by Joan Smith
A veritable rush of black-coated gentlemen converged on the new arrivals, as the first dance was just over, and the serious business of accepting escorts for their first dance was begun. Unfortunately Claymore was at the punch bowl at the time, so he was not among the first crush. Nor was George Hibbard in the throng, though he was certainly present, and, yes, sitting with Nora Langdon. Wanda’s spine stiffened, as she pinned a glittering smile on her face. She accepted the most persistent of her admirers—it happened to be Elmer Rountree. A dead bore, but Wanda thought it was he who had made George jealous on Sunday, and in any case he would do for the time being. Claymore was around somewhere, for there was Rex.
Poor Ellie! Now why had she stood up with Rex? He was impossibly short—in her heeled shoes she was a good two inches taller than he was. Why did short gentlemen not realize what a ridiculous figure they cut when they danced with a tall girl? Rex had been dangling after her once, till she hinted him gently away by saying she did not like stooping to her partner, for it ruined her posture. Foolish little runt. He had held her in dislike ever since, not that she cared. Ah, there was Claymore now, with Mrs. Hornberry. Nothing to fear there.
Claymore’s practiced eye soon singled out his prey, and he watched in approval as Miss Wanda wheeled around the floor. Very well got up, in that spangled gown, and with a new hair style. He didn’t like it quite so well as that tousled do she had worn the other evening. And there was Rex. Now who the devil was the pretty young lady with him? Why, it couldn’t be Ellie! Looking as stylish as an actress, and nearly as lovely as her sister. Beauties, the whole family. Yessir, one of them would be the very girl to take the shine out of the Rose. Wanda, of course. Really, though, he thought, as his glance swung from one sister to the other, there was little to choose between them. Wanda had perhaps the more perfect face, but Ellie carried herself with more dignity. From this little distance, Ellie made the more distinguished appearance. Mrs. Homberly kindly pointed out a butter-toothed girl who had no partner, and Claymore went to her rescue. Before long, he was at the side of Wanda, claiming her company for the next dance.
“Beautiful, as usual, Miss Wanda,” he pronounced, which won him a smile. He noticed with relief that she made no comment about the Golden Rose tonight. Usually his compliments were met by some playful comparison of their charms, with herself on the bad end, of course, so that he had to contradict her. It was becoming a bit of a bore.
He soon realized he had been overly hasty in congratulating himself on his escape. “I thought you might like the coiffure, for it was one favored in London this past Season, though, of course, it looked more becoming on a blonde.”
“I am becoming just a trifle tired of that joke. Miss Wanda,” he said, and surprised even himself at the ennui in his voice.
“Well, I didn’t ask you to stand up with me,” she shot back angrily. Poor Claymore. It was not him she was angry with at all, but George Hibbard, who had gone to stand beside Robert Langdon at the end of the first dance, when Nora had been claimed by another buck. He had eyes for no one but that freckle-faced girl.
“I’m sorry,” he said hastily. “That was uncommonly rude of me.”
“Yes, it was. And furthermore you needn’t think we don’t know why you are come to the Abbey, for Mama had a letter of Joan this morning, and she told us about your trying to get Miss Golden to run off with you. That was very bad of you, and you needn’t think I will do anything so stupid.”
“I had no notion of asking it of you,” he replied stiffly, a cold anger shaking him at the Rose’s disclosure of his folly. So it was out—the whole thing. Not content with bragging of his offer, she must reveal as well his insane suggestion that they run off to Gretna Green.
Miss Wanda was soon full of remorse for her waywardness, and of fear for what her mama would say if she found out. “I am sure you didn’t mean it,” she said in a conciliating voice. “Anyone might say a foolish thing in the heat of the moment, as I just did myself.”
“Pray, it is not worth your consideration.”
“Well, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have said it, only I have the most ripping headache.” She said this in such a weak voice that he believed her, and in fact it was no more than the troth.
He offered to take her out for a breath of air. She would normally not have accepted his offer, but it chanced that at that precise moment she glanced toward Hibbard, and both he and Robert Langdon looked at her and laughed. In a spasm of fury she accepted Clay’s offer—and just let’s see what Mr. Hibbard said when he saw her leave the ballroom on the arm of a marquis. She had never been so obliging as to bestow the same honor on George.
