gaze.
As she rearranged her shawl over her elbow-length white gloves, Sir Thomas disappeared. Francie was nodding her acknowledgement of several women, when he reappeared to take the empty chair at her side. The ladies of Francie’s acquaintance instantly unfurled their fans, and Francie knew herself to be the object of their gossip. She turned a stormy green gaze upon the source of all her troubles.
“Will you not go away, Sir Thomas?” she demanded in a fierce whisper. “People are talking.”
“No.” He handed her a glass of champagne. “You did not wish to dance; therefore I did not wish to dance. And I do not wish to go away.”
“But people—”
“People be damned,” he interrupted good-naturedly. “They cannot say anything you or I have not heard before, my dear. The devil may fly away with them for all I care.”
“Anyone would think you a royal duke,” she mumbled into the bubbles of her golden drink.
“And anyone would think you quite the most lovely lady here,” he returned in a low voice that held a verbal caress.
Francie’s brows shot upward into the soft tendrils of hair falling casually over her brow. She vividly remembered a time when such compliments from his lips had sent her into transports of delight. She was thankful that three years had taught her something. She knew these flattering gems for the imitations they were, given out to every woman of his acquaintance until none had the least value. Sipping from her glass, she watched him over the rim and said nothing.
“Is that not the Dowager Countess of Swope Park?” Sir Thomas asked after a pause. He lifted his round quizzing glass and peered solemnly through it for some seconds.
Francie followed the direction of his gaze and spied a gleaming vision in purple satin encamped precariously over a saber-legged settee across the room. Smiling, she answered, “Why, yes, I believe it is.”
Their glances met at the same instant, and they grinned.
“Do you remember the night at Lady Troost’s when she tipped the punchbowl onto Beau Rundle’s lap?” he queried
with a light laugh.
“Oh, yes! Or the time at Drury Lane when she fell asleep and snored loudly through the whole of Hamlet’s soliloquy?” Francie returned, beginning to giggle.
“I did not think Swope allowed his mother to go abroad anymore,” Sir Thomas commented as he raised his glass to inspect the lady in question once more. He dropped h is glass, letting it dangle on the end of a finely worked ribbon, then ran his gaze around the room before returning it to Francie’s face.
Her heart quickened at the intensity of his steady regard, and her lashes fell to flicker against her delicate cheek. His eyes held something altogether too intimate but though she tried, Francie could not command her tongue to berate him for his audacity.
“And do you remember,” he said very softly, “how it was the night we met, Miss Hampton?”
“No,” she said, fibbing again.
“It was very like this night. Come, you must recall the manner in which we danced.”
“No,” she repeated stubbornly, shifting in her chair so that only her profile was presented to him. She did not want to remember that night or any other of which he had been a part.
“Perhaps,” he continued in a low murmur, “I could help you to recall it . . .”
“And perhaps not,” she retorted, instantly swinging back to him. “You forget yourself, Sir Thomas. It is Mary to whom you should be making pretty speeches—”
“Ah,” he cut in with a smile of satisfaction.
She eyed him warily for a moment, but could not stop herself from inquiring, “And what do you mean by that?”
“I’m gratified to know that you consider recollection of our meeting a ‘pretty speech’,” he explained.
Glaring at him for a long second, Francie then tossed off the remnants of her champagne, handed him her empty glass, snapped open her fan, and began briskly waving it before her. Why did she allow him to overset her in this manner? He was as good as betrothed to Mary, yet he was openly flirting with her, flattering her with his ready charm. She did not question his motives. She knew him to be nothing but a libertine who no sooner spied a feminine quarry than he must give chase. It was her misfortune that what was mere sport to him was another matter altogether to her.