Mr. Hibbard said not a word to anyone, but with great haste and in the most unconcerned manner in the world, he dashed right out after them. Wanda leaned weakly on her escort’s arm. When a surreptitious peep toward the door determined that George was in hot pursuit, she allowed herself to be led into the garden.
“I cannot think what came over me. I am not usually subject to the headache,” she confided to her companion.
“It is the heat and noise inside. It is enough to give anyone the migraine,” he commiserated.
“I usually like it very well, but tonight I am not feeling quite the thing.” She looked up through her lashes, in a manner very like that adopted by the Rose, and languished, till he was forced to put an arm around her, to prevent her from slumping off the bench entirely.
Thus bolstered, she leaned against him, sensing in every fiber that George was not far behind, seeing the whole thing. There, she heard a twig snap! She would let Claymore kiss her. That for Mr. Hibbard and old redhead! She mentally snapped her fingers. “This is so very comfortable. I wish we did not have to go back in at all.” Her head fell back against the Marquis’ black shoulder.
Thus led on, Claymore tightened his hold on Wanda. She leaned back harder, and turned her neck, lifting her face toward his. Had she seen the look of utter incredulity on his face, she might have stopped, but she could see no more than the corner of his chin. He was shocked at her fast behavior. Obviously she expected him to kiss her. It was distinctly strange that he felt no inclination whatever to do so. Was there not a woman of virtue left in England? Wanda waited for the next step in her seduction, but as it was not forthcoming, she had to take it herself.
“I ought not to be out here with you, alone,” she said leadingly. Surely he would divine her helpless state, and take advantage of it.
“We shall go back inside as soon as you feel sufficiently recovered.”
“If Mama saw me, she would be very angry. She always feels that a gentleman will try to take advantage, if I am alone with him for a moment.” There now, was he a gentleman or not?
“I hope you are not often allowed to be alone with gentlemen?”
“No, I hardly ever get the chance,” she said pertly. Then she craned her neck backward to its utter limit, closed her eyes, and puckered her lips for a kiss.
Claymore was trapped. It would be a positive insult to refuse to kiss those waiting lips. The slow top finally inclined his head, and touched the infamous lips gently, in a fleeting manner.
Before she felt obliged to protest, there was a rush toward them, and Mr. Hibbard dashed in and grabbed her hand.
“So this is the way you carry on behind my back!” he shouted, his voice shaken with anger. Wanda’s spirits soared. That voice! He was livid with rage.
Damping down her joy, she replied, “Pray, what business is it of yours, Mr. Hibbard?”
“You would never come outside with me!” was his childish rejoinder.
At the intruder’s arrival, Claymore had jumped up to protect the lady’s honor. There flashed through his mind the horrible thought that he might be required to protect it with cold steel. To forestall this contingency, he said, “Miss Wanda was overcome by the heat,” in quite a civil tone.
“A likely story,” Hibbard shot back.
“I was so, and don’t you dare to call me a liar,” she retali
ated.
“Well, I ain’t, but you was never overcome by the heat in your life, Wanda, and don’t try to bamboozle me you were tonight, for you just wanted to be alone with your lord.”
As the likelihood of a duel subsided, Claymore relaxed somewhat. “Shall we go back inside, Miss Wanda?” he asked, ignoring the newcomer.
“I’ll take Wanda back inside,” George informed him angrily.
“I am not in the habit of abandoning ladies to raving lunatics,” Clay told Hibbard amiably.
“Well, if that don’t beat all!”
“Oh, pray leave us, Lord Claymore,” Wanda said to him, hardly aware of what she said. “I will come in directly.”
“I’ll take her in,” George insisted.
“I think not,” Clay replied, taking Wanda by the arm and piloting her protesting body to the door. But as Hibbard made no motion of leaving her other side, Claymore bowed and took his leave of the pair as soon as she was safely inside. Across the room, a little later, he noted that George and Wanda were sufficiently reconciled to stand up together for the dance. She was positively glowing with joy, or victory, and he mumbling something into her ears.
Claymore looked about for a partner. Before he had time to choose one for himself, Mrs. Homberly was at his side, leading him to a “delightful girl, and so pretty behaved.” She was unfortunately less pretty of face than of behavior, but no matter. She danced well enough, and did not more than twice tramp on his feet. At the dance’s end, he slipped off to the refreshment room to have a glass of wine. Ellie was there, chatting in a corner with Missie.
“What, not dancing?” Clay asked.
“We are not yet allowed to waltz,” Ellie explained. “Until I have made my debut, Mama forbids it, and Missie is only sixteen. I think it is very stupid, especially as the waltz is becoming so popular, and they play ever so many of them.”
“Yes, and you waltz very well too, Ellie,” Missie threw in. “I can’t waltz at all, but I have seen you do it at home, and you waltz nicely. Well, as Nora Langdon will be sitting out too, I shall take this chance to have a chat with her.” Saying this, Missie walked away from a perfect opportunity of attaching Lord Claymore, a mistake for which her mother would later berate her, when she happened to mention it.
“Actually, I don’t mind,” Ellie explained to Claymore. “I don’t think I should be comfortable waltzing with anyone but Abel anyway. I learned with him, you see, at home.”
“Shy?” Clay teased.
“I guess so.” She strolled to the edge of the room and sat down, and began to fan herself.
“If you are feeling warm, we might go out in the garden for a breath of air,” he suggested.
“Oh no,” she looked at him, shocked. “That would not be quite the thing.”
“You are right. I ought not to have suggested it.” She agreed silently. “You know, Miss Ellie, when I first saw you this evening, I didn’t recognize you.”
“I am wearing my hair differently,” she admitted.
“Getting practiced up for London?”
“Yes,” she told him in a matter-of-fact voice, looking at him frankly with her clear gray eyes. “Taking your advice, and getting myself fixed up.”
“No, surely I didn’t say anything so rude as that.”
“Yes, you did, but I didn’t consider it rude. The truth cannot be rude.” He looked quite stricken at his supposed rudeness, and to rally him, she said, “Wanda is allowed to waltz, because of being out, you know.”
“Is she? Yes, of course she is, for she was waltzing with Hibbard just now.”
“What, with George?” Ellie exclaimed.
“Yes, I think they have patched it up.”
“Oh! Oh dear,” she said, looking at him a little doubtfully.
“They are on pretty good terms, I take it?”
“Yes. I confess that before you came along, we all expected there would be an announcement made any day.”
“I think there will still be an announcement made. Any day,” he said, and he sighed deeply. He minded much less than he had thought he would. Was a bit relieved, actually. It rankled that he would be the butt of jokes when he went back to London, but somehow Wanda, in spite of her beauty, did not quite please him. Too coy, too many jokes about the Rose, too easily discomposed, as on the trip to Needford, and too fast. Letting, even encouraging, him to kiss her, when he hardly knew her.
“You cannot have had time to fall so very much in love with her,” Ellie said prosaically, “so I shan’t offer any condolences.”
“No, they are not called for in the least,” he agreed. Tongue bit on the nearly-expressed thought that she ought to offer congratulations instead on his near escape.
“I really don’t think you and she would have suited,” Ellie said bluntly. “Wanda is the sort of girl who needs a deal of pampering, and I don’t think you are the one to give it.”
“Where did you get such a poor reading of my character? I can pamper with the best of them, I promise you.”
“No, I think you are too sensible,” she replied, and arising, she pulled her shawl about her and said, “I am returning to the ballroom. Do you come?”
He walked behind her, and when the next dance began, he asked her to stand up with him. She danced well, making polite conversation during the occasions when the steps of the dance permitted. Later, he saw her moving about the floor with various partners. His attention diverted from Wanda, he began to think Ellie was quite pretty, in a different style. No posing or flirting, but a directness that was a pleasant change, and rather exciting in its way. Other gentlemen appeared to share his view, for she never lacked for partners.
At dinner Wanda went in with George Hibbard. As Claymore found himself without a partner, he joined Rex, Ellie and Missie.
“I see Wanda has got George back from Nora Langdon,” Missie said.
Rex looked at Claymore with a question in his eyes, and said, “Seems so. Been close as peas in a pod all night Mrs. Wanderley wouldn’t have allowed it unless Wanda said something to her. Think there’ll be an announcement soon, Ellie?”
“Very likely,” Ellie replied, with a glance at her sister’s table.
“We’ll be getting on to Bath tomorrow then, shall we, Clay?” Rex asked hopefully.
“I understood my invitation was for two weeks, . Trying to get rid of me already?”
“Stands to reason. No point in sticking around now. Engaged.”
Ellie darted a quick eye at Claymore to see how this shot was received, and was disconcerted to discover he was regarding her closely.
“But I find the neighborhood enchanting,” Clay said, continuing to look at Ellie in a most marked fashion, so that she spilt her ice all over Lady Tameson’s Italian crepe, and had to blot at it with a napkin.
“Eh? Ellie do you mean?” Rex asked, with no consideration whatsoever for anyone’s feelings.
“This is a terrible fellow,” Clay said to Ellie, quite as though Rex were a mile away. “No refinement at all. No thought for a lady’s feelings.”
“The same might be said for yourself, my lord,” Ellie told him stiffly. She was as red as a beet, being unaccustomed to such trifling.
“Eh, that’s a good one, Ellie,” Rex cheered. “No use trying your conning tactics on Ellie, Clay. She ain’t the sort you can go on flattering and buttering up. If you mean to have her instead of Wanda, you’d do better to just come out and ask her. She likes plain speaking, does Ellie.”
“Not quite so plain as that, I thank you,” Ellie said, glaring at poor Rex, while still blushing furiously. “Besides, it is nonsensical to think anyone would be making an offer to a virtual stranger.”
“Don’t bother Clay. All he cares about is the looks. You look good tonight, Ellie. ‘Pon my word, you don’t look bad at all. Darned near as good as Wanda. Ought to rig yourself out like that more often.”
“Better than Wanda,” Clay threw in, and watched in amusement as Ellie directed her glare toward him, as though he ha
d just insulted her.
“Well, I don’t, and it is very bad of you both to roast me, only because I have done my hair up, and worn a different dress.”
“Very nice dress,” Rex complimented her. “Funny thing, you know, I do believe Lady Tameson has one just like it. At the opera I saw it. Well, sisters. You would have the same sort of taste. Stands to reason.”
As Missie was snickering into her fist, Ellie was forced to admit her shame. “Lady Tameson gave me the gown. I would not wear it in London, of course, and if I had known you were familiar with it, I would not have worn it here either.”
“Be a waste of a good dress then,” Rex told her. “Looks very nice on you. Better than them white things you usually wear. Gives you a bit of dash, you know.”
“Lady Tameson is well thought of for her gowns,” Clay said, his eyes dancing.
Ellie, who was pretending she was not there, was surprised to receive a jostling of her arm. “Are you sick, or what is it?” Rex hissed. “Here am I bending over backward to puff you up a bit, and you just go on looking into that empty bowl as if it was alive. Wake up and chatter a bit, and you might nab Claymore.”
Being neither deaf nor blind, Claymore was a witness to this gentle hint, which was delivered in a carrying tone. He was a witness as well to the reply. “I don’t want to nab anyone, and I wish you would stop embarrassing me with your foolishness.” The poor girl seemed on the verge of tears, Clay thought, and could not understand it. Just a little teasing and flattering of a sort that usually sat very well with young ladies, in his experience.
It was the farthest thing from his mind to have embarrassed her, and he looked about for a change of subject. “You are looking very grown up this evening, Missie,” he said, feigning admiration of her curls, which had been pinned up for the occasion, and had a sad tendency to spring loose from their moorings and tumble about her ears.
“Missie won’t do you no good at all, Clay,” Rex warned. “She’s too young, and besides she don’t hold a candle to the”—a killing grimace from Clay, accompanied by a resounding boot on the shin under the table brought him to a halt—”to—er—to Ellie,” he finished up, pleased with his quick-wittedness.
